Sterek One Shots

This Is How It Was

This Is How It Was by Survivah

The walls are soundproofed enough that Derek feels like he has cotton in his ears. The silence weighs on him, pressing against him as much as the frigid air does. It's quiet, and he's very very alone, and the irony of it is so thick and bitter that Derek would rip something to pieces if he had the use of his hands. Before, he would have given anything to be alone somewhere quiet. Now, he'd give anything for a voice, even if it's just Stiles again, checking in, trying to get some information that will help out the pack.

Have They given you any, you know, idea where you are? Stiles' voice echoes in Derek's head like the ringing of a clear golden bell.

Stiles always has the most terrible perfect timing.

I've given up trying. Derek answers.

What? Why? Dude, rescue mission. There are only so many failed tracking spells we can do on our end, you've got to give us a clue.

Derek looks around himself. There are four white walls, a ceiling, a roof, a door. No windows, no furniture. Chains, grit, cement. The usual suspects. It's been days, Stiles. There's nothing new I'll just happen to notice now. I've been staring at these walls for a long time.

He feels a disorienting rush of sympathy for himself. The connection is leaky that way, little tendrils of Stiles' overemotional psyche trickling through the cracks in Derek's head.

Just hang in there. We'll get you out.

Derek shifts one of his wrists in its manacle. He is literally hanging, toes barely skimming the ground. Stiles knew this, but probably forgot.

Whoops, insensitive, Stiles' shaky voice half-chuckles. Hang in there. Oh my god, I'm such an ass. I should have just not said anything.

It's alright.

I mean, I can go, Stiles offers, really I'm just badgering you because I think you might want company, but, you know, what do I know?

Don't be an idiot, Derek retorts. Stiles hasn't voluntarily left yet, he'd better not now.

Okay. I'll stick around.

And there's relief, gushing through the connection. Derek wonders what for. Or if it's even relief, he sort of forgets what that feels like. His hands are purple above him from blood loss. Just when they're properly numb and Derek can fantasize about them just falling off, They come in and unlock him, push him to his knees, palms to the floor, and the blood rushes back in, the return just as painful as when the blood left.

Well, if they're having a conversation now: Talk about something, I don't care what, Derek directs. He's familiar enough with suffering to know that the best relief comes in distraction. Stiles is nothing if not distracting.

Did I ever finish that story about summer camp, back in eighth grade?

Is this your 'one time at band camp, my cabinmate and I...' story?

Haha, we have a funny wolf here. Thinks he's a wise guy. And come on, if I had a 'one time at band camp' story, I'd be so excited you don't even know. Why is there never any action for the Stilinator?

Derek honestly doesn't have an answer for that. It's always seemed nonsensical to him. Then again, he's no better at understanding teenagers now than he was when he was one himself.

Oh yeah, so, because we were a bunch of asshole thirteen year olds, we thought the best way to get the girls to notice us would be by raiding their cabin. Which, you know, would be cool if it were the fifties or one of those other handy pre-feminism decades, but whoopsie, the camp counsellor in the girls' cabin had been teaching them all self defense. So we run in at 2 AM with an airhorn and water balloons, and they all start blowing their rape whistles and kicking us in the nuts. Even when they figured out that we were just the assholes from Redwood Cabin! Josie Marcus took way too much pleasure in relocating my testicles, let me tell you.