Part 9 of the Wake Up Dead series.

Stiles doesn't remember learning to walk. He doesn't remember learning to talk or hold a spoon or write his name, but he knows he didn't do it alone. He had parents, then, to hold his hand, to encourage him, to guide him.

When he died, and every part of him demanded blood, when the slightest twitch could have killed the person standing next to him, when he had to slow himself to pass as human or allow those around him to follow him with their eyes, there was Derek.

Now there's no one. His heart is breaking, and there's no one to turn to. He's alone, so many years before he ever planned for it—and he always expected it, always knew it would come some day, but not now, not yet.

The house above him is full of people. Werewolf, human. Pack. Family. There are children—teenagers, now. Stiles looks like one of them, but he's not.

Night falls, and he feels it. Hunger draws him upstairs, and he passes Thomas in the hall. The boy is eighteen now, and he smells like his uncle, like Derek. "Where is your father?" Stiles asks the boy.

"Kitchen," Thomas says. Blood comes to the surface of his skin, rushing through his veins, and Stiles has to look away. He's old enough, strong enough, but Stiles isn't ready to let the children feed him. Not yet.

Scott greets him with a hug. Stiles' oldest friend always had so much empathy, and even weeks after Derek left, the pain must still show on his face.

"He's been here," Stiles says. "You all reek of him."

"This is his home."

"I know." Stiles grimaces, the hunger, and the loss, still impossible to hide. "I miss him."

Scott nods, and he takes Stiles' arm, pulls him out the door, onto the porch, into the cool night. "You're starving yourself. It's not safe."

"I'm fine," Stiles says, though the pulse at Scott's throat distracts him more than it should. "I'm perfectly capable of going the day without feeding."

"But you're not used to it. Come on."

There's a crunch as Stiles' teeth break through Scott's flesh, and hot, rich, werewolf blood seeps onto his tongue. It hydrates dry tissue, soothes the ache in his belly, quiets the hunger.

It's not so strange for him to feed from Scott. Derek never could do it all, and Stiles never expected him to. With Derek gone, there are still five adult werewolves willing to feed him, and he's in no danger of starvation.

It's always intimate. No matter whose throat his teeth are embedded in at the time, it's always too close, too familiar. But there's something about Derek's blood that sustains him in ways that are not purely physiological.

He pulls away, blood on his lips and tears on his cheeks. Scott holds him tight, until he stops shaking, and then he leaves him there on the porch.

It's not until Scott is gone that Stiles realises that Scott's was not the only heartbeat outside the house. He steps off the porch, follows the sound into the trees, and he finds Thomas near the edge of the forest.

"You weren't supposed to see that," Stiles says.

"I'm not a kid anymore, you know. I'm the same age Dad was when you turned."

Stiles shrugs. "And it was too much for him, then, but we didn't have much of a choice. Give it a few years. Let your hormones settle down a bit."

Thomas sneers. "Asshole." Then he grins. "At least I'm not stuck with them, huh."

Stiles lets himself smile, though it still feels wrong. "Be thankful. Being a teenager for ever isn't as awesome as everyone seems to think." His smile fades as his statement reminds him of what he's lost, what he'll continue to lose for the rest of his existence.

"He misses you, too, you know."

Stiles nods. "I know. I don't blame him. He thinks he's doing me a favor. But he's wrong."

"He wants you to find someone your own age."

There's something wistful in the boy's voice, and Stiles lifts an eyebrow. "You've gotta be kidding me."

Thomas' face falls, his expression fills with hurt, and Stiles goes to him, puts his hands on the boy's shoulders. "For so many reasons," he says. "You're my nephew—no, you are. Your dad is like my brother, and your mom is Derek's sister, and I love him. I'll never not love him, kiddo. Though, if he's the one that put this in your head, I'll kill him."

Thomas shakes his head. "He's not."

"And we're not the same age," Stiles says. "No matter what it looks like."

---

Stiles stands on the edge of the railing, keeps to the shadows, still as stone. The city lies behind him, and before him, the great many-paned window of the loft.

It's stood empty for years, still barely more habitable than the house was before they rebuilt it, and Derek is back. Stiles remembers when Derek last lived here, and it seems like a lifetime ago, but Derek really hasn't changed that much.

There's a little gray in his hair, a few lines on his face. He's even broader across the shoulders now, more muscle, more strength in him. He thinks he's gotten old, but it's not true. He's still got fifty or sixty years in him, Stiles thinks, maybe even more.

And Stiles knows, he won't care even when Derek is an old man. He won't care, because he loves him.

He lifts his hand to wipe tears from his face, and gives himself away. Derek's head jerks up inside the room, his eyes find Stiles on the railing, and he looks pained.

But he holds Stiles' gaze, jerks his head upwards, and he starts up the stairs.

Stiles heads for the roof.

Derek throws open the door, and stands there, a silhouette with the light behind him. "You shouldn't be here," he says.

"I came to say goodbye," Stiles says.

Derek's body jerks, like he's been hit, and he lets the door close as he walks out onto the roof. "What?"

"I'm leaving. As soon as the sun goes down tomorrow night. I can't stay here."

"No," Derek says, coming closer. "I never meant for you to have to go, if anyone, I should—"

Stiles shakes his head. "It's your house. It's your family. You've got more right to be here than I've ever had."

Derek reaches out, but Stiles moves out of the way too fast for him to see, stops on the ledge at the edge of the roof, the wind flowing up his back to lift the hair at the back of his head. He wants, more than ever, more than anything, for Derek to touch him, but knows that if he lets it happen, he'll never be able to go.

"But you'll starve," Derek says. "Or worse."

The implication hangs in the air like smoke, thick and heavy, that Stiles will suffer the same fate as the one who made him. There is nothing worse for a vampire than to starve, because with it comes a complete loss of humanity, indiscriminate feeding, a trail of bodies left behind.

"That won't happen to me," Stiles says. "Cora found me a pack. It's small, but they're all werewolves. They're prepared to make sure that doesn't happen."

Derek swallows, and he tries to force a smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Good. You'll be free away from here. Away from me. You'll find someone else, someone—"

"Half my age?" Stiles rolls his eyes. "No, I won't. You know I won't." He turns his head, looks behind him, down to the street below. "I won't love anyone else, as long as you live."

He lifts his head and takes a step back, out into nothing, and the last thing he sees is Derek's face as it crumples in pain, before he hits the street below in a crouch.

He pushes off and starts to run, hoping that Derek might follow him, knowing that he won't.