Chapter Text
July 22, 2013
The map on Scott’s kitchen table was covered in red marker, but Stiles couldn't focus on the lines anymore. He stared at the dry-erase cap in his hand, twisting it until his knuckles turned white.
"Stiles? You still with us?" Scott asked, waving a hand in front of his face. "You were saying something about the police station’s frequency?"
"Right. Yeah. Frequency," Stiles muttered, blinking fast as he tried to pull his brain back from the edge. "We tap into the Sheriff’s department repeater. If any new bounties get dropped on the radio, we’ll hear it before the hunters do."
"Sounds like a plan," Lydia said from the counter, her laptop humming as she monitored the Dead Pool server. "Assuming the Benefactor doesn't bypass the local bands entirely."
The front door clicked open.
Stiles froze. His heart slammed against his ribs with a sudden, violent thud that felt completely beyond his control. He didn't even have to look up to know who it was—the heavy, quiet footsteps coming down the hallway were unmistakable.
Derek stepped into the kitchen. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes sharper than before, his posture tense. He didn't say a word to anyone. He just walked toward the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and turned around.
For a second, Stiles forgot how to breathe. He stared, wide-eyed, silently praying for something. Anything.
Derek raised his head. His dark eyes caught Stiles' gaze across the room. He didn't scowl. He didn't turn away immediately. Instead, Derek gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod—just a slight dip of his chin—before taking a drink and looking back toward Scott.
It was nothing. It was less than a second. But to Stiles, it felt like oxygen hitting a starving lung.
*He looked at me,* Stiles thought, his pulse racing as a dangerous, desperate wave of hope surged through his chest. *He didn't walk out. He didn't glare. He looked at me.*
"Derek," Scott said, snapping Stiles out of his trance. "Did Braeden get you those medical supplies?"
"Yeah," Derek replied, his voice rough. He glanced back toward the table, his eyes lingering on the maps for two seconds longer than necessary before settling back on Scott. "She did."
Stiles bit the inside of his cheek, burying his face back over the paperwork to hide the sudden, shaky exhale that escaped his lips. The wall between them was still there, cold and massive—but in that tiny, silent gesture, Stiles clung to the belief that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't completely solid anymore.
"Stiles, you're doing it again," Scott said, sitting down across from him at the table and knocking his knuckles gently against the wood.
Stiles didn't look up from the map, though his red marker was bleeding a huge ink spot into the paper. "Doing what? I'm working, Scott. I'm literally looking at the perimeter maps."
"You haven't moved that pen in three minutes," Scott pointed out softly. "And your heart rate shot up the second Derek walked out of the room."
"It did not," Stiles lied instantly, finally pulling the marker away, though his voice cracked on the last word. He dragged a hand down his tired face, staring blankly at the ink stain. "Okay, fine. Maybe it did. But did you hear his voice when he mentioned Braeden? It wasn't cold, Scott. It sounded... tired. Hesitant, even."
"Stiles..." Scott sighed, his shoulders dropping with heavy sympathy.
"No, think about it!" Stiles interrupted, leaning forward, his eyes wide and frantic as he tried to construct a lifeline out of thin air. "He didn't yell at me. He gave me that nod. Why would he nod if he completely hated my guts? If he wanted me gone, he would’ve ignored me or left the house entirely, right? That hesitation—that has to mean something. It has to be self-protection, not hate."
"Or he was just answering my question, man," Scott said gently, hating every word he had to say. "You're dissecting a half-second glance like it's a secret code."
"Because it has to be!" Stiles snapped, his voice rising before dropping into a harsh, desperate whisper. He slammed his hands against the table, his knuckles pale. "If it's not self-protection, then it means he’s genuinely done with me, Scott. It means the wall is real, and I'm just standing out here in the freezing cold holding bandages he doesn't want!"
Scott stayed quiet, unable to give him the answer he so desperately wanted.
Stiles leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling as his chest heaved. The silence in the room was deafening. One second he felt a spark of hope that kept his head above water, and the next, the brutal reality pulled him right back under, wrecking his nerves until he felt like he was going completely insane.
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"If we set up the relay here, at the north ridge, we buy ourselves ten minutes before the signal hits the main frequency," Stiles said, tracing a finger across the blueprint laid out on the loft's rusted iron table.
Around them, the pack was distracted. Scott and Malia were arguing quietly over a stack of radio transceivers by the stairs, while Lydia was on the phone near the window, her voice hushed as she verified another encrypted line.
Derek stood on the opposite side of the table, silent as a ghost. He leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the map. Without saying a word, he reached out to pull the tactical layout closer to his side.
Stiles didn't move his hand in time.
For a fraction of a second, Derek’s brush of skin against his knuckles was surprisingly warm against Stiles' cold fingers. The touch was so brief it was almost imperceptible, but it hit Stiles like an electric shock.
Stiles froze completely, his chest locking up as he held his breath. His heart thundered against his ribs, loud enough that he was sure Derek could hear it even with his fading senses. Stiles lifted his chin, searching Derek’s face, desperately waiting for something—a single word, a shift in his posture, a flicker in his eyes that would acknowledge the quiet charge hanging between them.
Derek’s breath hitched, just for a beat. But he didn't look up.
Instead, Derek pulled his hand back instantly, as if he had touched hot iron. He folded his arms over his chest, taking a small step back into the shadows behind the table, wrapping himself right back in that suffocating, impenetrable silence.
Stiles slowly let his breath out, staring at his own hand on the paper. The map remained untouched between them.
Scott and Malia exchanged a heavy, worried look from across the room. Malia crossed her arms, her sharp eyes tracking the way Stiles stared blankly at his own hands, still frozen in place after Derek’s retreat.
"He's doing it again, Scott," Malia said, her voice dropping into a low, unfiltered whisper as she leaned toward Scott. "Look at him. He’s practically holding his breath over a hand brush. It's painful to watch."
Scott let out a slow, heavy sigh and walked over to the table, clapping a gentle hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Stiles. Hey. Come here for a second."
Stiles blinked, shaking his head slightly as if snapping out of a trance. "What? No, I'm good. We need to finish mapping out the north ridge before—"
"Stiles, stop," Scott said softly, pulling out the stool beside him and forcing Stiles to look him in the eye. "I saw what just happened."
"Nothing happened," Stiles snapped defensively, though his voice lacked any real conviction. "He pulled his hand away, okay? Big deal."
"He pulled away because he's building a wall, Stiles," Scott urged gently, choosing his words with immense care. "You're taking every tiny accident, every silent pause, and turning it into a sign that things are going to go back to the way they were. I don't want to see you get crushed when he doesn't break."
"It wasn't an accident, Scott!" Stiles insisted, his voice cracking with a fierce, stubborn passion. He leaned in, his eyes bright with a desperate kind of certainty. "Did you see how he hesitated? A guy who completely hates you doesn't freeze up for a second when he touches your hand. He would've shoved the map, or ignored it, or walked away immediately! But he hesitated."
"He's losing his powers and he's stressed out," Malia chimed in, walking over and leaning against the iron table. "Stiles, you're grasping at nothing."
"I don't care if it's nothing!" Stiles shot back, looking between the two of them with a raw, defiant defiance. "For months, I thought he was completely gone. I thought whatever was left between us was burned to the ground. But that hesitation? That cold, quiet hesitation? That's self-preservation. That's him trying *not* to care, which means he still does. The old Derek is still in there, and as long as I can see him flinch, I am not giving up on him."