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Derek strode into Beacon Hill’s Memorial, thankful the doors were automatic. He was liable to shatter them if he had to push them open. He struggled to keep his wolf in control as he sped toward the nurses’ station. Melissa looked up, her face pale beneath the fake smile that faded when she spotted Derek.
“Second floor, to the right,” she said.
Derek nodded, heading toward the stairs. He was not going to risk the elevator in this damn place, not when someone from his Pack needed him. He hurried upstairs, turning on his wolf speed, not caring about the cameras.
He barely slowed as he burst through the second-floor door, relieved when it hit the wall with a crash. The few people in the waiting area jumped, and the nurse behind the desk glared at him. A moment later, he stood in front of Scott, who looked up from where he’d landed on the floor. His eyes were unfocused, and Derek didn’t understand how he could sleep when his best friend was lying in a bed down the hall.
“Derek,” he said, struggling to stand. Derek reached down and grabbed Scott by the bicep. He yanked him to his feet, feeling satisfied when Scott let out a yelp of surprise. “Du-”
“Which room?” Derek growled through gritted teeth. He could hear his jaw cracking under the pressure, but Derek knew he would rip Scott’s throat out if he relaxed even a little bit.
“Two-oh-five, but they said…”
Scott kept talking, but Derek walked away, ignoring him. He passed the nurse, who opened her mouth to speak but snapped it shot when Derek didn’t even slow his steps. He reached the room and stood in the doorway, studying the too-still figure in the bed. John sat in a chair next to it, head lolled back and soft snores escaping. He had one hand laid over his son’s on the bed.
Derek took a deep breath, regretting it instantly when his nose filled with the acrid scent of the hospital. Stiles’ petrichor scent was barely detectable. He stood, unsure of his next move now that he’d arrived. He debated returning to the waiting area when Stiles shifted on the bed.
“Stop staring like a creep,” Stiles said, his eyes still closed.
Derek crossed the room before Stiles finished talking, hands hovering. He took in the bandages around Stiles’ arms and torso. His moles stood out even more against his paler-than-normal skin. He’d clearly lost a lot of blood, but no bags were hanging other than fluids, so it wasn’t too much blood. Derek would find and kill whatever had done this.
Stiles’ eyes fluttered open. Derek’s breath caught at the amount of pain he could see in them. He laid a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Strong black lines ran up his arms, and Derek’s anger at the medical staff for not treating Stiles’ pain brought a strong glow to his eyes. He blinked them shut.
“Der,” Stiles said, his voice cracking. “Can you do something for me?”
“Anything,” Derek said, surprised by how much he meant it. He tried to imagine what Stiles could ask him.
Stiles looked up at him. “I think I could use a hug right now.” Derek gaped, the request something he never would have expected. Stiles let out a choked sob. “Never mind. It was stupid.” He started to pull away, but Derek tightened his grip on his shoulder.
Leaning over the bed, Derek moved his hand from Stiles’ shoulder across his back, lifting him gently off the bed as he still pulled his pain. It had been a long time since he’d hugged someone, so he struggled to place his other arm but eventually moved to sit on the bed and envelop Stiles in both arms.
Stiles’ head went to Derek’s shoulder as his arm that wasn’t hooked up to an IV wrapped around his back. Stiles’ body trembled, and dampness spread through Derek’s shirt. Derek looked to see John watching them, a slight smile on his face while his eyes held concern. Derek tried to signal John to take over the hug, but when he tried to move away, Stiles tightened his grip and shook his head.
Derek didn’t know how long the hug went on; the clock hung on the wall behind him. Eventually, the pain he drew from Stiles lessened until it was barely noticeable, and Stiles’ grip loosened. When Stiles snored softly, Derek shared a smile with John before lying Stiles back on the bed.
They watched Stiles sleep for a minute before John cleared his throat. “Kill whatever did this to my son.”
“You have my word,” Derek responded, leaving the room.
Derek worked at the wood railing he’d just installed. He found the sanding relaxing. He rubbed a bit too hard when he heard Stiles’ Jeep approaching. Sighing, he set down the sandpaper and brushed off his hands.
It had been two weeks since Derek had been to the hospital. Two weeks since he’d violently dispatched the Wendigo that had tried to slaughter Stiles. Two weeks since that hug when Stiles had sobbed against him until he’d fallen asleep. Two weeks since they’d spoken, and Derek didn’t know what he would say now.
When Stiles parked underneath the oak, his usual spot, it took him a minute or two to open the door. He climbed out of the vehicle, wearing long sleeves despite the heat, and Derek knew it was to hide the bandages that peeked out from the sleeves. Derek remained on the porch, unsure of what to do with his hands. He crossed them over his chest and could feel the glare on his face.
“Hey,” Stiles said, awkwardly waving a hand.
“Hey,” Derek returned.
“So, Dad said you killed the wendigo.” Derek nodded. “Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome,” Derek replied.
“And for the pain drain and the other thing…I know you’re not big on physical contact…at least with me…the token human…and with the injury and all of that…you probably want me out of the Pack….”
Derek was surprised Stiles didn’t pass out from lack of oxygen during that rambling. He came down the steps and stopped when he reached the ground, dropping his arms to the side before raising them about halfway. Stiles stopped talking and stared at him. The moment went on, and Derek began to regret his decision but didn’t want to let the moment pass. He knew what Stiles needed but didn’t seem capable of asking when he wasn’t in grievous amounts of pain.
“Do you need a hug?” Derek asked, trying to keep his tone light.
Stiles’ mouth opened and closed a few times. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Yeah, I do. Are you offering?”
Derek’s lips curved. “No, I’m trying to figure out if I can fly,” he deadpanned, throwing in an eye roll for good measure.
Stiles laughed as he hurried across the yard, throwing himself at Derek with enough force he nearly lost his balance. He wrapped his arms around Stiles, pulling him flush against him and using one hand to push Stiles’ head onto his shoulder. Stiles sighed, the breath brushing across Derek’s neck, and he shivered.
Stiles tangled his hands into the back of Derek’s shirt and held on as if his life depended on it. He began to tremble, and Derek expected his tears to start, but instead, he smelled ripe apples and realized Stiles was laughing. Derek responded with his own chuckle.
“I hope you know that now that I know what a great hugger you are, I’m never letting you go,” Stiles muttered into Derek’s shoulder.
Derek smiled and brushed his nose over Stiles’ hair, memories of his mother doing the same to him flooding his mind. He’d started this hug for Stiles, but now he wasn’t sure which of them needed it more. “You can let go,” he told Stiles. “And get a new hug whenever you need it. Just ask.”
Stiles pulled back, smiling up at Derek. “Yeah?” Derek nodded, rubbing a hand up and down Stiles’ back as he returned the smile. “Same goes for you, you know. You can ask for a hug whenever you need one.”
Derek didn’t know he needed to hear those words until Stiles spoke them. Relief flooded through him, but he’d never let Stiles know just how much those words meant to him. “I have heard I'm a world champion hugger,” he teased, laughing when Stiles slapped him on the shoulder before returning to hugging him tightly. Derek could get used to this.