Chapter Text
October.
It’s late; that odd, in-between hour that nothing particularly good tends to come out of. The only light in the room is the irritating glow of the alarm clock, and determined slivers of light creeping in around the blinds. Working nights in late spring, Derek would have been be on his fourth- maybe fifth- cup of coffee by this time. He’d be reaching that point where he’d be starting to fantasize about the cozy flannel sheets of his bed. About going home to crawl in next to Stiles, fast asleep and snuffling softly; tangling their feet together before dropping off to sleep. It might be better to be at work now. He turns the idea over in his head, of seeing if anyone on currently on the night shift would like a trade. It’s something to think about. In the meantime, he stares listlessly up at the ceiling, watching a beam swell and arch smoothly across the room before fading away abruptly- car headlights. His new aversion causes his heart thump awkwardly at just the sight of them. It reminds him of the challenge it had been, working up to driving at night again; even now it still makes him feel jittery and unsettled. That shift trade is definitely out of the question. He should have remembered, but he gets confused sometimes; forgets things. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes before flipping on to his side. Maybe he’ll be able to sleep on his side. Maybe not. Trying to not think about how much you need to fall asleep is an unsurprisingly foolproof method for staying awake.
The sheets rustle behind him and he squeezes his eyes shut tightly, like that will somehow help. His stomach swoops, the fine hairs along the his neck and forearms stand on end as goosebumps creep across his skin. No, he tries coaching himself. This isn’t real. But as far as any of his senses can tell, it is. And it’s the anticipation of this that keeps him awake every night. He spares a second’s thought for the prescription sitting in the centre console of his cruiser in the driveway. He probably should at least give them a shot. It’s not likely that they could make things worse. But it’s too late for them right now; the sheets rustle regardless, and the empty side of the bed dips. He feels the solid press of a cotton-clad chest against his back. Cool feet tangle with his and a hand reaches over his side, scratching lightly at the trail of hair below his belly button.
“Trouble sleeping baby?”
Yeah, he’s been having trouble sleeping. And He’s got a pretty damn good reason for it too. He’s pretty sure that anyone would have trouble sleeping, if their dead husband kept slipping into their bed at night. Though he imagines for most, it would probably be a significantly more fear-based reaction keeping them alert. The fact that it’s the waiting that keeps him awake- that’s what assures Derek that he’s really fucking lost it. He shuffles backward, better settling his body against the warmth length behind him with silent enthusiasm. Snug in his role of the little spoon, he’s asleep before he can even count to ten.
-
August.
Derek’s always scoffed at that ridiculous ‘life flashing before your eyes’ bullshit. He’s pretty sure that he’s as well acquainted with near-death experiences as it’s possible to be, without actually being dead. Flashbacks have never been a feature of them. But, apparently, there really is a first time for everything. Because here he is, blinded by light, as his brain frantically flickers through it all in the span of a second. It’s not his whole life , granted, but every last goddamn minute of this particular day. All of them leading up to the one. It plays out crisp and clear in his mind, like a movie, a story that happened to someone else. It’s disbelief more than dread that hijacks his thoughts; that this isn’t actually happening. Because this is something that happens to other people. All of the, frankly excessive, fatalistic scenarios that Derek has mentally prepared for, and he hadn’t even considered this one.
They’d driven to the multiplex in Chico, to catch some darkly funny indie flick. Beacon Hills Cinema was too small to run anything but a handful of the big blockbusters. Stiles had been looking forward to for months, so Derek had wanted to indulge him, instead of waiting until it came out on Netflix.
It ran late enough that, by the time they’d gotten out, the parking lot was mostly empty. The rain clouds that had hung heavy the whole day had finally made good on their promise; the asphalt transformed into wet velvet. When they raced to the car, streetlights winked at them from all sides, glistening off puddles and rain-sprinkled vehicles. Stiles had decided to fix the outcome, body-checking Derek just as they closed in on the back bumper. It hadn’t exactly worked out in his favour though. The jostle had sent the keys flying, and they’d had to hunt for them in the dark puddles around the car, laughing breathlessly the whole while. They were drenched by the time they climbed inside, shaking the excess water from their hair like dogs. Stiles had promptly insisted they swing through the In-N-Out drive-thru for a late night snack before heading home. Partially to warm their bones, and partially because Beacon Hills’ lack of In-N-Out in was ‘ practically an affront to our California heritage Derek’ . ‘Snack’, naturally, had translated into a full meal. The entirety of which Stiles moaned through in torment, torn between his belief in supporting local business and his deep, abiding love for In-N-Out. Derek had rolled his eyes at the display pointedly enough to make himself momentarily dizzy.
After eating, they’d both come to the same conclusion about the rain-shrouded seclusion of their parking spot. It had obviously demanded some taking advantage of, with wandering hands and mouths. Stiles kept stopping to laugh over how much Derek’s burger left him tasting like pickles ( Oh my god, seriously, it’s like I’m getting to second base with a Vlasic. I’ll never be able to eat a pickle again without getting a boner) but how absurdly sexy he still managed to be despite of it. Despite Stiles’ best attempt at rounding to third, everyone’s jeans remained firmly zipped. Tempting as it was, Derek didn’t even want to risk becoming the first deputy in Beacon Hills’ history to have to explain to his boss and father-in-law , the precise details of his arrest . Stiles had tried reassuring him that the Sheriff would at least appreciate Derek being arrested for public indecency with him , and ‘ not like, a hooker or something’ . It hadn’t in the least inspired Derek to give in. By the time Stiles had finally given up on his intrepid quest, the rain had petered down to a sprinkle and their clothes were mostly dry.
The night air had been warm, despite the drizzle. Derek had rolled down the windows a crack, to air out the steamy interior. Stiles caterwauled along to the radio as they drove, changing the words gleefully, just to drive Derek nuts. He’d turned toward Derek in his seat, laughing at his grimace over an especially terrible line. Derek tried to maintain stoic ignorance as long as possible, before he finally gave in and turned to snap playfully at Stiles fingertips as they’d caressed the side of his face.
It was just in time to catch sight of the bright flash of headlights as they appeared over Stiles' shoulder, throwing him into silhouette against a white-hot halo. And, as the image seared itself into his corneas, his brain launched into it’s frenzied little flipbook.
One single, ephemeral second before impact.
Derek used to roll his eyes when Stiles used words like that. Ephemeral? Really Stiles? He chalked it up to being a mildly pretentious quirk that came hand-in-hand with Stiles’ Journalism degree. Stiles would retaliate by calling him a heathen, or a caveman, and maybe even work in a dog joke. Not all of us are content to grunt and snarl. It’s called verbalization Derek; maybe one day your kind will evolve far enough to achieve it. He thinks he understands it now. ‘Brief’ doesn’t do it justice. It doesn’t fully communicate the weight of it of the moment; how quickly irrevocable change can take place. A split second delineates life into before and after.
His palm makes contact with the soft cotton front of Stiles’ shirt just before everything cuts out.
-
After that it’s all fuzzy; chaotic snippets instead of anything cohesively linear. There’s the sensation of hanging upside down, and a pressure against his chest, like on a rollercoaster. The smell of gasoline mixes with blood in the air, and he thinks he hears sirens- endlessly looping wails paired with flashing lights. After that, there’s shouting, footsteps, and the loud drone of generator. Metal crunches and screeches. The overwhelming pain keeps consciousness at bay for the most part. It yanks him back under again almost as soon as he surfaces, like a gator drowning prey. He comes to momentarily in the back of an ambulance, strapped securely to a board, movements restricted, and with something in his mouth. Strangers in uniforms work urgently over him, mercifully keeping the bright fluorescent glow out of his stinging eyes. He can see their mouths moving, but he can’t grasp what they’re saying. It’s just noise.
“Hold on Babe.” A familiar face leans into Derek’s line of vision, and whispers urgently against his ear. The words are crisp and distinct, drowning out the din. Relief runs over Derek like a flush. Stiles’ hair is matted wetly against the right side of his head, and there’s a shadow of what promises to be a pretty spectacular bruise along his temple. There’s a small smear of blood across his cheek, trailing from a cut high on his cheekbone, but for the most part he looks fairly unscathed. One hand reaches over the red head-support to stroke, feather-light, across Derek’s cheek. Stiles must be crammed awkwardly in the corner, out of the way of the paramedics. “You’re stubborn as a goddamn mule. Overcoming that personality flaw right this moment would be really inconvenient, okay?”
He wants to tell Stiles not to worry- you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. That would make him laugh. He tries, but all he manages is a gurgle before the darkness overtakes him.
-
There’s no way of determining how much time lapses after that. He drifts in a heavily sedated fog, to the sound of Stiles talking at him incessantly, like he’s trying to irritate Derek awake. Of course, if anyone were at all likely to have success with that tactic, it would be Stiles. He gives up eventually though. Or at least Derek assumes that he does, as the sound of his chatter grows quiet and faraway, then fades away entirely. And then Derek is alone.
It’s not unlike floating in a lake of indeterminable depth. His only awareness is comprised of a still nothingness, and the vaguest sense of unease. From time to time, he picks up the murmur of voices again, but they’re garbled and distant, the way sound is under water. He tries to strain toward them, but the effort is always in vain. He grows exhausted quickly and gives in to overwhelming urge to sink backward into the waiting arms of sleep. So he drifts; the oblivion a soothing balm between fever-dreams.
When they do creep over him, he recognizes the dreams for what they are- for the most part. The surreal fluidity usually gives them away; time and place flowing into one another, in that especially vivid way they only do in the ill or drugged. Other times he isn’t at all sure, and uncertainty leaves him ensnared by suffocating web. Either way, he’s along for the ride, powerless to influence or escape them. If he’s lucky, the dreams are pleasantly cathartic: running freely through the woods as a wolf, or resting his head on Laura’s lap in the grass of Central Park, her fingers combing gently through his hair.
But Derek’s never had much luck.