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Stiles paces back and forth beside Roscoe, pulled over to the side of an empty road. It’s early morning, pitch black except the dull glowing street light a few yards away. The stillness is overwhelming and Stiles needs to move. Just move. He couldn’t sleep. Every time he closes his eyes he sees all the people he killed, the chaos, the blood.
The darkness.
The anger bubbles out of him and he turns suddenly, fists punching the blue Jeep and causing blood to form over split knuckles. Stiles screams into the night with all the anguish and hatred he feels. The quiet greets him back. He glances down at his hands, snidely thinking how fitting it is everyone can now truly see how blood covers them. His bones ache, definitely bruised, if not broken.
Stiles slides to the ground before leaning his back against Roscoe’s front tire. His knees pull up to his chest and he hangs his head, fighting the burning sting of tears.
Suddenly a sob breaks loose and he grips the sides of his head, ignoring the flaring pain it causes. His pain doesn’t matter. It’s nothing compared to what he’s done. What the Nogitsune made him do. He sits there, unsure how much time passes.
“Stiles.”
His name is spoken so softly, with a timid sadness, he almost doesn’t hear it. Glancing up, his vision is blurry from tears, but he recognizes Derek instantly anyway. Stiles frowns deeply before looking back down at his lap.
He’s surprised when Derek just slides down next to him on the ground, shoulder to shoulder and leg pressed against his.
“I heard you. Couldn’t just leave you alone,” Derek says, still speaking softly. When Stiles sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye, Derek is looking up towards the sky.
“Should’ve. I don’t deserve your… whatever this is,” Stiles finishes bitterly.
“And why is that?”
“You know why.” Stiles tilts his head back against cold metal, letting out a harsh breath.
“No, please enlighten me. What do you think you did?” Derek looks over at Stiles now. He can feel the gaze on his face as if it were a touch.
“Fuck off,” Stiles says, but it has no bite given how his voice cracks. He goes to stand, to find somewhere else he can be alone in his anger, but Derek grabs his forearm and effectively keeps him seated.
Familiar black veins appear on the werewolf’s hand and arm, relief washing over Stiles as the pain subsides. It only makes him angrier.
“No, Derek!” He tries to yank his arm away, but it’s useless against superior strength and Derek’s stubbornness.
“Whatever the Nogitsune made you do was not your fault, Stiles,” Derek says calmly, like it was a casual conversation about their favorite TV show. Stiles keeps struggling to no avail. “I know… I know it’s easier to put the blame on yourself. To not forgive yourself.”
Stiles meets Derek’s eyes then, night vision making them luminescent and goes still. The understanding he sees in them makes his chest clench painfully, worst than his hands ache. “I don’t deserve forgiveness,” Stiles whispers. “I don’t deserve for people to care about me when I’ll only hurt them.”
“You do deserve it. And I care, regardless of what you think. I care.” The earnestness of Derek’s words make Stiles’ lip quiver slightly and he looks away. Derek’s hand on his cheek makes their eyes meet again.
“It may not be today, tomorrow, or even this year, but eventually you’ll see you are worth forgiving yourself. And I’ll be there to help you. The pack will be there. Okay?” Derek’s hand slides down to grip the back of his neck reassuringly. Something shifted between them in that moment, Stiles could feel it. The beginning of something.
A spark of hope in the darkness.