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∙◦∙
Stiles’s thumb hovers over Derek’s number as he wars with himself on whether or not he should press ‘call’. His hands are trembling as the aftershocks of adrenaline vibrate through his veins, his whole body racking with violent shudders. Already on his knees, he slumps against the tree behind him, finally allowing himself a moment to calm down and catch his breath.
Tears tainted with blood burn tracks over his cold cheeks; a few marbled droplets land in the middle of the screen, blurring the picture. He absently swipes them away, accidentally pressing too hard and connecting the call—taking away his choice.
A coil of panic tightens in his chest as, after just three short rings, Derek’s voice—raspy as if barely awake—echoes through the speaker. “Do you know what time it is?” he grumbles, and at any other time, Stiles would’ve made a joke or retorted with something so sarcastic it would’ve undoubtedly earned him a huff in return. But right now, he can’t think of anything to say.
Silence stretches, and Stiles senses the moment Derek picks up on his lack of a witty remark—and probably his ragged breaths—and draws up the conclusion that something’s wrong. The next words to rattle against Stiles’s ear are laced with so much concern it makes guilt well in the pit of his stomach—just one more thing for him to regret. “Stiles? Are you alright? Where are—”
Stiles ends the call, the device creaking under his grip as he tightens his lacerated fist around it, an outlet for all the emotions raging inside him. He covers his mouth with his free hand, fingers digging roughly into his cheeks to muffle the scream that rips from his dry throat.
Leaves rustle in the distance, freezing the breath in his lungs. Heart hammering in his chest, he chokes back his sobs, wiping harshly at his tear-stained face—embarrassed that someone might walk by and see him shattering apart. Though, after a scan of the moonlit path among the trees, a humorless laugh forces its way past his lips. There’s no one there.
Why would there be?
With glassy eyes, he looks back at his phone, hating himself just a little bit more as the screen lights up with Derek’s face. Stiles stares down at the device with unfocused eyes, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down until a coppery tang coats his tongue.
After the fourth ignored call, Stiles switches off the phone and lets it slip from his clutch, uncaring where it lands. Exhausted, he lays down, the pounding in his head and heaviness of his limbs suddenly too much to bear. He winces as twigs poke at the wound below his ribs, but he otherwise pays it no mind. The pain is welcome.
Despite the winter breeze assaulting his torn skin, his eyelids start to droop, and he finds himself unable to resist the force dragging him towards sleep. Darkness creeps in, the threat of nightmares already swarming the edges of his subconscious.
The wind whistles an eerie tune, taunting him with things he knows aren’t there. Hallucinations of a familiar voice desperately crying out his name before the whole world fades to black.
∙◦∙
Derek is suffocating, swallowing the lump in his throat to stifle the mournful howl clawing its way out. The blood rushing past his ears is so loud that he can barely hear himself think. It’s like he’s underwater, everything around him a blur as he stands there, frozen on the spot, eyes darting over the pale, lifeless form laying in a pool of red on the forest floor.
Falling to his knees, the pain of hitting the solid ground is secondary to how Derek’s heart is breaking. “Stiles?”
No, no, he can’t be dead. He can’t be. Not Stiles, not his mate. He’d have felt it—his soul splintering apart. He’d know; surely he’d fucking know!
Derek extends a hand, whimpering when his fingertips meet the ice-cold skin of Stiles’s neck. Even the ribbons of blood staining his milky flesh have been abandoned by warmth, most of it flaking off as Derek presses two fingers against Stiles’s pulse point. “Please,” he pleads, praying desperately for any hint of life, but he’s trembling too much to detect anything.
Cursing, he screws his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus, breathing in and out until the fog on his senses lifts. That’s when he finally hears it, the faintest blip blip blip alongside weak rasps of breath. It’s something, and it means his mate is hanging on.
He’s not giving up.
“That’s it, keep fighting. I’ve got you.” Tears of relief spring to the corners of Derek’s eyes, but he doesn’t have time to waste on that now. He scoops Stiles into his arms, bracing him firmly against his chest, and then he runs like the hounds of hell are nipping at his heels.
He runs and runs and runs, not daring to look back for even a second. The wind is whipping past his face, and it soon brings Derek’s attention to another problem. Drifting towards his nose is a familiar scent—the pungent tang of snake venom.
Naga venom.
“Fuck.” He abruptly changes course—the hospital no longer his destination. It’s too risky, too many impossible questions with impossible answers. No, he’ll take Stiles to the Loft. There he can warm him up, stop the blood and call Deaton—if anyone has a remedy or salve to draw out the poison and speed up the healing, it’ll be him.
Derek doesn’t trust the druid at the best of times, but he’s the closest thing to a supernatural doctor they’ve got, so it’s Derek’s only hope, and at this point, he’ll try anything. He can’t lose his mate.
He won’t.
∙◦∙
There’s a deafening screech as a body slumps to the ground. It transforms before his eyes; once a woman, now a snake.
Dead.
Pain radiates through muscle and bone, a torrent of red soaking the leaves under his feet.
Dying.
“How could you?” A voice rings out. “I told you not to kill her. That’s not what we do, Stiles!”
Fury rises, white-hot and consuming. “Do you hear yourself? Have you forgotten the people it killed last time? How many more would it have taken for you to realize banishment isn’t going to cut it?”
“If we kill, we’re just as bad as them!”
“Sometimes it’s the only way. Why can’t you understand that?” He’s begging to be heard.
No one is listening.
“You’re out of control, Stiles. You need help, and until you get it, I can’t have you around the pack anymore.”
His heart sinks, the words cutting deep, sharper than claws or blade.
Too much pain.
“You’re kicking me out?”
“I think it would be safer for everyone if you weren’t around. You’re a mess, and as your friend—”
“Friend?” Venom drenches his tongue. “Don’t you dare pretend you’re doing this for my sake. And what’s your idea of help exactly, huh? Throwing me back in Eichen?”
“I don’t know what else you want me to do.”
“I want you to listen to me!” His voice cracks, eyes burning. “I want you to trust me.”
Pity stares back at him. “I can’t.”
∙◦∙
Stiles stirs, mewling in his sleep as if battling against some invisible entity. Derek dabs a damp cloth over his skin, sweeping up the sheen of sweat covering his face and chest, muttering soothingly until he settles again. It’s startling how quickly Stiles went from a block of ice to a burning inferno, but at least his breathing has improved, and his heartbeat is getting stronger with every hour that passes.
Stiles fought off the worst of the fever during the night, and the ointment Deaton brought seems to already be knitting the wounds back together. The only thing worrying Derek now is that Stiles isn’t waking up. It makes him feel utterly helpless. Deaton assured him he’ll pull through, but until Derek sees those bright honey eyes staring back at him, he won't relax.
Derek didn’t sleep a wink, barely leaving Stiles’s side until he knew he was out of the danger zone. He’s exhausted, his body weary from panic and pain drain, but somehow, he’s too on edge to even think about taking a nap. His wolf is too alert with the need to watch over its mate to let him rest—not yet, at least. Not until he knows for sure that Stiles is safe.
There's also a few stray tendrils of rage clogging up valuable space in Derek’s mind, preventing him from settling. As soon as Stiles was in the clear, Derek called Scott to ask why the hell the boy was alone in the woods, poisoned, bleeding out, and half-frozen in the middle of the night. What he found out made him see red, and if it weren’t for Stiles relying on his care, he’d have hunted Scott down and ripped his heart clean out of his chest.
Alpha or not.
The rumble of the Loft door snaps Derek from his musings of murder. The sheriff strides through, his face flushed with worry and the scent of his dread clouding around him like an aura.
“I came as soon as I could,” he announces, closing the distance between them in a hurry. He hovers at the opposite side of the bed from Derek, scrubbing at his chin tensely. “How is he?”
“Deaton said now that the fever has broken, he’ll come around when he’s ready,” Derek recites the druid’s words, and hearing the confirmation again—even from his own lips—loosens some of the tightness in his chest. “We just have to be patient.”
“He’s going to be okay?” It’s not a question, more a plea for reassurance.
“He’s going to be fine.”
“Thank god,” Noah breathes out, the tension leaving his shoulders. He sits down on the edge of the bed, dropping his face into his hands as if the relief is too much. “Shouldn’t we take him to the hospital?”
Derek shakes his head regretfully. “The injuries are too unique to be blamed on a mountain lion. And if they ran tests, they’d probably find traces of the venom—one they’ve never seen before—still in his blood. There would be too many questions. We can’t risk it.”
The sheriff nods in agreement before turning his attention to his son, eyes sweeping over him. The acrid stench of guilt floods the air, and Derek says nothing. There is nothing he can say, ’cause he feels the same.
After several moments of silence, Noah sniffs and points toward the spiderwebs of black crawling up Derek’s arm. “You’re taking his pain?”
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt you?”
Derek shrugs. “A little.” The but it’s worth it is on the tip of his tongue, but he gulps it down. He’s endured worse, and he’d endure a lot more if it meant his mate didn’t have to.
An expression Derek can’t decipher flits over the sheriff’s face—it’s as if he’s peering straight into Derek’s mind and assessing all the pieces. “You should tell him.”
“Hm?” The sheriff stares pointedly at where Derek’s hand clutches Stiles’s like a lifeline. Derek begins to protest before he realizes his mouth is open. “Sir, I—”
Noah raises a hand, silencing whatever bullshit was about to flow out of Derek’s mouth. “Look, son, a few years ago, God knows I wouldn’t have been thrilled about it, but now…” He trails off as he gazes once again over his son’s prone form, losing himself in his thoughts. Guard down, he nibbles at his bottom lip, and it’s so out-of-character yet so familiar it almost makes Derek smile.
Finally, Noah sighs, sagging with it, and he looks at Derek with all the kindness of a doting father. “You’re a good kid, Derek. Troubled maybe, but it’s not the first time I’ve caught you looking at him as if he means everything to you, and after all this, I've no doubt it’s true. So, do everyone a favor and tell him how you feel.”
Derek is left a little stunned by the deduction, unable to reply with more than a croaked, “Yes, sir.”
When the hell did he become so transparent?
Noah breathes out a laugh, shaking his head fondly. “Alright then.” He leans across the bed and claps Derek lightly on the shoulder—a simple gesture that fills Derek with warmth. “Call me the minute anything changes. I would stay, but you’re doing more for him than I could, and I’m guessing there’s a mess to clean up, so I better get on that before someone else does.” Derek gives him a sympathetic look which the sheriff waves off with a bemused huff. “I’m used to it by now.”
“Scott might know where you can start,” Derek suggests before he can talk himself out of it, gritting through the name like a curse, but as much as he loathes the boy, Scott’s the last person besides Stiles to see the naga. “I didn’t get the chance to search for a body, but Scott or one of his betas could probably point you in the right direction. If they were willing.”
“Oh, they’ll be willing,” the sheriff bites, the undertone of authority loud and clear, and Derek takes some satisfaction in that.
Whatever Derek had in mind for Scott will pale in comparison to what the sheriff could rain down upon him if he’s foolish enough not to cooperate. Of that, Derek’s sure. Noah’s not to be trifled with on a normal day, but when it comes to Stiles, nobody stands a chance against his wrath.
“And Derek,” Noah calls out, giving Derek one last genuine smile. “Thank you.”
Derek wants to object, wants to insist there’s nothing to thank him for, but instead, he just bows his head and watches the sheriff leave.
Once Noah’s footsteps are in the distance, he turns back to his mate. He brings one of Stiles’s bandaged hands up his lips and kisses the knuckles gently. “Come back to me,” he whispers as if it’s a secret he’s afraid to tell. “I miss you.”
∙◦∙
Stiles startles awake, bolting upright with an involuntary shout.
“Shhh,” a soft voice hushes as a gentle, caressing touch combs through his hair. “You’re safe.”
Stiles’s chest heaves with panicked breaths as he blinks, eyes adjusting to the piercing light. Clarity slowly seeps into his vision, and the tension leaves him on a bone-rattling exhale. He leans into the fingers now stroking his cheek, realization finally dawning on him that he’s no longer in the preserve.
And he’s no longer alone.
“You’re safe,” Derek assures him once again, those beautiful kaleidoscope eyes alight with a mixture of relief and worry. “Lie down. You’re still healing.”
Stiles yields to the urging pat on his shoulder, reclining back onto the warm mattress, face screwing up as he’s reminded of the ache in his side. “It wasn’t a dream then,” he mutters, voice like gravel from what he can only guess is disuse.
Derek’s expression flickers with sadness, but he says nothing, just shakes his head once before checking the badges wrapped around Stiles’s torso.
Seemingly content they’re still secure, Derek drags a chair closer to bed and perches on edge. “How are you feeling?”
“Like death warmed up,” Stiles snarks—or tries to—and Derek looks pained by the admission, so he changes the subject. “Er, how are you?”
Stiles wants to roll his eyes as soon as he says it, but thankfully Derek seems to forgive his attempt at small talk—Stiles would've blamed his disorientation if he hadn’t—though his eyebrow does crease a little.
“Better now you’re awake,” Derek answers, and Stiles catches the second he realizes how that sounded, his features doing some complicated dance before he clears his throat. “Do you need anything?”
Stiles is about to say no, not wanting to be a bother, but his thirst wins out. “Can I have some water?”
Derek’s out of his seat in an instant, marching out of Stiles’s line of sight. There’s a distant whoosh of the tap, and Derek is back with a full glass no more than four seconds later. Stiles goes to grab it—and gets momentarily distracted by the bandage neatly wrapped around his hand—but Derek pulls the glass out of reach.
“Let me?”
Stiles blinks up at him and nods, lowering his arm. Derek steps in closer, his free hand curling around Stiles’s nape, tilting his head back as he sets the rim of the glass against his lips.
Stiles makes a noise similar to a moan as soon as the cool liquid slides over his dry tongue. He gulps it down like he’s never had water before, suddenly parched.
“Easy,” Derek chides, not unkindly, as he pulls the glass back and tips it in slower increments. “Take small sips.”
Stiles does, eyes meeting Derek’s and holding his stare for longer than should be comfortable, but he finds himself unable to look away.
As soon he’s had enough, he signals to Derek that he’s done. “Thank you.”
Derek smiles in response and places the glass on the bedside table before sitting down again—this time on the bed.
“S-so,” Stiles flounders. “How long have I been out?”
“Almost three days.”
“Three days?!” He truly doesn’t mean for his voice to resemble a dog whistle—nor did he expect it would without sending him into a coughing fit—but learning he’s been here, in Derek’s Loft, unconscious for three days is a bit of a shock.
What’s even more shocking is that he doesn’t smell like hot garbage—at least, not to his nose, but to Derek, it might be a different story entirely. And for some reason, he doesn’t need to pee, which he wishes he hadn’t noticed ’cause there are so many possibilities for why that is, and he doesn’t want to think about any of them.
Derek winces at Stiles’s outburst before nodding solemnly. “You nearly—” he swallows, shoulders and head wilting with his sigh. When he looks back at Stiles, he’s wearing his usual mask of indifference. “You should have told me the naga was back. I would’ve—”
“Oh, what would you have done, Derek?” Stiles snaps, irritated with Derek’s chastising tone. “Huh? Scowl it into submission?”
“I’m so glad it left your voice box intact,” Derek quips dryly. “Thrilled, really.”
“Yeah, I’m sure watching it rip out my tongue would’ve brought you great satisfaction.”
Derek snarls, scrubbing his face with his hands. “You’re infuriating; you know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” Stiles scoffs bitterly, looking away. He fixes his gaze on the window, distracting himself by watching the rain beat down against the panes.
Truthfully, Stiles wanted to call Derek the second the pack discovered the naga was back in town. After what happened last time, Derek would’ve agreed that it didn’t deserve a second chance, that the best outcome was an exile of a more permanent nature.
Derek’s never shy with his fury when Scott lets creatures go without so much as a slap on the wrist—especially the ones that pose a real threat. So, Stiles knows Derek would’ve stood at his side, fighting his corner when his input fell on deaf ears. Would’ve thought nothing of charging in with fang and claw to eliminate the threat.
That was part of the problem. Derek wouldn’t hesitate to give his life defending Stiles—defending anyone—and Stiles would never have forgiven himself for it. Not that Derek couldn’t take down the naga with a mere swipe, but still. There was a niggling thought in the back of Stiles’s head, a persistent ‘what if’ that he couldn’t leave to chance.
That’s why, without a second contemplation, Stiles stormed into the preserve alone, armed with a baseball bat in one hand and a knife in the other. He put every ounce of his rage into taking down the naga, once and for all, and it wasn’t until it was all over—when he was staggering through the woods broken and bloody with a severed friendship—that he realized how foolish he was for being so impulsive and not involving Derek.
But by that point, it was too damn late.
Stiles lets out a defeated sigh as his head lolls back onto the headboard, connecting with a resounding thump. He screws his lids shut, willing away the tears clinging to his lashes before opening them again to stare blankly at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, cringing at how his voice cracks. “I just— I’m so sick of everything I do being wrong. I know I shouldn’t have run into danger without backup, I know that, but I was angry. I was so fucking angry that no matter what I said, I was waved off like my opinion didn’t count for shit. I tried to get Scott to see reason—really, I tried—but he refused to set aside his hero-complex for one damn minute and realize there was no way it could end without someone dying. It was either the monster or us, and now I’m the bad guy for choosing the monster.”
Stiles doesn’t know at what point he let his tears flow freely—as if there was a choice—but his face is wet, and his eyes are stinging, and it only gets worse as he thinks about how weak and pathetic he must look to Derek—sitting here whining and bawling because no one listens or takes him seriously.
Scott was right. He’s a fucking mess.
“Stiles, listen to me,” Derek pleads, snapping Stiles from the void in his head. He reaches out for Stiles’s uninjured hand, squeezing lightly to get his full attention. Stiles gives it to him, eyes darting from their joined hands to Derek’s face, praying internally that his slight hitch of breath goes ignored. “You’re not the bad guy here. That thing had to die, and Scott is an idiot for not listening to you. Fuck. You’re the smartest person I know, and if he can’t look past his own ego and see that everything you do is for the benefit of the pack, then he doesn’t fucking deserve to have you in it.”
“Derek—”
“I agree that you shouldn’t have run in without backup,” Derek barrels on undeterred. “But I don’t blame you for doing it. I blame Scott. If he had just— It doesn’t matter, but I wish you’d called me. I would’ve been beside you in an instant. I’d have helped, and maybe you wouldn’t have gotten hurt. I thought you were dead, Stiles. When I saw you lying there frozen and bleeding, I thought you were gone. I thought I’d—”
Derek cuts himself off, lips thinning as if to stop any more words coming out—as if he’s already said too much. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and Stiles is astounded that Derek cares enough to cry for him.
Stiles didn’t dare hope that Derek bringing him here and spending three days sitting by his side, healing him, was any more than a simple good deed for an old friend. It’s just the type of person Derek is. On the outside, he can be cold and aloof, but inside he’s kind and helpful and a big softy when you chisel away all those sharp edges.
But now. Stiles is torn. The gentle touches, the fierce concern that he’s rarely seen the wolf show before, and now the tears? It’s baffling, his head is spinning, and he can’t think straight on what it actually means and—
That’s when it clicks, a sort of epiphany hitting him like a freight train. What Derek was about to say—what he stopped himself from saying aloud—makes everything a little clearer.
“You thought you’d lost me,” Stiles mutters absently, so quietly he might've thought it’d stayed inside if it wasn’t for the way Derek’s head jerks up.
It takes a second, but eventually, Derek nods, a pink hue creeping over his cheeks up to the tips of his ears. “Yes.”
Stiles swallows thickly, courage or curiosity urging him to pry. “And why would that bother you?”
Derek looks oddly stunned by the question. His mouth opens and closes, but no words come out, his face scrunching up as if said words are stuck on his tongue.
There’s an awkward moment of nothing, and Stiles thinks he’s not going to be answered, but then—
“Because I love you,” Derek blurts out, making them both flinch. Stiles’s eyes widen as Derek’s close on a sigh, letting his head dip forward as his flush intensifies—embarrassed by the declaration or by the volume of the delivery, Stiles can’t tell.
Stiles might briefly stop breathing as he waits, lips parted in dazed silence, and when Derek finally meets his eye again, there’s less hesitation. The sparkle in his eyes and the smile curving his lips are so raw and open it knocks the air from Stiles’s lungs.
“I love you, Stiles,” Derek says again, slower and clearer. “And I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”
Stiles is speechless. Nothing prepared him for that, nor is he entirely convinced he’s not still dreaming. He tries to say something, anything, but he’s not sure what would be right, so he drops his eyes to his lap, fidgeting as his brain whirs a mile a minute.
Fingers cup Stiles’s jaw, forcing his face back up. “You don’t believe me?”
“No, I do! I just—” Stiles shrugs, holding back his grimace when the move tugs at the wound on his chest. “I didn’t think…”
“What?”
“That you’d ever feel that way about me.”
Derek’s thumb strokes Stiles’s cheek. “Well, I do. I have for longer than I care to admit.”
Stiles’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips, and Derek tracks the movement. Driven by the admission and not wanting to miss his opportunity, especially while he’s feeling brave—props to the pain drain for the boost—Stiles hauls himself up from his lounged position. He hushes Derek when the wolf drops his hand to Stiles’s shoulder, preparing to argue against it. He looks concerned, but he listens, clearly trusting Stiles to know his own limits.
They’re closer now, so close Stiles can feel the fan of Derek’s breath against his face. The air between them grows thick and heavy as Stiles leans in some more and whispers, “I love you, too.”
There’s a deep rumble, something primal that vibrates in Derek’s chest, and faster than Stiles can blink, Derek lunges through the remaining distance and claims Stiles’s mouth with his own.
Stiles’s squeak is muffled, the sound quickly turning to a moan when his brain comes back online. The kiss is wonderfully tender at first, nothing more than a firm pressure, but then Stiles sighs softly, hands coming up to grip Derek’s shirt, and suddenly everything heats.
Derek’s palm cradles the back of Stiles’s head, pulling him impossibly closer. Stiles follows willingly, opening his lips wider to give Derek as much access as he wants. Derek is kissing him now like he’s waited forever to do so, like he’s starving for it, his tongue wet and seeking, exploring every inch of Stiles’s mouth.
Stiles senses the desperation in Derek’s movements, and it’s as if Derek is addicted after one simple taste. Stiles has never felt more wanted than in this moment, never felt more important.
They’re both panting when they eventually break apart. Derek doesn’t move out of Stiles’s space; he just rests their foreheads together, nuzzling—their noses a hair away from touching.
For a long while, they sit there, sharing breath, basking in the warmth and security of each other. Stiles could sit here forever, content and comfortable. The rush he’s feeling overrides any pain, and, right now, nothing else matters but him and Derek—the outside world and everyone in it is just an afterthought.
Derek is the first to retreat, placing one last peck against Stiles’s lips before moving further back. He takes both of Stiles’s hands in his and gives Stiles a look that begs his full attention.
“Come away with me?” Derek proposes with a nervous grin. “It doesn’t have to be forever, but some time away from here might do you good.”
Stiles is a little taken aback by the randomness of it, but something tells him it’s a request Derek’s had on his mind for a while—spontaneity isn’t really his thing. Stiles can’t help find it endearing, so he smiles and asks, “Where would we go?”
“Peter and Cora are living in Montana now. We could stay with them?”
There’s something bewitching about the idea of packing a bag and running away with Derek. Maybe Stiles watches too many romantic movies, but going somewhere new with the man he loves while taking the time to heal and just breathe out sounds amazing—more than amazing.
It sounds perfect.
“I’d like that,” he agrees, and with the way Derek’s face lights up, Stiles already knows he'll never regret the decision. “I’d like that a lot.”