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They didn’t plan on getting caught, obviously, but like with a lot of the things that they were chasing, this one was trickier than they all anticipated. It was a witch, this time, one that seemed innocuous enough, but proved to have a grudge against humans with a magic spark who allied with werewolves. So Stiles -- of course it ended up being Stiles -- got caught in the crossfire, and not by accident as was the case other times.
The witch targeted him, that much was clear the moment that her spell hit him directly, with no one else anywhere near him in that moment. He shook it off at first, and there was no obvious immediate sign that the spell did anything life-endangering. The witch’s momentary elation at her success was enough for the rest of the pack to catch her off guard and trap her. They stripped her off her powers with the help of Deaton, and Derek sent everyone home, the pack exhausted after days of tracking her and stake-outs.
“I can’t go home,” Stiles said after they watched Erica and Boyd drive off.
“Your Dad on the night shift?” Derek asked.
“Yeah,” Stiles confirmed, “he said he wanted to be on guard in case anything went wrong.”
The Sheriff was in on pack business now, which came with its own set of advantages. Having the police force as a backup was one of them, but it wasn’t without several long discussions about the dangers of Stiles being in the pack. Calling John after Stiles had been hit by a spell was not something Derek wanted to do. Especially when they still didn’t know if the spell did anything, since there were no signs of Stiles sprouting wings or furry ears yet.
“You can stay,” Derek said, trying to sound like he didn’t want to say the words.
In reality, he was glad to have an excuse to keep an eye on Stiles. Over the last few years, they formed a friendship that was more than the hesitant partnership that they started off with. Stiles had stayed over at Derek’s loft multiple times, the bed in the main area was soaked through with his scent, now that Derek made the upstairs area liveable for himself.
“Thank you,” Stiles said, his voice quieter than Derek was used to.
It set off Derek’s internal alarm, and he narrowed his eyes at Stiles’ hunched form on the couch.
“Are you okay?” Derek asked, concern tinting his voice.
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles nodded, “just tired. Humans need more sleep than you furry fiends.”
“Go get some, then,” Derek pointed towards the bed in the corner, still rumpled from when Stiles stayed over the night before.
Stiles grumbled, but lifted himself slowly off the couch and shuffled towards the bed. Derek looked at Stiles’ sluggish movements with concern, but tiredness could account for that, so he pushed the nagging worry away. Stiles fell on top of the covers, and moments later Derek heard his breathing even out, and he chuckled at the quiet snores.
The loft fell into silence then, and Derek felt his muscles relax. With a last look to the bed, he headed up the staircase and up to his bedroom, glad that for once Peter wasn’t around to poke at the fact that Stiles was around again . Even without Peter present to remind him, Derek was all too aware of the fact that Stiles was there, that his breathing and heartbeat echoed through the loft, loud enough to keep him awake.
When he jolted upright some time later, he was disoriented for a moment, because he couldn’t remember falling asleep to begin with. It was the bitter tang of fear in the air around him that brought him back to reality.
Stiles, Derek’s mind supplied immediately after his brain came back online. Shit, Stiles.
Because there was no other possible source of that kind of fear, one that he recognized all too easily. It wasn’t the kind of mid-battle fear, spiked with determination and bravery. Instead, it was the kind he only smelled that one time in the hospital, when the Nogitsune was fighting to take control over Stiles’ body, and when they all -- Stiles, Scott, the Sheriff, Melissa, and Derek himself -- were sitting around in the waiting and examination rooms, terrified of what they were going to be told.
This, Derek thought as he rushed down the stairs -- still barefoot, barely managing the pull on a T-shirt as he went -- towards the bed in the living area, was the smell of fear combined with the sharpness of loss, the biting tone of panic.
“Stiles,” he said when he got to the bundle of blankets shivering though the loft was summer-warm.
“No, no no no,” Stiles voice came from the nest of sheets he’d caught himself in, probably as he trashed around the bed earlier. “Don’t, please don’t, I can’t…”
Guilt washed over Derek as he thought of how he dropped his alertness, fell asleep and wasn’t awake sooner, to prevent this, to help . He reached out, and he peeled the top layer of the blankets off of Stiles with gentleness that he didn’t normally use. Underneath, he found Stiles mumbling into a pillow smushed into his face, a layer of sweat covering his skin, his whole body radiating more heat than was normal for a human.
“Stiles,” Derek said, his voice barely a whisper, only audible to werewolf ears and not to the human curled up on the bed.
It took a while of panicky thoughts about who to call and what to do about Stiles’ condition before the realization hit. His thumbs were already scrolling through the contact on his phone and looking for John’s or Melissa’s number, when the events from earlier in the day hit.
The spell, Derek thought, it must be the spell.
That made him calm down a little more, but new questions came up -- what was the spell, what was it doing, what could he do to stop it -- and he thumbed his way to Deaton’s number instead. He didn’t bother with apologies for the late night call, and a quick “it’s Stiles” made the apology moot, because that made Deaton alert immediately. Derek rambled his way through explaining what seemed to be happening to Stiles, and scrambled to remember what the witch had done when casting the spell.
“It seems like it’s temporary,” Deaton finally said, after a long pause during which Derek’s heart almost pounded out of his chest as he watched Stiles toss and turn on the bed. “From what you’ve said about the spell, and Stiles’ symptoms, it will wear off.”
He then rattled off a few instructions, which included trying to cool Stiles down and keeping him hydrated -- Derek berated himself for not thinking of that -- and hung up.
“Stiles, hey,” Derek said, loud enough for human ears to hear. “Hey, we should…”
A shower was the first thing that came to Derek’s mind when he thought of ways to bring down Stiles’ temperature, but that required getting them both upstairs. Stiles didn’t seem in any condition to move though, which Derek realized the moment he tried to speak to him.
“No, don’t, please, not him, no,” Stiles continued mumbling.
Derek’s eyes widened, and he wondered if the usual rules about not waking someone up from a nightmare applied -- did he try to get Stiles back to consciousness, or was it better to let the illusion play out, only offering comfort and safety? -- as the scent of panic hit his nose again.
Sleepwalking, he thought, that’s the thing that people shouldn’t be woken up from.
With that in mind, Derek paused to think how he was going to do that. Before he came up with a solution, a hand shot up towards him, and Stiles’ fingers were tugging him down by his T-shirt a second later. Derek, caught off guard, followed the pull and landed on the blankets next to Stiles, only just avoiding to hit or squash him.
“Der, safe, y’re okay,” Stiles mumbled as he breathed in deeply, like he was scenting Derek.
“Yeah, I am,” Derek responded automatically.
He brought a hand up to Stiles’ forehead and brushed the damp curls away, almost flinching when he felt heat rise from the pale skin. Stiles was almost white, the heat of the fever only leaving red streaks on his cheeks, the rest of him washed out and almost ashen. Derek shuddered at the sight, and he moved to tug Stiles’ hand away from his T-shirt, so he could at least get a cool washcloth. The fever seemed to be rising still, and Stiles was clearly delirious, mumbling “no” whenever Derek tried to move away.
Eventually, he managed to unhook Stiles’ fingers from the fabric, and he rushed to and from the kitchen sink across the room. Stiles was barely breathing and his heart was rabbiting in his chest by the time Derek walked back, distress soaking the air around him.
“Shh, hey, you’re okay,” Derek spoke as he finally brought the cloth to Stiles’ skin, rubbing the sweat off and letting the coolness linger to draw out the fever.
There was only mumbling from Stiles’ lips for a long while, not clear enough even for Derek’s ears, the words muffled by the pillow that Stiles brought to his face again. But as the seconds ticked away, Derek could feel the almost imperceptible change -- the fever was subsiding, and Stiles’ body was cooling off -- under his fingers.
“Der’k?” Stiles asked, his voice a little less shaky than at the height of the fever.
“Yeah, I’m here,” Derek said, wringing sweat out of the cloth before he dipped it into the bowl with cold water again.
Stiles hissed at the contact when Derek brought the cloth back to his skin, over Stiles’ arm.
“‘m s’rry,” Stiles said, his words still slurred and sluggish, like it was an effort to speak at all.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Derek said with a frown. “It was the spell that the witch hit you with, it caused a fever. You seem… a little better now.”
“You were here with me,” Stiles whispered with disbelief, and his eyes were locked on Derek’s face. “I didn’t… say anything inappropriate, did I?”
With each word, it was clearer that Stiles was coming back to himself, that the delirium from earlier was fading along with the fever. The color in his cheeks was coming back, his skin no longer white and clammy.
“No,” Derek said simply.
“That’s… yeah, that’s okay,” Stiles nodded to himself.
His eyelids were already dropping again, exhaustion taking over since the feverish state didn’t count as proper rest.
“Go to sleep,” Derek told him. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
“‘kay,” Stiles agreed, already on his way to falling asleep. “Y’re the best, Der’k. Best Alpha. My Alpha. Mine,” he breathed out and then his heartbeat and lungs slipped into the mode that Derek knew as deep sleep.
It was when his mind replayed those last few words before Stiles crashed that Derek’s eyes widened in shock, and he froze with his hand on Stiles’ arm, brain spinning.
Mine.
“We’re definitely talking in the morning,” Derek said quietly, aware that Stiles couldn’t hear him.
Despite the earlier scare, Stiles’ fever and panic, Derek’s lips curled into a tentative smile. He dropped the cloth into one of the bowls of water, and then moved over to the couch, where he settled so he could see and hear Stiles perfectly.
Yours, he thought and then let the dreams take over.