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After the phone call Derek doesn't breathe until he sees Stiles' face.
He drives too fast, has no excuse if someone stops him, but it's late and the roads are quiet and it's Stiles so he doesn't care. He doesn't know when Stiles listed Derek as his emergency contact but the knowledge of it is like a lump at the base of his spine, dragging at him, reminding him of Stiles' humanity.
(It's not that he forgets, is reminded a hundred different ways every time he sees Stiles, but it's easy to push the knowledge away when Stiles is so good at keeping up with them, with the Pack, with Derek.)
Stiles' college is roughly an hour's drive away, though Derek thinks he can make it in less tonight, which is enough time to worry at the idea of Stiles placing that trust in him. He knows, on some level, that it's smarter to have him programmed into Stiles' phone in case of emergency – that even miles away from Beacon Hills Stiles still manages to get into supernatural trouble and that's hard to explain to the Sheriff – but the logic of it doesn't make the idea any less unbalancing. Why not Scott? Or Lydia, if he needs someone closer.
Why Derek?
The paramedic had told Derek which hospital they were taking Stiles to but, as Derek wasn't family, couldn't guarantee he'd be allowed to see Stiles when he got there. It makes Derek's hands tighten on the steering wheel, the urge to protect his pack mate almost overwhelming. It's ridiculous because the Sheriff has spent years protecting Stiles – Derek's only had the dubious honour for four, incredibly long, years.
They'd been able to assure Derek that it wasn't too bad – that there'd been a car crash and, yes, Stiles was unconscious but there was no sign of internal damage. He'd know more when he got to hospital.
Derek's seen Stiles unconscious too many times for the short time they've known each other; seen him black and blue with bruises, pale and striped with blood, sometimes with a limb twisted in the wrong way. He bears it all with the sort of humour Derek's never been able to understand – it's horrifically painful every time Derek gets injured, he can't imagine what it's like not to be able to heal.
(Stiles had laughed and called him Wolverine after receiving that answer. Then dragged him onto the couch and shown him all the X-Men movies 'even the bad ones!' until Derek understood why that was an awesome thing. Derek hadn't had the heart to tell him he read comics as a kid, that they were one of the few things that gave him a measure of joy whilst running with Laura. Besides – it had resulted in him stepping into Phoenix Down, Beacon Hills' only comic shop, for the first time since he left, the smells of the store instantly comforting.)
Derek feels like he may have broken landspeed records when he pulls into the visitor's parking lot at the hospital. It's barely forty minutes since he'd got the call. He doesn't waste his time with the nurses station, just sneaks in through a staff entrance and tracks Stiles' scent. It's buried under the thick chemical scent of disinfectant and antiseptic but Derek will forever know Stiles' scent anywhere, two hours in pool with his nose practically pushed into Stiles' neck will do that for a person.
He pauses at the door, one hand pressed against the wood, and lets himself breathe in the smells leaking through the cracks; antiseptic and sedatives, more of the disinfectant that's stinging the back of his throat with each breath, linen and there, finally, underneath it all, Stiles with only the barest hint of blood. He listens for Stiles' heartbeat and finds it even and measured, hears unaided breathing and the quiet shifting of a sleeping body.
Derek pushes the door open and enters quietly, letting his eyes adjust to the darker room. It's a single room and Stiles occupies the bed right in the middle of it. Derek watches the steady rise and fall of Stiles' chest and lets out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. The injuries aren't visible, beyond some bruising on the side of Stiles' face, so Derek steps forwards and pulls the covers back gently. He won't have an explanation if he's caught but he – he needs to see that Stiles is whole, needs to feel it with his hands.
Stiles has wriggled enough in his sleep that one side of his hospital gown has ridden up. Derek tugs it back further and fights down the irrational surge of anger when he sees the long strips of gauze taped to Stiles' left side. Parts of them are tinged with blood where Stiles' restless sleeping has aggravated the wounds. Derek runs his fingertips over them as lightly as he can, trying to get sense of the extent of the damage without peeling them back. Stiles huffs and shifts and Derek jerks his hand back, holding his breath until Stiles settles again.
He needs to know what happened, wants to know why Stiles was sedated, is desperate to shake Stiles awake and hear Stiles ramble through an explanation. He grabs onto the guard rail of the bed and squeezes until the metal begins to bend under his grip. Derek lets out another long breath and tugs the covers back up again, smoothing them out and tucking them in. He grabs a chair and plants it beside Stiles' bed, sinking into it as the adrenaline spiked by the phone call washes out of his system.
Derek should leave. He knows this – knows how much trouble he'll be in when the night nurse comes to check on Stiles – but he doesn't move. Now that he's here he can't leave Stiles alone; knows how much Stiles hates being alone in unfamiliar places, knows that Stiles hates hospitals more than anything in the world. He doesn't bother to ask himself how he knows all this because he knows Stiles dug himself under Derek's skin a long time ago, when he carved out a place in the pack by sheer force of personality.
He reaches out and releases the guard rail, moving the chair as close the bed as possible, and lets his head rest on the bed beside Stiles' hip. He sets himself so that he can see the outline of Stiles' face above the chest that's breathing so regularly. Stiles' hand twitches against the covers just by Derek's face and Derek reaches a hand out to still it. Without really thinking about it he lifts Stiles' hand and rests it on his hair. Stiles makes a satisfied sound and his fingers twist into Derek's hair and -
Oh. Oh. Derek's whole body goes lax under the touch and it's strange because it's hardly the first time either of them have touched each other, but maybe it's the first time they've touched each other not under duress, or stress, with none of the tension that usually pulls between them.
Derek knows what this is now, what's been driving him against Stiles again and again and again, and it's relief that's almost tangible to finally understand. The last piece of the puzzle clicking into place and Derek can't remember feeling like this before, it's momentarily terrifying but this is Stiles and that's enough to quiet his suddenly thumping heartbeat.
Derek closes his eyes and listens to Stiles' body as it goes about the quiet business of living. He doesn't mean to fall asleep but the next thing he knows is Stiles' hand sliding over his face, almost petting, fingers grazing his ear and jawline.
“You came,” Stiles says when Derek opens his eyes and looks at him. Stiles' eyes are blurred with the after effects of sedated sleep but he smiles as he uses his fingers to trace every part of Derek's face he can touch.
“Always,” Derek says, his mouth working before his brain's had time to come online, but he can't find a single part of him that regrets it. Not when Stiles' eyes widen with something unplaceable before softening almost unbearably. Stiles moves his hand to grip Derek's where it lays against the covers, twisting their fingers together.
Derek lifts his head, still holding Stiles' eyes with his own, and raises their hands, turning Stiles' over until he can bend to press a kiss to the underside of Stiles' wrist. Stiles' scent is strong there, blocking the hospital smells out for a moment, and Derek breathes it in.
The door opens behind them and Stiles twitches slightly, eyes jerking away from Derek's to refocus behind him. It's the nurse, Derek could tell the moment the door opened, and he turns his head to look at her, waiting to be thrown out. She smiles at him, though, eyes lingering briefly on his and Stiles' entwined hands.
“You're awake,” she observes to Stiles and Stiles huffs out a laugh.
“Well observed,” Stiles says, dry. Derek feels his lips twitch up when the nurse laughs quietly. She turns back to him.
“I can give you fifteen minutes,” she says, touching her watch. “But then I need to call the Doctor.”
“Okay,” Derek says. “Thanks.”
“It's nothing,” she says, smiling again. “I hope someone would do the same for me if it was my partner.”
Derek holds her gaze for a moment, taking in all that she's implying, then nods once. She nods back and pulls the door quietly shut behind her.
Derek stands and drags the chair closer to the head of the bed. He sits again and wraps both of his hands about Stiles', rubbing a thumb against Stiles' skin. Stiles looks from their hands to Derek as if he's not sure that he's seeing what he's seeing. Derek squeezes once to let him know he's still awake.
“What happened?” Derek asks, conscious of his time limit and how the things that need to be talked about are building up like flood water behind a levy. Stiles focuses on his face and makes disappointed noise.
“Some guy ran a red light,” Stiles says, shrugging his shoulders. “Totalled the Jeep, my poor baby, but she crushed the front-end of his shiny new convertible so, I guess they don't make 'em like they used to. They had to get me out of the passenger side, it was totally the worst. But can you believe it? This is the thing I end up in the hospital for? Last week I shut down a coven that were misusing power on campus for God's sake.”
“But you're okay?” Derek asks, consciously relaxing his grip on Stiles' hand. He wants to find the guy who hit Stiles and rip him apart which is just not at all the way a werewolf should behave in civilised society – Laura would be embarrassed on his behalf.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, nodding and wincing slightly. “I got that it's mostly superficial. Going to have wicked scars though.”
“Why were you sedated?” Derek asks and watches as Stiles' too-pale skin flushes.
“Yeah, well,” he says, his eyes flicking around the room. “I was hit by a car and I wasn't exactly – well, you know.”
Derek does know, has seen what can happen sometimes when a panic attack rises up in Stiles, is annoyed that the doctor sedated him instead of talking him down. Stiles hates being sedated. Another thing Derek shouldn't really know. How did he convince himself for so long that this was just a pack thing?
“Why?” he asks and he can tell from the way Stiles looks at him that Stiles knows what he's asking. Stiles uses his free hand to ruffle his hair, longer than Derek's ever seen it, before letting out a sigh.
“I thought about it,” Stiles says, looking over at the window. Derek wants to insist Stiles look at him (never stop looking at me) but he lets it go, just holds onto Stiles' hand so Stiles knows he's still there. “You know – when me Lyds first got here and we had to negotiate with the McFaddens – it used to be my Dad, obviously, but I didn't want him called out here all the time whenever Weird Shit went down. I was going to put Lyds but when I went to change the contact I ended automatically putting your number in. I guess – I figured that was sign. Of something.”
“Something?” Derek asks, lifting a brow. Stiles' eyes turned on him, something deep and ineffable in their depths. Something like -
“Faith,” Stiles says, lips quirking briefly. “That you'd come get me no matter what. Turns out somewhere along the line I've started trusting you with my life. Must've been around the thirtieth time you saved my ass.”
“You've saved me too,” Derek says, knowing what he's doing by leaving it deliberately open to interpretation. Stiles doesn't miss his meaning and then it's Stiles' turn to pull their hands to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to Derek's knuckles.
“You should go,” Stiles says. Every instinct in Derek's body is telling him he shouldn't, that he can't leave Stiles, but he overrides them. The world doesn't work on instinct.
“I'll wait,” Derek says, standing slowly. “Call me when you're ready to go.”
“Don't know if they'll let me,” Stiles says, picking at a loose thread on the hospital gown.
“Make them,” Derek says and it comes out a bit growlier than he intended. Stiles' grin makes its first appearance since he woke up. Derek feels his skin flush and, God, it's not just Laura who would be embarrassed for him.
“I'll see what I can do,” Stiles says, still grinning. Derek wants to kiss him, then, more than anything in the world. He doesn't want their first kiss to be tainted with the smell of hospital, though, wants better than that for Stiles.
He bends down and presses a long kiss to Stiles' forehead instead, breathing in as much of Stiles' own scent as he can, and Stiles makes a soft noise of happiness. He squeezes Stiles' hand once more and then releases it.
“Don't tell my Dad,” Stiles says as Derek pauses by the door. “You can tell the others but – it's better if I tell my Dad.”
“Okay,” Derek says, nodding. He stares at Stiles for longer than he maybe should until Stiles laughs at him.
“Get out you big Stalkerwolf,” Stiles waves a hand at him. “Before you get caught.”
Derek huffs out a laugh and leaves, pulling the door shut behind him. He passes the nurse who squeezes his arm and smiles and he returns it easier than he's ever returned the smile of a stranger.
Derek sleeps for a couple of hours in the Camaro, killing time more than anything, and then makes the phone calls when he judges most of the pack will be vaguely awake. Scott loses his shit, of course, and vows to drive out and visit Stiles as soon as possible. Lydia is annoyed that she isn't Stiles' emergency contact (she's incredibly protective of him for someone who spent ten years ignoring him) but promises that she'll make sure the apartment they share is set up for him when they get there. The rest of the pack respond somewhere between the verbal version of an eyeroll (Boyd, Danny), flat acceptance (Isaac), concern (Erica) and surprising concern (Jackson).
Derek's in the middle of a cardboard breakfast in the hospital's visitor canteen when his phone buzzes to let him know Stiles is ready. It's probably only five hours or so after he woke up and Derek has no doubts that Stiles spent those five hours harassing his doctor to let him out. Derek makes his way up through the hospital by a legitimate route this time and arrives at Stiles' room in time see Stiles struggling to dress.
Before Derek can offer to help Stiles holds up a hand a shakes his head. He has a stubborn look on his face, one Derek's more used to seeing as prelude to a long rant about how stupid the pack is for one reason or another, so Derek holds his hands up and steps back.
“Mr. Hale?” the nurse from before is still there and Derek feels sorry for her. Must be a long shift.
“Yeah,” he says, following her back out of the room.
Her name is Adeola and she leans tiredly against the doorway as she walks Derek through the care Stiles will need over the next few weeks. She's patient and kind and underlines the fact that Derek's going to need to be patient too. Derek was already aware of that.
“He needs to come back in a week so the doctor can check the progress of his wounds,” she finishes with. “Other than that – he's all yours.”
She can't know, Derek reflects, the reaction those three words raise up in him – she doesn't know how new this tentative unfurling thing inside him is. He smiles at her anyway and she nods and squeezes his arm again.
Stiles is dressed when Derek steps back into the room, in an ill-fitting set of scrubs that don't smell like him and annoy Derek, and he lets Derek straighten the hem of the shirt where it has twisted as he's pulled it on.
“Okay?” Derek asks, extending an arm for Stiles to lean on if he wants.
“Yeah,” Stiles leans against him, lets Derek hold him up, and they make their way out of the hospital.
Lydia fusses over Stiles for fifteen minutes when they get to the apartment, alternatively scolding and coddling him. Derek finds the whole thing hilarious and leaves them to it while he sets Stiles' medication out somewhere it's easily reachable.
Lydia has class so she leaves eventually, promising to check in with Stiles' professors and let them know he probably won't be in class for a couple of days. She's managed to first: bully Stiles into his own pyjamas and second: cocoon him on the couch and Derek laughs when he sees Stiles trying to escape from several layers of blankets. Stiles makes a face at him and Derek feels another held breath escape him – there he is.
Derek brings Stiles some water and sits beside him as he drinks it, openly watching the way Stiles' throat works the liquid down. Stiles' ears colour when he sees Derek watching and he almost fumbles the glass setting it back on the table. Derek allows himself a smirk before raising an arm and letting Stiles settle his uninjured side against him.
“What am I going to do about the Jeep?” Stiles mumbles against his chest. There's real pain there and Derek has to admit, but only to himself, that he feels a bit sorry too – the Jeep's saved his ass more times than he can count.
“I can pay for it,” Derek says, which is true – he has so much money he never uses. Stiles' hand fists into his t-shirt.
“You don't have to,” Stiles says and Derek raises a hand to rub over Stiles' hair. He's almost surprised to find that he can actually run his fingers through it, forgetting the new length.
“I want to,” he says, turning his head to press a kiss against Stiles' hairline. “Let me?”
“Okay,” Stiles says, his breath warm against Derek's chest.
“Scott's probably literally running here right now,” Derek says, still marvelling at the softness of Stiles' hair under his fingers.
“Yeah – I'm kinda glad I left that call to you,” Stiles says, letting out part of a laugh before wincing. “He gets loud.”
“So loud,” Derek agrees, burying his smile in Stiles' hair. “You should call your Dad.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says with a sigh. “Yeah, I know. Can we just – can we stay like this for a little while first?”
“Of course,” Derek says, drifting his hand down to Stiles' shoulder and hugging him tight for a moment.
It's more peaceful than Derek can actually remember feeling, sitting here with Stiles curled against him, and he finds his heartbeat syncing to Stiles', his breathing echoing Stiles'. Derek lets his mind drift, not really thinking about anything, using his fingers to rub endless spirals into Stiles' arm. After half an hour Stiles shifts, leveraging his weight against the hand planted on Derek's chest, and tilts his head up to Derek's. Derek dips his head to meet Stiles' lips, breathing out softly at the gentleness of the kiss. He brings his hand up to cup Stiles' face, licking into Stiles' mouth and tasting him on his tongue.
It's heady and over all too soon. Derek makes a noise and he's not even embarrassed. Stiles chuckles, low, and it shivers down Derek's spine like electricity.
“I know,” Stiles says, pressing their foreheads together. “I seriously know. But it's just not going to happen if I don't want to tear my stitches. Besides – I'd better ring my Dad before he runs into Scott and Scott lets the proverbial cat out.”
Derek lets Stiles up and gets his phone for him from the table. Stiles bumps their shoulders together then leaves himself there, a steady pressure against Derek's arm, while he calls his Dad. Derek finds himself holding Stiles' hand again, wrapping long fingers up in his own, and his heart flutters slightly in his chest.
“I'll stay,” Derek says when Stiles hangs up. The Sheriff had been making noises about coming out to take care of Stiles but Beacon Hills really can't be without him for even the short length of time the doctor thinks Stiles' recovery will take.
Stiles looks at him with wide eyes and Derek knows why and, yeah, he's going to have to talk to Ryan McFadden as soon as possible before word reaches him about another Alpha sniffing around his town.
“Scott can hold the territory,” Derek says before Stiles can protest. “If he needs help I'll make sure Boyd and Danny can keep an eye on him – they should be able to stop him from doing anything too stupid.”
“Shit,” Stiles breathes. “This is – I mean you're really – I never thought -”
“Neither did I,” Derek says, putting a hand out to press a thumb against Stiles' lips to stop the tide of unfinished sentences. “But here we are.”
“Okay,” Stiles says and his smile is small but no less blinding than his grin for what it means. This is a smile that's only for Derek, has always only been for Derek, and it knocks the breath right out of him.
Derek's been holding his breath for longer than he realises and as Stiles leans into him and kisses him again and again, breathing life into him, he's relieved to finally be able to let it go.