Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Nogitsune left Stiles with… a lot. If that isn't a major understatement. It left the nights feeling darker than ever before. Like an animal the night lurks. Keeping his hair standing up. His devastation is potent like a bad smell. Constant and unwavering. But as bad as that is, that's not the end. The possession left his skin stretched and abused. Perpetually sore from trying to contain the spirit of pain within itself. It's almost the most horrible thing. Because his body wasn’t his alone anymore. The worst thing the Nogitsune did to it proves that.

Because the fox left him with something else. It dug into the soil and pulled up something far worse.

It left him with a baby.

The room is cold. Should the room feel this cold? His stomach kind of hurts. “Get it out.” He tells the veterinarian, siting on the big metal table and thinking about all kinds of catastrophe. He knows that his only hope of freedom from this hell is a dog dirty scalpel. “I need it out. Now.”

You would think it simple. Cut him open, pull it out. People do it all the time! He'd do it himself, if the sight of that much blood wouldn’t make him faint. Never mind the pain. I don't think my stomach should be hurting this much in anticipation.  

Deaton looks as useful as always. “Stiles. I don’t even know where it is. Or if it even exists. All tests indicate that you’re completely normal for a man. The ultrasound showed nothing.”

Stiles has to laugh, because if he doesn’t laugh then he’ll scream. And if he screams now he might not stop. “There's a baby. I’m telling you—”

“Stiles.”

He can't believe this is so hard for the man to comprehend. “I’m having cravings! Morning sickness! I can feel it.” He pats down his flat stomach. No matter what he says, no one will listen. “I need it out! Before it…it—” He doesn’t know. He can’t even think. He just wants to be alone again.

He’s never wanted to be alone so badly.

Deaton sighs, taking a step back and shaking his head like Stiles is some kid acting out for attention. “You should get some rest.”

Stiles scowls. “You think I’m crazy. Y-you think I’m making this up? Why would I do that!”

The man shrugs, but has an answer at the ready. “I think this past year has been... Hard on you. I think we have a tendency to create problems when we’re so used to fixing things.”

Stiles shoots up from where his sits.

What does he need from this guy that he can't get himself? Stiles huffs and storms out of the building without another word, certain he can do something. He can fix this himself. He can figure this out and go back to normal.

No one should be surprised where he goes for help, not even him. But somehow? When he ends up at Derek's door, he has to find the words. Derek looks bad. This husk of a man. Sure, these days they all look bad, but Derek the most. It shocks him every-time to remember that he’s lost almost everything, hasn’t he? Stiles can relate. He's about to lose the last thing he has.

“I need your help.”

Derek has these sad eyes that barley register what he says. Beaten down by life. “Stiles.”

He's so lovely. Stiles stares at his face and recognises this more than ever. He's so lovely, that Stiles sort of regrets a lot of things. They were never together, like maybe they wanted to be. Never something. Only almost something. Maybe once they seemed to be heading somewhere, at some time towards something. When Derek was meaner and Stiles was still himself. That seems like a world away now. But seeing Derek's face reminds him of that almost thing they never got to. Maybe that’s why it’s easy to ask him for help. Because they're always moving together, but never getting anywhere. 

He wonders if he should say anything. Acknowledge any of it.

Instead he tells Derek. “I need your help finding something.” the words explode out of his face. “And then I need your help getting rid of it. I’m running out of time.” It’s growing so quickly. He can feel it’s presence in his mind. Or maybe he's just getting a headache.

Derek opens his mouth, looking confused and mildly worried. “Looking for what?”

What very well may or may not be the antichrist. “I’ll tell you when we find it.” Stiles turns around, at the very least confident that Derek's going to follow him wherever he goes. Like a good dog he does, (a joke Stiles keeps to himself). Before they reach the stairwell Stiles whips around again and says. “Oh, and can you punch me?” He stumbles back as a fist collides with his face. It’s not the hardest he’s ever gotten, especially from Derek, but it aches like a mother fucker. “Hey! I didn’t say when!” he gropes his cheek and pouts. “Or where. Do it again. Stomach this time please.” He puffs his chest out preparing for the next blow. Deaton says it’s not there, but he has to make sure.

Derek’s lips twitch downwards. “Why?” He has such a way with words. 

Stiles shrugs and rolls his eyes. “Because I told you too? Since when have you ever cared about hitting me?”

“Don’t say that.” Derek shoots back, even if he’s still kneading his knuckles together. He points out, “If I punch you there you’ll spew all over my floor.”

“Technically this floor is owned by the landlord.” Stiles responds. “And I promise to clean it up?” But he never get's that second punch

Derek continues to follow Stiles, even as they trudge halfway across town towards the preserve. They could have driven, but something tells Stiles they’ll have to go off trail for this. Derek looks around. He’s probably worried a paranoid Scott will run out of the treeline. Or anyone else from their measly pack, if either of them are in the pack anymore. “What are you doing?”

The trees feel off somehow.  It's windy, but they're still. He might be imaging it, but it seems like they're reaching away from him. “What you do.” Stiles says, glaring at one particular tree that feels like a main offender. “Following my nose.” Or his mind really. There was some sort of invisible string dragging him into the preserve. If it wasn’t the Nogitsune, then it was a gift from the wretched thing. He’d be damned if he went alone. 

“Stiles—” Derek's hand reaches out, catching Stiles' wrist and pulling them close. Their chests almost touch, and for another brief moment Stiles ponders the something that never was between them. “It’s getting dark. We should go back.”

“No. This needs to be finished.” He looks up at Derek. Their faces are inches apart. He enjoys the view for what it is, even if Derek's face is rough and ageing. He's lurching towards thirty now. But this man never really got past the fire…did he? He's still that damaged boy who lost everything.

Stiles is grown now too. It grew without him, and now it demands things he can’t give. “Derek. Please.”

The man leans down, and Stiles expects the kiss. He doesn’t expect the place he get's it. Right under his eyes, light as a feather. It’s Derek pleading. To go. To move on. His lips are warm and his eyelashes flutter across Stiles forehead.

They can’t move on. Not yet. “Come on. It’s almost over.”

Derek whispers. “What are we going to find out there?”

A cruel gift. 

They hold hands as they walk. They’ve never done that before, but it seems warranted. The world is cruel. So it seems...are they. Maybe they don’t have to be, but deep down they are. In different ways, but cruelty has tainted them. Now it is them. It might be all they have. Stiles closes his eyes and takes in the moment for what he knows it is. The last peace they'll ever have. Together hand in hand, before the world changes.

“Shit! Stiles—do you hear that?” Derek perks up. 

Stiles' heart drops. He can’t hear it, but he knows what it is. “Derek.”

The wolf lets go of his hand, before he runs off. “It’s crying! Stiles, I think there's a—”

They find the baby on a tree stump. Because of course they do. The wretched little thing places there oh so carefully. It’s swaddled in thin cotton bandages, and has this squishy fleshy face that can only mean one thing. It was just born. Minutes ago. It’s tiny. Swamped by the stump. There's no mother in sight. It’s clean. Stiles wishes it would stop crying.

Derek fusses over it, picking the thing up and hushing. It looks right. Like the baby was made for him. A reward. Not the punishment it is.

Stiles can't keep the strained stress out of his voice. He shrieks. “Derek! Put it down!”

Derek gazes up, eyes widened. He scrunches his forehead and looks at Stiles like he’s crazy. “W-what? Stiles. There’s a baby out here. How…” A look of realisation crosses his face. “Did you know?”

Stiles puts a hand over his stomach. It’s flat as it always was, but there's an ache. A pain. His face contorts into a devastating expression. Why does this have to happen to him? He doesn’t know what to say.

Derek looks down at the baby. "What the-" It’s so small in his arms, quiet now as the wolf swaddles it's body in a rocking motion. Derek looks a little ruined as he says, “He. He smells like you.”

Stiles rubs his eyes. He might be crying. It's hard to tell. “We need to get rid of it. Take it somewhere. Take it anywhere. I can’t—I can’t have it here.” In my town. In my life.

Derek steps back. “What are you talking about? Stiles!" And just like that Derek's yelling. "Did you leave a baby in the woods! You’re baby?” 

Stiles used to cower when Derek yelled. He used to be terrified of that sound. Before he started to laugh at it, or yell right back. Things are different now. Now he’s in some in-between state. An untethered state. He looks away from Derek and the baby. Stars have started to twinkle in the sky. It’s still hot. He doesn’t know what to do. “We can take it to the fire-station. I don’t know. Surrender it somewhere.”

He doesn’t even notice at first, when Derek begins to race off. He runs to follow. “Where are you going?”

“He’s too warm.” Derek says, but mostly to the baby. “He might be getting a fever. We need to get him to the hospital.”

“Hospital? Derek, it doesn't have any documents! He just popped into existence like a minute ago!”

Derek growls at him. “What’s happening!”

Stiles doesn’t know how to explain.

So he doesn't.

He just needs to get out of here.

They name  it  him Eli. Yeah. Eli. Stiles practically gives up right then, but the name seems fitting enough. Because the world is cruel and so was Elias and it’s about time the kid learned that. Unfortunately that's about as much as his dad and Derek can take of Stiles obvious disinterest in the boy wonder. Despite his protest they put Stiles on the goddamn birth certificate, because humans can lie but the genetics can’t. Eli's from Stiles alright, but that's not even where the torture ends. Derek ends up on the birth certificate too. It's humiliating, but doesn’t come as too much of a surprise once everyone realises that demons have lived in Stiles head.

He expects the sheriff to yell at him, but things are different now. Now there's just silence.

They give himthedevildemonstertrick baby Eli Derek's last name. They do this because of a parental test, and because all living things deserve a fighting chance. According to Scott anyway. Stiles can't so no to Scott. Or the pathetic look in Derek's eye as he realises Eli is part him too.

“Stiles.” His dad says, sitting him down outside of the house and handing him his dinner on a paper plate. “Where did the baby come from?”

Stiles looks off into the dark street. It came from the earth. It grew there, made from all his precious blood and spit and tears spilt on and soaked into the dirt of the preserve. It took pieces of him, and made him again, this time with new parts. From Derek. From Hales. Stiles doesn’t know how he knows this. But he does. 

Eli grew from the ground.

Stiles entire world has changed with one little thing. A trick, a curse, a riddle. Ten pudgy little fingers that hold onto the universe and tell Stiles that even if this isn’t a trick, he’s not worth it.

He’s on the couch in Derek's loft, trying his best to ignore the fact that there's a little devil in the room. The mug he holds is chipped on the outside, and probably too hot. The steam wafts up in waves and blows heat directly into his eyes.

Derek’s dark circles have gotten worse. It’s hard not to think Eli's the reason for that. There’s stains on his shirt too.

He asks Stiles. “What are we going to do?”

Stiles is suspicious. He’s suspicious that his dad is sneaking over here at night to help bottle feed the baby. He’s suspicious that Derek's gotten attached, fearful that this isn’t going to end. “What do you mean.”

Derek exhales, long and tired. “You have input here. Stiles that baby came for you. Deaton thinks maybe you might have wished for him.”

“Wished? What makes him think that.”

“He said you were convinced you were having a baby. You were frantic about it.” He looks away. “He thinks you might have willed him into existence, when you were… with the Nogitsune.”

Stiles clenches his fingers around the mug, driving to feel the burn. “That makes no sense. I wouldn’t wish for this. Wishing is bullshit!” He knows he wouldn't, because a baby hadn't crossed his mind until he knew it was here. “What if it’s a changeling.”

“He’s not.” Derek decides.

“We found it in the forest! It smells like us! It looks like me!”

“He’s a normal baby Stiles. We’ve done the tests. I can tell.” Derek somehow remains as calm as he can. Keeping his voice low, to not wake Eli. “Now we have to figure out the next step.”

“The next step?” Stiles parrots. 

“Do you want him to live here? Do you want a part of this? Because it feels like you checked out the moment we found him.”

Stiles knows the thing he isn’t allowed to say. That thing he can only be honest about to himself during the nights, when he knows the house is empty. The thoughts that would fix everything, if he just had the will. Because if he told the truth, Derek would never look at him the same again. Derek might even kill him. And if Eli really is real, then he might even deserve it. “What do you want from me?” He says instead.

“Stiles. You're not even listening. I asked you what you wanted.”

What do I want? He can barely keep his voice down. He’s so fucking mad, and it makes him scream. “I want my life back Derek! I want my friend back and my life to be what it was before the world fucked my mind! I want him gone! Out of this town, out of my life! The last thing I needed was a fucking baby and I'll be damned if I let the Nogitsune ruin my life again!”

Once he’s done they both can hear crying from the other room.

Derek is quiet for a while after his outburst. Stuck in thought, allowing Stiles to stew is his shame. Then he gets up, meaning to go help the helpless. “You can go.” He says.

He wanted to leave, but now being told to go makes him frown. “Derek—”

The man who looks like such a stranger gives him a sympathetic once over and shakes his head slowly. “Please leave.”

“What. That’s it?”

“Yes. If you really think those things…then you shouldn’t be here.”

It isn’t until years later that Stiles realises Derek was trying to do him a favour. Trying to help the only way he thought he could. By giving him the space he thought he needed.

But for the meantime, it only makes Stiles more angry. 

He’ll stay angry for a while.

Little Eli asks his father an innocent question. A sad question he can only bring himself to ask once the night lights turned on and the monsters are hiding. His voice is quiet and unsure when he speaks, and without Derek's werewolf hearing he might not have herald it at all.

“Why doesn’t daddy love me?”

Derek freezes where he sits, hunched on the side of his son's bed. He’s only three. “Eli! Why would you think that?” He forces a smile and pats down little curls. “Of course daddy loves you.”

“Not you! Him.” Eli looks off into the dark, seeing something Derek doesn’t. “He’s never here. He never visits me.” It’s such a solemn look, for such a small child. It would almost be absurd, if Derek didn’t know why that look would cross his kids face.

Derek isn’t sure how to explain this. He thought he had more time. More years, until he had to explain the intricacies of it all. “He does visit. Remember last Christmas? He gave you that red truck.” Everything Derek does is to keep his people safe. Keep Eli safe. Keep Stiles safe.

He hates how some days that feels like two contradictory ideas.

“That was forever ago!” The little boy reminds him.

Derek shifts over onto the small child's bed more. Their bedtime story falls. onto the floor. Easily forgotten. “Eli, you know he’s just…busy.” He doesn’t want to lie, but he knows that giving him false hope would only do worse. “He’d be here more if he could.” If he was stronger. If things had been a little different. He can’t exactly tell Eli that his dad is damaged. That he isn’t here because he’s afraid. Afraid of things Eli reminds him of.

Eli’s voice is brittle when he replies, sniffing as he glumly says. “He hates me.”

Derek feels his eyes grow glossy and wet. He hushes his baby, pushing his hair back and giving his smooth little forehead a kiss. “No. No he doesn’t.” Despite everything, he believes this. 

The child begins to sob, falling into Derek and dripping snot into the sweater. “Y-yes he does!”

“He doesn’t hate you Eli. He never does. He. He’s just sad. Sometimes when we’re sad, we want to be alone.” 

“But why?”

Derek swipes a thumb across his child's tears. He knows Stiles can’t love Eli the way Derek does, but he knows that he can. In his own ways. It’s harder to explain that Stiles doesn’t hate Eli. Maybe there is hate, but not for the little boy. Not anymore. Maybe he does hate. Hate himself for how he feels when he’s around Eli. But he doesn’t hate Eli. There's an ocean difference between the two, but neither child nor father seem to understand that. 

One day Derek hopes Stiles will get better…better enough to be around a little bit more. To stop feeling so guilty about the things he’s missed out on. Derek can’t blame Stiles for not being here. He knows why he can’t, but It still makes him sad.

Derek doesn’t get to be alone when he’s sad. Not anymore, because Derek had to get better for this kid. This great funny smart kid he made himself better for. 

“I don’t know.” He says truthfully. “But hopefully one day, he won’t be sad anymore.” Then maybe he can come home.

Eli sticks out his tongue in thought as he innocently concludes. “Daddy’s been sad forever.” 

Derek nods, because it certainly feels that way. “Sometimes. Sadness can last a long time.”
A look of fear crosses Eli’s face, lips wobbling. “Will that happen to me?”

God I hope not. Derek pulls him in closer with the most gentle tight hug he can manage. “No, No we’re going to be happy forever. You and me.”

It’s clear Eli doesn’t quite believe him, but he’s young enough to be comforted by the words anyway. He sniffles and wipes a gross tiny hand under his nose before putting it on top of Dereks. “Dad be happy?”

Derek softly smiles down at the tiring child, ignoring the germs and wrapping their pinkies together in a cross. He shakes them, and nods. “I promise.” 

The desert heat has Stiles back drenched in sweat, and his water bottle has started to get dangerously low. His car is burning the touch, as if it’s a flame refusing to go out. He decides if the buyer doesn’t arrive soon he’s just going to give up and abandon the stupid deal, figuring anyone dumb enough to try and conduct business in this type of weather isn’t worth his time anyway. Sucks though. He’s sunk a good two hundred bucks into setting up this exchange, and he doubts another promising buyer will pop up anytime soon. In the dreary dry heat of summer hunting season is coming to an end anyway. He probably only has a few good sells left before he has to start preparing for winter. 

It almost seems desirable as he feels the hot orange sand seeping into his boots. But then he remembers how much he hates snow, and his foul mood only worsens. He finds himself opening and reopening the trunk to pass the time, eyeing over each piece before slamming it and beginning the process over again. In the end he places a rifle on the roof of the car so he can stay sane from object permanence. Then he kicks the same small red rock about for a while before taking a switchblade to a can of old beans, just to watch how it boils in the sun.

He practically moans in delight when a powerful looking ford mustang rolls up, indicating that this torture in the sun is finally coming to an end. It parks a couple metres away, smooth on the sand with sketchy blacked out windows that would have Stiles nervous if it wasn’t for the fact that almost all of his customers have those out windows. 

When the buyer steps out of the car Stiles flicks his sunglasses up and begins to scowl. An immediate fowl mood arising as he starts to recognise the swagger of the man he knows to be “Peter fuckin’ Hale. What the hell are you doing here?”

Peter shrugs as he walks, bearing his teeth in a snarl-like smile that never fails to make a frightened chill run down Stiles' spine. “What? A man can’t visit family?”

Stiles crosses his arms, debating whether or not he should just get in the car and go. Leaving wouldn’t do him any good though. If Peter had gone out of his way to set this up, then Stiles could’t evade the man if he tried. “We’re not family.”

“Yeah well a little boy in Cali would beg to differ.” Peter gives a judgemental look to his banged up car and the can of beans spilt on the ground. He nods at the gun and folds his arms. “So, you're selling weapons to hunters now?” He almost sounds disappointed.

Stiles scoffs offended at the senseless accusation. “Excuse you. I’ll have you know that I am the pariah of a revolution.”

Peter raises a single brow. “Oh?”

Stiles takes in the gun (and in a horrible display of gun safety) points it at the werewolf. Then he dramatically turns it the the sky. “You think I’d sell to fucking hunters? Please.” He has a goddamn werewolf son for christsake. The father of his child is a werewolf. He wouldn't do that to them. “I am making the hunters the hunted. Changing the game one illegal firearm at a time” He cocks it for effect.

“...And that means?”

He rolls his eyes and drops the gun. “I only sell real guns to the packs. Maybe an odd witch or two. Anyone who can’t get the kind of protection they need.”

Peter doesn’t seem too confused, but he does have a questioning glare. “So you’re arming people you barely know.”

“I am running a business. Hunters have a monopoly on these types of firearms. What ever happened to having a fair go? I mean when you think about it I’m just meeting the market's demand. That’s basic economics.” Stiles wasn’t an idiot okay? He was fucking picky. If you couldn’t prove you were a wolf, or that you had good intentions, then any gun he sold you would blow back in your stupid face.

Peter gives him an unimpressed expression, but he seems to hold his tongue. Maybe because he knows most of the money from sales ends up in small white envelopes mailed to Derek's door. Maybe he just doesn’t care about this at all. “Well. I do apologise for leading you on.”

“No you don’t.”

“—Despite what you may think I am here for a reason.”

Stiles strokes a finger along the top of the rifle. “Oh yeah.”

Peter nods with a smirk. “You know Eli turns ten next week.”

Stiles freezes. Eli. He can practically feel his heart clench. Ten? Already? It can’t have possibly been that long, but it has. “Shit.”

“Yep. And you know what that kid wants? More than anything in the world?” Peter says, stepping forward as if to cage him in. “He wants his deadbeat dad at his goddamn birthday party.”

Why? Why would he even want me there? After everything I've done and said. Peter must be lying. Stiles has barely seen Eli more than twenty times since his birth. Who would he be to turn up again now? “I can’t.” He announces.

“Why not?” Peter shoots back.

“Because. I’m busy.” He turns around, opening the door to his car and begging to throw his things in the back seat. “I can’t just pack up and leave.”

“You’re making excuses.”

Stiles whips his head back and glares. “Why do you even care?”

Peter slams his hand against the car, for a moment looking like he could bite Stiles head off in anger. “I’m not exactly one to speak on things like this, but maybe that kid deserves a fucking dad. It’s not his fault he was made.”

No one blames Eli. Even Stiles doesn’t blame Eli. Not anymore. But it has been a long ten years, and Stiles still isn’t sure he’s ready for it. The nice little house Dereks’ shacked up in. A pile of firewood in the shed. The veggie garden and the swings behind the white picket fence. 

But Stiles is still afraid. Afraid that little baby they found in the woods isn’t quite real. Afraid that he’s too damaged to believe anything else. “But he was made. By the Nogitsune.” he hollowly comments. 

“You don’t know that. It could have been anything.” Peter replies unconvincingly. “The fact is he’s real. He’s an actual being. You know. With thoughts and feelings. Daddy issues to boot but nobody is perfect.”

Stiles shakes his head. “You never wonder why? Why was he made? For what possible reason could anything want him to exist? Especially the Nogitsune!”

Peter gives a fake philosophical look. “Why is anybody made?”

“Peter!”

The older man glowers at him, seemingly thinking that Stiles is irrevocably stupid. “The simple fact is that if you’re right and the Nogitsune did make Eli then he made him to make you miserable.”

What an innovative thought! Certainly hadn’t crossed Stiles mind in the last ten years. “Because it knew I never wanted a kid.”

Peter grimaces looking this close to slapping him upside the head. “No! Because it knew you’d leave him and tear yourself up over it—That’s exactly what you’ve done. For all these years! Haven’t you had enough?”

“Of course I have!” Stiles shouts back. “You think I don’t feel guilty? That this doesn’t tear me up inside!” He misses Derek. Derek was never this harsh. 

Peter steps back, lurching towards his own car and shaking his head. He puts his hands in his pockets and tells Stiles. “Stop whining and step up. If there's one good thing between all of us it’s Eli. It’s about time you learned that.”

Derek storms through his house, waving the few staples pieces of paper over his head and barging into the teengers room with a blind fury that only matches the one time he caught Eli smoking in the shed. His half asleep son jumps in place as Derek throws the essay onto the bed with a huff. “H-huh?”

“What is this?” Derek bites out as sternly as he can, nodding at the papers.

“My essay?” Eli gets up from his bed and scrunches his face picking the paper up and giving it a non committal look. His room stinks like teenage boy and he’s sleeping past midday, which doesn’t help Derek's mood.

He puts his hand on his waist and stares. “And what's that? In the corner?”

Eli sighs. “An ‘F ’.” Giving Derek a why do you even care expression. “But—”

“But! That’s the third one this year! God knows how many more you’ve hidden. I found that in the trash.”

The kid gets up from the bed and throws his hands in the air. “Why were you looking through the trash?”

“I can smell failure.” He can’t, but he can smell printer paper and red ink. “Were you ever going to tell me about this?”

“Why!” Eli cries, kicking the carpet. “When you act like such a—”

“Such a?” Derek lets out a fake laugh and shakes his head. “You wanna finish that sentence smart guy?”

Eli purses his lips and for a brief moment looks so much like his dad that Derek has to take a step back and remember why “Obviously not!”

They're both huffing and puffing where they stand. It feels like the same argument they’ve had a million times. Derek wonders how such a smart kid can be so dumb sometimes. “Remind me what we do every Wednesday night?”

Eli looks like he could strangle him. “You can’t call it a study group If it’s just me and you.”

It’s not Derek's fault Eli doesn’t have many (or any…) friends. “Every Wednesday! I don’t think we’ve missed a single one ever. But these past few weeks you’ve snuck three failed grades into the trash. I must be an idiot so please enlighten me on what could be going so wrong!”

Eli paces for a bit before slamming his foot against the dresser. He growls. “Why does it even matter? Why haven't you realised? Nothing we do matters!”

Derek furrows his brows, unsure what his kid is going on about. “What. Eli?”

The teenager doesn’t seem to hear. His face is red, and Derek thinks he can see tears begin to form in his eyes. “Well it doesn’t! A stupid ‘A’ Isn’t going to bring him back!”

Derek feels his shoulders fall, and he softens up watching the boy sniffle and wipe his nose. Eli murmurs sadly. “It doesn’t matter.”

Derek looks away trying to give Eli some time to recompose himself. He gulps awkwardly trying to keep his own mind in a stable state. “Kid.” He says softly, but doesn't even know where he’s going with this. Derek can’t deny that Stiles is always on his mind. That everything he does, he does wondering if Stiles would approve. Because this is his kid too, and if he’s not going to be here to have a say then he’ll just have to be the little voice in the back of Derek's mind.

“Don’t.” Eli’s lip wobbles and big glassy eyes blink away fat tears. “Don’t tell me it isn’t true.”

Derek has to say, “I-I didn’t know you were worrying about this.” He ushers Eli to the bed so he can sit and use the neck of his shirt to dry his face. 

“Of course I care!” He shouts at the ceiling. “The only reason you make me study so hard is so I’ll do well and he’ll come back!”

“No.” Derek pulls his son into a side hug and shakes him about. “No Eli, that's not true. I want you to study so you can do well.”

Eli mumbles. “You think if I’m smart he won’t leave again.”

Derek twists around so Eli can look in his eyes. “Eli you are smart. You’re the smartest kid I know! I don’t need your dad to see that.” Derek believes every word he says, because even if he wishes Stiles could see Eli the way he does, he knows that no matter what this kid is the most important thing he’s ever done. 

Eli sneezes and trembles away his last few tears. “It’s so hard.” He pushes further into the hug and looks like he might break.

Derek rubs his back. “I know.”

“I hate him.” He weeps. 

Derek freezes, not entirely blaming his son at all. “Do you?”

It’s hard to tell if Eli hears him, because the teenager is deliriously mumbling to himself, and Derek only catches one little bit.

'I wish he was here.'  

It’s maybe three in the morning. The night is dark paired with a vibrant child that has his bare feet shiver as they swing out the bed and touch the cold wood floor. His breath forms a white cloud, and he wipes away the crust from his eyes.

Someone's belligerently knocking on Stiles' apartment door. It bends and grains underneath the banging and for a brief moment Stiles wonders if it’s a police raid. But no one is shouting and he figures the door would have been knocked down by now. He yawns, grabbing a small pistol from his bedside table and tentatively approaches the door.

He should know by now, that when he’s expecting no one, he should expect Peter Hale. This seems different though. Stiles hasn’t seen this man in what? Five years? Suddenly he stands dishevelled and bloody at Stiles front door, carrying what looks to be a knocked out fifteen year old on his shoulder.

“Peter? Did you kidnap my son?” He doesn’t even have time to register the boy, because Peter is starting to look very serious.

He storms into the apartment without being welcomed in, and (as gently as Peter hale is willing to be) puts the teenager down on Stiles tiny couch. He swivels on his heel, looking Stiles dead in the eye and saying. 

“Derek is dead.”

“W-what.”

There’s blood on Eli’s forehead, but there isn’t any wound. Whatever has him out won’t have him out for long. The teenager whimpers in his sleep, curling up unconsciously and looking slightly terrified. Like a trembling deer. He’s so big now. So much older than he realised.

Stiles feels his heart shatter in his chest.  He’s missed his chance. 

“You.” Peter points with fire in his eyes. “You need to fix this.”

Stiles gulps air, his brain practically short circuiting. “Fix this? How?” How can he fix fifteen years of abandonment? Fifteen years he could have loved…been loved. He feels crazy. Wonders briefly if this is some sick twisted dream. “What happened?”

It doesn’t really matter what happened. Doesn't it? Because either way Stiles is too late. He wants to punch something. I was almost ready. He deludes himself. He looks down at his son. My son. The pain palpating off of the boy is almost physical, sending a wave of nausea across the room that seems to affect even Peter.

He asks Peter quietly, “Why did you bring him here?” Doesn’t he know that Stiles isn’t enough? 

“Because you’re the only one who can fix this.” The other man declares solemnly. “Only you can give him back his dad.”

Stiles runs to the bathroom, slamming the door and letting himself sob and slobber as much as his body physically can. His stomach aches, and his nose is red raw. Derek is dead. It’s impossible to believe. He struggles to catch his breath, clutching at where his heart should be with a ferocity he hasn’t had since her. His mind plays over increasingly worse images of what he refuses to believe is true. That somehow by some cruel fate, the father of his child had burned alive. Helpless, and miles away. Stiles scowls into the cedar cabinets and wishes he was strong enough to tear them from the wall. It’s not fair. It shouldn’t have been him. Not Derek, who deserved the cute little house and the perfect child and the fucking white picket fence.

He didn’t deserve to bear Stiles' pain.

He didn’t deserve to die.

Stiles doesn’t know how long he spent in the bathroom before the door slowly swings open.

Eli’s eyes are curious. Uniquely sad, and deservingly angry. The boy opens his mouth, spitting out the words with a deeply vile tone that makes a new tear roll down his young cheeks. “I hate you.”

Stiles doesn’t blame him.