Chapter Text
Then
Sex after a long fight was something Stiles loved. The pack lingering longer than usual at the loft could be annoying, but the adrenaline rush kept Stiles from caring too much. Especially when, as the pack’s second, Stiles had to stay a little bit longer to chat about their fighting tactics. By the time everyone had left, he and Derek would be all over each other.
“It seems it’s just us?” Derek’s voice rumbled from behind. Stiles turned and grinned at the sight of him.
“Want to grab a shower together?” Stiles asked, giving a playful shake of his ass.
Derek rolled his eyes, his lips twitching in a faint smirk. “Do you have to ask?”
The stupid eyebrow thing Derek did made Stiles half-hard on the spot. “Shut up and go to the shower. I call bottoming tonight.”
“I’m not going to fuck you in the shower,” Derek growled. “You’re too clumsy. I’m not dealing with you slipping… and bruising like a peach.”
“How ‘bout we take a warm shower together, then you take me to your bedroom and give me a back massage?” Stiles countered, already knowing he’d won from the faint softening in Derek’s expression.
“Jeez, Derek, you can go harder than that,” Stiles teased, his voice breathy.
“You’re such an ungrateful bitch. Honestly, fuck you, Stiles,” Derek mumbled before thrusting back into him, hard and fast. Stiles whimpered, caught between pain and pleasure.
“It hurts, you asshole,” Stiles complained, though he made no move to stop Derek.
Derek didn’t bother with a response. Instead, he stood, flipping Stiles onto his stomach and pressing him into the mattress. Stiles gasped, squirming beneath him as Derek’s movements turned frantic, his hands firm against Stiles' hips.
“Stay still,” Derek ordered, his voice low and rough.
“Derek…” A long, drawn-out moan escaped Stiles as Derek filled him completely.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Derek grunted, his voice strained as his fingers dug into Stiles' hips, holding him steady. The heat of their connection sent sparks down his spine, and Stiles' sharp gasps only spurred him on, filling the room with a primal rhythm. Stiles' cries and Derek’s guttural moans blended together as their rhythm quickened. When they finally reached their climax, their bodies locked together, they stayed motionless for a moment, catching their breath.
“Get off me, you big buffoon,” Stiles said, shoving at Derek weakly.
Derek snorted and flopped onto the bed beside him, staring up at the ceiling. “That was good. God, we need to do this more often. Four days off, and I can’t even catch my breath.”
Stiles smirked cheekily. “Well, it was the worst I’ve had,” he quipped, though his tone betrayed the lie.
Sex with the pack’s Alpha always blew Stiles' mind. He’d had his fair share of partners, and he knew Derek was so good that Stiles kept coming back—despite how much Derek could piss him off.
“You know what, Stiles?” Derek said, turning his head to look at him. “Maybe next time, I’ll make you beg before I bend over for you.”
Stiles' grin faltered. “Fuck you, Hale. You’re such a dick. Enjoy your right hand for the rest of your life.” He rolled off the bed, gathering his clothes with dramatic flair.
Derek just rolled his eyes. “You have two minutes to leave, or I’ll throw you out.”
“Fucking asshole!” Stiles snapped, launching one of Derek’s leather-bound books at him before stomping out of the room. Derek caught the book mid-air with ease, his low growl reverberating through the loft as he set it down with exaggerated care, his eyes gleaming with irritation and faint amusement. He didn’t look back, but he could hear Derek’s low growl as the book thudded against the wall.
Typical Derek.
Another night came; another awful dream, drowning in the ocean of flames, dissolving away into nothing, eaten alive. This time Stiles was dragged under, even as he was desperately trying to swim. The fire surrounded him, heavy and thick, clinging to his legs and burning his skin. Stiles struggled with all his strength, but the fire closed over his body, and all around was black — black fir did not make sense — Stiles fought for air, desperate—
Then there was a ring of warmth around his ribs. A band of blue orbs had seemingly gazing at him. The choking sensation was gone at once, and Stiles found himself soaring up out of the burning Hale mansion, clean and whole. He was floating up through the sky. He was alive.
For a while he drifted through the air, in the dream, conscious only of a sense of respite and relief. The terrible fire was still there beneath him, and Stiles knew it would claim him again soon, but for now the fragile, familiar blue eyes seemed to be keeping him aloft. There was an odd (but comforting) sensation of something soft wrapped around him, too, as if he were enfolded in an invisible fur-blanket.
Stiles woke up.
Crap.
Crap crap crap —
Shit.
This shouldn’t have happened.
It was supposed to be easy. Finding his dad and letting him do the heavy work was supposed to be the easiest thing Eli had done in his whole life. In the first few weeks the things were rough, Eli knew that. He did. And it was totally his fault on how horrible he behaved towards his dad. What Eli and the rest didn’t anticipate was his dad’s desperate attempt to bring his other dad back from the dead—by making deals with demons. The revelation hit Eli like a punch to the gut, leaving him reeling.
He was not proud of how much he freaked out like a baby when he saw what his dad was doing. But he was scared, okay? He was, he can’t lose both his parents. He would if Stiles failed, so he forced his dad to promise he would drop this. And Eli knew it was a lie. He totally did. And his mind was running a hundred thoughts per second Since then. In simpler words he was freaking the fuck out.
****
Shut up, this isn’t gonna help Dad at all, he scolds himself. Mentally shaking his head to clear those dark thoughts, Eli relies on the breathing technique his other dad taught him how to do.
Right. Okay.
Okay, he can do this.
He’s a Hale and a Stilinski.
If he can shift without passing out, if he can fight without shifting, then he sure as hell can help take care of dad.
There’s no way he’ll be leaving his dad’s side anytime soon.
Several hours later, Eli’s sitting comfortably by his bedside in his room finger hovering over Peter’s contact. Peter after all did promise him to come straight back with aunt Malia if Eli is ever in a dangerous situation. His dad thinking about going off and making deals with demons so he can bring another dad back, obviously counts as an emergency situation, right?
Eli’s finger hovered over Peter’s contact, his mind spinning with worry. He didn’t know what to do, but Peter had promised he'd be there if Eli ever needed help. And right now, Eli needed help more than ever.
Just as he was about to hit the dial button, the door creaked open. He froze, quickly slipping his phone into his lap, heart pounding in his chest.
"Eli?" Stiles’ voice was soft but filled with concern.
Eli quickly adjusted his posture, trying to seem casual. "Yeah?"
Stiles stepped into the room, his gaze immediately softening as he took in Eli’s tense posture. "What are you doing up? It’s late, kiddo. You should be asleep."
Eli glanced at the clock—it was past midnight. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed. "I... uh, I had a nightmare," he said, fumbling for an excuse. "Just one of those weird dreams, you know?"
Stiles didn’t say anything right away. He just watched Eli, his eyes warm and patient, like he understood there was more going on than just a nightmare. After a moment, Stiles smiled and stepped forward. "Alright. How about I make us some hot chocolate? We can talk about it, or not. Whatever you need."
Eli, grateful for the distraction, nodded. "Yeah, hot chocolate sounds good."
A few minutes later, Stiles returned with two steaming mugs, the rich smell of cocoa filling the room. He sat down beside Eli, handing him a mug. The warmth of the cup in Eli's hands felt comforting, and for the first time that night, he relaxed a little.
"Here," Stiles said, settling down beside him. "We can just sit here. No pressure to talk about the nightmare or anything. Just take your time."
Eli took a sip, the cocoa warming him from the inside out. "Thanks, Dad," he said quietly. He took another sip, feeling the weight of the conversation hanging in the air. "I’m just... I guess I’ve been worrying a lot lately."
Stiles nodded, understanding. "It’s okay to worry, Eli. You’ve got a lot on your plate. But you don’t have to carry it alone. I’m right here. Whatever you need, we’ll figure it out together."
Eli didn’t know how to express everything he was feeling, but his dad’s steady, calm presence was enough for now. "Thanks, Dad," he murmured, feeling the knot in his stomach loosen a little.
They sat there in quiet company for a few minutes, sipping their hot chocolate, and for a while, the world felt just a little bit more manageable.
Finally, Stiles stood up and stretched. "Alright, kiddo. You’ve had your cocoa. Time to get you to bed."
Eli looked up in surprise, furrowing his brow. "Dad, I’m almost fifteen. I can go to bed on my own," he said, trying to sound more grown-up than he felt.
Stiles just raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Almost fifteen, huh?" He reached down and, with surprising strength, hoisted Eli up by the shoulders. "That means you’re definitely still a kid, and kids don’t get to stay up all night."
"Hey! I’m almost fifteen, Dad! Almost," Eli grumbled, half-laughing but also slightly embarrassed.
Stiles laughed, his voice light and teasing. "Oh, I see. If you need to add 'almost' before you say your age, that definitely means you're still a kid. Come on, time to get some sleep, kiddo."
Eli rolled his eyes but allowed himself to be gently but firmly guided toward the bed. Stiles helped him pull the covers back and tucked him in with a comforting, fatherly touch. "There we go. All cozy and ready for sleep."
Eli groaned, even though he was secretly grateful for the care. "I can do it myself, you know."
Stiles chuckled, brushing a stray lock of hair out of Eli’s eyes. "I know you can. But you’re my kid, and this is what parents do. Now get some rest, alright? We’ve got tomorrow to deal with, and I want you rested."
Eli let out a small sigh but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. "Thanks, Dad."
Stiles kissed his forehead lightly. "Always, Eli. Sleep well, okay? I’m right outside if you need anything."
"Goodnight, Dad," Eli mumbled, already feeling the heaviness of sleep pulling at him.
"Goodnight, kiddo," Stiles replied softly, standing up and making his way to the door. "Don’t stay up too late."
As the door clicked shut behind him, Eli let out a slow breath, the weight of the world still there but just a little lighter. He wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring, but for tonight, he felt safe and cared for.
Before he let himself drift off, his mind wandered back to the thought that had been nagging at him all night. Tomorrow, when school started, he would figure out how to get in touch with Peter. It was the first step—he needed to talk to someone who might understand, someone who could help him to force dad from going through that route, make sense of everything.
But for now, the warmth of his bed and the comfort of his dad’s care were enough to quiet the chaos in his mind. He closed his eyes, mentally making a note to call Peter tomorrow, and slowly fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Stiles quietly closed the door behind him, the soft click of it echoing in the stillness of the house. The air inside felt heavy, imbued with a lingering sense of loss, as if the walls themselves carried the weight of memories that refused to fade. Eli’s room felt miles away now, the door safely shut between them, and Stiles found himself standing in the dark hallway, not quite sure where to go next. The weight of the night, of all the unspoken words between him and his son, was still heavy, but it was something else that kept him rooted in place. Something he couldn't shake.
He glanced down at his hands, still holding the empty mug from the cocoa he had shared with Eli, the faint warmth of the moment lingering despite the night’s chill. The sweetness of the drink had felt fleeting, but the memory of Eli’s tentative smile and the fragile bond they had shared over the steaming cups stayed with him, a small comfort in the vast emptiness. His fingers felt cold, as if they'd never really warmed up, like he had been holding onto a lifetime of regrets, a lifetime of things he hadn’t said.
"God, Derek..." Stiles whispered to the silence.
The words tasted bitter in his mouth, carrying the sharp tang of unspoken truths and unresolved pain. They echoed the weight of years spent hiding his emotions, burying his grief under a facade of strength that now felt paper-thin. Each syllable seemed to scrape against his soul, a reminder of all the moments he’d let slip away, all the words he had never found the courage to say. He knew he couldn’t keep running from it, couldn’t keep burying the grief, the pain that had followed him in Derek’s absence. Every day, the house felt emptier, quieter. There was no calming presence in the other room. No steady, grounding hand when things felt too overwhelming.
Stiles wandered to the living room, the same way he always did when his mind needed to escape. He dropped onto the couch, sitting heavily, feeling the weight of the emptiness settle over him. It wasn’t just that Derek wasn’t there—it was the fact that he never had the chance to say the things Stiles had held back. That he had never been able to tell Derek how much he had meant to him, how much Derek still meant to him.
Stiles let his head fall back against the cushion, his eyes closing as he tried to breathe through the sharp sting in his chest. "I miss you," he whispered hoarsely, the words falling from his lips like the last fragile remnants of something that had been broken beyond repair.
He blinked hard, but it didn’t stop the tears. Slowly, quietly, they began to fall—trickling down his cheeks as he lay there, staring at the ceiling, as though hoping the answers might be written somewhere above him.
The house was eerily quiet. No creaks in the floorboards, no sound of Derek moving about, his heavy footsteps a thing of the past. Stiles could still hear those sounds in his mind—Derek pacing, the low rumble of his voice, the way the air seemed to shift when Derek was near, when everything felt like it was going to be okay. But that had all faded now. All of it.
"Why didn’t I tell you?" Stiles choked out, his voice cracking as he spoke to the room, as if it might somehow bring Derek back to him. "Why didn’t I just tell you how much you meant to me, Derek? How much I loved you?"
The sobs caught in his throat before he could stop them. They came quietly at first, like a gentle wave cresting before crashing down. And then they came faster, stronger, the tears falling freely now, tracing tracks down his face.
He had been so stupid. So stubborn. So certain that time would always be there, that there would always be more chances. But now... Now there was nothing. Nothing but the ache of silence and the weight of words that would never leave his lips. The chance to hold Derek and tell him all the things Stiles had kept locked away, to tell him how much Derek had saved him, how much Derek had been the one constant in his life... all of that was gone. And it wasn’t just that Derek was gone—it was the fact that Stiles would never have the chance to speak those words.
Stiles’ hands clenched the edge of the couch, his body trembling with the force of his grief. His chest felt tight, suffocating, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear it. The memories of Derek, the moments they had shared—small, precious things that Stiles had taken for granted—rushed at him all at once. Derek's quiet laugh, his steady presence in the darkest of times, his willingness to sacrifice everything for those he cared about.
"Derek... I need you," Stiles whispered, barely able to get the words out between the sobs. "I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t know how to do any of this without you. I need you here. I need you... so much."
The tears came harder then, until it felt like they might never stop. Stiles didn’t care. He let them fall, let the grief break over him like an unrelenting storm. He missed Derek so much it felt like it was consuming him, like there was a hole in his chest too big to fill, and it had only grown wider with each passing day.
He squeezed his eyes shut, wiping at his face with the back of his hand, but it didn’t help. The tears kept coming. "I’m sorry, Derek. I should’ve told you. I should’ve told you how much I loved you, how much you meant to me... before it was too late. But I didn’t. And now... now you’re gone, and I’ll never get the chance."
The house felt colder now, the absence of Derek a physical thing that Stiles could almost touch. He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, unable to keep the sobs from wracking his body. It felt like his whole world had cracked open, and there was no one left to help him pick up the pieces.
And through it all, he thought of Eli—of his son, who was asleep in his room, blissfully unaware of the chaos inside his father’s heart. Stiles wiped his eyes again, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He had to be strong for Eli. He had to keep going, even though the pain of losing Derek felt like it was suffocating him. But it was hard, so hard to keep that mask on when everything inside him felt like it was falling apart.
"I’ll be okay, Derek," Stiles whispered softly, the last of his tears falling. "I’ll take care of him. I promise. But God, I wish you were here."
There was no answer. There never would be. But as Stiles sat there, his hands trembling, he could almost feel Derek's presence beside him, in the quiet hum of the night. The ache would never fully go away, but somehow, with the weight of the grief pouring out of him, he felt like he could breathe a little easier. Tomorrow would be another day to keep moving forward. For Eli. For himself. And somehow, maybe, for Derek, too.
Stiles sat alone in the living room, the weight of the silence pressing down on him like a physical thing. He stared out the window into the night, the darkness beyond blending with the blackness inside him. His hands were still shaking from the outpouring of emotion, the tears that had fallen like an unstoppable river. Even now, the sting of grief burned through him, an ache that refused to subside, no matter how hard he tried to push it away.
The house was still, too still, like something precious had been stolen and left an emptiness that would never truly be filled.
He felt Derek’s absence in every corner of the house, even though Stiles never shared this house with him. His absence was a void, one that seemed to grow larger with every passing day. The thought that Derek would never walk through that door again, never sit next to him on the couch, never tease him or silently stand guard by his side—it was suffocating.
Stiles wiped the tears from his eyes, sniffling, feeling the ache in his chest deepen as his thoughts went back to the one thing that always lingered on his mind.
Every night, before he went to bed, he promised Derek, he would bring him back. Every night, in the darkness, when the grief threatened to swallow him whole, he whispered that same promise into the silence.
"I’ll find a way. I’ll bring you back, Derek," Stiles whispered, his voice low, full of conviction. There was no room for doubt in these words, no hesitation in the way he said them. "No matter what it takes. I’ll bring you back, even if it costs me everything. Even if it costs my life."
His voice was steady, unyielding. The words felt like a vow carved in stone, impossible to break. Stiles wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. His heart ached for Derek, but that pain, that desperation, became the very thing that drove him forward. There was no other option. There was no other way.
He didn’t care what it cost him. He didn’t care what dangers it might bring. He didn’t care about anything, except bringing Derek back. Derek had always been there for him—he had to be there again. Stiles couldn’t live with the world where Derek wasn’t by his side. He couldn’t.
"Even if I have to tear apart the universe to do it, Derek," Stiles continued, his voice fierce, "I swear to you, I’ll bring you back. I don’t care what it costs. I will make it happen."
The tears still fell, but now they were different—fueled by a relentless, unshakable determination. Stiles wiped them away roughly, his chest heaving with the weight of the promise. There was no second-guessing. No more wondering if it was possible. His grief had turned into something else—something that would drive him forward, no matter how impossible it seemed.
"I’ll find a way," Stiles repeated, more to himself now, as though he needed the words to cement the truth deep in his bones. "I will bring you back. No matter what. Nothing, nothing will stop me."
He stood up from the couch, the fire of resolve burning brightly in his chest. He knew he would do whatever it took to honor that promise. He had no doubt. He would find a way to bring Derek back.
Because he had to.
“Set the table with me,” Stiles says, his voice light, but there’s something in the way he says it, something that’s softer than usual. It’s like he’s trying to mask the hesitation, but it’s there, clear as day.
Instantly, Derek’s irritation fades, but something else flickers in his eyes—a kind of exhaustion that’s all too familiar. A tension that has been building between them for weeks now. He doesn’t smile, but the edge of his frown softens just a little, as if Stiles’ words have somehow melted the ice just a bit. “Let’s hold hands while you are at it.”
“Won’t that make it a bit difficult? With your great big hands in mine?” Stiles teases, but his voice falters slightly as he reaches for the plates, trying to hide the lump in his throat. He tightens his grip on the edges of the ceramic, the weight of it grounding him.
“No,” Derek responds simply, though his voice carries something deeper, something a little too quiet. He steps forward, taking the utensils from Stiles’ hands without waiting for an answer. “It won’t make it difficult.”
Derek gasps awake to the burning. It is almost the same as every day. He now realizes it is the Nematon drawing power from his alpha spark. Those happy dreams are his only relief in this hell. Derek's breath is shallow, each inhale feeling like it takes more effort than the last. The burning sensation in his chest spreads slowly, an unrelenting ache that gnaws at the edges of his consciousness. It’s been building for days now, this low, simmering agony that he can’t quite escape. At first, he thought it was just exhaustion from the fight with the Nematon’s lingering influence. But it’s more than that. Much more.
The power from the Nematon siphons his strength, draining him like a slow, steady leak in the fabric of his being. He can feel the force of it, tugging at his alpha spark, gnawing at the edges of his control. It’s like it knows exactly where to push, where to wear him down. Each wave of power is more insistent, more desperate. It's a constant pull, a constant reminder of just how powerless he is in the face of something that is both a part of him and utterly outside his control.
But it’s not just the physical pain—no, that’s secondary. The ache inside him, the one that keeps twisting his gut and tightening his chest, is something deeper. It's something he’s been ignoring for weeks, something he’s been pretending doesn’t exist.