Kings of the Moonlight

Life Goes On

On my last night on Earth, I won't look to the sky. Just breathe in the air and blink in the light.

-

In a lot of ways, Derek almost expected the things to be easier now, now that Kate is stirring into consciousness, with her hands bound behind her back with the silk tie that Derek had gifted Stiles only hours before, half-snarling incoherent threats and blood staining her teeth a lurid red.

When Sheriff Stilinski finally crashes through the door, gun in hand and worry splayed over his expression, Derek is half collapsed against Stiles' chest. Stiles is sitting behind him, enfolding Derek's body with warmth and care, one broad hand spread over Derek's faltering heartbeat.

The head wound that Derek is sporting still bleeds sluggishly, tumbling over in thick, slow streams, and it rolls Derek's stomach each time that Stiles reaches over to clean it away.

"Stiles?! Where-?" the Sheriff yells, desperation roughening his voice, "Stiles?"

Stiles jumps against Derek, startled by the sound of the door ricocheting off of the wall and the sound of booted feet pounding on the tiles of the corridor, but he scrambles to his feet as soon as his father turns the corner.

He throws himself at the Sheriff, who only just manages to catch him.

"I thought I lost you," Derek hears the Sheriff sigh. "God, Stiles I thought, I thought-"

Stiles wraps his arms around the Sheriff's neck, shuts his eyes tight and his knees buckle slightly; with his father holding him up, cradling him like that, he looks so much younger than Derek ever remembers him to be.

Seeing the worry etched on the Sheriff's face and the way that his knuckles whiten as he crushes his shaking son to his chest, gives Derek a pang. He wants nothing more than to be wrapped around his own son, pressing his nose to Isaac's curls, checking him over, making sure that he's okay; that he's there and unscathed, and unmarked and okay.

Instead, he's sitting awkwardly against the couch, feeling like an intruder in his own home, with Kate's delusional threats gurgling in the air not two metres away from him and watching Stiles and the Sheriff hold on to each other with everything they've got.

It's a weird existence to be so isolated, feeling so out of touch with his own body, in a room that is steadily filling up with more and more people. He watches them absently, gaze hopping from one person to the other, not registering faces or numbers, just the mesh of green and gold material that makes up their uniform.

He's safe, Derek knows. The police officers all around him account to that, but he doesn't feel safe and he doesn't think he will until Kate is banished from his sight and he's had a chance to make sure that Isaac is okay.

It's right then that somebody turns on the overhead lights; Derek instantly narrows his eyes, blinking harshly at the sudden brightness and he tries to focus on the sudden sharpness of the situation. He hadn't realised how dark the room had been, illuminated only by the table lamps and the moon shining full and bright through the window.

He fixes his gaze on Kate, who's not glaring at him with hatred for once; she's still issuing threats, but there's more of a pathetic quality to her voice now: syllables slurred, others missed altogether, the whole sequence linked together by wheezing breaths heaved as she floods the towel strapped to her back with each glug of blood.

She's arching up on the floor, directing heated glares to the policewoman standing over her.

"You filthy fucking brat," Kate snarls, the words bubbling through her bared teeth. "Don't touch me."