The Sterek Writers Network is doing a Season 4 Rewrite!
Each member gets a randomly assigned episode to reimagine and Sterekify in any way we like. Here’s my deleted scene for episode 7, “Weaponized.”
Stiles isn’t exactly sure how long he’s been sitting on the floor of his bedroom in the dark leaning against his bed, halfway undressed, throat raw, staring vacantly at the chaotic mess of red string, scribbled notes, and photos on his investigation board, not really seeing any of it.
A long time, he thinks, he knows, but he still can’t get himself to move, to finish changing into his pajamas, to crawl up into the bed and go to sleep, even though he’s exhausted.
Getting exposed to a supernaturally-jacked up distemper virus and nearly losing more of your friends will do that to you.
Looking down the barrel of a gun and into the eyes of a madman who’s about to kill you because you’re the only thing between him and your friends will, apparently, make you collapse onto the floor, borrowed t-shirt twisted around your wrists, practically catatonic.
Or maybe it was the press of steel against his forehead, the echo of the deafening gunshot, the hot spray of blood on his face, the way it stung like a thousand burning needles in his skin, the sickening sensation jolting him from his shock, making him realize that no, he wasn’t the one shot, he wasn’t dead.
Or maybe the reason Stiles has been locked in a daze, vision blurred, staring at the sense he’s been trying to make of their deeply, deeply fucked up lives but not really seeing it, is because, in that too-long second between squeezing his eyes shut and realizing he wasn’t dead, he had felt terror, yes.
But he had also felt disappointment.
The feeling vanished by the time Scott’s dad told him the cure was in the vault, and then all he felt was fear and rage at not being able to get to Scott and Kira and Malia, voice going hoarse from screaming, hands bruising where he slammed them against the impenetrable steel of the vault door.
But they made it, they had survived, mostly unscathed, which is really all they can ask for at this point. Malia hated him, was probably getting her head twisted by Peter at this very moment, but Stiles can’t really bring himself to think about that right now, doesn’t want to think of anything.
He can’t think of anything but that part of himself that welcomed his death, even for a moment.
He should sleep. But when he sleeps, he dreams; dark, cold dreams that crawl with the lurking shadows of the Nogitsune, that echo with Lydia’s scream for Allison, that haunt him with the pained look of shock and betrayal in Scott’s eyes when the demon inside of him twisted the blade in his chest and smiled, voracious, pleased.
"Jesus, Stiles. You’re freezing."
There’s heat on his skin again, not the sticky-sweet heat of blood and brain matter, but a gentle warmth, soft hands. It takes his eyes a minute to focus, to pull himself from the dark chasm within he’s been teetering over.
The lamp next to his bed is on now, casting yellow-tinged light across Derek’s face. Derek, who’s crouched in front of him, hands on his forearms. “Derek?” Stiles whispers, finally focusing, taking in the deep furrow that brings his thick eyebrows together, at how bright and glittering his green-gold eyes are, even in the dim light.
“Stiles, are you okay?”
“When did you get here? How did you get in? Did you come in the window?” Stiles finds the look of worry on Derek’s face very confusing, so he looks down to where Derek’s still lightly holding onto his arms, thumb of one hand brushing feather-light circles around the pointy bone of his wrist, absently almost, and Stiles wonders if he’s even aware he’s doing it. That’s confusing too, so he scrambles backwards, pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the bed.
“I haven’t crawled in your window since I was a fugitive,” Derek answers, standing.
It’s strange, how it helps calm him, Derek bickering with him. Derek walks over to rummage through his dresser, and Stiles is so vividly reminded of that day not that long ago when he forced Derek to strip and try on his clothes, and the way he tried so hard to focus on Danny’s discomfort rather than the weird, new jealousy he felt seeing the other boy’s obvious attraction to Derek.
Their problems from that day seem small, almost quaint, in comparison to what they’re dealing with now, what they’ve dealt with since.
Or in Stiles’ case, not dealt with, but whatever. He’s getting…better?
“I knocked and rang the bell, but there was no answer,” Derek explains. “I could tell you were here alone, and the front door was unlocked.”
Stiles never leaves the front door unlocked. It’s not like it really matters, because really, who or whatever decides to come into his home to kill him likely wont be the kind of intruder who’ll be stopped by something as useless and quotidian and unbearably human as a lock. But he’s spent a lot of nights at home alone, his dad often working late shifts or dealing with crises like he is now with the aftermath of the shitshow at the school, and Stiles has always taken a too-simple, too-safe comfort in the heavy thud of the deadbolt.
He must have been so out of it when he finally got home from that he forgot. Come to think of it, he doesn’t remember driving home at all, doesn’t remember anything after his furious, frantic shower in the locker room, desperate to get the blood off of his face.
“It’s been a rough night,” he says lamely, taking the dark, long-sleeved shirt Derek hands him, pulling it on quickly, realizing suddenly that he’s shirtless in front of him and the last thing he needs right now is for his fragile ego to crumble even further.
“I know. That’s why I’m here.” Derek turns the desk chair to face him and sits down, rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, eyes kind and warm. It’s been awhile since he and Derek have been alone, since they’ve spent any time together really, other than his stint babysitting teen wolf Derek.
He’s missed him.
Derek’s rough edges seem less…rough somehow, and it’s not just the softer, looser clothes he’s taken to wearing or the cozy-looking patch of new chest hair peeking out from the deep V of his dark purple shirt. His whole demeanor has softened recently, since his sojourn back to teendom at the hands of Kate fucking Argent.
But really, Derek’s seemed different to him, towards him, ever since Stiles came back to himself (mostly) after the Nogitsune; he’s been gentler, not pitying, but understanding, and more than once Stiles has gotten the impression that Derek is actually grateful that Stiles survived his possession, something he sees in the amused, possibly even affectionate glances he gives when he thinks Stiles isn’t looking.
But Stiles is always looking.
“You came to check on me?”
“Scott told me what happened. He said you seemed fine when you left the school, but I wanted to make sure.”
Stiles laughs, and it sounds bitter, even though he doesn’t mean it to be. “Remember that time you smashed my face into the steering wheel?”
Derek has the grace to look abashed, even as he smirks a bit at the memory. “You deserved it,” he teases. “You were objectifying me.”
“Danny was objectifying you. I just…pointed him in the direction of an object.” It sounds like a confession of some kind, weird and rude as it is. Stiles’ cheeks grow hot. He wants to look away from Derek but he can’t, has never been able to.
Do you? Caitlin’s voice rings in his head.
“Are you okay?” Derek asks, serious again.
“I don’t think so,” he admits, and it feels good, answering that question honestly for once.