#whispering_sumire

“You’re the only monster around here, Derek!” Scott shouts at him, leaping to his feet, but letting Allison push him toward the door. Typical. “Maybe we should have trapped you outside the barrier, too!”

“Maybe you should have!” Derek shouts back, growling low in his throat, “Go on, get out of here. Out!” He points a finger at the door, and his betas scuffle out quickly, grumbling amongst themselves as they go. He can hear Scott already starting his car, Allison in the seat beside him and Lydia climbing into the back. Derek waits for the front door to slam, breathing hard.

“And you,” he says, turning to Stiles, who’s still seated at the large wooden table to the side of the room, frozen in place like he hoped Derek wouldn’t see him. “What the hell are you still doing here?”

“Dad’s working the late shift,” Stiles shrugs, careful to keep his voice casual. “Figured I’d stick around and keep reading through the spellbook, just in case. Keep you company.” His honeyed eyes flick up to Derek’s face, not a flicker of the apprehension that Derek can smell rolling off of him apparent in his expression.

“I don’t need your goddamn pity , Stiles,” Derek snarls, “pack up your shit and get the hell out of my house.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but the sudden stench of hurt that coats his scent makes Derek’s stomach clench. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, he doesn’t need Stiles here. Doesn’t want him here, either, and Stiles definitely can’t want to be here of his own accord. He should go. Now.

“Fine,” Stiles says, shoving his books in his bag and grabbing his jacket. “You want to slink around your empty house on Christmas Eve after chasing away your friends like a loser? Don’t let me stop you.”

“The door’s over there, Stiles,” Derek rumbles, watching like a hawk as Stiles walks to the front of the room and swings the door open. “Don’t let it hit you in the ass on the way out.”

“Merry fucking Christmas, Derek,” Stiles throws over his shoulder as he goes. “Oh, and,” he turns, and Derek can’t parse the expression on Stiles’ face, isn’t actually sure he wants to, “happy fucking birthday.”

The door slams behind him, and Derek listens as Stiles stomps off the porch and over to his jeep, slamming the door open and climbing in. The engine turns over and he can hear the gravel crunch under the tires and Stiles downshifts hard and tears up the lane.

The quiet falls thick around the house in the wake of it, heavy and cloying like fog, like mist. It’s better this way, Derek thinks to himself, turning in a circle in the empty room, he likes it most when it’s empty: no distractions, no noise. Just him and the silence, alone.

It’s for the best.

--

He makes himself wait until ten to lie down because he feels like he should, but he has nothing to do, so he gives in and goes to bed, fully expecting to stay awake till dawn. He must be more tired than he realized, though, because it’s a little while before he wakes abruptly from a doze at a sound in his room. He springs alert, sitting bolt upright in bed as an eerie light begins to gather in the end of the room.

Probably he should be afraid, he guesses, but honestly at this point he’s just so resigned to terrible things happening that he just waits for the being to pull itself together. Probably it will want to fight him, and maybe he will win or maybe he will lose, but either way he’d like to just get it over with. He rubs at his eyes with one hand, watching as the glowing energy gains mass and definition.

When he blinks his eyes open and takes in the finished shape, he gasps in shock.

“Peter?” He asks incredulously, scooting backward on his bed, “Peter, what the fuck ? How are you here?”

Peter leans against the doorway and smirks, but it’s half-hearted at best. He looks wan, pale and indefinite, which does make a certain amount of sense, given that he’d been dead for months last Derek had checked. Not like Peter’s death has taken the last two times, though, so the surprise fades faster than he’d like.

“I’m here to deliver a warning,” Peter says, and only then does Derek notice the wolfsbane-treated ropes winding around Peter’s torso and limbs.

“What’s happened to you,” Derek asks in dawning horror, “Who did this? How did you get here?”

“Magic,” Peter says, and shrugs. “Derek, listen to me,” he continues, his face tight and intense in an expression that seems foreign on his features. “I’ve been brought here to warn you: the path you walk is not a good one, and if you keep on the way you have been, you will end up like me.”

“What’s ‘like you’ mean?” Derek breathes, eyeing the bonds where they’ve rubbed red welts onto Peter’s exposed skin.

“Crazy.” Peter says without flinching, “Tortured. Desperate. Alone. Caught in bonds of your own making.” He laughs drily. “You won’t like it, I promise.”

“And what exactly would you have me do differently?” Derek spits out, suddenly furious. “I’m making it up as I go along here. Laura was supposed to be the Alpha, not me. And you,” he growls, and Peter just rolls his eyes, “you were supposed to help , not go all murdery and insane.”

“You will be visited tonight by three spirits,” Peter says, twisting fruitlessly in the ropes that hold him, “pay attention to them. Listen, for once in your short life. Take some goddamn advice.”

Derek scowls, claws digging into his thighs. “Get fucked, Peter.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter answers, “I know, you hate me, whatever. But listen, for the love you bore me once, for the shared blood that runs in our veins… take this seriously, Derek. Please.” His face is grave, pleading, and he looks more in that moment like the uncle Derek remembers from childhood than he has since the fire.

Derek folds his arms and turns away. By the time he looks back, Peter is gone.

--

The moon is high and cold in the late December sky, lighting the room around him, but Derek lies back down and lets his mind drift. It’s probably a trick someone’s playing on him, conjuring Peter’s image or shade, some manipulated facsimile of the uncle he’d once held dear.

So much for the barrier, he thinks, and tries to convince himself that he should get up and patrol, check the boundaries. The problem is that he would know already if something had breached them; whatever or whoever Peter was, he was either already inside the barrier or else the barrier is meaningless to him. Either way, Derek doesn’t see much point in doing anything other than continuing to lie on his mattress in the chilling dark. He doesn’t think the pack would even respond if he called them right now, and the being had made no threats toward any of them. Just to him, and what of that? A single drop in the enormous bucket of danger and misery that is his life.  

Three spirits, it had said, so it’s clearly not done with him. An interesting affectation, he decides, splitting the attack this way. Maybe he should be making notes about this. If Stiles were here, Derek thinks, he would be grumping at Derek to write it all down so they can add it to their files.

He’s just about decided to roll over and go for his phone, jot something in the notes app, when he notices a light slowly growing in the corner.

“That was quick,” he mutters, hauling himself up to sit on his bed, waiting as the shape coalesces, taking the breath from his lungs as it pulls into a far too familiar, far too painful image.

“ Laura ,” he chokes out, and fuck, fuck , how dare they do this to him. Peter is one thing, but his sister is crossing a line.

“Oh, baby brother,” she says, and the sound of her voice stabs through him, ripping open wounds that have only ever scabbed over at best.

“Laura, what are you doing here,” he says, teeth locked together against the grief dragging claws against his chest.

“I’m your first spirit, kiddo,” she answers. “I know Peter told you, and I know you don’t believe this. It’s okay.”

“How could I?” he begs, “After all that has happened, how can I trust you? How can I know that you’re not just some creature preying on me, using my memories against me? How do I know you’re real, and not a figment of my imagination?” He clenches his fists and ignores the crack in his voice. “Maybe I’m already like Peter - stark raving mad.”

Laura rolls her eyes. “You’re not crazy, Derek. Stubborn as shit and full of bad decisions, sure, but you’re not crazy. I’ll prove it to you.”

“How?”

“Remember that necklace I had when we were kids? Green, with different shaped beads? It was just plastic, but I loved it and wore it all the time.”

“Yeah,” Derek says frowning, “what’s that got to do with anything?”

“In the morning, if you still think this is all a trick, go look under the back floorboard in the closet in my old room. I put it there when I was nine to hide it from Cora, and then forgot about it. It’s still there.”

“Okay,” Derek breathes out, suddenly unsure. He’s not had a ghost or a witch or a fae try this hard to convince him before. Usually they brainwash first, and ask questions later. He can’t let himself think it’s real, but it’s certainly different from anything he’s encountered before.

“Come on, Derek,” Laura says, and holds out her hand to him, a sweet smile on her face. “Let’s go downstairs.”

What the hell, he figures, and takes it without further question. It’s his sister, and he never could tell her no about anything for long. Her grip is solid and warm in his for all that she’s a ghost, and he lets her guide him out of his room and down the staircase.

Derek catches his lip in his teeth as they descend, pulling back on her grasp and letting his feet slow on the steps. He can hear the sounds of laughter and the shrieks of children echoing up the stairs, and it fills the pit of his stomach with dread. “Laura,” he whispers, “what is this?”

“Come,” she says, and pulls him inexorably to the bottom, where he freezes at the sight in front of him.

“ Laura ,” he says, and can’t help the way his voice cracks around her name. She just turns to him and smiles, the full-size Christmas tree radiant behind her.

“Remember, Derek?” she asks, reaching up to cradle his face in her hand. “Remember what it was like when we were little?” He shakes his head, and feels her thumb drag across his eyelids where he’s squeezed them shut in denial. He can’t see this again, he doesn’t think he’ll survive it. “Open your eyes,” she says, and it’s not a suggestion. “This is how we were. This is what we had. Remember?”

“God,” he murmurs, looking around the room. The fire is blazing in the fireplace, the giant fir tree bedecked with ornaments towering by the window, piles of carefully wrapped presents neatly arranged beneath. Their mother is to the left, curled into the couch with a cup of coffee and laughing at where their younger brother Arthur is entertaining a baby Cora with a toy. Across from her their father is reading instructions out to a young Derek and Laura as they work to assemble a complicated mess of wires and metal on the big rug. “How could I forget?”

The vision is so real that he can catch the scent of his mother’s coffee, hot and with a dash of caramel, can smell the cookies baking in the kitchen, all overlain with the aroma of Christmas tree. He presses himself into the wall, desperately reeling and eager for any sort of grounding he can find.

“We were so happy,” Laura says, and they both turn as the front door opens, a laughing Peter tumbling through with an armful of gifts, closely followed by his wife and two children.

“We were,” Derek agrees, and resists the urge to clutch at his chest where it feels like his heart is being ripped to shreds. “And now all these people are dead. You’re dead , Laura,” he says, turning his back on the scene and heading into the dark hallway. He can feel her presence behind him, a warm shadow he hasn’t had in years. “Why are you showing me this? Are you here to mock me? To show me what I’ve fucked up? To torture me?”

He can feel that his claws have slid free when he turns, that his eyes are glowing, but Laura’s face as she looks at him is full of grief, her hand as she reaches for him is gentle.

“No, Derek. I’m here to remind you, to help you remember the capacity you have for love. For joy. You don’t have to lose all this. These people,” she gestures behind them to where the sounds of revelry and laughter echo through the house, “these people are gone, but the happiness, the sense of hope and togetherness we had then - you can have that again.”

“No,” Derek says, first quietly, then louder, furious. “ No , Laura, I can’t. It’s too late for me. I’m broken, I’m ruined, I’m…” he trails off as the look in her eyes hardens. “I don’t get to have this anymore, don’t you understand? You… you died ,” he spits, “you and Mom, and Dad, and Arthur, you were murdered , and it was my fault, and I will live the rest of my life alone because that is what I deserve.”

“Look at me,” she commands, and when he refuses, she reaches out and lifts his chin with her hand, her claws pinching into his jaw. Even as a ghost, she’s much stronger than he is, and he chokes out a wet laugh at the familiar feeling of being put in line by his Alpha. “Derek. It was not your fault.” She holds up a finger as he opens his mouth. “We’ve been over this. It was not your fault, and if it were too late for you, I wouldn’t be here. But it’s getting close, Derek,” she says, and he feels a chill slide over him at the desperation in her expression. “If you harden your heart much longer, there will be no coming back. I don’t want that for you, Derek, none of us do. You’re the last of us left here; we love you, we want you to thrive, to be happy. But you’re running out of time to do so.”

“Laura,” Derek whispers, suddenly aware that he can see the far wall through the edges of her hair, “don’t go.”

Her face grows unspeakably sad. “I have to, kiddo, I’m so sorry. Listen to me: the next two spirits will show you important things. Hear them, pay attention, and you can yet make things better.” Her hand comes up to cradle his face again, the gesture so familiar that he can’t even bring himself to be ashamed of the tears sliding down his cheeks as he watches her face fade. “I love you, Derek. I will always love you.”

“Laura,” he says again, but it’s too late. She’s gone.

--

He wakes alone in his room, claws punched through his blanket, mouth open around the dry sobs that shudder through his chest. He breathes, in through his nose, out through his mouth, waiting in the darkness until his body stops shaking with suppressed sobs, until his claws and fangs retract back into his body, until his face has dried.

After a while, he forces himself to lie back down. He won’t sleep further, he knows, but it’s after eleven on Christmas Eve. What else can he do but lie here in the dark alone, waiting for ghosts?

--

“ You ,” he says when the light around the spirit in his room coalesces into yet another recognizable figure. “You’re not a ghost, I just texted you three hours ago.” A sudden fear grips him. “You better not be a ghost, Cora, fuck , what…”

“No, Derek, I’m alive. Take a breath.” She holds up a hand and doesn’t comment on the panicked racing of his heart that they can both hear rattling around the room. He scowls and throws his legs out of bed.

“What are you doing here, then? You’re supposed to be in South America.”

“I am in South America, numbnuts.” Cora rolls her eyes. “I’m a spirit. I’m wandering. Probably I won’t even remember this when I wake up.”

Derek frowns, following her to the door. “How does that even work?”

“Fuck if I know,” she answers, clattering down the stairs ahead of him. “All I know is that I was sent to show you things, and after that, it’s up to you.”

Derek takes a moment to indulge himself in a long-suffering sigh. He misses her, he misses her a lot, actually, but even the spirit of his little sister is a pain in his ass.

“Are you coming or what?” Cora shouts up the stairs, and Derek descends, grumbling all the way.

--

“So how does this go,” he asks when they’re both standing on the porch. “Do we… take the car? Cause that doesn’t seem very ghost-y.”

“Hmm,” Cora says, frowning in thought. “No, I think… like this,” she says, lifting a hand, and the world goes dark around them.

--

When the swirling stops, they’re standing outside a small apartment on the far side of town.

“Boyd’s place?” Derek asks in surprise. “Why are we here?”

Cora just scowls and waves her hand again, the outside wall disappearing into faint mist to reveal Erica and Boyd sitting in their sweatpants on a dilapidated couch.

“They can’t… see us, right? Or hear us?” Derek hisses, body tense with anticipation.

“Nah,” Cora shrugs. “Spirits, remember? We don’t exist for them.”

“Then what are we doing here?” Derek asks again, crossing his arms. “This feels like a waste of time.”

“Your whole life is a waste of time right now,” Cora throws back, and well, Derek can’t really argue with that. “Listen,” she says, and Derek forces himself to tune in to the conversation in front of him.

“...but where?” Erica is saying, tone frustrated. “How do we find them?”

“Isaac said that Peter told him once that it's something that well-established packs do from time to time,” Boyd answers evenly, but the thread of tension is apparent in his voice. “I think Deaton would help us if we asked him. He must know some options.”

“What would we tell our families?” Erica wonders softly, shoving her toes under Boyd’s leg. He sighs and rubs a hand soothingly up her leg. “You’re eighteen in six months, but I’m not.”

“What are they talking about, Cora?” Derek asks, turning to his stone-faced sister where she stands beside him. “Why are you showing me this.”

She remains impassive, merely watching the scene in front of them, and Derek growls in frustration before turning back.

“I don’t know,” Boyd admits. “Boarding school? Early admittance to college?”

Erica snorts. “After all the classes I’ve missed this fall? Not likely.”

“We could just tell them we’re eloping. That’d be basically the truth.”

“Yeah,” Erica says, but she hangs her head in dejection, going without protest as Boyd pulls her into his arms.

“Why aren’t they happy?” Derek asks Cora, balling his fists in anger. “They’re supposed to be happy together. Why are they talking about eloping and looking like someone’s died?”

“It just feels wrong,” Erica says, “leaving like this. It hurts even to think about it.”

“They want to leave ?” Derek whispers, a stomach-churning mix of anger and despair curdling in his gut, “they’re planning to run away?”

Cora doesn’t answer him, but simply points at the pair in front of them.

“I know,” Boyd agrees, “but this isn’t healthy. Not for us, not for Isaac. I don’t want to leave either, but one or all of us is going to get killed one of these days.”

“I know you’re right,” Erica says glumly, “but what will Derek do if we leave?”

“Die, probably,” Boyd answers flatly, and Erica smacks at him, tears in her eyes. “Babe, I know it feels wrong, but he’s so fucked up. He doesn’t know anything about how to lead, and it’s not getting better. I thought at first he’d figure it out, get it together, but it’s getting worse.”

“I know,” Erica whispers, “I know. I want him to be better, I want to help him, but I don’t think he knows how to do anything different, and he just keeps pushing us all away.”

“Another pack, a real pack, if they’d take us, it could give us a chance at a good life. A way to learn more about what being a wolf means, what having a pack is supposed to be. We’re young, we’re strong, I bet we could find somewhere.” Boyd’s voice is earnest, determined, and it’s clear he’s been giving this a lot of thought.

Erica is silent for a long moment, the faint twinkling of the colored Christmas lights playing over her platinum hair. “Okay,” she says finally. “Let’s talk to Deaton. After Christmas.”

“Okay,” Boyd says, leaning forward to kiss her cheek gently. “I’ll call him on Monday.”

The vision begins to dissolve, but Derek can do nothing about the cold settling into his bones. He knows he’s been a shitty Alpha, but the bonds they share should keep even the most recalcitrant Betas from considering the possibility of abandoning their pack. And yet, he realizes, his own Betas, ones he turned with his own bite, want to leave him. Because he is broken; because he has failed.

He wants to press Cora further for answers, but a new image is forming in front of them, this time of a back porch that he recognizes immediately.

“McCall,” he growls, and Cora sets a hard hand on his shoulder.

“We’re not here for him,” she says firmly, and tilts her head at the two figures leaning on the rail. “Listen.”

“Come inside,” Scott is saying pleadingly to Isaac as he hunches over the deck railing and takes one slow drag after another on a cigarette, clouds of smoke wafting into the night air. “We’ll have some pie and then we can open gifts soon.”

“Look, Scott,” Isaac sighs, his foot twitching with the nerves Derek knows he always gets when he thinks he’s letting someone down. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, really, I do. And your mom, too. But…” he pauses, chewing on his lip, and Derek wants to snarl at the pleading look on Scott’s face. Weak , he thinks, weak and foolish . “I don’t want pity,” Isaac finally gets out, and Scott starts to shake his head immediately.

“I don’t…”

“Yes,” Isaac says, “you do. I get it. I understand why. And fuck,” he adds, abruptly angry, “it’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to go, so. I’m grateful. But I need you to back off on the happy families bullshit, ok? I’m not your brother, and I’m not your boyfriend, so just treat me like the charity guest I am, alright?” He exhales roughly, and Scott hovers, clearly wanting to lay a hand on him but wary of the violent nature of Isaac’s rejections.

“Isaac, I…” he starts, and Derek can smell the genuine hurt in his scent. “I just want,” Scott continues,  but he’s interrupted by the sound of the door behind him opening.

“Scott?” Allison asks, the warm light of inside framing her face and gilding her dark hair. “Oh, hey Isaac. Are you guys coming inside soon?”

“Yeah, babe, just a minute,” Scott answers distractedly, and Allison nods, closing the door behind her.

“Go,” Isaac says, “go be with your mom and girlfriend. I’ll come inside in a minute and pretend there’s a place for me here.” His tone is bitter, but Scott has apparently enough sense of self-preservation to let the comment be.

“Okay,” he says softly, turning to the door. “Don’t stay long, alright? It’s cold out.”

“I’m a werewolf, Scott,” Isaac snorts, “what the fuck do I care? Cold can’t hurt me.”

Scott scowls. “Just don’t take too long.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Isaac says, staring out into the dark, the scent of bitterness, rejection, and repressed rage hanging heavy around him. Derek can see Scott twitch his nose surreptitiously in response, and has to resist reaching out instinctively to Isaac through the pack bond. He shouldn’t; it would give them away. They’re not closely bonded enough that Derek would feel Isaac’s emotions from across town and respond. “I’ll come in soon.”

Scott hesitates a second longer, then concedes, swinging wide the heavy oak door and entering, darkness descending in its wake.

“He’d rather be with Boyd and Erica,” Cora says into the dark, “but he doesn’t know how to ask to be included, and they don’t always trust him enough to want him around.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, “I’ve noticed.”

“If you’ve noticed, why the fuck haven’t you tried to fix it?” She asks, and Derek bristles. “Besides, his real place is with you. He’s a fucking orphan, Derek, and you turned him, but you don’t even give him the time of day. He’s seventeen and alone in the world, and you what? Sometimes let him sleep on a worn out mattress in your burned out shell of a house?”

“He’d rather be with Scott,” Derek grits out, folding his arms. “I was giving him space to pursue his options.”

“ You’re his Alpha, Derek. Not Scott. He’s your responsibility.”

“Scott’s his friend,” Derek snaps, and Cora just shakes her head angrily and waves her hand. Derek braces himself against the spin, but it catches him and throws him around, spiralling into the darkness without consent or comfort.

--

“Stiles,” Derek breathes as the mist clears and they appear in a backyard he knows all too well. The upstairs light is on, a glowing square of unabashed warmth that radiates into the night. “Why are we here, Cora?”

If Cora hears the catch in his voice, she ignores it and makes a gesture instead, thrusting them abruptly into the edge of Stiles’ room.

Derek gasps and fumbles for the wall behind him, heart pounding as his senses reel in the sudden plunge into Stiles’ encompassing scent. It’s heady and thick, and Derek hasn’t been here in so long, has forced himself to resist the intimacy of Stiles’ private space.

“What’s he looking at?” Derek asks after a moment, too far away from where Stiles sits on his bed to see the book in his hands. His posture is hunched, his face twisted as he turns page after page, slowly examining the contents of each before flipping it over with a vicious flick.

“Family photo album,” Cora answers, and Derek’s heart clenches. He presses the feeling down, covers it with anger instead. It’s easier that way.

“So what,” he growls, “you want me to feel sorry for him? At least he’s still got one parent.”

“Do you see that parent here?” Cora points out. “Besides, this is not the grief Olympics. He’s got his dad, and you don’t. You’ve got me, and he doesn’t. It sucks for both of you.”

“Why isn’t he at Scott’s?” Derek snarls, “aren’t they supposed to be like brothers?”

Stiles slams the photo album shut, throwing it to the floor and collapsing over onto his bed. Derek can’t smell any tears, but he does catch the scent of blood from where Stiles’ nails are digging into his palms. His claws dig into the meat of his own hands in sympathy, distracting him from the urge to reach out and touch Stiles’ shoulder, his hip, to try to leach the anguish from his wiry frame.

“That relationship has become too strained. Between Scott’s love for Allison and Stiles’ love for you, they can barely manage to stay friends anymore. He’s being forced to choose between the two of you, and he hates it.” She pauses as Stiles lets out a rough and shuddering breath into the silence, then continues. “Not only that, but he’s being forced to choose between you, Scott, and his dad. He thinks he’s losing all of you, and he doesn’t know what to do.”

Stiles is rocking now, just a little, back and forth and back and forth. It’s a self-soothing behavior, Derek’s seen him do it a thousand times, and his chest aches with the desire to smooth a hand down Stiles’ back, to drag him close and hold him until he relaxes the terrible tension clutching his body into a tight ball.

Derek folds his arms. “He’s better off with Scott. He’s not a wolf; he’s not pack.”

“You’re as stupid as you are blind,” Cora says, rolling her eyes. “You’ve driven him away because you don’t know how to deal with someone caring about you, about your well-being, and now you stand here and tell me he’s better off here? Alone, depressed, and rejected?”

“He’s human,” Derek says softly, after a long moment, and Cora turns to look at him for what feels like the first time all night, “he’s human , and he can be hurt. I just want him to be safe.”

“Derek,” she says, and when her voice is quiet, she sounds so much like Laura that it makes Derek want to cry. “Derek, he’s safest with you.”

“No,” Derek answers, pulling himself up tight, turning his face away from Stiles’ body on the bed. “No one’s safe with me.”

--

The world fades around them until they’re back on the porch of Derek’s house. He can see that Cora is fading around the edges, becoming soft and indistinct.

“Derek,” she says, her face angry and determined in equal measure, both fully present in an expression that’s sharp in its familiarity. “This is the now. Your pack is fractured and miserable. They hate themselves, and they hate you. But you can still change it. There’s still time to fix this. Open yourself up to them; be honest. Ask for help, let them in.”

She reaches out to touch his arm, but her hand goes right through him, and Derek shudders at the sensation.

“Fix this, Derek. It was never supposed to be like this.” Her voice trails off, and Derek closes his eyes. He can’t watch her dissolve into nothingness, can’t lose her again. “ Fix this ,” she whispers, and is gone.

--

He crawls back into bed, because what else can he do. It’s well past midnight, and he hurts all over like he’s been run over by a truck. He can’t shake the sense of loss at knowing that Erica and Boyd are across town planning their departure, can’t unfeel the sharp pangs of rejection and anger that stabbed out from Isaac in every direction. And for all that Stiles isn’t pack, for all that he shouldn’t be able to feel Stiles at all, he can’t convince his heart to stop aching at the waves of grief and abandonment and loneliness that had rolled off of Stiles and permeated the space around him.

He buries his face in his pillow and tries not to think.

“Get up,” a voice commands him some time later. He starts in surprise; he hadn’t heard anyone enter. A second later, he realizes how dumb that is- of course he wouldn’t hear a spirit come in. He rolls over, sits up, squinting at the brightness of the figure at the end of his bed.

“...Lydia?” he asks cautiously. It certainly looks like her, diminutive and firey, as regal and sharp as ever, but something’s off. There’s a coldness, a feral calculation simmering between her eyes that isn’t usually quite so close to the surface.

The spirit lifts its chin at him. “Close enough,” it says, “after all, who better than a banshee to sing you the tale of Christmases yet to come?”

Derek suppresses the shudder that runs down his spine, and pulls himself to his feet.

“Alright,” he says, stepping forward and expecting to follow not-Lydia out the door, “let’s go.”

She steps forward wordlessly, an unearthly shine filling her features as she plants her hand flat on his chest, opens her mouth, and screams.

--

Derek comes to his senses in the graveyard, ears still ringing with the sound of the banshee’s piercing wail.

“Christ on a cracker,” he grumbles, shoving a finger in his ear and wiggling it around. “Warn a guy.”

“Your eardrums will heal,” Lydia says primly, her heels sinking not at all into the wet earth as she leads him onward. “Come.”

The graveyard is dark, a dim and waning moon sinking through the fog. A little ways off, Derek can see a figure hunched, back resting on a gravestone. He doesn’t need to use any extra senses to identify who it is; he’d know that silhouette anywhere.

“It’s a cruel irony,” Lydia says casually, “that the Argent and Hale plots are both so close to each other, and also to the Stilinskis.”

“...Stilinskis?” Derek asks with a sinking heart, emphasizing the plural.

“The Sheriff died three years back,” Lydia informs him, “shot in the line of duty, officially.”

“...and unofficially?”

“Rogue hunter got him. He saved Scott’s life at the cost of his own.”

“Jesus fuck .” Derek says, feeling winded. They’re close enough now that he can hear Stiles murmuring to himself, can pick out the shapes of him in the heavy darkness.

They’re not good shapes. His body is too skinny, his face too sharp. His hair is long, like he hasn’t bothered to cut it regularly, and he’s slumped against the Stilinski headstone in a way that makes the cutting stink of booze unnecessary information.

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” Stiles croons under his breath, hiccuping quietly. “Make the Yuletide gay. Hah!” He lifts the bottle in his hand and toasts the air. “Been working on that one for years!” His face falls abruptly. “Not that it matters. Not that there’s anyone who’d have me. Who I’d have. Who I’d…” he trails off absently, staring into space, seemingly unaware of the tears streaming down his face.

“Where is Scott,” Derek asks roughly, sinking to the ground in front of Stiles. He wants to gather him up, brush his hair back from his face. He wants to take him away from this dark and lonely place, to somewhere warm and dry and safe, wants to give him food and a bath and…

“They don’t speak,” Lydia answers. “Stiles couldn’t forgive Scott after the death of his father, and Scott wouldn’t have accepted it anyway.” She gestures to another stone a little ways away. “Allison died in that same encounter,” she says, her voice hard and tight. “That fight broke both of them in ways they couldn’t repair. They haven’t fit together since.”

“What about Isaac? Or Boyd, or Erica?” Derek’s grasping at straws, he knows it, but he can’t help himself. “Or you?”

“Erica and Boyd moved away years ago. Isaac stayed a little longer, but he left to go to France six months after they left.” Her eyes grow distant. “I don’t come here, which is part of why Stiles does. I won’t follow him here, it’s too noisy for me.” She sighs. “He doesn’t like it when I follow him and try to help. This is his escape.” Her features soften, and Derek feels like he’s seeing the real Lydia for the first time tonight. “This is his safe space, Derek. Here, alone in the graveyard, with the corpses of his parents and friends- this is where he comes for comfort.”

Derek releases a shuddering sigh just as Stiles begins to sing again.

“Here we are as in olden days,” he murmurs, “happy golden days of yore… faithful friends… hah!” His face is ripped through in a sudden fit of rage, and he hurls the bottle in his hand as far as he can. Derek can hear it smash against a headstone several rows away. “Faithful friends, my fucking ass,” Stiles grits out. “You were a faithful friend, Ally. Too bad about what happened, huh? But the rest of them…no.”

Derek doesn’t want to ask the question. He’s sure he already knows the answer, but there’s no help for it, because if no one else is going to come haul Stiles’ drunk and hypothermic ass out of the graveyard at two in the morning on Christmas, Derek should.

“Lydia,” he whispers, “where am I?”

“Derek,” Stiles sobs out of nowhere, getting unsteadily to his feet and wandering several plots east. “God, Derek . You were the least faithful friend of all, but you never could help it, could you?” He drapes himself over a headstone, and Derek doesn’t have to read it to know what it says. “Fuck. It doesn’t matter. It never mattered. Be as goddamn faithless as you want, I’d give anything to have you back.”

“Stiles,” Derek whispers helplessly, trailing behind and watching as Stiles lies down on the cold ground, his body in a perfect mirror of what must lie beneath him.

Whirling, he turns to Lydia. “What can I do,” he says, “Is this set? Can it be changed?” He reaches out to drag Stiles into his arms, but his grasp passes right through Stiles’ body, and he turns back to her, pleading desperately. “How can I fix this? Can I stop this from happening?”

Her gaze is terrible, filled with flames and an immortal knowing, her voice deep and echoing with the reverberations of a thousand souls.

“This is the course upon which you are set, Derek Hale. Only your own courage and determination can change it now.”

“I will,” he vows, stretching out beside the now unconscious Stiles, pressing as close as he can without touching. Stiles shivers, and Derek wishes fervently to be able to warm him. “I will change this, I swear it.” He’s reaching out to touch Stiles’ face when he feels the world fall away.

--

He wakes in his own bed just after dawn, so tangled in the sheets that he falls flat on his face as he leaps out and on to the floor. He can feel his heart racing as he reaches out with his senses, trying to see if anyone or anything is in the house with him, but all he can hear and smell is the same emptiness as always. He breathes out hard, freeing his legs and jumping up. He’s got things to do.

--

It’s the work of a moment to fire off a group text, “Christmas Brunch, Black Bear Diner, 11 am. Please.” There are no responses, because his pack is made of teenagers and it’s 7:30 am on Christmas morning, but they’ll come. He thinks. He hopes. If they don’t, he’ll try something else, he decides. He’ll figure it out. He wants to figure it out, wants to make this work, and it’s like a revelation as it washes over him, the desire to make something better.

He changes his clothes, brushes his teeth, and detours through what remains of Laura’s old room. It was at the back of the house, and is open to the sky now, but a push to the floorboard in the back of her closet yields up its treasure without ceremony, a cloud of dust stinging his eyes as dingy green plastic beads wink up at him in the early light.

He shoves the necklace in his pocket and clatters downstairs where he stands for a long moment in the center of what was once their living room. If he closes his eyes, he can still see it, the memory of what once was. He draws in a long breath, holding it as the images wash over him, then releasing it all at once and opening his eyes. Rebuilding is a tomorrow problem, but he thinks he’s finally ready to start.

Which leaves only one loose end.

--

“Stiles,” he says carefully, hovering beside Stiles’ bed. The photo album is abandoned facedown on the floor, and Stiles’ room stinks of salt-tears and muted fury. If Derek had any remaining doubts about the veracity of the previous night’s travels, they’re all laid bare by the evidence in this small room.

“What do you want, Derek,” Stiles says flatly without rolling over. He’s still curled into a fetal position on his bed, face pressed to the wall. “Is there a bad guy? Do you need me to translate a spell? Did the barrier fall?”

“I want to apologize,” Derek says, and Stiles rolls over.

“I’m sorry, you what?”

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Derek says, holding Stiles’ gaze in spite of how depressing it is to realize that the genuine confusion on Stiles’ features in the face of an apology is the direct result of how Derek has treated him. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, “it’ll be alright.” He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Can you tell me if this is possession, or just manipulation? I’ll see what I’ve got on hand books-wise, but we might have to call Lydia.”

“No, Stiles, wait.” Derek reaches out and grabs his arm, holding him still. The skin beneath his hand is warm and soft with sleep, but hard with tension, and he rubs a thumb across it soothingly without thinking. “Sit down,” he says, and waits until Stiles is seated on the edge of his bed, face drawn with suspicion.

“Last night…,” he starts, “this is going to sound crazy.”

“When doesn’t it?” Stiles asks, and it’s not even sass, it’s just an honest question, and Derek sinks to his knees in frustration.

“You know what?” Derek says, rubbing his face into his hands, “It doesn't matter. What matters is this: I’ve treated you badly, and I’m sorry. I don’t know how to fix it.” He looks up, and Stiles is watching him warily, examining him like he would a dangerous and perplexing problem. “But I hope...I want…”

“What do you want, Derek Hale?” Stiles asks, and his voice is as calm and quiet and devoid of expectation as Derek has ever heard it.

Derek exhales shakily, and scoots cautiously forward until he can curl down and lay his head in Stiles’ lap. He can feel Stiles go completely still beneath him.

“I want you, Stiles,” he says, because he can’t see the point in anything but the truth. “I’m tired. I’m tired of being angry, and I’m tired of being alone. I want better.” He pauses abruptly as Stiles shoves a hand into his hair, holding his breath as Stiles’ fingers start to move against his scalp in soothing circles. “I want to be better. For you. But for me, too. And for Erica, and Boyd, and Isaac.”

He lets his voice trail off, focusing on the pull of air in his lungs, the wood floor under his feet, the racing beat of Stiles’ heart above his ears.

“Please,” he says finally, at a loss for anything else, and Stiles’ hands tighten on his head.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers finally, and Derek’s heart begins to beat again as he dares to let his arms wrap around Stiles’ legs, pushing his head carefully into Stiles’ rough, strong hands. “Yeah. Me too.”

Derek exhales hard, bringing his arms up to wrap around Stiles’ waist even as he buries his face in Stiles’ stomach, breathing in the familiar solidity of his presence. He feels anchored in a way he can’t remember since childhood, even as he feels his world cracking at the seams.

Stiles gets his hands under Derek’s armpits and pulls, his scent going warm with slow-blooming happiness.