[ It doesn't come. There's no--that look on his face. The sad smile he always gives him, uncharacteristic and strange and not his Derek, who only smiles when he's being an asshole (or for Stiles, when they are--were--spending time together in the quiet, telling jokes or laying in bed or doing a thousand other things, looks he's meticulously categorized and is trying not to forget.) It's not there.
It's just Derek. He moves a little closer, even, like--looking at Stiles like Derek is the one who's terrified. It's like nothing he's ever seen before, and the horrified, high thrum of his heart practically stutters as he stares at him, still frozen, still half mad, hands clutched into a tight fist to protect whatever's in his right hand, dark circles under his eyes huge and pronounced and looking slighter than ever and more like a deer in the headlights than the teenager who'd last been stumbling around the mansion, chased by mistletoe.
Maybe it's a moment of lucidity, but it hits Stiles as he's standing there, holding his breath, and doesn't move. Because the lights are on. The main hall's been destroyed, and even in his dreams, his visions, the parts of Wonderland that are broken are always, always broken.
His shoulders shake for a second, and he drops his hands, just for a second, pulling the right one in closer to his chest and extending his left with slow, trembling fingers. Like if he reaches out and touches him (it's fake it's fake it's fake) it'll be real. Every dream has faded when he tried to reach out, left him screaming in bed and sitting with Lydia or Scott, trying to shove his way through the panic that used to ebb at his conscious that's become a tidal wave.
(There's a spark. A tiny, tiny spark of hope. It's the first one he's felt in months.) ]
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It's just Derek. He moves a little closer, even, like--looking at Stiles like Derek is the one who's terrified. It's like nothing he's ever seen before, and the horrified, high thrum of his heart practically stutters as he stares at him, still frozen, still half mad, hands clutched into a tight fist to protect whatever's in his right hand, dark circles under his eyes huge and pronounced and looking slighter than ever and more like a deer in the headlights than the teenager who'd last been stumbling around the mansion, chased by mistletoe.
Maybe it's a moment of lucidity, but it hits Stiles as he's standing there, holding his breath, and doesn't move. Because the lights are on. The main hall's been destroyed, and even in his dreams, his visions, the parts of Wonderland that are broken are always, always broken.
His shoulders shake for a second, and he drops his hands, just for a second, pulling the right one in closer to his chest and extending his left with slow, trembling fingers. Like if he reaches out and touches him (it's fake it's fake it's fake) it'll be real. Every dream has faded when he tried to reach out, left him screaming in bed and sitting with Lydia or Scott, trying to shove his way through the panic that used to ebb at his conscious that's become a tidal wave.
(There's a spark. A tiny, tiny spark of hope. It's the first one he's felt in months.) ]