Stiles Stilinski was alone. It was not a romantic solitude like in some cheap young adult novel; it was suffocating. As the adrenaline leaked out of his system his chest was left hollow, and his shoulders curled to cocoon him. He was alone on a rooftop with no more options- no more friends or family. He had just been abandoned by his last remaining anchor. Everything- everyone else who had kept him grounded, who had helped him? Gone.

His mother? Gone. His father? Gone. His best friend? Gone. He heard the squealing tires of Isaac and the Argents driving off. Even Derek was out of commission. Though the ever present voice of encouragement still echoed in his head- it's going to be okay; it's always at least okay- he gave himself into despair for a moment. After everything, Stiles figured he had earned this one moment of weakness. After werewolves and drachma and murder and kanimas and alphas and every other shitty thing that's happened in the last few years, he had earned a few minutes of self pity and tragedy.

Stiles sunk to the ground, perched on his folded knees and balanced precariously on the balls of his feet. He took a deep breath and clasped his hands tight behind his neck, ducking his head to rest his chin on his chest.

"What am I gonna do now?"

The full weight of his situation exploded in his head, and he fell backwards, landing hard on his backside. Where was he going to go now that his dad was gone? He couldn't go to Mrs. McCall. He didn't have any other family in the area. No one else at school would house him. Isaac would go live with Derek, Allison still had her father, Lydia sure as hell wouldn't offer him a bed- he had never really stopped to contemplate how much he relied on the McCalls. Scott's house had been a second home to him for years now, and in less than a week he'd lost both of his homes, his families.

He wondered how long it would take for Child Services to realize that his father was gone. Perhaps he could slip under the radar for a few weeks. With all of the murders and the storm evacuations, an obnoxious teenage orphan would be easy to overlook.

Orphan. He was going to be an orphan.

He had cried so much recently. He was pretty sure that his man-card had officially been revoked, but telling himself that didn't stop more tears from coming. He thought about having to attend another funeral- this time without the comforting weight of his father's arm wrapped around him. He thought about not having a parent for the rest of his life, about having to dress up to watch his father be covered in dirt, and he cried.

He cried in the way he'd been denying himself this whole time. Fat tears dripped off his chin, and his nose clogged with snot. He gasped and hiccuped and shook. Stiles propped his arms on his bent knees and pressed his damp face into his flannel sleeves. He could feel his pulse, hot and mean in his temple.

At the end of this whole mess, Stiles could see nothing but death. Mrs. McCall and his father would be found tied to trees, strangled with slashed throats. Scott would join the alpha pack or die fighting against them. Derek was probably too stubborn to die, but the whole pack would fall apart.

"What am I gonna do now?" He groaned, voiced muffled by his shirt and broken by his hiccoughing breath.

A large warm hand landed heavily on his shoulder causing him to startle violently. He jerked forward, already prepared for another fight, another desperate scramble to escape by the tips of his abnormally thick eyelashes. Behind him, standing as stoically as ever, was Derek. The werewolf looked a little haggard, but not any more-so than normal.

"You're going to get up off this filthy roof, for one thing." Derek reached a hand down to Stiles slowly, as if the gangly teen was an overgrown and skittish rabbit.

It took him a moment for his pulse to even out, adrenaline spiking again at Derek's sudden appearance. He scrubbed his face on the shoulder of his shirt before taking the wolf's offered hand.

"Jesus, Derek. Not all of us have crazy voodoo hearing. Maybe a polite cough or even a normal shoe scuffing next time?"

Derek hoisted Stiles up with little effort. He even made an attempt to smile at Stile's poor endeavor to lighten the mood and cover up his overreaction. He must have looked pretty pathetic if even the Sourwolf was trying to humor him. Stiles's knees felt fragile and weak beneath him, but Derek kept a hand on his back to steady him.

The werewolf didn't try to fill the heavy silence with empty promises of how it would end alright, of how everything would work out. They both knew this wasn't a fairy tale. Real people had gotten caught in the crossfire and real people were going to get hurt. What Stiles wouldn't give for a fairy godmother.

Stiles grew more tired as each last tendril of energy was sucked into the empty air. He was suddenly too exhausted for anger or sadness. He just needed to sleep.

"Well, good talk, Derek. Can't wait for the next man-to-wolf bonding session. In the mean time, I really need to find a deep hole to sleep in for the next ten years." Stiles moved away from the warm hand at his back, swaying ever so slightly on his feet. When was the last time he'd slept the whole night through? How long had it been since he'd eaten more than a handful of questionable trail mix from the recesses of his back pack? He hadn't even had the time or desire for some self-lovin'. What kind of teenager couldn't even find the time to jerk off? His life was turning into some supernatural version of a pathetic made for TV movie. And not even the good kind with a cheesy ending. His Lifetime movie was gonna be some cautionary tale about lonely teenagers and prescription drugs.

He shook his head clear of that thought. Things would look better in the morning.