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Sometimes, in her sleep, she can still feel it.
The empty cavern of his chest, pressed fast to her cheek, fingertips digging in like she might be able to pull his heartbeat back out of thin air, like magic. The way his blood was already starting to cool as it slipped against her hands, thick swirls of water tugging at her ankles as if to pull her down with him. The awful sound of her own cries muffled in the ruins of his shirt, and Derek’s breathing loud behind her, steady and terrible, the ebb and flow of life that would never fill Boyd’s lungs again.
For a minute, that night, she almost let herself pretend that they were back in the vault. That her knees were instead pressed to that cold concrete, and her head rested over his heart, his hand like a buoy as it settled in the small of her back and kept her grounded through another night of suffering. He would whisper stories in her ear to distract her from the poisonous ache in her veins, the reflection of still moonlight against the walls, flecks of hecatolite gleaming and blinking like their own personal galaxy, cruel and beautiful.
He would tell her about his little sisters and how they used to try to braid his hair when he had any, and how he could pick them both up on one arm; he would tell her about her own brother, alive though not exactly well, and about the new brother he left behind, steely blue eyes and a tender heart buried deep under bones that could cut like diamonds; he would tell her about Erica, until they could almost see her in front of them again, her long hair waving out behind her like a golden banner as she flew through the air. He would tell her stories until his voice broke, and then she would tell him what she could spare in kind.
They’d make promises to each other, when we get out of here, that neither were sure they could keep, just enough to keep the hurt at bay. It was enough.
Hands on her shoulder had drawn her back out, back into the cavern of the loft, the wet slip of coppery blood against her lips and water soaking her to the bone. She hadn’t paid attention to who had dragged her away from Boyd; she vaguely registered, when she turned her head to bite into the wrist near her ear, that the yelp of pain sounded suspiciously like Isaac, but he didn’t let her go, and it didn’t matter anyway.
She’d let herself be moved to a corner like a rag doll, pulled to someone’s chest, Isaac’s, maybe Stiles’s, and she felt palms spreading against her arms and her back like they were meant to comfort, but nothing could help the horrible, empty sound of Boyd’s body still ringing in her ears.
She always wakes up with that sound in her ears, with her face pressed against his chest and the insistent drag of water around her ankles, the pillow wet with tears and Derek’s stupid silken sheets twisted around her legs. Some days, she can't get out of bed until the sky has gone dark, and the phantom sound of water crashing around the legs of the bed and lapping at the walls has faded. Some days she carries the taste of copper around like blood on her tongue, feels the wet traces of it on her palms and rubs them against her jeans, only to find that they’re dry.
Some days she wishes she could forget, but with the worst would also fade the best, so instead she clings horribly to it, narrows to the spots of light in an otherwise dark expanse; his voice steady in her ear, the way his hand spanned her entire waist, his stories and his promises, the warm ghost of his smile. Somehow, it’s always enough.