Chapter 4: Awkward Co-habitation
The stale coffee tasted like punishment. Derek stirred the gritty sludge in his chipped mug, the scrape of the spoon echoing Garcia's quiet vigilance where she leaned against the kitchenette counter, sharp eyes missing nothing. Stiles was a flurry of forced normalcy across the tiny table, shoveling tasteless scrambled eggs. "So, Garcia," he began, voice strained too loud, "think the storm’ll hold off? Lawn looks soggy as hell." He didn’t look at Derek.
Silence. Garcia took a slow sip of her own coffee, gaze sliding from Stiles’s over-bright expression to Derek’s clenched jaw, then back to the window. "Forecast says intermittent showers." Her tone was flat, devoid of judgment but saturated with knowing.
Derek’s fork clattered onto his plate. The sound cracked the fragile tension. Stiles flinched, finally meeting his eyes. Fury, hot and raw, burned behind Derek’s glare. Stiles saw it. He swallowed hard, the forced cheer vanishing. "Look," he started, defensive.
"Don't," Derek cut him off, low and dangerous. "Don't fucking pretend."
Garcia shifted minutely. Her hand rested near her holster. "Witness," she stated, a simple reminder that vibrated with unspoken warning. Control yourself.
Stiles pushed his plate away, cheeks flushed. "Right. Well. I need to check perimeter sensors. Excuse me." He practically bolted from the cramped space.
The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the ghosts of the previous night – the phantom scent of come, the echo of slammed doors, the brutal memory of Stiles’s fingers inside him. Derek stood abruptly, chair legs shrieking on the linoleum. Garcia didn’t move, but her eyes tracked him like a hawk as he followed Stiles down the narrow hall.
He found Stiles jabbing at a keypad by the reinforced side door, shoulders rigid. "Garcia knows," Derek growled, crowding him against the cold metal.
Stiles kept staring at the keypad. "She’s paid not to care."
Derek slammed his palm against the doorframe beside Stiles’s head, the metal vibrating. "We can't just pretend last night didn't fucking happen, Stiles!" His voice was a low snarl, the air crackling with his barely restrained fury. The sterile hallway felt suddenly claustrophobic.
Stiles finally turned, his expression a mask of weary irritation, though his pulse hammered visibly in his throat. "Jesus, Hale, get a grip," he huffed, leaning back slightly from the heat radiating off Derek. "What, you never had a one-night stand before? Or are you always this fucking invested in every hook-up?" He injected a deliberate casualness into the question, his eyes deliberately avoiding Derek’s.
The dismissal ignited Derek’s temper, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "It wasn't just—"
"Wasn't it?" Stiles cut him off sharply, his own voice losing its artificial calm, turning brittle. "Let me spell it out for you since you seem confused." He took a half-step forward, invading Derek’s space this time, his gaze hard. "Years ago, you couldn't get away from me fast enough. Weren't interested. Remember that hospital hallway? Your fucking disdain?" He jabbed a finger towards the bedroom door. "Last night? That was pent-up frustration. Overwork. Needing release." His lip curled slightly. "I saw a nice, convenient body to blow off steam with. That's all it was."
Derek recoiled as if struck, the raw honesty cutting deeper than any claw. "Bullshit," he snarled, the word scraping his throat raw. "That’s not true. What we have… it’s more. You felt it. I felt it." He searched Stiles’s face, desperate for a flicker of agreement.
Stiles stared back, his eyes flat and cold as river stones beneath ice. For a second, Derek thought he saw something flicker – doubt, maybe pain? But it vanished, replaced by utter conviction. "Not according to you," Stiles stated, his voice chillingly quiet, each word a shard of ice. He held Derek’s gaze for a deliberate, agonizing beat.
Then he turned away, the movement final. He keyed the access code into the side door panel with sharp, efficient jabs. The lock disengaged with a heavy thunk. "Perimeter check," he announced, his tone clipped and professional, devoid of any lingering heat. He pulled the heavy door open and stepped out into the humid Georgia twilight without a backward glance.
The door sealed shut behind him with a pneumatic hiss, leaving Derek alone in the sterile hallway, the echo of Stiles’s words – Not according to you – ringing louder than the cicadas outside.
The heavy door's hiss faded, leaving Derek hollowed out by Stiles’s vicious dismissal. He pressed his forehead against the cool metal, smelling bleach and the lingering ozone of anger. Not according to you. The words carved deeper than claws ever could.
Hours bled into the suffocating night. Derek lay rigid on the thin mattress, every creak of the safe house a potential threat, his senses hyper-focused on Stiles’s room down the hall. The low murmur of Garcia’s radio eventually ceased, replaced by the heavy silence of deep watchfulness. Then, finally, the quiet click of Stiles’s door opening, soft footsteps padding past Derek’s room towards the small office space.
Silence settled again, thick and expectant. Derek heard the distinct snick of Stiles’s laptop opening, the soft tap of keys starting up. Reporting in. Derek rose, silent as smoke, the worn carpet absorbing his steps. He stopped before Stiles’s door, feeling the heat and the frantic rhythm of Stiles’s heartbeat vibrating through the wood. He lifted a hand, knuckles hovering for a breath, then rapped softly, twice.
The typing stopped dead. Silence, heavier than before. Derek could almost taste Stiles’s sudden tension, sharp and metallic in the air. "Stiles," Derek murmured, his voice rough gravel, pitched low to not carry. "Please." Another beat of silence stretched, taut enough to snap. "I’m... I’m sorry." The apology felt inadequate, ripped from somewhere raw. "Fuck, I’m so sorry."
He leaned his forehead against the cool wood, the barrier between them agonizing. "Not for... downstairs. Not for that. For before." He swallowed, the memory of the hospital hallway – sterile, fluorescent, his own voice cold – a fresh wound. "For five years ago. I should have started with... with how much I fucking missed you. Every damn day." His voice cracked. "Should've said how empty it’s been. How empty I've been. Without my mate."
Silence answered him. Thick, impenetrable. But Derek heard it – Stiles’s breath hitched, choked off. Heard the frantic, jackhammer beat of Stiles’s heart slamming against his ribs on the other side of the door. Felt the coiled tension radiating through the barrier, a storm trapped in a small room. Anger, yes, a deep, familiar burn. Hurt, sharp and old. But beneath it, tangled and undeniable, a thread of longing vibrated with the same intensity as that frantic heartbeat. Stiles stood frozen, unseen, a silent sentinel guarding the lock.
The frantic drumbeat of Stiles’s heart against his ribs was the only sound Derek could hear, louder than the cicadas outside or the hum of the cheap overhead light. That, and the choked silence stretching between the thin wood panel and Derek’s forehead pressed against it. He smelled it then, thick and cloying beneath the lingering sweat and cheap detergent: salt, hot and sharp. Tears. Stiles was crying. Silent, furious tears.
Derek’s own throat tightened, claws threatening to slip free. "Stiles," he rasped again, the word cracking. "Open the door. Please. Let me see you." He needed to see the truth in Stiles’s eyes, past the anger, past the walls built over five lonely years. The raw scent of Stiles’s pain was a physical ache in his chest, worse than any wound.
A harsh, wet inhale came from the other side. Then, a sound Derek hadn’t expected: a low, bitter scoff. It vibrated through the wood. "Mates?" Stiles’s voice was ragged, thick with tears and disbelief, muffled but razor-sharp. "Don’t fucking insult me, Hale." He spat the words like venom. "Mates are sacred. Werewolves don’t reject their mates. Not ever." A pause, filled only by Derek’s ragged breathing. "So, what was I five years ago? Disposable trash you tossed aside? Now suddenly, because you’re scared and cornered, I’m your mate?" The scoff came again, edged with a raw, broken fury that twisted Derek’s gut. "Bullshit." The lock clicked, a final, deliberate sound. "Go away, Derek. Just... fucking disappear again."
The door didn't open. It stayed shut, a solid, impenetrable barrier. Derek heard Stiles’s shaky exhale, the soft, choked sound of someone trying desperately to rein in tears. He smelled the conflicting waves rolling off him – the sharp sting of grief, the acrid burn of betrayal, the sour tang of humiliation, and beneath it all, stubbornly clinging, the undeniable, slick musk of his arousal, reacting to Derek’s proximity despite his rage. The scent was a brutal counterpoint to his rejection. He hadn’t moved away from the door. Derek slid down the wood, back hitting the hallway wall hard, the cheap plaster cool against his overheated skin. He stared at the closed door, the scent of Stiles’s unwanted desire and furious tears filling his lungs, the dismissal echoing: Bullshit. Go away. The hollow click of the lock engaging felt like a tomb sealing shut.