Scott offers to go back to the house with him, and Stiles loves him for it, but there are things that he needs to protect from his own livelihood - things like laying side by side on a bed, things like dancing himself sick at a hippie festival, things like living. Being alive doesn't have to be a burden when Stiles isn't being alive alone.

So he drops Scott off after a few hours of hanging out (he pretends not to notice the sadness in Scott's eyes and Scott pretends he doesn't smell the fear that's pouring off his best friend). The silence in the Jeep afterwards is jarring, it makes his skin itch.

When he turns the stereo on, it's playing Frank Sinatra. He remembers Derek singing it quietly to himself one night, when Stiles's fingers were holding the steering wheel too tightly and the alcohol bottles were open and accusing.

He turns the stereo straight back off again. He can't do that-can't-can't-

He just can't. Not now. Not when Derek is indirectly the reason he left Beacon Hills, and directly the reason he came right fucking back. 

His dad's cruiser is in the driveway when he rumbles to a gentle stop. The lights are on. For once, his dad isn't hiding at work. For once, he's home which is all Stiles ever fucking wanted and-

He can't make himself go inside. Can't make his legs move, can't make his hands let go of the door handle, can't make himself take the very thing he's been pining for since this whole werewolf situation got started. For once, his dad is here, he's waiting. If Stiles goes inside right now, he can explain it and he might get a hug, and it might actually start to feel okay again.

He just wants his Dad to hold him so he can feel okay.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and Stiles's heart drops rhythm at Derek's name.

'You can tell him the truth, if you want. All of it. Everything. If that's what you want.'

But what is everything? Because Stiles wants to tell him about the world he's living in and he will, one day, but it can't be today. Stiles can't protect him forever, but he can damn well try. He's already lost his mom. He won't lose his dad too.

So there's only one thing that Stiles can say, and it's a fucking lie.

The front door opens. His dad is wearing tracksuit pants and a loose cotton shirt that Stiles used to sleep in. There are lines on his face that weren't there when Stiles left (ran away) and there's a resignation in every breath he takes.

"Son," he greets, voice travelling the distance between them. "I-There's-" He stops, sighs, looks down. "You can go, if you really want to."

Stiles emphatically doesn't want to.

He opens his mouth. A wounded whistling sound is all that comes out before he stops, clears his throat, tries again. "I'm so fucking sorry, Dad."

It's not even half of what he wants to say, but the rest gets trapped by the soft underside of his tongue, and lightning lashes down his spine as his dad shakes his head and moves closer, until he's within arm's length. Words, apologies, I should've been so much better, all of it tripping across Stiles's lips before disappearing back down his throat.

His dad says nothing for a good long while, eyes taking in everything that Stiles has never wanted him to see. The rainbow bracelets on his wrist that should've meant something, the faded henna tattoo that made him think of Storm and birds that can't fly, the pink on his cheeks from the sun and the sea winds, the warning signs 'like-father-like-son' like alcohol drowning him on dry land.

"That Hale boy," his dad says after too many seconds of silence. "He kept you safe?"

Wordlessly, Stiles nods.

His dad looks away. "He protects you?" There are so many unsaid things there, and Stiles is helpless in the face of them. Because yes Derek protects, yes Derek keeps him safe, but so does Noah Stilinski. "Does he make you happy, Stiles?"

And just like that, Stiles doesn't have to lie anymore.

Without a word, he launches forward, crashing into his dad and burying his face in the black cotton shirt he used to wear and throwing his arms around those familiar shoulders that used to carry him above the world. He holds his dad as tightly as he physically can, and his dad holds him back, and they're both shaking and Stiles is crying, and he's just so tired.

"I'm sorry," he says, again. "I'm sorry, you deserve better. I'm sorry that I let you down. I'm sorry I ran away. I'm sorry I keep lying. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

His dad uses one hand to cup the back of his head and Stiles chokes off his words. "It's okay Stiles," his dad says, and it's not alright, but it might be. "It's okay, son."

Why had this scared him?

Why had this scared both of them so much it repelled them from each other, that it fractured their mirrors until they ended up picking up pieces of each other and fitting them into the silhouette of themselves?

"You kicked me out," Stiles doesn't mean to say.

His dad says, "You left."

Touché.

All at once, Stiles backs out of the hug and his dad lets him go, and they stand and stare at each in the dimness of the evening. "I cooked," his dad says, amicably, as an offering.

"You're on a diet," is Stiles's acceptance, and Noah's laugh is too watery to be anything other than a sob.

They go inside.

.

Derek's eyes are a wonderful shade of hazel, Stiles decides. In the moonlight they looks like slivers of jade, reflective and weathered and breathtakingly beautiful. The rocks that Stiles used to collect as a kid are nothing like this, not when Derek looks so sad and so gentle and oh so careful.

"Hi," Stiles says simply, like it is simple and not a huge fucking mess.

"Hi," Derek echoes quietly.

'Why'd you kiss me Stiles?'

Because, Stiles thinks,  you make it so much easier to breathe.

He moves forward and doesn't let himself show his heartbreak on his face when Derek moves back. "I kissed you," he said breathlessly, "because you danced with me a music festival. I kissed you because you let me drive and you let me drink and you woke me up when I was dreaming. I kissed you because that beach turned you into everything you try not to be, and I kissed you because I damn well might be in love with you and if that's a problem I'm going to poison you with wolfsbane because you're a gods-damned liar."

Derek blinks once, slowly, then very deliberately sniffs the air. 

Stiles isn't drunk.

Stiles is tired, and sad, and not hungry, and Stiles has his dad waiting for him at home. Stiles has a home. Except...

Derek blinks again and pain mars those pretty gemstone eyes. "Go home, Stiles," Derek says tiredly and goes to close the door.

"I am fucking home you useless fucking werewolf!" Stiles snaps and then, for the second time in the past 48 hours, he throws himself forward and latches onto another person, except Derek smells like the sea and smoke and is very decidedly not Stiles's father so Stiles use both hands and kisses him.

Derek doesn't kiss back.

But he doesn't fling Stiles across the front yard either, so Stiles holds him tighter, lets his desperation and his apology and every shattered fleck of his miserable soul colour the air around him. The rainbow bracelets press against Derek's cheek.

Stiles pulls back, just enough that he can murmur, "Sourwolf, I choose you," and Derek snorts and-

And-

And something between them gives just enough that Derek surges forward for another kiss, and somewhere in the house Peter is cheering loudly, and Stiles is smiling like an idiot, but it's worth it because the ocean is in his chest and the world is bright and swirly and Stiles is sober and safe and in love.

"It's gonna be okay, Stiles," Derek promises lowly.

It's gonna be okay.