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Stiles’ feet were cold against the tile, the sound of skin smacking against the hard flooring echoed through the hallway as he ran. His mind was on fire, images of feral werewolves and chess pieces raining down. His breath was heavy in his chest as he reached the roof, using the keycard he stole to unlock the door. He ignored the pain in the arches of his feet, part of him knowing that he was going to have bruises. He started pacing, a chill falling through his body as the wind whipped through his patient gown. His eyes caught the edge of the building, memories of his mother standing there forcing his movements. He stumbled forward, climbing onto the ledge. He hugged his chest as he stared over the edge, watching the people bustling about the entrance.
“Stiles,” the Sheriff’s voice cut through Stiles’ concentration. “Stiles, it’s me.”
“Dad, go back inside,” Stiles stated, keeping his eyes on the ground.
“No,” the Sheriff answered. “I’m not going anywhere, kiddo.”
“Go back in to Sammy,” Stiles’ voice cracked. He knew his father would follow after him the moment he got back to the room from his coffee break. He knew his father would understand what was happening when he saw Sammy crying.
“Sammy tried following you up here, Stiles,” the Sheriff explained. “He wanted to stop you from running—he was scared.”
“I almost—”
“But you didn’t,” the Sheriff reasoned. “You almost, but you didn’t.”
“What if next time I don’t stop?” Stiles softly asked.
“That’s not going to happen, Stiles,” the Sheriff reasoned.
“It’s just like with mom,” Stiles weakly admitted, his body swaying a little as he started to lean forward. “I’m just like … I’m losing my mind. I—I can’t hurt him. I won’t hurt him.”
“For God’s sake, Stiles, get the hell off of the ledge and come talk to me,” the Sheriff suddenly commanded.
“I can’t,” Stiles answered. “I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t stay in a hospital room and— I can’t do that to him. To them. I can’t just—” his heartbeat was becoming erratic, tears falling from his eyes as he thought of just stepping off the ledge and ending it. It was better if he died—it was better if he wasn’t around to hurt Sammy—or Derek.
“Stiles,” a soft voice spoke from behind him.
“Go away, Derek,” Stiles answered, not wanting to be near him.
“A little late to tell me that,” Derek replied. “Almost ten years too late to tell me that,” he answered, an amused fondness present in his voice.
“Derek,” Stiles called his name.
A firm hand reached forward, taking hold of Stiles’ trembling one. The hand forced Stiles to turn around from the ledge.
Stiles slowly looked down at the owner, knowing it was Derek. His eyebrows furrowed in guilt, uncertain and afraid of what happened next.
“Come back inside,” Derek softly offered, his thumb slowly running along Stiles’ knuckles in a comforting manner.
“Sammy—”
“Cora’s sitting with him,” Derek explained. “He wants to say goodnight to you before going home.”
A sharp sob broke through his chest, something loosening around his heart as he covered his face with his free hand. “I can’t— I can’t— I—” His sobs took over, shaking through his body as he stumbled forward, confident in knowing that Derek would catch him. He let Derek lift his weight from the ledge, lowering him back down to the rooftop.
Derek held Stiles against him, pressing a kiss into his hair top as he let Stiles cry into his chest. He looked back at the Sheriff, catching the look of relief in the man’s tired face. He nodded towards the door, to where there was hospital staff waiting to grab Stiles. He was glad the Sheriff took over, forcing the others back inside the building to give them some privacy.
“Derek, I can’t go back in there,” Stiles finally confessed through his tears. His grip on Derek’s shirt tightened. “I almost hit him. I almost … I almost hurt Sammy.”
Derek tightened his hold on Stiles, his heart hurting when he realized just how much weight Stiles has lost. He tried to remember the way Stiles used to light up when he smiled. The way he laughed with his entire body, complaining how his stomach hurt from laughing. It had been weeks since Derek last saw Stiles really laugh. He knew leaving Sammy and the Sheriff alone with Stiles was wrong. He had become just as much Stiles’ anchor as Stiles was his, and leaving him meant that he was leaving Stiles without a focal point.
The Sheriff had offered to stay with Sammy and Stiles, giving Derek time to head home for fresh clothes and to pick up Cora from the airport. Derek must of said goodbye to Stiles more than a dozen times before he left. He gave Sammy just as many hugs and kisses. It wasn’t until Stiles was asleep that Derek forced himself to leave.
Derek knew something was wrong the minute he pulled into the hospital parking lot—even Cora could tell there was something happening. He ran as fast as he could, almost knocking over nurses, bursting into the room labeled Stilinski-Hale. He tried to listen through Sammy’s sobs that something was wrong as he clung to Melissa.
“Stiles yelled something and he just ran out,” Melissa explained. “John ran after him—Derek, I think he’s headed to the roof.”
Derek tried to turn around, only to be stopped by Sammy grabbing his hand. “Papa, something’s wrong with daddy! He doesn’t smell the same. It— it smells bad.”
“I know, buddy,” Derek answered, allowing Sammy to practically leap from Melissa and into his arms. “Daddy’s sick. He doesn’t feel well. But I have to go get him—bring him back inside so they can make him better, okay?”
Sammy weakly nodded against Derek’s chest, allowing Cora to pull him out of his father’s embrace.
Derek ran. He knew some people would be suspicious of his speed if they saw him. He didn’t care. He took the stairs nearly three at a time when he reached the staircase. He pushed passed the hospital staff, not caring when they told him he couldn’t go forward. He saw the Sheriff standing on the roof. He saw Stiles swaying on the ledge. He moved as quickly and quietly as possible, placing a hand on the Sheriff’s shoulder to let him know he was there.
Derek never imagined this for his life. He never imagined that he’d be as happy as he was the first morning he woke up with Stiles in his arms. The day Stiles asked him to marry him. Their wedding day. The day they decided to become fathers. The day Sammy was born. Everything came crashing down the morning Derek found Stiles in the bathroom, trembling and muttering that something was wrong, his brain on fire.
Weeks—months—of medical appointments and finally hospitalization followed that day. Stiles grew melancholy, forcing himself to smile whenever Sammy would stop by. He’d try hard to get Derek to pull Sammy out of the room before he started to spiral downwards. He hid his tears when his dad visited him, offering a faint smile or laugh as best he could, all in attempts to reassure his dad that all was well.
In the early mornings, when Derek got there before Stiles woke up, Derek would watch Stiles sleep. He loved those moments, feeling at ease as he watched Stiles serenely sleep. When he could, he’d slip into bed with Stiles, missing his husband’s warmth and comfort. It wasn’t easier—for either of them—to be away from each other.
Derek was sitting in the waiting room with the Sheriff when the doctor came to explain Stiles’ situation to them. Frontotemporal dementia. Stiles’ brain was on fire, lighting up on the MRI the same way his mother’s had. There wasn’t a cure—all they could do was wait for the inevitable and keep Stiles comfortable.
Derek wasn't even conscious of the way the Sheriff had embraced him, a sound hand on the back of his neck to ground him. A soft, weak, "We'll get through it," echoed in Derek's ears. He didn't believe the Sheriff—he had seen what happened to the man after his wife was diagnosed; he had seen Stiles afterwards.
“Derek, I can’t go back in there,” Stiles softly protested, his tears subsiding as his voice pulled Derek from his thoughts.
“Then let’s go home,” Derek offered, pulling away from Stiles. “Let’s get our things—get Sammy, and we’ll go home.”
Stiles nodded, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck as he pressed his face into the curve of Derek’s throat. “I want to go home, sourwolf,” his voice was muffled against Derek’s skin.
Derek picked Stiles up, his stomach clenching at how easy it was to hold him without using his reserved werewolf strength. He walked towards the door, going back into the hospital with the Sheriff following him. He was thankful when he caught Sammy’s scent lingering with Cora’s by the vending machines. He didn’t want Sammy to have to hear the conversation he was about to have with the doctors. He placed Stiles back in the hospital bed, pressing a fleeting kiss against his forehead.
Stiles let his fingers slip from Derek’s shirt, curling up underneath the blankets as he turned to hug his pillow. He offered his dad a sad smile when he came to side by his bed. His eyes drifted over to Derek to watch him as he talked to the doctor.
“I’m taking him home,” Derek stated when a the doctor tried to reason with him.
“With respect, Mr. Stilinski-Hale, but your husband’s condition is severe. He hasn’t been improving and it will only get worse.”
“I’m taking my husband home,” Derek curtly stated. “I’ll make sure he has the proper medical equipment, but I am bringing him home.” He turned from the doctor, going back into Stiles’ room to pack.
~*~
Stiles’ body was exhausted. He continued to barely eat, constantly falling asleep after he pushed the plates away from him. He enjoyed having Derek there, for most of the day—part of him was concerned Derek was wasting almost all his inheritance, but Derek told him not to think about it. That there was enough for neither of them to work, and to send Sammy to college a number of times.
One night, Derek woke up without Stiles in bed. He panicked, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind as he gracefully fell out of the bed, heading for the hallway. He ran through the hallway, his footsteps stuttering to a stop when he heard Stiles’ heartbeat in Sammy’s room. He drew closer to the open door, catching sight of Stiles laying in bed beside Sammy. He quietly leaned against the doorframe as he watched Stiles and Sammy.
Stiles was laying on his side, his eyes memorizing Sammy’s sleeping face. He smiled softly as his fingertips brushed the little bit of hair from Sammy’s forehead. He released a faint sigh as he hugged Sammy, pulling him in closer.
It was amazing how much Sammy happened to look like both Derek and Stiles. Cora offered to be a surrogate when they both started seriously talking about being fathers. Biologically, Sammy was Stiles’ and Cora’s. He was both Stilinski and Hale, and more often than not, he looked and acted exactly like Stiles. There were moments—moments Stiles liked to call his disapproving moments—when Sammy looked like Derek. His eyebrows would draw together, a scowl overtaking his features as he crossed his arms over his chest. In those moments, he acted like Derek and it showed.
Derek waited until Stiles willingly left Sammy’s room. He wasn’t surprised that Stiles didn’t see him sitting by the door—that Stiles tripped over his legs. Before Stiles could fall, Derek caught him. The angle was awkward for Derek, but he used all his strength to situate Stiles so he didn’t fall, merely plopped down into Derek’s lap. He noticed that Stiles didn’t make a sound of recognition that he would have fallen—another sign that Stiles was losing even more understandings of his surroundings.
“I was scared,” Derek started when Stiles remained silent, his slender back pressed up against his chest. It was never easy for Stiles to press up against Derek, their shoulders spanning the same length. But now that Stiles weighed less than he did in high school, he fit against Derek’s chest without issue—and Derek hated it.
“I just wanted to see him,” Stiles offered. “Before I … before I forget completely.”
Derek released a heavy sigh, pressing his nose along the base of Stiles’ neck as he breathed in his scent. It was no longer polluted by the sterilization of the hospital room—the sharp sting of plastic and bleached sheets. It was more Stiles now than it had been in months. But beneath the soap and tart scent of anxiety and joy and adderall, there was the smell of the sickness. The razor-edged slice of melancholy and pain piercing through.
“It’s getting worse,” Stiles stated, running his hands over Derek’s arms.
“I can’t lose you,” Derek weakly admitted, breaking down for the first time. He couldn’t be strong anymore—he was tired of being strong. He couldn’t hold everyone up, not when Stiles was the one crumpling. “Stiles, I can’t.”
Stiles shimmied in Derek grip, turning to look back at him. He reached his hand out to cup Derek’s cheek, catching sight of his wedding ring loosely settled on his finger. The ring had become looser the longer he was in the hospital, the worse he became. “You’ll never really lose me.”
Derek released a bitter sob, keeping his head down. “You’re my family. My pack. My mate. I can’t lose you—everyone else, I’ve lost them and could keep going, almost out of spite for the world. But you … I can’t.”
“I’m going to get worse, Derek,” Stiles answered. “I’m not going to be the person you married—”
“Stop it,” Derek almost growled, finally looking up at Stiles. “I knew loving you meant change—that we’d both change. And I don’t care how you change, I’m still going to love who you become.”
“It’s going to be so different from who I am,” Stiles answered, blinking back his tears. “I don’t want to become that, Derek. I don’t want to risk being a person who— who’d hurt you. Who’d hurt Sammy. I don’t want him having memories of me hurting him. Memories like those almost ruined the precious few ones I have with my mom. I don’t want that for him. I don’t want that for you.”
An eery silence fell between them, Stiles’ other meaning hanging in the air between them.
“You’re asking me to end it,” Derek suddenly stated, understanding dawning on him. An irrational anger flared in his chest, desire to shove Stiles from him growing. He couldn’t believe that Stiles would ask him to do that.
“Take me to bed,” Stiles offered in response. “I don’t want to fight outside Sammy’s room,” he explained before Derek could protest.
Derek silently carried Stiles back to their room, neither one of them commenting on the words just spoken between them. He placed Stiles on the bed, moving to pace by the foot of the mattress.
“Say something,” Stiles stated.
Derek paused, keeping his back to Stiles. “You want me to risk your life—you want me to kill you, Stiles.”
Stiles turned his head to look at the nightstand. He stared at the photo of the three of them—Derek with his arms around Stiles, Sammy settled between them; all of them smiling. “We have a good life,” he started. “Do you want it to end with me being out of my mind—irrational to the point where I can’t even tell who you or Sammy are? If you want the truth about what it was really like, go and ask my father. Because you’re living through it now, Derek.”
Derek hated that Stiles was right. He had already had that conversation with the Sheriff. He felt guilty for bringing it up, but knew he had to hear it. He had to know what was going to happen, and what he could do.
“I won’t lie to you, Derek,” the Sheriff had answered. “Claudia had her good days—few and rare, and in between. I didn’t know if she was going to have a good day when I saw her. More often than not, she wasn’t doing good. And Stiles … Stiles was so much stronger than me. He stayed there every hour he could—whether she was having a good day or not. He said it was worth it—those few short hours with her when she was herself. And then before either of us knew it, she was gone.” He had looked up at Derek, watching him carefully. “Son, there are going to be times when you think those few moments are worth it. But in the end, it’s what Stiles wants that matters.”
“What if he asks me to give him the Bite?” Derek had asked. “It could kill him—or worse, Deaton said. It could leave him in a constant state of pain, his brain permanently stuck like that.”
“Claudia asked me to kill her,” the Sheriff had suddenly confessed.
Derek had turned to look at him, the words soft enough for a human to miss, but the Sheriff knew better—he knew Derek would have been able to hear him.
“In her lucid moments,” the Sheriff had explained. “She begged me … she begged me to end it—she said that she didn’t want to hurt Stiles again. She didn’t want to hurt anymore. She would ask me, time and time again.” He took a deep breath, his eyes focused on looking through the observation window at Stiles soundly sleeping in the bed. “In the end, I couldn’t do it. I don’t know if it was some selfish part of me that wanted to keep her as long as I could, or if it was a moral part of me—a part of me that couldn’t kill the woman I loved.”
Derek had looked back through the window, watching the way Stiles’ chest steadily rose and fell.
“We have a tough road ahead of us, son,” the Sheriff started, placing a reassuring hand on Derek’s shoulder. “We can’t blame Stiles for anything that happens here on out—any of the behavior he starts to exhibit might not be him. But I also can’t blame you for any decisions you make.” He paused, giving Derek’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Or decisions he asks you to make.”
It was a way of admitting that he wouldn’t blame Derek for killing Stiles if he asked him to. It was a way to not incriminate any of them. It made Derek’s heart hurt and his need to protect Stiles even greater. But he knew there was no way he could protect Stiles from this.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Derek finally answered, turning to look at Stiles. “And if you think you can bully me into it, you clearly don’t remember the man you married.”
“I know you’re a bleeding heart,” Stiles argued. “And I know that, no matter how much you selfishly want to keep me here, you’d never make me suffer.”
The bed was cold that night, both of them turning their backs on each other as their words hung above them. Neither wanted to admit that it was unfair what they were doing to each other.
Derek woke in the early hours of the morning, well before Sammy would wake up. He turned to see Stiles nearly hanging out of the bed. He slowly moved, carefully pulling Stiles back into the bed. His heart stuttered when he felt just how cold Stiles was. He panicked, searching for a heartbeat. It was there, faint but there. He pulled Stiles close, holding him against his chest as he counted the beats of Stiles’ heart.
For once in his life, Derek had decided that he was going to be selfish when it came to Stiles—that he was going to keep Stiles for himself as much he could. He wanted to have Stiles by his side, for always. But he regretted his selfishness, thinking about how much pain Stiles was in. He knew Stiles was right—he’d never make Stiles suffer if he truly wanted it to end; if he didn’t want the inevitable ending to be a handful of incoherent moments before flatlining.
“I’ll kill you,” Derek uttered the moment he felt Stiles wake up.
Stiles ran his hands along Derek’s arms, pushing back into his arms.
“I love you enough to kill you,” Derek explained. “I love you more than that—I’m always going to. But I love you enough to let you go—to end it if that’s what you want.”
Stiles turned, taking a few deep breaths as he scooted his body enough to look at Derek. He ran his hands up and over Derek’s arms, a sad smile dancing across his lips. “Give me the Bite,” he finally uttered.
“If it doesn’t—”
“I’m dead either way, Derek,” Stiles weakly stated, his eyelids heavy as he blinked his tiredness away. “I’d rather die, with my mind still intact—knowing that you’re here—instead of being out of my mind.”
Derek pressed a soft kiss to Stiles’ lips, holding him tightly as he forced the thoughts of losing Stiles from his mind. He wasn’t ready to lose him—he wouldn’t lose him.
Stiles cupped Derek’s face in his hands, sharing a series of kisses before pulling back. He offered Derek a soft smile, a faint nod of consent as he leaned back and guided Derek down to his side. He ran his fingers through Derek’s hair, an intake of sharp breath as the only indicator that he felt Derek’s lips caressing his skin.
Stiles released a faint cry that died in his throat when Derek’s fangs pierced through his skin. He tightened his fingers in Derek’s hair, his breathing fast and hurried as he pushed his panic down. He closed his eyes when Derek’s fangs gave way to soothing licks.
Derek stared down at the mark along Stiles’ side, his eyes scanning the way the marks contrasted against his pale skin. He ran his thumb along the bite marks. He crawled his way up Stiles’ body, moving to pull him against his chest—cradling him as they waited. He closed his eyes, listening to his heartbeat.
“I love you,” Derek uttered, entwining his fingers with Stiles’ as he pressed his nose into Stiles’ hairline.
“I love you, too, sourwolf,” Stiles softly answered, his body drifting off to sleep.
Derek stayed awake, listening to the beat of Stiles’ heart, aware that it could be the last time he heard it.
~*~
Derek woke to a cold bed. His skin was tingling, an understanding that something was different. He startled, remembering that he gave Stiles the Bite early this morning. He rose from the bed, his eyes darting around the room in hopes of spotting Stiles somewhere. He halted when he heard Sammy laughing. He rushed down the stairs, his feet barely touching the carpet. He paused in the doorway, catching sight of Sammy sitting up on the counter, laughing as he watched Stiles dance around the kitchen.
Stiles’ body was light, moving with ease as he shuffled to the music, frying pan flipping the pancake. He smiled at Sammy when he laughed. He flicked a little flour at Sammy, setting the frying pan down as he turned around to get more batter. His smile faltered a little when he saw Derek standing in the doorway. He offered a small reassuring smile, feeling antsy under Derek gawking at him.
“Papa, daddy’s all better,” Sammy announced with a grin, flicking a dusting of flour at Stiles.
Stiles let his eyes go, a soft blue flare flashed over his irises—a blue that mimicked Derek’s own beta blue. He smiled when Derek’s eyes flared red in response as he started walking towards both Stiles and Sammy. He laughed when Derek picked him up, hugging him tightly against his chest.
“It worked, it worked,” Derek spoke against Stiles’ skin as he pressed his nose against the curve of Stiles’ throat.
“It did,” Stiles answered, a soft laugh bubbling up from his chest as Derek pulled back, pressing a kiss against his lips. He clung to Derek, holding him close as his senses flared, fulling taking in Derek’s scent and emotions—he could smell the fear turning to joy, the love, the happiness at holding him close. He smiled against his lips, overjoyed that Derek was holding him close. He pulled Sammy close when he jumped off the counter and hugged both his fathers.
It was almost too much of a sensory overload. It was almost too much love for him to handle all at once. Almost. But it was more than enough to know they were together—they were safe and healthy.
Stiles wasn’t going anywhere. The feeling of Sammy laughing against his side, and the way Derek’s lips murmured ‘I love you’ against his skin, proved he wasn’t going anywhere.