Chapter Text
Derek’s life was a cosmic joke. Misfortune and death dogged his steps insistently, stealing away everyone around him but never pulling him into the abyss after them. It was like every deity from every faith had come together to try and outdo the others in a sick competition for how badly they could mess him up.
He wasn't a bad person; he tried hard and he didn't want much, just to keep the people around him safe, but he couldn't ever seem to do anything right.
And now it was worse than ever. He hadn't listened to the counsel of those around him, again, when they told him what the right thing to do was and they'd all suffered for it. But now he was sure he was doing the right thing because it was exactly what everyone had always told him to do, leave. No one wanted him there; no one needed him now, if they ever did. He was the piece of the puzzle stuck in the wrong box, trying to fit into a picture that wasn't his, so he stopped trying, became a discarded piece.
Derek was an omega now, disgraced and hated, but he’d done what he knew would help everyone in the end and accepted that this was how he was meant to be. It was painful though. Everything had been stripped from him again and this time there was no Laura, no goal, and no hope. He’d lost everything, his pack, his alpha powers, and the trust of every person he knew, but they were safe. Scott had taken up the mantel of leader, as he was probably meant to all along, and he would protect them. Derek believed in the new alpha, the true alpha. Scott would be good to them; he’d make them happy and keep them safe, build them a strong pack and hold them together like Derek could never hope to.
Disgraced and without a pack, weak and alone with nowhere to go, Derek went home. Not back to the apartment, but back to the burnt ruin in the woods that had once been the place he shared with his family, where he’d been happy. The irony of returning when his world has been decimated was not lost on Derek, but it felt right to be there now.
He didn't make it as far as the house though. He stopped next to the lake where the river flowed in and stared at the house through the trees. The crushing loneliness he’d been fighting since he’d started blindly running caught up to him and Derek fell to his knees. His breathing was uneven from sobs that had no sound as tears flowed endlessly down his cheeks, soaking his skin in liquid misery. It hurt so much that he was beyond sound, robbed of the strength to voice the agony pounding through him harder and faster than the water over rocks behind him.
And if he curled up there as tight as he could manage and mourned until his tears had run dry and he was so wrung out that he could do nothing but lie there on the gritty leaf litter and stare into nothingness, there was no one there to see it.
Stiles Stilinski seemed to be the only one who cared that Derek Hale hadn't been seen or heard from in almost seventy-two hours. Maybe it was understandable with everyone glowing in the wonder of their new found pack and their triumph over evil and all that. Still, Stiles was the only person who had asked, even in passing, where’s Derek? The others hadn't wondered aloud about him at all and, when mentioned, the name drew dark looks and heavy silence.
He’d dragged Scott along to Derek’s apartment to check on him but Scott informed him, obviously, that Derek hadn't been there in days. Scott had been gentle, if exasperated as he’d told Stiles that Derek had left on his own, by his own choice. Stiles knew that and he tried to do as Scott suggested and put Derek from his mind, but it nagged at him.
Perhaps that’s what made him walk into the woods after practice toward the burnt remains of the Hale house. He didn't actually expect Derek to be there, he went because he wanted to ease his mind. He’d come to the conclusion that Derek had probably left town a while ago, relocated to some new city and probably found a pack to take him in.
It was a comforting thought, but in his gut, he knew it wasn't true. So when he spotted the curled up mass of a person on the ground next to the lake, Stiles didn't even question who it could be.
He froze for a second, breath going cold in his chest when he spotted Derek in his unmoving position on the ground. He didn't want to find another body, he’d done that enough in the past year to last him a lifetime.
“Derek,” he called as he ran toward the huddled figure, watching closely for signs of life.
Images of blood, dried and hard, in the creases of clothing, skin ashen, and limbs stiff with death, flashed through Stiles mind. It was terrifyingly easy to picture, Derek dead, and it sped Stiles’s feet. He wasn't that far away but it felt like an eternity to Stiles. He didn't want to have to explain, again, how he’d found a body, how someone else he knew had been brutally pulled from the world.
Derek was lying on his side, curled in on himself, and Stiles skidded up to him on his knees. His hand instantly fell to Derek’s shoulder and gripped it as he said, urgently, “Derek, answer me. Derek!”
The skin under Stiles’s hand was mercifully warm but Derek didn't really respond so Stiles shook his shoulder and reached with his other hand to turn Derek’s head toward him. As his head was pulled around, Derek’s eyes remained on their spot in space until it was out of view then, with agonizing slowness, drug up Stiles’s body. Those eyes were a dead grey instead of their usual vibrant riot of bright color. When his eyes finally reached Stiles face and found his worried amber eyes, a spark of recognition flitted through them and Stiles breathed a sigh of relief.
“Derek, you’re soaked,” Stiles observed, mystified. The side of his body that rested on the ground was dark with dampness, as though he hadn't shifted position since the last time there was moisture. Derek’s hair was flecked with dirt and his skin was smeared with mud that had dried and cracked there, like he couldn't be bothered to the move the two feet to the body of water next to him and clean himself off. Derek occasionally lived rough but he wasn't one to completely neglect his personal hygiene.
Stiles got it then, really got it. Derek had been laying here for three days, alone, through a heavy rainstorm and quickly chilling nights. He grimaced at the idea, at how lonely and lost Derek looked, how utterly, hopelessly defeated. He didn't really decide to do it, not really, but if anyone in the universe needed a hug at that moment, it was Derek Hale. Stiles maneuvered Derek’s perfectly compliant dead weight until his head hung over Stiles’s shoulder and he could wrap both arms around Derek’s back, pulling him close to his chest. It wasn't a very comfortable position, Derek’s legs splayed out awkwardly to one side, but Stiles didn't care at the moment.
“It’s going to be alright, Derek,” Stiles said with conviction, not sure if that was a lie or not, knowing the words were empty but saying them anyway, as though he could force it to be true. He held on to Derek like he could pull the broken bits of him together and make him whole again if he just held on tight enough. Derek didn't respond but Stiles felt him close his eyes and pull in a deep breath.
Derek didn't believe for a second that he would ever be alright again. In fact he was pretty sure that this was his last moment and Stiles was the product of his imagination. He’d heard that people, right before death, experienced a happy moment as their minds conjured up the things that brought them joy, and all the people that they loved came to welcome them to the other side. It was just his luck that none of his family had come to take him across the divide between life and death. It hurt that they weren't here, but it wasn't unexpected. Stiles might not have been his first choice but he also wasn't his last, and there was something to be said for that.
He kept his eyes closed so he could concentrate completely on Stiles, using his other senses to keep him there as long as possible. His heart beat was slower than it had been when he’d feared for Derek’s life but it was quick and steady in his ears and Derek let it drown out the sounds around them. Derek couldn't have said why, but Stiles smelled oddly like home, not Derek’s home, that smell had long since been lost to him, but like comfort and safety, a place to rest and a place to heal. Stiles body was warm and solid as he held Derek like he hadn't been held in a very long time. He had long since learned that the comfort of another’s arms didn't really mean safety, but, at that moment, he didn't care one way or another. He soaked in the momentary relief from his isolation and let Stiles warm his chilled skin.
“It’s going to be alright,” Stiles repeated softer, instinctively tightening his arms for a second, trying to make Derek believe that there was still one person in his cold, dead world who cared what happened to him.