There are times when Stiles will stay in the bathroom too long, door locked, lights on and Derek will listen to his breathing- deep, shaky. It's times like these that Isaac will leave- because Derek asks him too- and not come back until morning baring promise of breakfast and burritos.

Derek asked him once why he stays in there so long. Stiles' reply was a tiny, embarrassed smile. He didn’t bring it up again.

This time is different. Stiles hasn't locked the door this time and the shower is running but there is no slight creak in the tub that says someone's in it. Derek presses himself to the wall separating them, ears prepped to listen. There is no sound. No breathing.

"Are you ok?" Derek knocks on the door to the bathroom. Silence answers back the quip in Stiles' heartbeat enough to let him know that he's alive. Derek grips the doorknob, twisting it slowly. Steam spills out of the room like a fan, instantly clouding his vision.

Stiles is sitting on the floor in nothing but a pair of boxers, legs crossed lazily underneath him. His fingers idly trace one of the tattoos on his leg, then a scar, blackened and bruising. He clasps his hand over it, trembling slightly. Stiles looks up at him, eyes drooping sadly against his face, amber and blue and green.

"Hey." His voice is foreign, croaky. “I thought you went out.”

Derek shuts the door behind him. "I just got back."

"I'm wasting water. I'm sorry. I'll go shower in a minute or something."

Derek sits down on the toilet, leaning against his arms as he crosses them over his knees. Stiles' gaze won't meet his, purposely staring into the linoleum. He twiddles his thumbs absently, smoothing the pads over puckered skin. Derek watches his face scrunch up, suddenly angry and Stiles unfolds his legs.

"I can't get them to go away." He whispers softly. "I've tried to make them go away and I can't."

"The scars?"

Stiles nods. "I tried using this one spell, it made it worse. Turned it black. Apparently you can't use magic on scars like these."

Derek makes a noise in the back of his throat, mind reeling over how the idea of Stiles being insecure still seems impossible. Stiles who destroyed hunters, who could transmute anything into something, who lit fires between his fingers. He stares down at the boy, brown hair slicked back against the humidity in the air. Derek slides to his knees and settles in front of Stiles.

"My eyes won't change either. At first I thought it was cool, but somebody at school asked me about it and said it wasn't normal and I should get it looked at." Stiles snorts. "Its one eye. They don't even know how I got it. I remember how and it was awful."

"High school kids are the worse kinds of children."

"I know. I know." Stiles glances up at him. "It just got me thinking. Maybe you want someone normal looking. My arms are fucked, especially my left one. It's not even solid bone anymore. People like normal people."

"I'm not in much of a position to be asking for normal." Stiles laughs at that, musical and perfect.

"I know, Derek." His smile is fond and he reaches out to touch Derek's face. "I want normal for you and for Isaac and Scott and everyone. It's hard for them in school, walking around with me. People stare. They stare and I can fucking feel their thoughts. They're like projections flittering over my eyes. It's the same thing when we're out. When we went to the grocery store, the fucking clerk wouldn't stop staring at me in this god awful way. It was so, so bad and then she would look at you as if you were forced to be with me and... I fucking hate it."

Derek takes Stiles hands; lips brushing light kisses over the knuckles. He kisses along the curve of a particularly gnarly scar, taking time to leave no area untouched. Stiles sucks in a sharp breath, arms beginning to tremble. Derek moves to the next arm, pressing a soft peck to a line of scratches.

Next he touches the black wound in Stiles shoulder, nearly covering a rune carving. It reminds Derek of the first time he had saved Stiles' life. His lips trail along the spidery black lines, savoring each small shake in the body beneath him. He does this to a similar blemished area centered in Stiles' chest and the one on his side, he does this until every imperfection is covered.

Stiles bites his lower lip, redness collecting over his eyes as water fills them. He doesn't look at Derek, fists shaking in his lap. Derek cups his chin in a large hand, tilting the boys face to his.

"Is it okay if I say you're beautiful? That you always have been since that night in the forest, since the night you took me back to your apartment. You were beautiful then, you're beautiful now. I don't care if they stare or if they don't. I care about you and our pack. None of them matter."

A hiccup leaves the boys lips and he's crying and smiling, all white, all teeth, and punching Derek’s shoulder.

“You’re a sap.”

Derek rolls his eyes, a fond smile creeping onto his face. Suddenly his lap is filled with Stiles, senses flaring at the burst of mint and sulfur. Thin arms are wrapped tightly around his neck, the boy’s face pressed into the underside of his neck. Derek holds him close, sighing into the thickening steam surrounding them. A knock comes to the door, hesitant, and Stiles shifts in its direction.

“Who is it?” He mumbles into Derek’s skin.

“Scott and Isaac.” Derek replies, placing a kiss to his temple.

“Um, Derek? I hope you guys aren’t… Um. Yes. I brought burritos.” They can see Isaac’s blush despite the separation of walls and a door. “Scott has orange juice. We were thinking picnic? Boyd suggested it.”

Stiles chuckles because Boyd suggesting picnics was ridiculous and kisses Derek’s cheek.

“Thank you.”

Derek gives him a short nod, which earns another punch in the shoulder.

“Did you hear them earlier?”

“Yes. Otherwise you’d be bent over in the shower.”

Scott's whine floats through the door. “Dudes, gross.”

The room turns scarlet with Stiles’ laughter.