More time must have passed than Derek realized if Stiles has come looking for him. Sighing, Derek pulls himself up from laying on the broken down couch. There’s ash smeared against his shirt, embedding itself in the black fabric, something that won’t go unnoticed when Stiles eventually makes his way inside the house. Derek doesn’t try to brush it off though. He doesn’t see the point. Instead he just leans back against the couch, crosses his arms, and waits.

It takes Stiles a few minutes before he manages to cross the threshold into the house. Derek knows that he always hesitates before stepping through the doorway, has watched firsthand how he stops just before coming inside. He can imagine how Stiles reaches out one hand and touches the doorframe, fingers running across the only stretch of wood that hasn’t been licked by flame. He can almost see how Stiles closes his eyes, steels himself with a breath, and then takes the first step inside before his hand falls away from the door and he opens his eyes. 

Sure enough, moments later, Stiles stumbles into what used to be the living room. Like always, he lingers at the edge of the room, taking in the way that Derek has curled in on himself on the broken couch, takes stock of the ash on his shirt and his pants and his skin. His scent is lemon tart and lightening, bitter with anger and at his sides, Stiles’ hands ball into fists. His posture is taut, eyes bright with a fury that takes Derek by surprise. He’s ready for a fight. It sets Derek on edge immediately, all remanent of his earlier disassociation dissipating. 

“Stiles, what’s wrong?” Sitting forward on the couch, Derek looks around the room as though searching for a threat hiding under all the ash. “Did something happen?”

An incredulous look crosses Stiles face. His fists tighten. “Did something happen?” His voice cracks on the last word, and then he sparks into motion, throwing his hands into the air as he steps closer. “Are you kidding me? Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Derek blinks at him for a moment, a lag making his brain run slow and sluggish. When the understanding of what Stiles is angry about dawns on him, Derek’s expression shutters. If Stiles has come here to fight him, if he’s come to fight about this, Derek won’t give in so easily. Crossing his arms over his chest, Derek stares at him blankly as Stiles comes closer. Every line if his body is rigid and sharp. He reminds Derek of a weapon so carefully crafted, and he knows, without a doubt, that he would be able to tear Derek apart if he really wanted. There isn’t a weapon more suited for Derek’s destruction than Stiles. But that, coupled with the fury igniting Stiles’ bourbon eyes, isn’t enough to scare him. Stiles may have the ability to destroy him, but Derek has the inexplicable trust that he won’t. 

As if sensing the turn of Derek’s thoughts, Stiles comes to a stop just out of Derek’s reach, expression scrutinizing. This close, Derek sees how his lips quiver as they pinch together, not from anger but from something else. Underlying his bright scent is a sour tang barely recognizable through the bitter burn of his fury. Fear. Stiles is afraid, afraid for Derek, afraid because he’s ended up back here again. 

Closing his eyes against the rush of emotion that hits him, Derek exhales slowly. When he opens his eyes he lets his emotionless wall fall away. 

He can’t say what he looks like, but whatever he sees on Derek’s face makes Stiles’ hands relax. He repeats Derek question back to him, sounding too small. “What happened?”

Leaning back against the couch, Derek drops his head back against it, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes catch on the large hole where part of the second floor collapsed from the weight of time and broken memories. His sigh is all encompassing and dreadful. “Does something else have to have happened,” he asks. “Isn’t this enough?” He swallows, feeling too exposed. “Sorry. That was-. I’m sorry.”

Stiles chokes out a sound, and then there’s a weight settling onto the couch beside him, their skin inches from brushing. The distance is calculated, space left by Stiles for Derek to fill if he wants to. And Derek wants. But he can’t give in, not yet. He can’t handle being touched yet, and he sends silent thanks Stiles’ way that he understands that. 

“Have you thought about,” Stiles starts, trailing off into uneasy silence. Derek wants to hear what he has to say, and also wishes that the wouldn’t utter a word. Because he can guess where his sentence was going. And right now he can’t think about that. 

Reaching out, Derek lifts his head and points at the wall. “Look, it’s a llama.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot high in surprise and he turns to look at the smudged shape. A laugh chokes its way out of him, high in surprise. “That is the worst looking llama I’ve ever seen,” he decides, tilting his head to examine it from a different angle. “What happened to its nose?

Derek snorts, feeling a little more centered now that he has Stiles’ heartbeat to focus on. “I was more concerned about how its neck is bent.”

There’s a moment, where everything around them is quiet. It’s not awkward, not quite, but there is still a tension there. The air still has remnants of Derek’s depression and Stiles’ anger, those emotions not quite broken up by their companionship. Then, Stiles points further up the wall at a space where the paint has peeled away. 

“That is definitely a giraffe though. Look at how tall it is!”

Following his finger, Derek huffs a laugh when he sees what Stiles is gesturing to. “It looks like a deflated whale.”

Flapping at him, Stiles shakes his head. “No way! Look at those legs. And those knobby knees. It’s a giraffe, no question.”

“Well that’s a butterfly then,” Derek says, pointing at yet another wall smudge. 

They spend the next hour pointing at various markings and making more elaborate guesses on what they resemble. With each laugh they share Derek feels more and more human. Stiles’ scent curls into something bright and joyous, making everything feel so much better as time goes on. 

When there’s a lull in the conversation, as Stiles leans heavily against Derek’s side laughing about the most recent guess (a group of smudges that he swears looks just like Jackson), Derek looks at him and realizes just what this is. Because it’s more than sitting there, looking at marks on a wall. It’s more than making each other laugh. It’s Stiles showing up once again to take care of Derek, and the implications of that aren’t lost on Derek. Even though Stiles was angry, even though he was upset that Derek was back in this place and afraid about what that meant, he is still here. He didn’t pry or press. He stayed.

“Derek? Is there something on my face?” Stiles goes cross-eyes while trying to see what Derek could possibly be staring at. 

It makes Derek smile, softer than he has since Stiles showed up. “I think,” he begins, pausing to take a deep breath, “maybe it’s time to give this place up.”

Stiles’ face goes through a complicated set of motions, from confused to elated to weary. But Derek is sure. He’s been thinking about it for a while, but this is the first time that the decision has felt right. 

“Are you sure?” There’s a guarded happiness in his tone, one that he’s trying his best to hide. 

Derek shrugs, leaning back against the couch and looking around at the charred wood and broken frames. “I’ve been thinking it for a while. But-. This place isn’t safe. I can’t keep-.” Swallowing, he finishes his thought. “I can’t keep coming back here. It’s not-. They wouldn’t have wanted me to. I don’t want to.” Very carefully, Stiles reaches over and takes Derek’s hand, threading their fingers together. Derek holds on tight. “It’s time to let it go.”

Even though he looks ready to start deconstruction right then and there, the only thing that Stiles says is “Okay.” And Derek is grateful. Because even though he knows it’s time, thinking about tearing this house down is still hard. But he’s ready.

“Come on,” he says, tightening his hold on Stiles so that when he climbs to his feet, Stiles is pulled up as well. “Let’s go home.”