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Stiles sat on his bed, the two pillows behind him not keeping him propped up very well. Every now and then, he would realize that he had slid down the mattress and reposition himself to sit back up, only to slowly sink back down again. Stiles knew that it was counterproductive, but at least it was keeping him somewhat occupied for the five seconds that it took to readjust himself.
Stiles focused on his heart beating, a heavy bum-bum-bum in his chest. It felt weighted and sluggish, as if his heart was trying to beat through tar. His arms felt like logs and his hands had gone numb some time ago. On days like this, it seemed like his veins stood out more. Thin blue lines traveled over the back of his hands, crawling up his forearms, some mingling in the crook of his elbow before disappearing up his bicep. His skin appeared the same, but Stiles knew that a slight difference could be seen in his face.
Derek once said that a shadow seemed to sit on Stiles' face when he got like this. It was as if the life had been sucked out of his cheekbones. The laugh lines around his eyes and mouth seemed to make him look older instead of well-lived and experienced. His eyes sometimes got this glazed over look; Derek admitted that was how he knew when Stiles was going to have a bad day. His eyes either had bags under them or were red-ringed, one of the odd side effects of his previous medicine. It should be wearing off soon though, alongside the occasional restless nights and persistent yawning in the early afternoon. Stiles had visited with his psychiatrist last Wednesday and they both thought it best for him to stop taking Celexa.
The medicine didn't always act badly with his Adderral, which Stiles took when he felt that he needed it, which was improvement compared to every day when he was a teenager. Sometimes he felt more agitated and jittery than normal, but Stiles could work through that for the most part. Sometimes he had symptoms of Serotonin Syndrome, but that was last May and he seemed to get over it eventually. Stiles didn't miss waking up at midnight to vomit multiple times and then spend a couple hours feeling restless and shaky. Derek was always there for Stiles, though, with a cold washcloth for when he was done being sick, and stayed up with Stiles while he moved his legs back and forth until two or four in the morning. The symptoms went away though, so Stiles and his psychiatrist decided to keep trying the Celexa, wary and keeping their eyes out for future complications.
Third time's the charm? Third medicine's the charm? Stiles scoffed, though it was more of an audible exhale. He inhaled and tried to bring himself back to the present. He could hear the shower running, could hear the afternoon commute if he tried hard enough, could hear their neighbor pushing their jammed door open. Stiles recognized that it was a Thursday afternoon, the end of a seemingly nice July day, though Stiles was wearing sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt. He should be wearing his uniform, looking to his left and seeing his PI badge resting on the bedside table. Also on the table were some papers, a lamp, and a water bottle, courtesy of Derek. On Derek's bedside table was the book he was currently reading with a reading lamp clipped to it and a tissue box. His glasses case was missing, presumably in the bathroom. Stiles heard the water stop.
His eyes fell to his left hand. The silver band felt just slightly cool to the touch and stood out on his knobby finger. The third week of August would mark their second anniversary. Stiles looked across the room to the picture frame resting on their shared dresser. Framed in cherry wood was their "unofficial" wedding picture, a candid of the two of them. Neither Derek nor Stiles had seen the photographer standing two table lengths away. In the picture, Stiles and Derek were mid-conversation. Judging by Derek's face, they had probably been talking to either Scott or Leslie, one of Derek's coworkers that always had a new funny story in her repertoire. Derek had his eyes closed tight and a large smile on his face. His cheeks were red from laughing and his head was slightly tipped back, showing his facial hair off nicely. His suit jacket was draped over his arm and his tie had been loosened slightly. Stiles had hung his coat jacket over the chair in the background and had rolled his sleeves, something both his father and Melissa had goaded him for when he did it. Stiles was looking up at Derek, a big smile on his face. He remembered how happy he felt to see his new husband looking so carefree, jovial, and simply beautiful.
Stiles heard soft footsteps before the soft sound of a drawer opening, flicking his eyes over to the noise. Derek was in a pair of boxer briefs and was digging around for a pair of sleep pants. He tugged on a light gray pair that was slightly fraying at the bottom. He was still slightly damp, his hair sitting kind of flat on his head. A random water droplet could be spotted between his shoulders on his tattoo; Stiles saw some sliding through his chest hair when he turned around. Derek started talking as he made his way towards the bed. He always told Stiles how his day went, even on days like this.
"Leslie is back from maternity leave, Sophie is doing fantastic. You wouldn't believe how big she's become already. There's a picture on my phone that I can show you later." Stiles felt the bed sink more than he saw it. "Brandon, that summer intern, he's doing well, seems to be fitting into this field nicely. He's trying to take a selfie with everyone so that he can add them to his presentation."
Stiles looked at his husband, softly bathed in the late afternoon light drifting in through the blinds. He knew the movement meant something to Derek, showed that he was cognizant and in the moment, not lost in his head. "No problems today," Stiles knew that Derek was referring to the station, to his job, where he should have been today. "Your dad said there shouldn't be any problems tomorrow either, we just have to shoot him a text before it's too late tonight." No problem meant Lucy was able to take Stiles' place at the station today and that someone else, if not her, could do it again tomorrow if necessary.
Stiles and Derek had moved back to Beacon Hills about half a year after their wedding. Sacramento had been good to both of them for the three years they lived there. Stiles got along better with the officers there than compared to Palo Alto. There was a large amount of rookies on that force, all from the local police academy, and everyone was busy trying to prove themselves. Derek had no trouble finding a job in either area, he never really seemed to have trouble getting a new position. They had a comfy, rather affordable apartment in the upper area of Sacramento and walked around the area during the sunset on days when they weren't as exhausted. But depression doesn't care about any of that, so when his depression got worse, they decided to move back to Beacon Hills, their hometown. Stiles' psychiatrist agreed, stating that being with his dad again may help, along with a prescription for another mood enhancer since the SSRI didn't seem to be working on its own anymore.
Derek never complained. He always stood by his husband's side, attentive and supportive. He quickly picked up Stiles' mannerisms when he got bad, he learned the right things to say and which to avoid. He always utilized Stiles' coping skills instead of the ones given to them by various doctors, seeing the way that theirs didn't help all the time, sometimes doing more harm than good. Sometimes Stiles felt bad, Derek never signed up to be his caretaker. Sometimes he would tell Derek this, argue that he should be out living his life, not taking care of an invalid like himself. Sometimes he yelled that Derek was only staying with him because of a sense of duty, of responsibility. Once Stiles argued that Derek stayed with him because he couldn't save his family and felt guilty. Derek told Stiles that he couldn't lose him, he couldn't lose his remaining family to a fire that burned within themselves. He spent the next hour telling Stiles how much he loved him and reiterated his importance and significance until Stiles' throat got sore from crying.
"I dropped off the prescription." Derek said, bringing Stiles out of his internal reverie. "It should be ready by Monday, you know how slow the pharmacy can get on the weekends, understaffed and all." Stiles felt a hand grasp his own, fingers sliding between his. "Love,"
The pet name caused Stiles to look into his husband's eyes. "I know it's been tough, these detox periods between prescriptions are never easy for you, but I'm proud of you. It takes a lot of courage to admit when something isn't working the way it's supposed to, and I know how much you wanted this one to work out. I know you're tired of this, you just want to find something that works and stick with it, and we will. There's something out there that's going to work Stiles, we just have to find it. And the state's best detective is currently holding my hand."
Stiles watched as Derek pulled their link hands to his mouth, kissing the back of Stiles' hand. He then separated their hands and gripped the bottom of Stiles' shirt. He pulled it swiftly over his husband's head before depositing it at the bottom of the bed. He held his arm out, welcoming Stiles to his side. Stiles snuggled into to Derek, an arm circling around him and a hand landing on his waist. Stiles was warm where their chests touched, the warmest he had felt all day. He placed a hand on Derek's chest, some chest hair underneath his clammy palm. Stiles hummed when Derek placed a kiss on the top of his head before nuzzling into Derek's neck. Stiles felt his heart beating against his chest and he had no doubt that Derek could feel it too.
It's moments like this when both Stiles and Derek know that they're loved and appreciated, despite everything they've done in the past, and everything they're going to do in the future.