Part 4 of the Ruined series.

Derek sits out of sight. He hears every word from the couch, the sheriff's low, soothing tones, the edge of panic in Stiles' voice.

Derek is with Stiles every moment. He hasn't left the loft in days. Tonight, he offered to go, to give Stiles time with his father alone—but Stiles begged him not to leave.

"Miss you at home, kiddo," the sheriff says. "Too quiet without you."

"No, no, no," Stiles chants. "I can't. Can't, Dad. Jesus. Have you lost your fucking mind? Don't you know what it would— You don't want it, not there, not at home, not where you sl—"

There's a moment of silence, then noise, nails scraping on upholstery. Derek peeks around the edge of the pillar. Stiles is where he left him, lying back against his father's chest, knees bent, feet resting on the arm. His eyes are on the ceiling, the far corner, over where the bed used to be.

"Derek," Stiles says, the fingers of one hand clawed into the back of the couch, the other gripping his father's arm. "Where's Derek?"

"I'm here," Derek says, swinging up off the floor and crossing the space between them. He drops to his knees, a hand on Stiles' thigh. "I'm right here."

Stiles seems to relax by inches. "It's there," he says, flicking his eyes to the ceiling, then down. "I think my dad should go." He looks back over his shoulder. "Bad things happen when it's here." His face spreads into a smile. He lets out a short, soft laugh and closes his eyes. "You don't want to see the things he does to me to make it go away."

The sheriff's face is stricken. Derek can't imagine what it must be like. The man's eyes flick across to Derek, and there's accusation there, but defeat as well. I want to speak to you, he mouths.

Derek nods and rises, pulling Stiles to his feet. He wraps a hand around the side of Stiles' neck, thumb pressed to his windpipe. He makes it look like a caress, but Stiles tips his head back, goes limp in his arms and gives the game away. "Come on," he says, leading him toward the stairs. "Go lie down. I wanna talk to your dad for a minute."

Stiles stiffens, digs his heels into the floor. "No. He's gotta go." He pushes at Derek's chest, claws at his shirt. "He's cold, Derek. He's cold and so still and I don't want that, do you hear me? I don't want that."

There's a cup of coffee on the table. It's been sitting all day, half drunk and left to cool. The base of the cup rattles against the wood, then it implodes with a chink and a splash. Cold coffee runs off the edge of the table, tap-tap-tap, onto the floorboards.

"What the hell—" The sheriff trips off the couch in a display that makes Derek see a resemblance between father and son.

Stiles turns, one hand still twisted in Derek's shirt. "See what it does? That could be you." He reaches toward his father, his arm outstretched, hand closing on air. "Just..." He grimaces, squeezing his fist tight. "Gone. Just like that."

Derek grabs Stiles' wrist, peels his fingers away from the palm, spreading his hand out flat. Stiles could do it by accident, because he's too lost inside himself to know what he's doing.

"If you could see what I see," Stiles mutters as Derek drags him upstairs. "You're in bits, slick and shiny, pieces scattered all around. Laid out like a picture." He wraps his arm around Derek's neck at the top of the stairs, tips his head up, takes a kiss that's so sweet Derek wants to cry. "Your heart is heavy in my hand," Stiles says. "You need to make it stop, Derek. You're the only one who can."

"I'll be back." Derek pushes Stiles down onto the bed. "Right back. I promise."

---

"He can't control it," Derek says. "He knows he's doing it, but he's got no control." He drops his head back against the pillar. "He sees things." He lifts his eyes to the ceiling. "I know you don't think he should be here—"

"The hell I don't. He scares the crap out of me." The sheriff shakes his head. "His goddamn heart stopped beating, Derek. Did he do that to himself?"

"I don't know." He forces himself to meet Stiles' father's eyes. "He's asking me to end it."

The sheriff blinks, then stares. "Don't you dare. Don't even think about it, I swear I'll—"

"I won't," Derek says. "I couldn't if he was in the worst pain imaginable. I think that makes me the bad guy."

The sheriff shakes his head. "We're gonna fix him. I want my son back."

---

Derek is half-way upstairs when he smells blood.

Stiles is on his side, facing away, but his heart is beating. "Is he gone?" he says. "Home, where it's safe and quiet and warm and I can't touch him?" He rolls onto his back, his arms falling to his sides. There are streaks of blood on his sleeves. "I keep seeing him dead, Derek."

"He's safe." Derek checks the bed, the floor, but he can't find a blade. He pushes up Stiles' sleeves, checks his hands, expecting to find skin and blood under his nails, but the cuts are clean and so are his fingers. "How?"

A serene smile spreads over Stiles' face. "I made it go away. See?"

Before Derek's eyes, the skin on the inside of Stiles' forearm splits, blood welling to the surface. "Stop, Stiles. Jesus." He struggles to stay calm, because he's never seen Stiles do anything intentionally before. It's terrifying, but it gives him hope.

"Okay." Stiles tugs his sleeve down, and the blood soaks through the fabric. "But it's gone." He wraps his arm around Derek's neck, pulls him down into a kiss. "I'm sick of watching it choke you while you fuck me."