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He hadn’t thought even for a second, instincts roaring, and jumped in front of Derek, taking the blow.
And then he got lost in the darkness.
When Stiles came too, he found himself on the cold, dirty ground of the warehouse, blood still pooling around him from his injury. In the background, the fight went on, growls and snarls all he could hear, but he couldn’t focus on that. Not when Derek was cradling him in his arms, an expression on his face that Stiles hoped he would never have to see again. Black veins ran up through his arms.
Huh. That was why he didn’t feel any extreme discomfort, only a slight amount when he moved.
He brought his hand up, wincing at the sudden pain in his shoulder, pressing it against Derek’s cheek with whatever energy he did have remaining. His fingers brushed against something wet yet not quite as sticky as his own blood.
Tears.
Stiles took a sharp breath, regretting it almost a split second later, and began to rub his thumb against Derek’s cheek. Derek was sporting a fresh cut on the bridge of his nose and on his forehead. He ran his fingers across Derek’s face, tenderly brushing over his lips and down to his chin, and then towards his jaw, engraving it to memory.
He felt Derek’s jaw clench tight and then release over and over again, almost rhythmic. Stiles tried to mimic it with his breathing. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Derek’s eyebrow furrowed and that caught Stiles’ eye. He traced those brows with the gentlest touch, moving to the forehead to smooth out the creases.
“What are you doing?” Derek asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Stiles could hardly hear him what with all the noise in the background.
He tried to force a smile, a comforting one—though it was probably more like a grimace—clearly not succeeding when he heard Derek’s whimper. “Memorizing you.”
“Why?” Derek’s voice broke. And in turn, it broke Stiles’ heart.
“Because,” he took one last good look at Derek, his voice trailing off, “I want to remember you forever.”
Derek’s face began to blur and Stiles squinted, trying to fix his vision. And then the thrum in his head began to become overwhelming, his vision swam, and Stiles could feel his entire body go limp with exhausted.
Stiles closed his eyes.
His dad hadn’t left his side longer than a few hours, on break from work, constantly checking in to make sure that he didn’t need anything. Stiles would smile, a feeble attempt at looking optimistic and on a route to complete recovery. He didn’t think that John believed him, but having raised Stiles himself, he knew that sometimes Stiles’ needed time for himself.
And Stiles was eternally grateful.
In the past few weeks, people would come in and leave constantly. Deaton monitored the wound, it being a magic-induced one, to make sure that all was alright; Lydia joined him during those moments, observing his entire methodology. Otherwise, she’d come with Jackson, allowing him to banter with Jackson and feel his sarcastic streak come to rise again. Erica loved to snuggle with him, still hyperaware of his injury, and watch movies, Boyd resting his hand on Stiles’ ankle, rubbing it in comfort. Allison, Scott, and Isaac would joke around, play games.
And Derek, he never came.
He had asked them all before, but they’d avert their eyes and change the topic.
Stiles missed him. He missed Derek’s scruffy beard and his thick eyebrows. Stiles missed the way that Derek seemed to watch over everyone like a hawk, glaring at any problem that arose, protecting his pack. He missed the way that Derek would smile, ducking his head. He missed Derek’s sarcastic humour, his intelligent conversations, and even the way he could hold an entire conversation through just eye contact and eyebrow movement. He missed the way he would glare when Stiles called him sourwolf, but would smile softly when he thought no one was looking.
Stiles missed Derek.
And he wondered if Derek missed him too
He sighed, flipping the book shut. Stiles had been reading the same line over and over for over ten minutes, unable to stop the thoughts rushing through his mind. Leaning his head back, he looked over to the window before shaking his head and turning his attention to the window instead. Maybe tonight might be the night.
Wincing, he put his hand on his abdomen through the green sweater. Every morning, Stiles would wake up in minimal pain; the chair beside him had been clearly sat on, a blanket usually plopped on the arm. Sometimes, in his haste to disappear before Stiles’ woke up, Derek would leave his jacket or his sweater behind—now Stiles’ property.
In his annoyance, Stiles began wearing the clothes, knowing that at some point Derek would want them back and would come to confront him. Unfortunately, that had not been the case so far.
Stiles flinched when he heard the doorbell ring. Leaning towards the door, he heard muffled voices, one eerily similar to Derek’s.
“Derek?” He called out.
There was a moment of silence and then rapid words, steps leading away from the stairs and towards the front door. Oh no, he didn’t. Pushing through the pain, Stiles got up from his bed, waddling towards the door.
He growled, “You better not be thinking of leaving.”
Standing on top of the stairs, he looked down at the front door, catching an escaping Derek red handed. Derek looked terrified, hunched into himself. But as if realizing that Stiles was not in bed, he leaped up the stairs two at a time, hoisting Stiles into his arms, careful of the wounds.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Derek hissed, adjusting his grip so he could open the door better.
Stiles let out a huff. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared back, “What am I doing? What do you think are you’re doing?”
Derek frowned in anger. “Carrying someone who should be in bed back to it.”
“I wouldn’t have not been in bed if you hadn’t decided to run away!”
Derek carefully placed Stiles under the covers, tucking him in, and then sat down on the chair. Stiles didn’t dare take his eyes off of Derek, taking his form in like a starving man. It was all the same; the scruff, the leather jacket, the thumb-hole Henley.
But it was also a lot bigger; his heart, his sadness, and his guilt. He turned his eyes away, glaring at his lap.
A silence had settled upon them. Both of them, eager and restless, but afraid of what the other might say. Stiles wanted answers. Why hadn’t he come to visit him? He’d been awake and out of the hospital for weeks, bored out of his mind, hoping Derek would come visit.
“Don’t ever do that again.”
Stiles jerked his head up, eyes narrowing. “No. I will.”
“Stiles—”
“No! I will do it again. I will do it a thousand times more,” Stiles pressed, a lump forming in his throat.
Derek shook his head. “Please, don’t. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.”
Stiles chuckled darkly, watching as Derek looked everywhere but at him. “And do you think I would be able to?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “But at least you would be alive.”
Stiles tried to swallow the lump in his throat, his eyes beginning to water. He could feel his chest tighten. “And if you died?”
“It wouldn’t matter. People need you.”
If his heart wasn’t broken yet, it definitely was now. Shattering into tiny pieces, Stiles watched as the self-hatred Derek felt glimmered to life, eating Derek whole, opening Stiles’ eyes to all that was hidden away.
The small hunch that Derek often sported during the meetings, unable to trust himself to lead his pack well. The way he grabbed dinner—or any food for that matter—last so that the others could have enough to eat. How he would take the floor, but make sure every single person in the pack had a comfortable place to sleep for pack night.
This was the Derek that no one really saw; the Derek hidden in plain sight.
Stiles moved his hand to rest it on Derek’s, threading his fingers through his. “It would. We need you more than you think—more than you could possibly know.”
“No, Stiles—”
“Derek,” he interrupted. Using his free hand, he lifted Derek’s chin, his own eyes capturing Derek’s. “Listen to me.”
Derek nodded, shifting his eyes away and back to Stiles multiple times as he tried to control his emotions.
“The pack needs you,” Stiles began. “We have always needed you. You made mistakes, but we all did; after all, we’re human, aren’t we? You’ve always tried to protect us no matter what and we’re only here, alive, because you made certain decisions.” He tightened his grip on Derek’s chin, gentle but firm. “We owe you the world—hell, the universe owes you an infinite amount of happiness.”
“I’d be happy as long as you all are happy and alive,” Derek replied.
Stiles nodded, a small smile forming. “And we are. But here’s the important thing. We will do anything to protect you because you deserve it. You’ve loved your family, your pack, our future, and even that ferret Erica brought home for a week.” Derek let out a watery chuckle at that. “Yet you’ve never loved yourself.”
Derek looked away. Stiles could feel the emotions in the air weighing them down, a tense feeling in their shoulders.
"But we love you—I love you. And to me, you, alive and happy, is worth a million lives of mine.”
And for Stiles, Derek was worth more. He had always been worth more and he would continue to be worth more. Because Stiles loved him.
Stiles would continue loving him until the end of time—his own or the universe’s.