Archive of Our Own

Leaving Beacon Hills this time is one of the hardest things he’s ever done. Of course, Derek would rather stay here and explore whatever might come of Stiles’ late-night visit, but he can’t. He can’t do that to him. Stiles has already been through too damned much, Derek can’t drop all of his shit on top of that. Even if all of his baggage wasn’t an issue, Derek has long been under the impression that anyone who gets too close to him, gets hurt. The fire cemented that belief, as has every subsequent death around him since.

Turning only his head on the pillow, he looks toward the man sleeping beside him. Warm sunlight spills across the back of Stiles’ head, casting his face in shadow. Once that light fills the loft, and caresses Stiles’ face, he’ll wake. Derek wants, more than anything, to be here and see those magnificent amber eyes when they open. He can’t. He shouldn’t let himself see them. If he does, there’s too much of a chance that he won’t do what he needs to.

And what he needs to do is the most cowardly thing in the world. Derek needs to leave. Much as it hurts, he can’t stay here. Fuck, he shouldn’t have even let Stiles in last night, he should have sent him back home. If he’d been a stronger man, he would have.

If he had any backbone, he’d stay here until Stiles wakes up, he’d talk things through with him. Unfortunately, he doesn’t. Derek knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’s a chickenshit. If he weren’t, none of this would be happening. Stiles deserves better than this, too. He should have someone who will stay and talk through their fears and worries. He should have someone who won’t run out because it’s too hard. He deserves to be cherished and honored, and Derek can’t be that man. 

Not when Kate is still out there. Not when he himself is so fucked up and broken.

Careful not to jostle the bed, Derek climbs out of it and grabs the duffle he’d packed just a few hours ago before Stiles had shown up and derailed his departure. Stiles’ slow, deep breaths accompany the soft thud of Derek’s boots once they’re laced tightly. At the door, Derek hesitates and looks back at the bed, at Stiles sleeping peacefully with his hands folded on his stomach. He sets his duffle down long enough to pull the loft keys from his key ring, then walks across the space to set them atop Stiles’ phone on the bedside table. Someone should make use of the space and Stiles, while having plenty of places to hide out, always has need of one more: a place no one would think to look for him.

This time when he walks away, he doesn’t look back. The heavy metal door slides open and closes quietly, his boots thunk loudly against the metal stairs as he descends them. Derek focuses on anything and everything but the pit in his stomach as he throws his bag into the back of the Camaro. He refuses to glance up toward the wall of windows before he drops down into the driver's seat. With the engine purring beneath him, Derek squeezes the steering wheel tightly, knuckles turning white over the leather. One deep inhale, one slow exhale as his hand drops to grasp the gear shift.

It hurts. It hurts so fucking much to shove everything he feels for Stiles into a little box in the back of his mind. As he shifts into first gear, however, Derek forces his expression into neutral, he forces all of those thoughts and feelings away – further and further with every mile he puts between himself and Beacon Hills.

10 Months Later

Derek has been so busy that it’s become second nature not to think about what –who– he left behind. After all, tracking Kate all over Mexico doesn’t leave him with a lot of time to think about anything beyond the ex-huntresses next move. Especially now that Braeden’s gone. She’d helped him for nearly five months before she got an offer she couldn’t refuse to find someone in London. The two knew the little fling they’d had back in Beacon Hills wouldn’t be anything long-term. It became abundantly clear once he’d gotten to Mexico, anyway.

Whatever spark had been between he and Braeden was gone. He never asked but assumed it was one of three reasons: his werewolf abilities were back, she’d never been looking for more than a brief dalliance, or that she knew something had happened when he’d gone back for his things. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. She’s gone and he’s fine with it.

Hell, Derek even managed to find Kate and take her down. 

Regrettably, it wasn’t on his own. The Calaveras helped – more than he’s likely to admit. It doesn’t matter, though, Kate’s dead and gone, left to rot in a wasteland desert in Mexico. This means there’s one less worry in his life, one less creature he has to fear will go to Beacon Hills and destroy everything there. He’s still mildly surprised that the hunters had let him walk away unscathed after Kate had been put down. They could have easily turned their guns on him the second she was. Offering his thanks to Chris Argent hadn’t exactly been an easy task, either.

Once all the guns were stowed, Argent was the only one to stick around, the Calaveras left the moment the werejaguar was pronounced dead. Chris informed him that he and Araya had struck a deal when he’d met with them to ask for help in tracking down –and taking out– his sister. Chris had long since given up on them being a family, had long ago given up any hope that she could be the sister he’d once loved and cherished.

Chris even helped bury Kate in the desert. He didn’t offer any sort of eulogy over her make-shift grave, didn’t leave a marker either. He, along with Derek, was ready to put her entirely in the past. The two parted ways that same day and he hasn’t heard from Argent since.

In all the time he’s been gone, Derek has only received a few texts from those he’d left in Beacon Hills: Isaac called from London once, Scott messaged a few times asking if he was ever coming back, Lydia and Malia both reached out to him, even. Derek hasn’t responded to a single one of them. The hardest to ignore had been the picture message from Stiles that showed up the afternoon he’d left, just a photo of the loft keys sitting on the bedside table with the questions: Why? Why did you leave these? Why couldn’t you have stayed until I was awake?  

He hadn’t answered that either.

Derek feels like such a fucking coward for not responding to any of them but they all deserve a clean break and an alpha that can take care of them. Scott can be that alpha, Scott can take care of everyone where he can’t. Scott has things under control. They don’t need him.

Maybe they never did.

One Month Later

After Kate, Derek idles in Mexico because he doesn’t really know what else to do. Briefly, he considers booking a ticket to London so he can visit Jackson or Paris to see Isaac. His only remaining betas. While Jackson hadn’t wanted to be pack before, the teen has changed and grown with his time in London. Or, so Lydia had informed him.

The only one from home that Derek has had any contact with since leaving was Chris, almost two months ago. The hunter had informed him that Isaac chose to stay in Paris with some old family friends –of Chris’– who were more tolerant of wolves than his father had been. Isaac will be safe there, safe and well cared for. Derek won’t admit how much he actually misses Isaac.

Ultimately, he’s glad the two –Chris and Isaac– have one another; Isaac needs a good father figure and Chris needs someone to care for.

In the end, he spends time with Cora and the pack she’d grown up with; the one she’d found after the fire. The one she’d returned to after the Alpha Pack disaster. She’s happy here, with the people she knows and trusts. People Derek tries to form some sort of bond with, if only for her sake. He tries, but can’t find it within himself to trust any of them. Just as none of them trust him. 

Derek wishes, more than anything, that he and Cora could be like they were, could be a family again. Even she doesn’t really trust him and he can’t say he blames her –not when it’s his fault their family is gone. No matter how hard he tries over the month that he spends with her, they don’t form a connection. She spends more time with her packmates than she does him and, most of the time, Derek simply idles at her apartment alone.

Maybe if he and Laura had looked for her after the fire. Or maybe if he’d gotten to the vault faster and rescued her and Boyd faster. Or maybe if he’d been strong enough to fight off Kali and the twins before they’d impaled his beta onto his claws. Maybe without even one of those things happening the two could be like real siblings again. But – when they are together, Cora snaps at him or glares. Or downright pretends he isn’t there at all.

When his phone rings in the middle of the night, Derek’s almost surprised by the sound since no one has bothered to call in months. Scott’s name flashes on the screen and his brows draw together while staring at it. Short of the messages Scott has sent, the two haven’t actually spoken since they’d split up in La Iglesia – Scott hasn’t called him since before even that. He hesitates, then dismisses the call with a frown.

The screen doesn’t even have time to dim out before his phone rings again. Scott McCall blazing at him. He doubts Scott even let his outgoing voicemail message play before hanging up and dialing again because it’s barely five seconds from the time it stopped ringing until it started again.

If the teen is being this persistent, there has to be a reason. It’s not as if Scott and he have ever really been friends who call one another just to chat. Raking a hand back through his hair, Derek sighs and plucks his phone from the nightstand. He brings it toward his face while accepting the call. “Scott?”

“Fucking finally, Derek! You need to get back here.”

“Ex-excuse me?” he stammers back, unused to Scott being this direct with him. And then he hears it: a stifled sob that forces him to listen harder. “Scott?”

“Derek, there was… there was an accident—” Scott inhales sharply and Derek can hear the murmur of other voices in the background accompanied by soft whirs and beeps. It’s an unsettling and familiar sound. “It’s bad. God, it’s so fucking bad.”

“Who was hurt?” he asks calmly as his heart hammers faster. Honestly, Derek doesn’t need Scott to answer because only two people in the world would prompt the True Alpha to call him: his mother… and Stiles.

Scott continues as if he didn’t even hear Derek, “It-It’s, it’s Stiles. He wrecked the Jeep. He-he-he-he was awake before the first surgery and the only thing he said was your name.”

“The… first surgery?” Derek repeats, feeling dazed.

“He’s been unconscious for three days, Derek. He won’t wake up.” Derek’s already on his feet while Scott rambles quickly on the other end. He’s barely aware of what is being stuffed into his duffle bag, or if it’s all even his. It could be Cora’s for all he knows. Honestly, he doesn’t care either. He just doesn’t care. “I-I don’t know why he wanted you. I don’t know why he still wants you… but fucking get back here, Derek.” Scott releases a shaking breath into the phone, Derek can hear the stifled sob, “get back here before it’s too late.”

“I’m on my way.” 

Eleven Months Ago

Kate’s on the run, badly injured, but still with a few berserkers to protect her. Derek knows that she’s going to wreak havoc on some poor sap or some little village to get whatever she wants. Because that’s what Kate does. It’s what she’s always done. It’s the only reason he’d gotten into the car with Braeden in the first place. She’d promised to help him track her down and end her for good. The world needs to be rid of Kate Argent, once and for all.

First things first, he needs a few things from home. Derek had planned to get back to the loft, pack his bag, and get the Camaro all before anyone even realized he’d come back to town. Well, that’s what the plan had been. 

Unfortunately, Stiles Stilinski is tuned into every-fucking-thing in Beacon Hills. He really should have expected no less than the loud rattle of Roscoe’s engine outside barely thirty minutes after he’d gotten there, followed by Stiles’ footfalls on the metal stairs. He should have anticipated the broken look on the younger man's face when he turned.

The last time Stiles had looked this destroyed was when Jennifer –Julia– had taken his father. The sight grips his heart in a crushing vice.

“What do you want, Stiles?” he asks, feigning annoyance while tugging open the bottom drawer in his dresser to grab the three pairs of jeans within.

“Let me come with you. I can help.” Stiles sounds so fucking confident. Like he can take on Kate by himself. Admittedly, if Derek were going to trust anyone –human or wolf– to succeed, it is Stiles. He won’t endanger the teen, can’t. Not when so much of him relies on Stiles’ safety. Without his anchor there’s no chance of Derek maintaining any level of control.

“You have school.” Derek keeps his voice neutral while shoving the denim into his duffle. After pulling open the next drawer he adds, “Besides, it’s too dangerous.”

“So, going off alone is the smart choice?” Stiles scoffs causing Derek to glance back as the teen rolls his eyes.

“I won’t be alone.” Derek drops the small stack of t-shirts into the bag beside his jeans and turns away. He can’t look at that face if he has any hope of walking out of this unscathed.

“Right.” The tone of his voice is hollow and sarcastic, the scratch of fabric sounds like Stiles has crossed his arms and leaned back against the pillar he’d thrown Derek into months ago. Derek focuses on the task at hand because if he turns around it will end in an argument. He doesn’t want to fight. Not right now.

For years, the two have gone toe-to-toe and argued about everything. Derek, for a very long time, denied trusting Stiles, let alone feeling anything more. Yet, when there was the chance that he could lose him, that Chris might end him to get rid of the Nogitsune, or even that the Oni for that matter, Derek couldn’t deny those feelings anymore. He’d fallen for the ‘hyperactive spaz’. For the adhd-riddled, talkative, hypermobile, doe-eyed young man.

Of course, Derek didn’t really get it until he’d realized that Stiles had become his anchor.

And he certainly didn’t think that Stiles felt anything in return…

Until Mexico.

Until he’d nearly died and Stiles was willing to risk his best friend for just one more moment with Derek, one more look as he bled out. And then the absolutely devastated expression he’d worn when Derek was leaving with Braeden. Of course, Derek knows that Stiles feels something for him, now. But he can’t. He can’t give in to any of the temptations that Stiles brings with him. Even if Derek could ignore the fact that Stiles is only 17 –not that the Sheriff would ignore it– he can’t let go of the idea that he would only get Stiles hurt or killed.

He’d never be able to live with himself if he did.

“Don’t go.” Stiles’ voice is smaller now, like he is terrified that the words breaking the silence will shatter the both of them if spoken too loudly.

A silent sigh falls from his lips as he grasps the small stack of boxers and socks from the top drawer and shoves them into the bag too. “I have to,” he whispers back, just loud enough that he knows Stiles heard it.

“Why?” And there it is, that small crack in his voice, that little waver that means the teen is on the verge of tears. The salty tang of them hits his nose and he exhales heavily.

“You know why,” he says while staring at the empty dresser, “she’s still out there and we have to stop her. She’ll keep coming back, you know that.”

Derek doesn’t turn around at the sound of Stiles’ movement, the soft scuff of his tennis shoes on the concrete floor as he steps closer. “Then, we’ll deal with her when she does! Don’t- Derek, don’t leave.” He hesitates for only a second before, “Please.” It’s softer.

“Stiles…”

“No, c’mon, Derek. You don’t even know where she is. She could be going into hiding right now and you could spend months searching for her. Why not just wait until she shows herself and then deal with it?”

“Because by then she’ll have hurt people, killed people. If I can stop her from doing that, I should,” he states bluntly. Derek knows that he’s won this argument with just that because Stiles had argued with Scott ages ago about the same thing. ‘If you can do something, you should.’

Stiles sighs behind him and he can hear the rough scrape of him pushing a hand through his hair, no doubt spiking it up. “I can help, Derek. Let me come with you.” The plea in his voice is undeniable.

“You can’t. You have school, you have a life here. You—”

“So do you!”

Stiles’ exploding voice causes him to flinch while clenching the drawer's brass knob. He sighs and, finally, turns to look at the teen. “Stiles…”

“No, Derek, you can sit here and deny it all you want, think that no one here needs you or gives a damn about you but you’re wrong! And you fucking know it.” Stiles doesn’t hesitate to encroach on Derek’s personal space now, his wide doe-eyes darting between Derek’s. “You act like we only keep you around because you know about all this shit: the hunters and werewolves and everything else. But we don’t!” He doesn’t stop moving until they’re almost chest to chest, only a few breaths of air separating them. “We don’t! We want you here. I want you here!”

His grip tightens around the duffle’s handle, fighting to keep the neutral expression that he’s spent years perfecting. “You should go.”

“No. You should stay .” Stiles stares at him, features softening, and Derek can hear the faint uptick in his heart with the plea. “Stay,” he murmurs while one long-fingered hand comes to rest against his collarbone, Derek’s own heart beating faster with the contact.

He wants to tell Stiles that he’ll never leave, that he’ll be right here at his side, but it’d be a lie. Derek can’t stay in Beacon Hills, not knowing that Kate is still out there. He can’t let her continue to wreak havoc on innocent people. He can’t let her come back to his home and ruin everything all over again. He just can’t.

Stiles’ fingers bunch into his shirt, gripping the fabric loosely as he stares back at him. Derek tightens his hands into fists at his sides in an effort to keep them off of Stiles; who seems determined to close the distance between them. The other hand lifts, hesitates for only a second, then cradles Derek’s cheek, his thumb brushing along the curve of Derek’s jaw, stroking down toward his chin. Without consciously deciding to, Derek leans into the touch as his eyes flutter shut and his breath catches.

The teen's warm breath ghosts across his face as he leans closer. Stiles swallows thickly and Derek can hear his throat working around it. “Derek…” the sound is no more than an exhale but it forces his eyes open, instantly locking onto those wide amber hues. The ones Derek wants to dive into, get lost in, and never resurface.

Stiles’ heartbeat quickens as his hand shifts from Derek’s shirt up and over his shoulder, fingertips skimming through the hairs at the back of Derek’s neck. It sends a shiver up his spine. He knows he should push Stiles away, now, before anything happens. But he can’t bring himself to put that distance between them, especially when he’s wanted this for so long. The teen licks his lips and Derek can’t stop himself from glancing down at them. Perhaps not as subtly as he’d thought, if the way Stiles smirks is any indication.

Bitten nails scratch at the back of his head, fingers tangling loosely in his hair as Stiles leans closer, slowly as though he’s giving Derek the opportunity to pull away. He doesn’t. Despite knowing it’s wiser to step back, Derek’s free hand grasps Stiles’ hip. The teen takes that inch and runs a mile with it by closing the gap between them until his lips brush over Derek’s.

His breath catches, flooded with not only Stiles’ scent but the sweet taste of him, chocolate and spiced apples. He barely hears the thunk when his duffle hits the floor, wrapping his arm around Stiles’ waist, hand bunching into the collar of his flannel to drag him closer. Stiles gasps softly in response and Derek swipes his tongue against those soft, parted lips.

Stiles doesn’t waste a second longer before sliding his tongue out to meet Derek’s, wrapping both arms around his shoulders. Stiles kisses like it’s the last one he’ll ever have, as if he knows that this moment can’t last forever. Derek doesn’t fight it, he’s wanted this for so long now and it’s right here in front of him. Even knowing –especially knowing– that this can only end in heartbreak, Derek can’t bring himself to push Stiles away.

In fact, he finds himself pressing closer until there’s no space between them from hip to shoulder. Stiles moans into his mouth and the sound is intoxicating, he already feels drunk on the teen’s scent and taste alone. His hands drift from Derek’s hair to his cheeks to his neck, over his shoulders, down his back and chest, like he just can’t seem to figure out where to put them. When his fingers scratch at the rough hair on Derek’s face, lightly pinching it on their way up to his temples, Derek can’t stop the faint smile that forms as he pulls away.

The action only makes Stiles pout. “Wait, wait, wait..” he breathes the words out, chasing Derek’s lips. He concedes with a series of smaller, softer kisses before leaning back. A pout still lingers around Stiles’ mouth. “I knew -” he pants softly, amber eyes fluttering open, “-that you liked me.”

“Oh, did you?” Derek asks, a faint smirk at the corner of his mouth as he drags his hand down the other man's back, then up again.

“Okay, I hoped, but… either way, I was right.” The grin that spread across his lips is nearly blinding. His hands shift, one sliding down Derek’s chest, the other cradles his cheek, thumb stroking just beneath Derek’s eye. It fades as Stiles’ gaze sweeps over his face, the hand resting just over Derek’s heart clenching into his shirt. He whispers softly, like he’s afraid of the words themselves, “I was–I was fucking terrified down there, Derek, I thought you were going to die and I wouldn’t have the chance to find out.”

Derek swallows hard, nodding his understanding. “Is that why you hesitated to go after Scott?”

Stiles’ scent spikes with the tang of embarrassment, the heat of frustration, and the salt of fresh tears. His head dips to stare at Derek’s chest while bobbing his head. “Yeah. And then I find out you’re leaving. I mean, what am I supposed to do with that, man?” he asks, refusing to meet Derek’s eye now.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Derek reaches out to grasp Stiles’ hand, the one on his chest, in his own. Stiles squeezes his fingers and stares at them. With a gentle tug, Derek pulls him toward the bed taking residence in front of the wall of windows. Stiles follows along but doesn’t settle down beside him. “You’re supposed to let me.”

Stiles quickly looks toward the window, not fast enough that Derek doesn’t see the way his face screws up or the new shine of tears in his eyes. “What if I don’t want to?”

Stiles has always been stubborn, Derek doesn’t know why he expected now to be any different. It’s with a sigh that he pulls Stiles down beside him. The mattress dips and bounces with the force that Stiles drops onto it, a pout still lingering around his lips. Derek squeezes his hand again, gently, while whispering. “We can’t always get what we want, Stiles.”

“Yeah…” the sigh that leaves him is morose, “story of my fucking life.” Stiles releases Derek’s hand to scrub at his face with both of his own, his sniffle muffled behind them.

Derek wants nothing more than to reach out, to comfort him, and tell him it will be okay. Tell him that he’ll move on with his life and forget all about Derek in no time. He wants to hold him just a little bit longer. Instead, he says, “I’m sorry,” while pushing himself to stand.

“Wait!” Stiles flails to grab his hand again, jerking Derek back onto the bed. “Just… don’t… Not yet,” he stammers, wide-eyes panicked. Like he’s afraid this is the last time he’ll see him and he’s not ready to let him go. Perhaps never will be. “Stay. Please.”

Derek glances toward his bag, then back at him before nodding. “Okay.” What’s a few more hours? Sure, Braeden is waiting for him but he’s sure she’ll understand that saying goodbye is important, too. 

The two sit there, just talking about anything other than Derek’s eminent departure for hours until Stiles lays back on the bed and stares at the ceiling. In the dim lighting of the room, they talk and share more than a handful of soft, gentle kisses. They let their hands wander over one another's faces and arms, chests and shoulders. Derek never allows their hands to journey any further. He can’t, knowing he won’t be here in the morning. It’s only a few hours later that Stiles yawns and scoots further up the bed, resting his head onto the pillows. Derek follows easily until they lay side-by-side. Stiles rolls onto his side, eventually falling asleep with his hand wrapped around Derek’s bicep, soaking up the warmth that radiates from him. Despite knowing how much he wants this, how much Stiles wants this, Derek can’t stay. 

It hurts that much more to leave, now that he knows that Stiles wants him as much as he wants Stiles. But – life has always been cruel that way with him.

Why should now be any different?

Now

By the time he pulls into the parking lot at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, it’s early afternoon, and the sun is almost at its highest point. It burns down onto the pavement, making everything in the distance a little hazy. He’d driven well over the speed limit the whole way, only stopping once to fill the Camaro’s tank and get himself an energy drink when he felt himself flagging. He’s been awake well over twenty four hours at this point.

Derek recognizes Scott’s motorcycle parked near the entrance and spots Noah’s cruiser in the parking lot close to where he’d parked. He doesn’t take the time to see if any of the other vehicles are familiar before jogging through the double sliding doors. A few nurses mill about here and there, a couple of patients waiting for rooms sit in chairs along the wall, and no one pays him any attention. Even when he walks up to the front desk. The man behind it stares blankly at his computer screen until Derek’s voice makes him start.

“Stilinski.”

“I’m sorry?”

“What room is Stiles Stilinski in?” he asks now.

The nurse purses his lips, staring at Derek for a long moment before replying. “Only family are admitted to see patients in the hospital.”

He growls, restraining the urge to flash his eyes. “Fine, I want to talk to Melissa McCall.”

“She’s not on duty.” The other sounds almost bored as he turns his attention away from Derek and back to whatever had captivated his attention on the screen.

Derek isn’t as successful at keeping the growl back as he shoves away from the desk. Later, he would realize he could have saved time and just called Scott because he’s sure the teen won’t leave his best friend's bedside. Hindsight and all. Instead, after shooting a glare at the nurse, who doesn’t give him any further attention, Derek scents the air, finding faint traces of Stiles everywhere, fresher trails of Scott and Melissa here and there. The strongest one he finds is Noah’s and he latches onto it immediately.

Following it, Derek stops in front of the elevator and scowls because there are 4 floors in total (including the basement) and he has no idea which one they’re on. Time-consuming as it is, Derek figures he’ll just stop at each one until he finds the right one and he reaches out and presses the call button. When the elevator descends, his worries are abated. The doors slide open and Melissa is standing in the center of the compartment with her fingers over her mouth, her scent steeped in worry and fear and anxiety. Her expression is blank, lost in her thoughts.

The bell dings to signal the doors closing again and Derek shoots out a hand to block them, the sound and movement causing Melissa to blink herself back to reality. She stares at Derek for a long moment, like she’s staring at a vaguely familiar stranger. It only takes a second or two for her eyes to widen. “Derek!”

“Where is he?” he asks while stepping into the elevator beside her. Honestly, he’s always liked Melissa, she reminds him of his own mother, in a way. The nurse leans past him to jab the button for the third floor and the doors slide closed again. “What happened?”

Her eyes flood with tears, the saline scent embedded in nearly every surface of the hospital but the fresh scent coming from her makes his heart pound a little harder in fear. “We don’t really know. The kids were all hanging out, talking, and then they got into an argument. Stiles stormed out and-and sped off,” she stammers. Derek’s brows rise but he doesn’t interrupt while she waves her hands before her face. “I don’t know what they were fighting about, but Scott took off after him a little while later.” Melissa sniffles while staring at the LED floor indicator. 

She swipes her fingers under her eyes to clear the tears that have begun tracking down her cheeks. “He called me after he called for an ambulance. They said he had to have been going at least 50 when he went off-road and hit a tree. The impact broke the steering wheel-” her voice cracks on the word and she waves one hand in front of her face to dry the tears before they can fall again “-it went into his chest. By the time they got him here, he’d already lost a lot of blood but he came to for a few minutes, called out for you and his dad before his lung collapsed.”

Derek stands stock-still beside her, unable to move even when the bell dings quietly and the doors slide open. Melissa takes a step out of the elevator before turning to look at him, it takes a few seconds for Derek to do the same. Here, he can pick up Noah’s scent – filled with anguish and despair – Scott’s – tinged with worry and frustration – and Stiles’. There are no chemosignals mixed with Stiles’ scent and that’s worrisome in its own right.

Derek pulls himself together enough to follow her out and down the hall. “Scott… Scott said something about the ‘first surgery’,” he begins, frowning grimly,  “how many have there been?”

Melissa hugs herself while leading him down the hall and around the corner, two fingers peak out beneath her other arm. “Three.” She doesn’t look at him as she rounds another corner. “The first was to get the piece of the steering wheel out of him and try to repair the damage. The second was after we found a bleed on his brain the next morning. The third was last night, he was septic after they missed a small tear in his intestine.” Halfway down the hall she takes a left and comes to a stop outside of the second closed door on the right.

Through the small window in the door, Derek can see Noah, sitting hunched over in a chair by the foot of a hospital bed with his head in his hands. The curtain is drawn just enough that Derek can’t see the bed but he knows who is in it. Tearing his gaze from the sight of the Sheriff, he looks back at Melissa. “Scott said he won’t wake up.”

“We took him off all sedatives yesterday morning. He should have woken up within a few hours but…” Melissa stares at Noah for a moment before Scott comes into view on the other side of the glass. The teen glares at Derek and then pulls open the door. “Medically, we don’t know why he hasn’t woken up,” Melissa says while Scott hugs his mother, shoots another furious stare at Derek, then stalks off down the hall with his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

Scott left the door open behind him and now Noah stares out into the hall, the open door bringing the desperate scent from within out and magnifies the sound of the beeping machines. Derek nods gently at Melissa, reaches out to place a hand on her arm, then steps around her into the room.

He’s unprepared for the sight that greets him on the other side of the curtain. Stiles lay motionless in the bed, a bleached white blanket over him, an IV in his arm. His chest looks lumpy as it rises and falls slowly and Derek can smell old blood soaked into the bandages hidden beneath the blue hospital gown he’s shrouded in. Derek hesitates when he draws nearer to the bed, taking in the bruises running down the side of Stiles’ face that disappear under the collar of his gown.

He swallows thickly, unable to force himself any closer. Derek had long thought that when people around him got hurt, it was usually his fault. But he hadn’t even been here for this. His biggest fear before was that he couldn’t build something with Stiles because of that. The teen would get hurt, and it would be his fault; yet, here they are.

The creak of a chair draws his attention toward Noah as the man stands. Derek moves closer and lays a hand on the Sheriff’s shoulder. Noah surprises him by wrapping both arms around him and drawing him into a tight hug. It takes him a few seconds to respond and squeeze him back. “How are you doing, sir?”

“I’ll be better when I can see his eyes.” Noah’s voice is rough with disuse against his shoulder.

Nodding his understanding, Derek pulls back when the man begins to. He glances toward Stiles again and frowns, “I’m sorry he’s here.”

“‘S’not your fault, son.”

“I know…” he murmurs while staring at the bruising again.

Noah clears his throat and takes a step back. “I’m, uh, I’m going to get a coffee, want one?”

Derek nods without looking away from the motionless figure in the bed. He listens to the Sheriff’s footfalls, his left boot squeaking almost silently with each step, until the door closes. On the other side, he can hear the hushed tones of Noah and Melissa but chooses not to listen in. Instead, he moves to the teen’s bedside. Gingerly, as though worried he’ll hurt him, Derek slides his hand under Stiles’. There’s only a small amount of pain to draw off of him, which means either Scott has been draining it or whatever painkillers are running through the IV are enough to help him.

Derek stares at the purple bruising spanning the left side of Stiles’ face, the swelling around his eye, the small nicks and cuts from shattered glass. He flashes a look toward the door before leaning closer, letting his free hand move over the teen’s head. There’s a small bald spot on the back of his head around an incision, and another small lump near his left temple. Aside from that, he can’t find any damning injuries to his head. He knows the doctors and nurses here have used everything in their capabilities to look for any reason why Stiles isn’t waking and while he trusts their expertise, can’t help but conduct his own search.

He finds nothing, however, that should prevent Stiles from opening his eyes. With a frown, he reaches back and drags Noah’s chair closer without letting go of Stiles’ hand.

Seven Days Later

The first five days, Derek refused to leave Stiles’ bedside for anything other than bathroom breaks or to get something to eat from the cafeteria. Usually, he tried to wait for those moments when the doctors would take Stiles out for testing before he did either. Noah didn’t leave either. It got to a point where Melissa had to bring a cot in for Derek to sleep on. Scott was there every day, resolutely ignoring Derek the entire time, and left in the evenings with promises from Noah that he would call the moment anything changed.

Various members of the pack stop by to check in, though there isn’t a change from when Derek first arrived. It’s only after Melissa comments on his needing a shower, on the fifth day, that Derek leaves the hospital. He’s only gone an hour and hates every second of it.

Today, they take Stiles for another MRI, as if the results are going to change from two days ago. They still can’t find any reason why he won’t wake up. Aside from his body healing from so many injuries, there’s no medical reason he hasn’t come to. The bleed on his brain had been caught early, it hadn’t caused any damage that they could see. The concussions he’d suffered in the accident are healing and shouldn’t prevent him from waking. Even the injury he’d suffered to his chest should not affect his wakefulness.

After talking with Melissa more, Derek learned that Stiles had broken seven ribs – one was so bad they’d had to implant a surgical rod to hold it in place after it had pierced his lung and caused its collapse – which was one of the main reasons he’d needed the first surgery. They’d also had to repair a tear in Stiles’ stomach where the steering wheel had sliced through it. While the damage from the accident hadn’t killed Stiles, it could have. If Scott hadn’t gone after him, no one would have found Stiles until later. Until it was too late.

Melissa had tearfully told him that it almost was too late. He also learned that Scott hadn’t called him until Stiles was being rushed to the operating room for the second surgery.

Derek doesn’t hold it against Scott, he’s the one who left Beacon Hills and hasn’t made any effort to reach out since. What he doesn’t understand is the animosity the true alpha has had toward him since he’s gotten here. Scott’s the one who called him back here, after all. But every time he’s around he reeks of barely controlled rage, all of it aimed squarely at Derek. He doesn’t ask what has Scott so pissed at him. In the end, it’s the least of his concerns.

When Melissa and another nurse wheel Stiles back in, it’s only Derek and Noah in the room; Scott has a shift at the clinic. They report there’s no change, that Stiles has full brain activity, and that there’s no reason they can find as to why the teen hasn’t woken. But they tell Noah not to lose hope, to keep the faith. Melissa sniffles and pats Noah’s shoulder. She has to get back to work but promises she’ll stop in after her shift.

Noah heaves a sigh from his place beside the window, hands over his face. He and Derek have had a long time to catch up and Derek’s told him about Kate while Noah’s told him about what’s happened in Beacon Hills. A manticore had come through about five months ago. A swarm of pixies two months before that. Last month there was a family of trolls that had taken up residence in the preserve.

Now, the Sheriff just looks done. Like he’s too exhausted to continue with any of this. “Why don’t you go home, get a real meal and sleep in your bed?” Derek suggests with a frown.

Noah shakes his head, “I can’t… I can’t leave him alone.”

“He won’t be,” Derek assures him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The man sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. “I should check in at the station,” he mutters to himself and Derek wonders when the last time was that he had.

“Go. I’ll call you if anything changes. The second it does.”

Noah stares at his motionless son and sighs before stepping around Derek to kiss Stiles’ forehead. “Come on, kid.” he whispers. When there’s no response, the frown darkens. With a sharp nod at Derek – which he takes to mean you better call – Noah strides out.

Derek leans forward in the chair, elbows on his knees and face in his palms, to heave a deep sigh of his own. When he leans back, his gaze sweeps over Stiles for the millionth time today already. The bruising has faded significantly but he can still see the yellow-green outlines of it, darker around his still-swollen eye. That’s gone down quite a bit too. Within the next few days, it should be gone entirely, the same with the bruising. 

He’s not sure when he drifted out, just that one minute he was watching the steady rise and fall of Stiles’ chest while listening to the too-slow beeping of the heart monitor and the next a whimpered voice reaches his ears. 

Derek.

His brows knit up, trying to hold onto the dream it must be.

He shoots upright, knocking the chair over in the process. His gaze sweeps quickly around the room before landing on Stiles’ still frame. It takes a few moments for his brain to process what he’s seeing. Stiles isn’t in the same position he’d been when he’d drifted off. His hands had been at his sides, now they clutch the blanket under his chin loosely. His head had been tilted straight up, now it’s angled toward Derek with his lips parted for speech.

Derek strides closer and presses one hand to Stiles’ cheek, the other over the teen's clenched hands. “Stiles?” No response comes. Stiles’ heart beats in exactly the same too-slow, steady rhythm it had before. “Come on, Stiles. You have to wake up…” he whispers while leaning over him, resting his forehead on Stiles’.

Nothing. Just the deep breaths of sleep in answer.

He stays that way for a while, just murmuring soft words of encouragement against Stiles’ cheek and breathing in his scent–the sterile odor of the room burns his sinuses as it has for days. Quiet pleas that go unanswered in the silence of the room. Please, wake up. We’re all here waiting for you. Wake up, Stiles. Open your eyes. I know you can do it, please. Please.

He doesn’t know how long he stays that way, knelt over the teen’s bed, just that by the time he stands straight again there’s an ache in his neck and spine. Derek would have stayed that way too, if not for the door opening. Smoothing out Stiles’ hands over his chest, Derek turns toward the door as Scott steps through. 

The true alpha’s gaze shifts quickly around the room, Derek assumes in search of Noah, before landing back on Derek. He glares, then moves toward the bed and places one hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Why did you come back?” he asks without looking away from his best friend.

Derek blinks his surprise at the question. “You called.”

Scott’s expression softens while his hand slips up to Stiles’ cheek, grazing his thumb across the stubble that’s formed there in the last week. His eyes narrow, however, when they return to Derek. “Would you have ever come back if I hadn’t?”

“I… I don’t know,” he answers honestly, gripping the sheet beside Stiles’ hip.

The Alpha scoffs, glaring at Derek once more as if he were nothing more than an irritating bug. “So, why come back now?” Before Derek can respond Scott barrels on and he thinks that maybe this is what Scott needs, to get it all out. “We needed you. We could have saved the rogue omega if we had more help. The pixies would only deal with a Hale. You would have known how to take out the manticore without anyone getting hurt. But you weren’t here! How long did it take you to track down Kate?” he asks now, jaw clenched in his fury.

“Almost ten months.” Derek keeps his tone even, calm and collected.

“Bullshit.” When Derek rears back, Scott growls. “You could have found her within a few months if you’d really tried.”

“What the fuck are you insinuating?” Derek growls back, flashing his eyes.

“That you were taking your time because you wanted to stay away.” Scott’s eyes flash back and Derek grips the bedding a little tighter in his fist. “You know, I could forgive you leaving, I could forgive you ignoring my texts, fuck, I could even forgive you acting like we’re friends. You know what I can’t forgive?” he rants, keeping his angry voice low so as not to draw attention beyond this room, “I can’t forgive what you did to him,” the alpha growls, jabbing a finger toward Stiles.

Derek’s brows draw together, turning from Scott to Stiles. The other teen sleeps on, unaware of them or the fury rolling off of the Alpha. He hesitates, then shakes his head. “I left.”

“You didn’t just leave , Derek. You fucked with his head before you just took off, made him think there could be something more.”

“I, no, I didn’t. I didn’t lead him—”

“No, you just let him believe there was a chance. You fucking gave him hope and then just vanished. Without even saying goodbye,” Scott scoffs, his lip curling in anger.

Derek turns his gaze from one teen to the other. He knew that he shouldn’t have let the kiss happen when he was planning to leave but he was weak and all he’s wanted for so fucking long is Stiles. His brows knit more, looking back at the other. “What did you and Stiles fight about?” he asks around the tightness in his throat, remembering Melissa’s comment on it.

Scott doesn’t even look ashamed when he spits out the word, “You.” Derek closes his eyes with a sigh, lowering his head as he does. The Alpha refuses to back down now that it's all coming out. “He still, after almost a fucking year, thought there was a chance: that you were coming back because you cared about him. I told him he needed to move on, and so did Malia. Fuck, even Lydia told him to. You know, she felt it when Kate died? Had a daydream about it and when she told us Stiles was convinced that meant you were coming back. Almost three months pass and guess who still wasn’t here? You.”

Derek inhales slowly, breathing in the scent of Scott’s anger and hurt. He doesn’t look at him as Scott continues, “I tried, Derek. I fucking tried to tell him that you didn’t care, that you weren’t coming back for him, and that he needed to move on. I tried to convince him that he needed to. let. you. go.” Scott’s voice softens as he reaches out to push a hand through Stiles’ hair. “He told me he’d never do it, that he loves you and he knows you love him, and called me an asshole.” He scoffs while cradling his friend's cheek, his own chin wobbling. Derek watches the tender interaction and feels his heart breaking even more. “He cares so fucking much about you—” the Alpha’s voice hardens as he turns back to Derek “—and you just left him.”

A heavy sigh slips from him. “I was trying to protect him,” he whispers, knowing Scott will hear it anyway. “I was trying to keep him safe.”

“A lot of good that did.” The growl emanating from Scott makes Derek shrink back a little. “When the manticore was here, he got stung by its tail. He ended up here in the hospital for a whole day while they pumped him full of antibiotics.” Scott shifts enough to yank a corner of the blanket from Stiles’ leg, turning it to show an ugly scar on his calf. “When the pixies came through, he got bitten, we all did but he and Lydia were the ones that got sick. He was delusional and half out of his mind for three days.” Scott carefully tugs the collar of Stiles’ gown down to reveal tiny bite marks on the teen’s shoulder, then holds up Stiles’ left arm to show more. “When the gnomes were here, he got hurt protecting Lydia,” he tugs up the blanket on the other side to show scars around Stiles’ ankle where he’d been cut by small knives. “When the rogue—”

“Stop.” Derek’s voice is a soft plea, holding up both hands as his vision blurs.

Scott ignores the shine of tears in Derek’s eye and quickly covers Stiles’ legs again, tucking the blanket beneath them. He scoffs and turns his glare back. “You didn’t stop him from getting hurt by not being here. You didn’t make him any safer by running away. I couldn’t protect him and everyone else, but I tried. Maybe if you had been here…”

“Scott—” Really, Derek doesn’t even know what he’s going to say so it’s probably for the best when Scott cuts him off.

“Maybe not, god knows Stiles runs into danger without even thinking about it. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if you weren’t here or if you were. Maybe he’d have wound up here either way. But that doesn’t mean I can forgive you for letting him think you cared.” The anger is gone from his voice now, replaced with a deep sadness that Derek’s never heard from him before.

Derek raises a hand and swipes at his dampened eyes. “I do care about him,” he whispers while staring at the sleeping teen. Sniffling, he looks back up at Scott, hardly caring that the other can see the tears that track down his cheeks. “I care about him more than you’ll ever know.” His hand finds Stiles’, threading their fingers together. “No one seems to know… what made him go off-road that night? Melissa said the deputies think it was a suicide attempt.” 

There’d been no signs of Stiles trying to stop himself from hitting the tree and the doctors could find no signs of anything medically that would have made Stiles crash. No seizures or anything that would have made him lose consciousness. When Derek had asked about it before, both Noah and Melissa had gotten into an uproar. The deputies weren’t allowing Noah to investigate the accident and neither believed Stiles would try to end his life. Neither does Derek but he can’t have too great of an opinion when he’s been gone for nearly a year.

Scott’s nose wrinkles in agitation. “He wasn’t. I was there, at the accident, the chemosignals weren’t depressed or even anxious. He wasn’t suicidal. It was just anger and frustration and-and hope.” He looks from Stiles to Derek and back again. “What do you mean you ‘do care’?”

Derek frowns darkly wondering what made the teen wreck before sighing softly. “Stiles… Stiles wasn’t wrong when he told you that he thought I loved him back. I-I’ve loved him for so long,” he says while staring at Stiles’ peaceful face. Scott’s surprise at the admission is pushed to the back of his mind. Now that the mystery surrounding the accident is at the forefront of his mind, however, Derek is having a hard time focusing on anything else. “Were there any other scents there?” Though Kate is dead –he buried her, fod gods sake– Derek knows that there will always be some lingering fear of her coming back and causing chaos.

Even without looking at the teen, Derek can see Scott’s brows knit together from the corner of his eye. “N-not that I remember. I was so focused on Stiles, though. I… I guess I wasn’t paying that much attention.” He turns to stare down at his friend for a moment longer, then steps back from the bed. “I-I’m going back there with Liam and Malia,” he declares, his scent spiking with worry.

Before Derek can say anything further, Scott turns on heel and high-tails it out of the room. He wants to follow him, to find out the truth for himself, but he won’t leave Stiles. Especially when there’s no one else here to be with the teen.

Stiles’ heart rate spikes for just a second, only a small blip where it beats faster as his head lolls to the side and his hands clench into fists before he relaxes again. Derek’s grips tightens around Stiles’ hand with both of his while settling down into the chair beside the bed. He brings it to his lips and holds it there. With the admission out there, Derek cannot deny it anymore, especially to himself.

He loves Stiles. This ‘hyperactive spazz’. And if Stiles doesn’t wake up he can’t tell him that, he can’t tell him how badly he fucked up by leaving and not coming back sooner. He can’t tell him that Scott was right, that he could have found Kate sooner, or that he could have come back to Beacon Hills the moment she was dead. He can’t tell him anything.

“You need to wake up, Stiles,” he murmurs against Stiles’ cool skin. “Please, please wake up.” 

Stiles’ lips move around a soft mumble, no intelligible sound. 

“Stiles?”

The teen is still again, breathing and heartbeat returned to normal. Derek sighs and presses his lips to Stiles’ wrist. Fresh tears trails down his cheeks before he has the opportunity to stop them. Sniffling, he swipes his forearm across his cheeks to wipe them away. “Stiles, you have to wake up,” his voice wavers and cracks, “I have to tell you how wrong I was: I shouldn’t have left, I should have waited until she surfaced or, fuck, let you come with me. I’m sorry. I… I should have stayed.” More tears run down his face as stares at him. “Please, Stiles. Just open your eyes.”

Derek keeps ahold of Stiles’ hand while laying his head down at the teen’s hip, the overly starched fabric scratchy against his forehead. The steady beeping of Stiles’ heart monitor lulls him to sleep in a position that he’s sure will leave him aching when he wakes again. He sniffles again and adjusts Stiles’ hand, using it as a shield against the harsh lighting of the hospital room while keeping a loose grasp on his wrist.

As he drifts, Derek wishes he’d had the courage to stay here. To tell Stiles sooner how he felt instead of running from his feelings. Scott understood better than Derek that the people he cares about could be hurt regardless of whether he was here or not. That people will be hurt whether he loves them or even knows them. Kate was proof enough of that with all the people she’d hurt in that little Mexican village before he’d gotten to her.

Honestly, Derek isn’t even sure who he’s praying to as he sleeps, any deity that would listen and wake Stiles. Anyone who could force those beautiful whiskey-brown eyes open again.

He can’t be sure how long he’s been asleep when the sensation of fingers threading through his hair begins to draw him from sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time Melissa woke him that way, so he assumes it’s the nurse trying to rouse him to tell him that Stiles has some other test or to try convincing him to go shower and sleep in a bed. Not happening.

When his face screws up against the room's lighting he hears a quiet chuckle that makes his stomach lurch, followed by a whisper. “Derek.”

He hurtles to his feet, eyes wide, any remnants of sleep gone in an instant. “Hey…” Gods, he hopes this isn’t a dream. He’ll give anything for this to be real.

Stiles’ answering smile is bright as he asks, “how you doin’, sourwolf?” Derek’s gaze sweeps the room, just as it’d been left when Scott walked out, empty except for the two of them. The teen seems to read his mind because he laughs softly, his voice still a little hoarse from over a week of disuse. “Need me to pinch you?” he says while holding up his other hand, miming the action with a grin.

Derek’s chest feels tight and his eyes burn as he stares down at him. He’s awake. He’s really awake. Stiles’ smile softens while reaching out toward him, he doesn’t make it far before wincing. His hand drops to prod at the bandages beneath his gown gently.

Derek grasps his wrist firmly, drawing on the pain that spiked while leaning closer. His gaze dances over the teen’s face, taking in every reaction. Stiles sags a little into the bed as the pain leaves him, exhaling heavily. When his eyes flutter open again they lock with Derek’s instantly. “H-how long have you been here?” he asks, brows drawing together as if trying to piece together what happened.

“A week.”

“A… a week?!” Surprise widens his eyes.

“You’ve been unconscious for 10 days.”

“N-no… I was— I was just with Scott! We—” the monitor beeps faster as Stiles’ heart rate spikes along with his panic.

“Shh,” Derek shakes his head. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” He settles onto the edge of the bed, hip to hip with Stiles, and the teen immediately leans into his side. Stiles’ heart still beats too fast, much faster than it has over the last week but still close to the normal hummingbird thrum Derek is used to. “Scott called me a week ago,” he explains while carefully tucking his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, “said you’d gotten into an accident.”

A hand raises to rub at his temple as Stiles’ eyes squint, staring off into the middle distance. “Yeah… yeah, I—”

“Derek!” Scott all but shouts as he barrels into the room, “Derek, I figured it— Stiles!” he squeaks while nearly tripping over his own feet to come to a stop, “Stiles, holy shit, you’re awake!” The teen ignores Derek entirely now as he scrambles across him to hug Stiles tightly enough that Stiles grunts again. The pain Derek had been drawing on spikes just as suddenly.

“Yeah, yeah for like an hour,” he grunts, trying to hug Scott back while wheezing around the ache.

“An hour?” Derek asks while working to extricate Scott from over top of him, a much more difficult task than he would have thought.

“You were asleep for a while, big guy. Hey, Scotty?” The other grunts quietly to show he’s listening and Stiles pats his back, “kinda hurting me here, buddy.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry.” Scott quickly jerks back, accidentally shoving an elbow into Derek’s stomach as he goes. Derek can’t find it in himself to be angry with him, given the bright smile on Scott’s face. “Anyway, I figured it out!”

“What?” Stiles asks while reaching across his waist to gently grasp Derek’s bicep, thumb stroking across the muscle.

“What caused the accident!”

Derek sits up straighter, staring at the alpha. It turns out he’s looking in the wrong direction, however, as Stiles pipes up beside him. “Yeah, a deer ran out in front of me and I swerved, tried to hit the brakes but they didn’t work, and hit the fucking tree. Didn’t take a genius to figure it out.” Stiles picks at a loose thread on the blanket while shrugging and Derek eyes him skeptically, shooting a glance toward Scott to see him doing the same. The teen’s heart rate hadn’t changed to indicate a lie, but it didn’t seem as straightforward to anyone that that was what had happened.

“Why didn’t the brakes work?” Scott questions, the doubt clear in his voice.

Stiles sighs and a flush spreads from his forehead over his cheeks and down to his chest. “They’ve been going out for weeks and I thought I still had some time, you know? ‘S not exactly like I’m rolling in dough to get everything on Roscoe fixed every time something goes wrong with her. I’ve just been careful not to have any reason to slam on the brakes. I wasn’t expecting a freakin’ deer to come jumping into the middle of the road.” His hand slips off of Derek’s arm to rub at his temple, over the faded bruise. “I mean, the brakes worked, but not enough to stop me from hitting the tree, I tried to yank the wheel the other way so I didn’t slam into it but, I don’t know, when I jumped the curb I heard something crack and turning the wheel didn’t do anything and…” His shoulder rises and falls in a quick, embarrassed shrug.

“So… you weren’t…” Scott glances quickly from Stiles to Derek and back again, “trying to, you know, ki—”

Stiles rears back, brows drawn together as his mouth falls open in angry disgust. “No! Are you— are you fucking kidding me, right now? What the actual fuck, Scott?!”

“That’s not— I didn’t mean—”

Derek interrupts with a quick shake of his head, “It’s what the deputies were assuming since they couldn’t find any evidence that you’d tried to stop.”

“And no one thought to tell them I’m not fucking suicidal!?” Stiles practically shrieks with how high his voice has gone.

Scott waves his hands in front of his face, eyes bulged wide. “No! Stiles, everyone did! My mom, your dad, Lydia threatened to chop Parrish’s nuts off if he put it in the report! Stiles, we didn’t think you would, I just… I had to, to ask, you know?”

As much fun as it is to watch the two, Derek promised to call Noah the moment Stiles was awake and he’s apparently more than an hour late in doing so. He slides off of the edge of the bed, releasing Stiles’ hand as he goes. Before he’s able to take even a step away, Stiles grasps his arm, wincing from the movement. “Wh-where are you going?”

“To call your dad. I’ll be right back.” Stiles’ eyes narrow and his lower lip juts out, his disbelief clear. “I promise.” Something in his tone must settle the teen because Stiles frowns but lets him go. When Derek makes it to the door he glances back to see Stiles still watching him warily, over Scott who has taken the space Derek just vacated. He stares as if Derek might vanish the second he leaves his sight. “I promise,” he mouths and steps out of the room.

Once he’s fished his phone from his back pocket, he dials the sheriff’s cell. Noah answers on the second ring with a raspy grunt, sounding as though he’d been startled awake. “Derek? What’s going on? Is Stiles okay? Did they take him for more tests? Is — ”

“He’s awake.”

Something thuds on the other end of the line, followed by a muffled curse. Derek can only assume the sheriff stumbled out of bed and hit the floor. “He’s awake?!”

“Yeah. He’s awake. Scott’s in with him now.” He turns to look through the small window to see the pair sitting together. Scott is entirely oblivious to the glances Stiles keeps flashing toward the door while smiling and laughing with his friend. 

Noah chokes on a sob, “I’m… I’m on my way.”

“We’ll see you soon.” He watches the two before a passing nurse catches his attention. Derek stops her long enough to ask for her to get the doctor since Stiles has woken. She quickly leans around him to look through the window, then nods sharply. Before she can high-tail it away, he asks her to bring Stiles something to eat. The nurse offers a sad smile and while backing away she informs him that she can’t until the doctor authorizes it.

“Your dad’s on his way,” Derek says when he opens the door.

“So, anyway,” Scott continues whatever story he’d been telling Stiles before, “Lydia says—”

“Hey, Scotty… can you, uh, can you give us a minute?” Stiles interrupts, patting his friend on the arm. His gaze hasn’t left Derek’s face since he stepped back into the room.

Scott’s lips twist into a little pout but he concedes quickly enough. “Yeah, sure, man. I’ll, I’ll go let Mom know you’re awake. She’s going to be so happy. Dude, she’s been so worried.”

“Thanks, buddy.” Only when Scott stands, then leans over to hug him, does Stiles look at his best friend again. He flashes a wide, bright smile at him when Scott knocks their foreheads together. “Oh, hey!” Stiles calls, stopping Scott in his tracks, “Bring me back some pizza?”

Scott laughs and nods, “Double pepperoni, on the double.”

He nods back, though Scott doesn’t see it since he’s already rushing out of the room, and turns the full force of his stare back onto Derek. Those impossibly wide eyes blink up at him. “So… Scott called and you came back. Just like that?”

“He said you were hurt.”

“So,” Stiles’ head shakes, frowning, “if I’d called at any time in the last year and told you I needed you… you would have come back?”

There’s an accusation hidden in his tone that Derek doesn’t particularly like –true or not. He sighs, moving closer to the bed. After a brief debate on where he should sit, he walks around and drops into the chair he’d vacated earlier. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly as his elbows connect with the bed, one bending so he can push a hand through his hair. “I… Stiles, I had to—”

“Track down Kate, yeah, I know,” he mumbles, watching while picking at the same loose thread from before. “Why, why didn’t you come back after?”

Derek’s cheeks puff with the breath that rushes out. For a while, the silence in the room is only broken by the steady blip of Stiles’ heart monitor. It’s abnormal, Derek thinks, for Stiles to remain silent this long. But he seems to be waiting for Derek to answer. “I, I was scared,” he finally admits and the words hang heavily between them.

Stiles lifts his gaze now, eyes narrowed. “Of what? Because I have a hard time believing that you, Derek Hale, are afraid of anything.”

He huffs out a near-silent laugh. “Believe it or not, I’m scared of a lot of things.” Derek lays a hand, the one not currently tangled in his hair, over Stiles’ to stop him from shredding the blanket apart. “I… For a long time I thought that just by being around me, people got hurt. People died, like I was fucking cursed or something. But… I wasn’t even here and you, you still got hurt. A lot.” Stiles snorts and fixes him with a glare. “Scott, he, uh, he told me about everything else.”

“Of course, he did. Love the guy, but he’s a terrible secret keeper. Thank god we don’t have deatheaters on our asses.” Derek shoots him a bewildered look and Stiles rolls his eyes. “Harry Potter? Seriously, you all are going to watch the movies some-fuckin-day.”

A fond smile forms as Derek shakes his head. Cautiously, he strokes his fingers over the back of Stiles’ hand as the smile fades. “I’m sorry.” His other hand quickly drops, sliding under Stiles’ so that he’s clasping it between both of his. “I’m sorry I left the way I did and I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I’m sorry I didn’t call and-”

“Derek.” Stiles heaves a sigh, wincing when he sits up. “Look, I already knew you were an idiot, okay?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, no, it was implied,” he teases, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. “But I didn’t care. And I don’t want your apologies.”

Derek licks his lips to wet them, catching the way Stiles’ eyes track the movement. “Then what do you want?”

“I want,” another quiet sigh escapes while pulling his hand from between Derek’s to slide it up his arm, “I want you to promise me that you’re not going to leave me behind again. I want you to promise me that you’re not going to go where I can’t. I want you to fucking promise me that you’re going to stay this time.”

When Stiles’ fingers grasp his sleeve, Derek climbs to his feet again, nodding so hard that the whole room bounces in his vision. “Stiles, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you again.” He leans down, hands gently cupping Stiles’ cheeks.

Tears flood the teen’s eyes. Eyes that glare up at him. “You sure about that? The next big bad rolls in and you’re not going to go chasing it out of town and be gone for months?” His voice cracks, jaw clenching in an effort to fight back the tears.

Knocking his forehead against Stiles’, Derek swipes his thumbs over his cheeks to brush away any that managed to escape while shaking his head. “Stiles, I promise. I swear it, I’m not leaving you. Not again. I already fucked up once, and I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you… if you’ll let me.”

Sniffling, Stiles holds that glare but Derek can see it’s not without effort in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and the way his lips curl as he fights not to smile. His fist tightens its grip on Derek’s shirt as he says, “I don’t know, big guy. The rest of your life? Seems like a pretty long sentence to me.”

He breathes a quiet laugh and shakes his head. “Stiles, I love you and I’m happy to spend every waking minute showing you how much you mean to me.”

Stiles’ eyes widen at the admission, exhaling a tearfully relieved laugh while his hands slip up into Derek’s hair. “Oh my god , will you just kiss me already?”

Derek grins, powerless to do anything but oblige. His lips slot over Stiles’ easily, and the younger man melts back into his pillows, pulling Derek along with him. He cups his cheeks in both hands, kissing him slowly as a smile tugs at Stiles’ mouth. The teen’s hands fist into his hair to draw him closer.

Until a clearing throat bursts through their bubble. Derek ducks his head while sitting back, one hand raising to swipe at his mouth as the other drops to his lap. Stiles doesn’t look the least bit ashamed, threading his fingers with Derek’s while casting a wide smile at the intruder. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hale. Out,” Noah orders. When Derek chances a glance over his shoulder the Sheriff’s shoulders are squared and his mouth is set in a thin line. 

Casting an apologetic look at Stiles, Derek rises. He’s immediately stopped from going anywhere by Stiles’ hand tightening around his own. “You promised not to leave,” he says pointedly, still grinning.

“I don’t think that—”

When the teen’s eyes narrow, he laughs silently and sinks into the chair instead while shrugging one shoulder in Noah’s direction. The sheriff rolls his eyes, “Oh for the love of…” Both hands scrub down his face. After a deep sigh, he crosses the room. Stiles releases Derek and reaches for his father, who immediately ducks in and winds both arms around him in a tight embrace.

Stiles squeaks and pats his father on the back with a muffled, pained cry, “Kinda hurts, pop.”

“You’ll live,” Noah growls, but loosens his hold.