Unsteady | Sterek

Two: Approach, appear

He's here again, staring at the front door and waiting. He still doesn't know what he's waiting for, but he's waiting. Waiting and staring. Maybe he's waiting for the darkness in his head to go away. Maybe he's waiting for someone to figure out he isn't okay.

"Stiles."

Maybe he's waiting for the pain to go away.

"Stiles, what's wrong?"

He watches Derek watch him and realises he must look like crap. He'd made the mistake of falling asleep earlier, something he'd vowed not to do, and had woken in tears and silent screams.

"Do you have coffee?" He asks finally, loosing a breath he didn't know he was holding when the werewolf nods slowly.

"Come in."

Derek's loft is cold. Stiles doesn't notice. He doesn't shiver or complain, just stays quiet and follows Derek as the werewolf walks into the kitchen. They never say a word to each other, Derek just hands Stiles a coffee and holds onto one himself. They drink in silence.

"Thank you," Stiles rasps when they are finished. Derek dips his head and turns away. Stiles wanders back out and sits on the floor, leaning against the wall. He sits and he stares.

"Stiles, why are you here?" Derek stands in front of him, his arms crossed and his tone neutral.

Stiles looks up at him, thoughtful and vulnerable. "I ran out of coffee," he admits quietly.

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Is that it?"

"Yeah," Stiles whispers and Derek shakes his head before disappearing out the door. "Yeah."

He wraps his too-skinny arms around his knobbly knees and pulls his legs close to his chest. His veins are visible in the moonlight, black rivers covered by a thin blanket of skin. He looks sick, feels sick. But that's okay because feeling sick is better than not feeling anything at all.

He counts his fingers, reassuring himself that he isn't asleep, that this is real. He'd lost that line between dreams and reality and now he's scrambling to get it back.

He throws his head back into the wall, closing his eyes tightly only to open them again instantly, biting back a fear-filled scream.

Everyone has it, no-one can lose it. What is it Stiles?

He grabs his head in his hands and tugs at his hair. He counts backwards from twenty then counts by two to thirty. He counts his fingers. He is real. He is alone.

He is alone.

He rises to his feet shakily, leaving his coffee mug on Derek's table and walking out. His Jeep isn't there again so he wanders aimlessly, afraid to go home and face his father.

There is no communication between father and son, only glances the Sheriff thinks Stiles can't see. Looks full of disappointment and bitter fear. His Dad works late nights and early mornings, leaving Stiles an empty house to scream his fears into. There is no family anymore.

He has nowhere else to go, though, nobody to take him in. Allison is dead, he killed her, Kira is Scott's new love interest, Malia doesn't see him anymore, too afraid to face her memories of Eichen House. Lydia says hello and that's all. Isaac avoids him like he has the plague.

Stiles has nobody.

He's okay with that, he supposes. Alone protects others. He can't hurt anyone but himself if he's alone.

Stiles makes it home fifteen minutes before school starts.

He skips that day.