Derek let his gaze drop to the instrument panel of the truck, tired of staring at the house across the street, roving the exterior as he listened to the people within toss in their sleep, yawn into waking, and brush off the rust for a new day. The Sheriff had left hours ago, his cruiser pausing ever so slightly after it backed out before pulling away. He should go. In. He should go in. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he made himself breathe. Calmly. Normally. Like a coal wasn't set in his chest, burning out the air, stinging at the backs of his eyes. The taste of a scream had lived on his lips for days, waiting with infinite patience.

He closed his eyes and pressed his mouth into a bitter line before reaching for the car door handle.

The chime of the Stilinski's doorbell bounced through the house, followed quickly by Stiles's thundering steps down the stairs.

***

Stiles swung open the door, his greeting cut short by the hunch in Derek's shoulders and the white pallor of his face. It took a second for Derek to lift his gaze from somewhere near the ground.

"Dude, you look terrible," Stiles said, a frown wrapping around his concern. Derek never looked terrible. Bloody, often, but not... whatever this was.

A smirk touched Derek's lips, and Stiles stepped back to let him in, unease lacing cold fingers through his gut.

"Do you . . . have time?" Derek asked, moving cautiously, his voice brittle. Derek Hale didn't ask things like that. He appeared. Unwanted. Vanished. Unannounced. The leather of his jacket squelched as he crossed his arms over his chest and glanced at Stiles for a response, and for once it looked like keeping something in rather than out.

Stiles scanned him up and down as he shut the door. The snark in his reply withered at the strange, open look in Derek's eyes. Curious, Stiles shrugged. "It's the weekend. All I've got is time." Derek shut his eyes and nodded, and then stood motionless, like he was waiting for something to happen. Stiles studied him for a second with growing worry, like ants swarming up his skin. He bit at his lower lip and then started for the living room. "C'mon." He touched a hand to Derek's shoulder as he passed, and it was just enough to break the spell.

Derek methodically removed his jacket and laid it on a chair before he took the middle cushion on the couch, arranging his elbows on his knees and resting his mouth against clasped hands, like a prayer. Stiles sank down to his right, fascinated, and waited.

***

Stiles carried on him the scent of coffee, gel, and the indescribable blend of chemistry that makes each person unique. Derek breathed him in, and though each breath pierced knives into lungs, he could center on that, come back to that. Over and over. It meant ignoring the roiling inside, and not speaking. Not breaking the barrier, because a crack would lead to a shatter. And he was trying, trying, not to shatter.

Stiles started to shift around uncomfortably, his knee bouncing. And then Derek could feel the intensity of his gaze on the side of his face. He should say something, he knew. But . . .

"Am I supposed to start?" Stiles asked. "Because you came here, and I don't know . . . why. So . . ." He gestured at the air at a loss.

Derek shook his head, concentrating on the coffee table. "No," he managed to whisper, the word burning, and it was the first crack. "I don't . . . I don't know how to start." He let his hands fall away from his face and stared at them. "I haven't slept in four days," he said, with all the weight of a murder confession, of failure.

"Okay . . . well, that explains the red eyes, paleness, and general crapitude," Stiles replied. Derek gave him a glance, hurt fleeting unexpectedly across his features. It made Stiles pause. "Sorry, I—I guess . . . this is new?"

Derek bobbed his head, bringing his attention back to his hands. "Pretty new."

"Any idea why?"

"No." Too quickly, the automatic defenses too well practiced. He checked himself, scowling, and struggled against instinct. Derek's shoulders bunched as he unbolted a piece of armor and set it trembling aside. He hung his head. More quietly, Yes . . ."

Stiles shifted again, this time mirroring Derek's hunched pose. Their knees touched, and Derek found his eyes drawn to the point of heat. His chest ached as words piled beneath his tongue, hot and burning. He felt wrong; these arms, these hands, must be lies.

"Do you . . . wanna talk about it?" Stiles asked, his voice soft, worried, unsure.

Derek swallowed. Yes. No. He wanted it to go away. His eyes traveled up until he met Stiles's gaze, and something inside cracked a little more, the sudden pain of it reflecting on his face, sorrow threading down his neck in a twitch that must be contained. He looked away before it got worse. "The things . . . what . . . happened this year . . ." He paused to gather his thoughts and tried not to care that his face felt feverish with embarrassment.

"Pretty messed up," Stiles added, filling the void.

"Sometimes—" His voice cracked, and he blew out a slow, steadying breath, pressed his eyes shut to just concentrate on the words. His voice dropped to a murmur. "Sometimes I can feel Scott's hand . . . on"—he huffed an unsteady breath—"on my neck. Hauling me up. Holding me down." He bunched his hands into fists that shook with the effort. The words scalded, and maybe if he died of embarrassment it would be easier. "Holding my . . . mouth . . . open," the last word barely a whisper, and yet still he squeezed his eyes shut and clamped down against the rage, the sorrow. Beside him, Stiles's heart started to race, and then a hand slid onto Derek's shoulder. He cracked an eye open enough to look at it.

"Is—is it okay?" Stiles asked, glancing between his hand and Derek's face, "Because—" When he started to draw back, Derek forced himself to keep talking.

"Sometimes . . . I can . . . taste . . ." He breathed. "This is stupid."

Stiles squeezed his hand a little. "Taste what?"

Derek's face contorted as he looked up, away, anywhere else. It shouldn't be this hard. But he found himself turning back toward Stiles, confessing, "Gerard Argent," into the small space between them. "And, I . . ." He swallowed and exhaled, lungs burning with too much shame, and shrugged—a defeated gesture. "I gag?" Like it was a question, like he didn't quite understand why.

"Jesus . . ." Stiles drew a breath and stared, his lips parted in shocked horror.

Derek shook his head and then folded over to press his forehead against the heels of his hands. "And Boyd . . . I—" His throat constricted at a sudden rush of tears that he fought back. "I can feel his weight," he said in a small, breathless voice. "See the memories." He dropped his hands and held them out, the way the twins had done, and stared at them. Derek sucked in a wet, heavy breath and let it out unsteadily, still fighting for control. "You know they don't have a word for 'used me like a weapon'?" He lowered his hands and looked over at Stiles. Stiles gazed back, his eyes wide and heart jumping.

"No, I guess they don't . . ." he replied. "But using someone's body without their permission? Forcing them?" His face reddened, and he brushed a hand through his hair as he looked away and blew out a sigh. "That we have a word for." When he glanced back, tears brimmed in his eyes, and he took his hand from Derek's shoulder. "Derek, that's rape."

His whole body squirmed at the sound, at the word, and he edged away, shaking his head. Because that didn't happen. Not to— "But there wasn't any—"

"What? Sex?" Stiles broke in, his voice harsh, but then he lowered it, trying to control himself. "God, dude, it's about power and control. About everything you just said."

Even though he was still shaking his head, it sounded true, churned in his stomach like truth. Made his legs weak, his head pound. And Derek wanted to tell him all the reasons that it wasn't, that that wasn't what really happened. Because men didn't— Strong men didn't—

But he'd said no. Every time, no and please and it hadn't mattered.

Stiles looked away. "Have you—have you talked to anyone?"

Derek inclined his head toward him. "I am."

That made Stiles turn back toward him sharply, his expression both serious and awed. He slid a hand around Derek's, and Derek realized that he was trembling, desperately holding up paper walls against a tide. "Stiles, I—" It came out a croak, and he glanced up from their hands to see tears track down the boy's face. He couldn't imagine what his expression must have said, but it made Stiles whisper, "It's okay to cry, you know. And . . . I'm a sympathetic crier, so . . ." He gestured at himself.

It started as a huffed laugh at the silly gesture, repeated as a harsh, breaking sob, and he bent, bowed under the memory of Scott's hands on his neck, wrenching him open. Of Boyd's dying memories. The sound of Lydia's shoes on the dusty hardwood floor. Derek brought his forehead down to their clasped hands and let the silent tears come . . . because what else was he supposed to do. Because at night, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling knowing his own weakness, sure that somehow he'd let it all happen.

"You didn't," Stiles muttered. "God, you didn't."

Had he spoken? He didn't mean to speak. And he didn't mean to cry, but this needed to be gone, excised or healed or amputated, he didn't care, just gone. Derek shook, and for a while the only sound was their breathing. He let Stiles shift around to the other side and draw him into a hug that didn't know how to stay awkward for very long because here was the only scent left that felt like safety, the only touch that meant no harm, demanded nothing. Stiles, true to his word, shook and cried with him, a silent weeping of gasped breaths and long fingers sowing solace on his spine. Derek waited until he felt hollow before sitting up, collecting the pieces of himself he'd scattered and not looking Stiles in the face. When he thought his voice might come out steady, he asked the coffee table, "What do I do?" but it came out small and frightened anyway.

Stiles heaved a stuttering sigh. "This . . . I think. Stuff like this." He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and sat up straighter.

Nodding, Derek frowned down at his hands and let his whole body sway when Stiles nudged him with his knee.

"And you keep telling yourself that it wasn't your fault. Any of it. You're only human."

Derek lifted an eyebrow at him.

Stiles huffed. "You know what I mean! And I'm serious. Like, A Number One most important thing. Not. Your. Fault."

He gave Stiles a doubtful look.

"I'm not kidding. In fact, I will text this to you"—he whipped out his phone and started typing—"on a daily basis if required. You tell me."

He didn't doubt that Stiles would, either, and couldn't help but crack a grin at him and roll his eyes when the phone in his pocket buzzed. "That might be pushing it."

Stiles shrugged dramatically. "Persistence is my middle name."

Derek snorted and sat back, drawing the first full, cleansing breath in what felt like days. Nothing ached. "Stiles."

The boy lifted his brows.

He didn't know what to say and instead found himself just gazing into amber eyes until Stiles blushed and looked away.

"You know," Stiles said, clearing his throat and picking at his pants. "You know I'm gonna have to talk to Scott, right?" He glanced up, and it was Derek's turn to look away, the muscle in his jaw jumping, a familiar heaviness pressing down.

"Because he's the alpha?" Derek asked, tone flat.

"No . . ." Stiles touched his arm, drawing his gaze. "Because he's my best friend. And part of being my best friend is having to listen to me call him out on his shit."

"You don't have to do that," Derek told him, shaking his head. Please don't.

"Yes, I do. He doesn't get a Get Out of Jail free card, not even a literal one. Speeding ticket, yes. Obviously. But—" He cut himself off with a wave. "It's not okay. All right? That's what I'm gonna tell him."

Derek turned with a look of despair. "Don't."

"But—"

"Stiles."

Stiles clamped his jaw shut and stared back, defiant.

"Not yet," Derek said, and looked out the window rather than cave to those eyes.

Stiles sagged and sighed. "Fine. I'll come up with another reason not to talk to him for a week."

Derek turned slowly, a warm, weird feeling bubbling beneath his skin. He lifted his eyebrows, and Stiles shrugged. "Such is my fury."

Derek smirked. "Terrifying." And then he tipped his head back and yawned until he nearly showed fangs.

"You know you can crash here, if you want," Stiles said, eyeing him.

He shook his head and started to get up, but Stiles got up faster, pressing down on his shoulder as he levered himself up.

"I'm fine," Derek said, without conviction. He sank further into the cushions and yawned a second time.

Stiles shot him a look over his shoulder. "That'll make a great obituary," he said, as he flipped the lock on one of the living room windows and pulled the blinds. He moved swiftly to the second one, and the room dropped into shadow. Derek watched him, turning, as he went to the front door and slid the dead bolt closed, then the lock on the door knob. Stiles glanced over at him briefly, then disappeared into the kitchen. Derek heard two more locks click shut and felt a tender twinge in his chest. When Stiles returned, all he could do was stare up at him, at a loss for words.

"I'm just gonna grab a few things," Stiles motioned up the stairs. "Be right back."

Derek nodded vaguely and watched him go, tracking the sound of his heartbeat when he vanished from sight.

Stiles came back with textbooks and a laptop under one arm and a pillow under the other. His pillow. The twinge flared into an ache. Stiles offered it with a kind grin and without comment, and Derek wondered if he'd purposely chosen something that would carry his scent so deeply. He took the pillow like it was a fragile thing and swallowed hard against the wave of gratitude so outsized from such a simple gesture. Against the tiny stabbing fear that it may be revoked.

He met Stiles's gaze, and the boy gestured over his shoulder toward the dining room. "I've got a paper, so . . . I'll just be here."

Derek nodded. "Thanks." And stretched out on the couch. He let his senses wander as he settled, ending up on his side with one arm curled under the pillow. They told him, home . . . pack . . . rest.

***

The weight of the Sheriff's body rattled the door as it failed to open to a simple turn of the knob like he'd expected. He scowled down, then dug out his keys and opened the lock. He turned the knob, shoved, and— "What?" The dead bolt, too? By the time he actually opened the door, the questions was already forming on his lips. "Stiles? Why's—" He saw movement to the right and blinked as Derek Hale's head popped up over the couch. Stiles jolted to a stop in front of him, and John redirected his question, "Derek sleeping on our couch?"

Stiles's mouth dropped open as he formulated a reply. "Well, he, uh—"

"Was just leaving," Derek cut in. He hastily grabbed his jacket, brushed a hand through his hair, and started for the door.

"Derek, you don't—"

"Thanks," Derek cut Stiles off and slipped through the door that the Sheriff hadn't yet closed. John watched him go for a second and then shut the door.

"What was—" But his son sighed heavily.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I . . . didn't do anything."

"You chased him off!"

"I asked why he was here! If I'd wanted to chase him off, there'd be threats involved." The Sheriff turns his empty palms up. "No threats."

Stiles sighed heavily again and turned in a small circle before crossing his arms in thought. He looked down for a second and then raised his eyes, his expression serious. "What do you know about counseling rape victims?"

He started to mouth a repetition of the question as his eyebrows shot up. "Do I need to sit down for this?"

Stiles frowned at him. "What? No, Jesus!"

It was the Sheriff's turn to sigh. "You can't just ask me questions like that and not—"

"Dad."

The Sheriff threw his hands up a little. "Can you at least tell me why you're asking?"

Stiles gave him a long look and then glanced at the door. The Sheriff pointed. At the door Derek had just left through. His incredulous eyebrows did all the talking, and Stiles just nodded, looking grim. "But—"

"A lot of bad things happened this year. So . . . do you, or not?"

The Sheriff heaved a breath. "No . . . our training is on gathering evidence, helping build a case. What you're talking about is social servic—Is that why the door was locked?" He looked around at the darkened living room as pieces clicked into place. "You—you locked all of them, didn't you."

Stiles looked away and shrugged one shoulder. "I thought—"

"Son, I know what you thought." Make it safe. And a warm feeling of pride washed over him, touching the corners of his eyes. He clapped a hand on Stiles's shoulder and then pulled him into a hug. "Sometimes," he said, his voice rough and throat constricted, "I'm so proud of you."

Stiles huffed and hugged him back. "I don't know if it helped," he muttered.

John nodded as he let him go. "It did, I promise. And if you want, I'll give you the contact info for the woman in social services. You can"—he shrugged—"tell her you're doing research for a paper."

Stiles grinned a little, before his serious expression returned. "I need to help him," he said.

And the Sheriff could only nod. "Then, you will."