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The Masks We Wear	By : reclininghorizontally Category: S through Z > Teen Wolf Views: 2851 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Masks We Wear
- 1
A/N: I wrote this before episode 2x10, but didn't get around to posting it until after. It likely would've turned out differently if I had, but that just means I need to write more fic :) So uh this takes place sometime before that. Enjoy!

Stiles is asleep. Or at least, that's what his slow heartbeat and rhythmic breathing is saying; it wouldn't be the first time Derek's been proven wrong, but this time he's pretty damn sure.

The surly werewolf carefully pokes his head over the window frame to check, the dark night not hindering his vision in the slightest, and indeed it appears that the teenager is – for once – silent and unmoving, save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. And yet, as much as he enjoys the thought of Stiles actually shutting his mouth for once, in this case it actually hurts his plans.

The youth's father is out, working the graveyard shift at some security job. He won't be back until the sun rises, which leaves Derek plenty of time to help himself to some creature comforts he doesn't currently enjoy at his subway lair – namely, hot water. Yet despite the darkness, it's still early in the night, and he hadn't expected Stiles to be asleep now of all times. Then again, the teenager is still completely dressed and – upon closer observation – seems to have just fallen into bed the moment he got home from lacrosse practice.

'He's probably just taking a nap.' Derek thinks to himself, silently climbing in through the open window. He idly wonders how the teenagers are always startled by his appearances when they constantly leave such pathways open for him, but he isn't going to complain – it keeps them on their toes, and himself in control of a situation.

Once he's inside the room, he allows his gaze to rest on the younger man's prone form, deciding whether he's just going to go ahead and hop into the shower now or wait until Stiles wakes up. Honestly, the guy looks exhausted, something that the werewolf can sympathize with – he's spent a long day trying to train his new pack, and even with his recuperative powers he can still feel the odd ache and stiffness here and there in his muscles, along with a generous amount of weariness. He'd feel kind of bad if he woke him up right now ... and it probably wouldn't be too much longer before he woke up on his own anyway, right?

It's a testament to how far they've come since Derek was slamming Stiles' face into all kinds of things with wild abandon that he actually considers such generosity, but a lot of things have changed since then. Not only is he no longer a frightened omega clawing each day from life's teeth, but he's been able to get to know the teenagers beyond first (and often violent) impressions. Stiles in particular had caught his interest, because while he saw the blabbering bundle of hyperactivity that everyone else did, he also saw that there appeared to be a lot more to the youth than he let on.

Derek saw someone who could adapt to changing circumstances frighteningly quickly, and with a remarkably good instinct to back it up despite having no superhuman abilities of his own. He saw someone able to understand the bigger picture and formulate good solutions on the fly, solutions that literally saved lives and foiled people thought to be much more intelligent and dangerous than this teenaged kid. But that's where people went wrong – and he was sure that it wasn't just a coincidence. To underestimate Stiles was to sign away your victory, which was something he'd been having to keep in mind whenever he thought his own plans may interfere with Scott's – and therefore his ever-present best friend.

It had garnered a generous amount of respect from the werewolf – not that he would say anything and lose an element of mystery and thus advantage over him, however small it was – and he had begun reflecting on it fairly often to sharpen his own skills. He had a whole pack to look after, and wasn't really the best at decision-making as he'd so humiliatingly discovered recently. Scott didn't really seem to know how good he had it with a friend like Stiles around, but maybe his friend liked it that way. Just as Derek didn't want to lose any elements of mystery about himself, Stiles seemed to purposely fly under the radar, both for the same reason: knowledge is power.

Derek's only been seated in a chair against the wall for about ten minutes before he realizes he's dozing off himself. The other's slow, steady breathing and heartbeat are lulling him into it, and he hasn't been getting much quality sleep lately, coupled with his aforementioned weariness. He doesn't fight it, deciding that he might as well sleep until Stiles wakes up, but a few minutes later he opens his eyes a crack as he hears the other heart beat a little faster. The youth shifts in his sleep, grabbing around his bed a little before finding and pulling a pillow close to himself. He curls around it, hugging it tightly and nuzzling it a little, a sight that even Derek's lips can't help but pull into a tiny smirk for.

“Mmm ...” Stiles murmurs, nuzzling the pillow again as the werewolf's attention is brought more sharply into focus by the noise, his smirk fading. “Mom ... miss you ...”

Derek's half-closed eyes suddenly snap open, a chill washing over him unexpectedly.

A picture of his own mother's face flashes in front of his eyes, followed by his father's; his uncle's, his aunt's; his grandparents, his cousins, his siblings. He bites his lip, wrestling the images down through sheer force of will like he has so many times before, but it never seems to get easier. He's been caught particularly off-guard this time, his reflection on Stiles' intelligence and his amusement of the other's sleeping habits lowering his walls just enough for his memories to cause a particularly painful sting to his heart.

In fact, his reflection on Stiles' personality only serves to deepen his distress when suddenly reminded of the teenager's own loss. 'How did his mother die? How old was he when it happened? How does he deal with the memory? Is it why he's so intent on taking care of everyone around him? How else has it changed him? What was he like before her death?' Ever since he started to realize that Stiles was a lot more than a spastic snarker, he's wondered just what he's really like underneath of it ... and if he's always been that way.

'What kind of masks is he really wearing?'

Derek's sudden curiosity takes a turn for the worse when he starts applying such questions to himself, already knowing the answers. It is of course the reason why he holds such questions in the first place, knowing firsthand how such a tragedy could change someone, but it doesn't make it any more pleasant to face the person he's become in the aftermath of his family's death. He almost can't recognize himself when he looks too closely – and he really tries not to, most of the time – yet there's nothing he can do about it.

There's nothing that can fill the hole where his family, his pack used to be. He's been trying so desperately to do it, but he's so broken that he doesn't even know where to begin. He has so much anger and fear that he only knows how to fight, how to intimidate and manipulate and control others, which is hardly a basis for the loving and supporting pack that he really aches for. He doesn't – he can't – trust others, he can't allow himself to believe that anyone would ever do anything for him out of the goodness of their hearts. He knows that the moment he does, and the moment he isn't useful anymore, he'll be tossed aside, used and betrayed and alone again.

The very idea of that happening makes his heart seem to skip a beat, now pounding in his chest as his thoughts threaten to spin out of control. He swallows, looking over to Stiles again and feeling another stab of uncertainty in his chest as he reflects on just how much the teenager has gotten under his skin these last few weeks. The youth's sheer exuberance and – lately – intelligence had been annoyingly effective at getting through Derek's otherwise impenetrable guard, something that just does not sit easily with him in the slightest ... especially now as he wonders if Stiles' actions and attitude are just a mask to help him cope with his mother's death.

It hits too close to home. They have more similarities than he wants to think about, which brings him dangerously close to trusting the other, something that he simply cannot do. He can't allow anyone to be getting through, to be tempting him with promises of companionship and understanding and warmth and manipulation and betrayal and death.

He's on his feet before he fully realizes it, striding across the room to the bedroom door. Stiles doesn't stir even as the werewolf steps out and closes the door behind him, making his way to the shower. It's what he came here for, and it's what he's going to get done now before it's too late. He hopes that the task of cleaning himself will actually take his mind out of the dark recesses of his fears, though even as he rinses his hair out he can feel himself being pulled further and further into those depths ...

He isn't sure how long he's been sitting at the bottom of the tub when the bathroom door opens, startling him intensely. He'd been so completely absorbed in his thoughts that he hadn't heard Stiles awaken or shuffle down the hall, and now his own heart is threatening to beat its way out of his chest.

“Stiles!” he croaks, feeling panic overcome him – he was supposed to be finished before the teenager woke up, he was supposed to be out of here by now. Stiles can't see him like this --

“Derek?” comes the sleepy response, the shuffling feet pausing. He's behind the shower curtain, but the werewolf can easily hear his movements now that he's paying attention. “What're you doin' here? -- No, wait, don't answer that.” Stiles continues, shuffling again and presumably pausing in front of the toilet. Derek can hear that his back is turned to him by his muffled voice.

“I don't even care, I just really really need to pee, so whatever stalking or crisis or maiming you're going to visit on me, can it at least wait until I'm done with that?” By the sound of it, he isn't waiting for a response, which gives the werewolf more time to try and formulate a coherent sentence.

Unfortunately, even as Stiles is washing his hands, Derek hasn't figured one out yet. Liquid panic pumps through his veins with every beat of his racing heart, and all he can focus on is getting out of here without letting the teenager see his face. He can't let him see this vulnerability, this weakness, and even though the water from the shower will hide some of it, it's not going to mask everything--

“Derek, if you don't say something I'm going to have to check on you in there. And I don't think either one of us wants me to see your kibbles 'n' bits.”

-- including his voice, which he tries desperately to stabilize for his response, but it cracks halfway through. “I'm fi-- ... I'm fine.” he replies, hoping beyond hope that Stiles will just get the picture and leave him alone.

Nothing is ever easy around this one, though. His voice takes on a concerned edge as he moves closer; “That didn't sound fine to me.”

Derek grips the edges of the tub, preparing himself should the other dare to poke his head into the werewolf's space. He issues one last warning. “GO!” he yells, trying his absolute best to make it sound menacing, but instead it just gives a pathetic warble at the end.

His grip turns his knuckles white, a growl of frustration growing in his throat as his fangs and claws begin lengthening, his breath coming in quick pants. He feels like a cornered animal, and can't think of any other way than to act like one too – if Stiles is stupid enough to look in here ...

He, of course, is. Right when the teenager pulls the curtain back, he's met with an inhuman roar which startles him so badly that he lets out an inhuman noise of his own – some kind of a mix between a squeal and a yelp – as he falls backwards and takes the shower curtain with him. “OHMIGOD! I-- just-- Jesus, Derek!”

Flailing around on the ground with the wet curtain, Stiles manages to extricate himself just as the werewolf's now non-glowing eyes make a quick sweep of the floor, only to notice that Stiles is also flailing all over his clothes. There goes his plan of just grabbing them and leaving ... though his eyes snap up when he notices the other freeze.

“Derek ... were you – were you crying?” Stiles asks, his movement resuming as he scrambles to his knees.

The werewolf's eyes flash red again in response, and he bares his fangs with a threatening snarl, but he can't keep this up for much longer. It's easy to transform when he feels angry, but looking at Stiles now and feeling the earnest, genuine concern he has coming off of him in waves, not to mention the fact that the teenager doesn't ultimately seem phased at all by his posturing ... he knows he's in trouble.

“What – what's wrong? What happened?” the younger male asks, indeed apparently unphased by the growling werewolf in his bathtub; he tugs his shirt off so that he doesn't get it any more wet.

He scrambles closer, giving the werewolf a much-needed reason to feel threatened again – and since there's no shirt to grab, Derek just grabs Stiles' throat with his clawed hand, pulling him closer and snarling as viciously as he can. “Leave me alone!”

His grip loosens as soon as he sees the pained look on the teenager's face, noticing that his claws have almost pierced the other's skin; he didn't mean to hurt him, or – god forbid – actually claw him. He blinks, a frightened look coming to his own face – what if he had? What if, in his grief he misjudged his own strength and actually turned Stiles against his will? Which was a distinct possibility, if his claws went deep enough; that was, if he didn't accidentally maim him first. It's a mark of how absolutely terrified he is of someone seeing his vulnerability that it even happened – he has no problems controlling his bestial nature, so he can't even blame it on not understanding his power like Scott.

He shrinks away, his fangs and claws receding. He brings his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around and resting his forehead on them, his breathing unsteady. He really seems to be trying his best to just make himself as small as possible, but it's too late, he can't hide anything – all he can do is try to salvage what's left of his dignity. “I told you to go, Stiles.” he murmurs in a muffled voice, which is nearly drowned out by the constant splash of water from the shower.

Stiles sits back, but not by much, just rubbing his throat and now giving a determined glare. “And obviously I'm not going to, and obviously you're not going to actually hurt me, so would you get over yourself and tell me what the hell is going on here?” he asks, gesturing to the bathroom. “I wake up and the most stoic person I know is crying in my shower? And would you just decide if you're going to stay a werewolf or not? Your eyes are like those flashing emergency blinker ... light ... things that cars have!”

His arms fall to his side, having been explaining his simile through gestures and wild arm movements, his head tilting to the side a bit as he breathes a large sigh. “Something's wrong with you Derek – actually, a lot is wrong with you, but neither one of us is leaving until you tell me what.” He folds his arms across his chest resolutely, his face set.

Derek tries one last time to give a menacing growl, but in the end it just turns into more of a wolfish whine, and he curls around himself even more. He feels like the entire world is collapsing around him, and he wants nothing more than to suffer alone like he always has, but at the same time he's still absolutely terrified of being alone, and it's not like he even has a choice right now; it's too late, Stiles has already seen him like this ...

He feels like he's sixteen again, like he's a child, and he wants his family. He wants comfort, he wants love, but he can't have it – this time he doesn't even have his sister to help him. Everyone that could've provided that to him is gone. And the more he thinks about that, the more he tumbles down that dark road, the more he seems to just come apart. His face twists into a grimace, his back rising and falling unevenly as he chokes back sobs, but he still manages to flinch away when he feels a hand on his skin.

“Derek, if you're not gonna talk then at least let me do something ...” Stiles sighs, rubbing his own head and sounding like he's at a loss. “This is terrible ... You need someone right now, you can't just--”

“Everyone is dead, Stiles!” comes the werewolf's low, unsteady voice with an edge of venom, his bloodshot, pained eyes peeking out over his arm at the teenager.

Stiles gulps, visibly unsettled by the older man's distress. Yet, instead of finally leaving him alone to wallow in his pain and guilt, the youth puts his hand on Derek's shoulder once again. “You're wrong; you have your pack, you have Scott, you have --” He pauses, giving the other's shoulder a little squeeze.

“You have me.”

Derek's eyes snap up to Stiles', and he's momentarily frozen by those words. It takes him a few seconds to really process them, and when he does, he can feel those emotions again ... those promises of companionship and trust, which he's quickly reminded of being tangled inevitably with those of betrayal and manipulation and --

“No, no!” He tries to push Stiles' hand away, but the teenager is determined, using his other hand to grab Derek's arm awhile calmly saying his name. “No, I can't, this can't happen!”

“What can't happen?” Stiles asks earnestly, still frustrated by the werewolf's silence on just why the hell he's like this in the first place. “You can't ... have a friend? You can't let someone into your little lone wolfy world?”

“No, I can't!” replies Derek, still struggling – albeit weakly – to free himself of Stiles' grip; if he wanted to he would have more than enough strength to overcome it, but he's just so confused and torn and afraid of what might happen to him if he lets go -- ... which is when he realizes that he's the one holding onto Stiles.

He blinks, staring at his arms which are wrapped around one of Stiles', and then looks up at the other's expression, which is one of complete and utter exasperation. Yet for once, the teenager keeps his mouth shut, apparently sensing that he just needs to let the very confused and troubled man make sense of himself for a moment and then make the next move when he's ready.

The werewolf takes a deep, shaky breath ... and then pulls Stiles' closer, now purposely hugging his arm and nuzzling his face against it. He's still terrified and extremely wary about ever letting anyone into his 'lone wolfy world', but right now ... he's already made a complete fool of himself, so he might as well try to find a hint of the comfort he so desperately needs while it's here. He'll deal with the repercussions later, he tells himself, but right now, he suddenly feels like he needs this arm more than his own life.

His breath hitches a little when he feels Stiles sigh and lean in with his other arm, surrounding him with it and just resting against him under the water ... but the tension soon leaves Derek's muscles as he starts to get used to the feeling. They sit like that for quite a few moments, hugging rather awkwardly over the edge of the tub, but the werewolf can already feel himself being brought back to sanity. Just being held like this, being close to someone, hearing another heartbeat near his own ... it seems to stabilize him, enough that he doesn't jump ten feet when he finally hears a voice again.

“I'm not gonna get my arm back anytime soon, am I?” asks Stiles.

Derek just shakes his head against it.

“But, the water's getting cold, and what if we-”

He's cut off by the werewolf squeezing his arm tighter and growling.

“Okay, okay! A little while longer ... geez.”
- 1
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The Masks We Wear