#I can't handle this #I can't #sterek forever #comment fic
It doesn’t rain much in Beacon Hills. It’s pretty dry throughout the year. They’ll get cold drizzle in the winter and a couple good storms during the summer. Thunderstorms are rare, so it takes a while for Stiles to notice that Derek’s got a problem, but the pieces fall into place eventually. There’s a picnic with the pack out in the preserve and thunder rumbles off in the distance and Stiles looks around and Derek is pale. He tells Stiles something he ate disagreed with him and it’s not until a couple days later that it occurs to Stiles to wonder if werewolves can even get food poisoning but by then it’d be weird late to bring it up.
A month later, Stiles is woken in the night by a flash of light, followed a couple seconds later by a long, low rumble of thunder. He blinks wearily at the wall for a moment, wondering why it’s so dark, until it occurs to him that there’s no light coming from the alarm clock on his dresser. Power must be out, he thinks sleepily, and shifts around, trying to get comfortable, but sleep’s elusive. It’s raining out, raindrops pattering quietly against the windows and it should be soothing, but it’s not. He feels unsettled, uneasy in his skin. Derek was short-temped and tense all day. They had an argument in the late afternoon over who’d forgotten to pay the cable bill, which had escalated into a larger argument about money. Neither of them had had very nice things to say and Stiles feels like shit now.
He flips over, ready to wake Derek up and apologize, but his heart sinks when he finds the bed empty next to him. He could have sworn he felt Derek get into bed, but he’d been in that weird place between sleeping and waking. Maybe he’d just dreamed it.
Outside, thunder booms, louder now and Stiles sits up, glancing out the rain-streaked window. Sleep is gone, replaced by the need to talk to Derek. He rises to his feet and leaves the dark bedroom, padding down the quiet hall. Derek’s not upstairs, so Stiles makes his way down the stars, treading carefully. He walks the circle of the living room, kitchen, dining room and den, dark spaces lit only by occasional flashes of lightning, but there’s no sign of Derek.