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“—where the hell are you, Derek, answer the phone, I swear to god—”
The voicemail cuts off with an enraging beep and Stiles cries out in frustration, his pained noise echoing through the empty loft. His shaking hand squeezes around the phone as the object digs into his palm, but he barely feels the pain.
Derek’s been gone for hours, and it’s unlike him to not answer his phone or reply to Stiles’ increasingly anxious string of texts. Stiles can feel through their mate bond that Derek is alive, that much is true, but something’s wrong, Derek should have come home from work by now, should have called back at the very least.
It’s nearing ten at night and the sky is pitch black, air growing colder outside. Stiles would drive out to the preserve right now if he were dumber, but has half the mind to do it anyway.
He knows he won’t be able to sleep like this, his concern for Derek speeding his pulse up and racketing his heart rate to dangerous levels. He’s sweating, moisture making his shirt stick to his skin. One of Derek’s henleys is layered on top of him as well, but he refuses to take it off.
He just needs to know Derek’s okay, know his mate is alright. Where the hell is he?
It’s dangerous to go out alone at night, Stiles knows. But he can’t bring his dad into this, it might be dangerous, and most of the pack doesn’t live in town anymore. He has no one to bring with him on his search, but when has that ever stopped him before?
Just because their mate bond still feels strong now doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way. He can’t take that chance, cannot wait a moment longer, Stiles suddenly decides. He could be too late for Derek already, the wolf’s soul fading before Stiles has a moment to feel it. Each second Stiles stays at home, waiting, hesitating, Derek could be — could be dy—
He can’t allow his mind to go there, is already near tears as it is. Stiles is working himself into a panic, and as he floats around the loft in a daze, grabbing equipment here and there to throw in a duffel bag, his stomach groans and churns. Bile creeps up his throat, but Stiles hardly notices.
Five minutes later, he’s ready to leave, heading towards the door at last with plenty of weapons and flashlight and batteries, blankets and spare clothes and food. He hasn’t had to pack like this in a while, thought most of the Beacon Hills horrors were behind them now. But none of that matters when Derek’s life is at stake.
Stiles reaches a shaking, pale hand towards the door handle, but can’t quite make it there before his vision swims and he fights off a sudden impending blackness, a vignette closing in on his eyes. He’s forgetting to breathe properly, he knows this, but he can’t spare a second for himself in the commotion, he has to get to Derek.
He’s breathing too rapidly, choking down air while he can get it, while he thinks ahead of the route he’ll take to the preserve, the quickest way to the center of it, just in case—
His stomach clenches like a vise and it nearly pulls him to the floor in its intensity. He doesn’t have time for this, his own body is not important right now. It’s been too many hours, he needs to get to Derek.
“Fuck,” Stiles gasps to himself, swallows down acid that steals what little breath he has and turns his mouth sour and acrid. He can’t hurl now, there’s no time—
Spots swim in his vision again, but fuck this. As he always says, he’s a fan of ignoring a problem until it eventually just goes away. If he doesn’t address his own body breaking down on him, maybe it’ll correct itself.
Stiles slides open the door with one hand, shoving it away from him with panicked strength, and moves to step through the entrance when he rushes headfirst into something tall, hard and unmovable.
It’s Derek.
Stiles doesn’t believe his eyes at first, duffel bag dropping easily to the ground with a clang as his sweaty grip slackens. He takes one look at Derek standing in front of him, looking healthy and handsome and beautiful as ever, and launches himself at his mate, arms wrapping tightly around Derek’s neck.
“Der—” is all he manages to get out against Derek’s skin, a muffled sob breaking through instead. Derek’s own arms wrap securely around Stiles as he holds his shaking body against his own. Stiles is cold and sweaty against his own warm body, but they’re both safe. They’re okay.
Derek shushes his mate gently, brushing a large palm up and down Stiles’ heaving back and through his hair, cupping his skull and murmuring soothing words.
“I’m okay, see, I’m fine, Stiles. I’m alright, shh.”
But Stiles doesn’t stop shaking.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t call. I didn’t have reception for miles and there weren’t any payphones. I just wanted to get back to you as soon as I could. I’m sorry, shh, it’s okay, baby.”
Derek’s voice is calming and grounding, loud and real in Stiles’ ear, but Stiles’ body is louder. He still hasn’t stopped quivering uncontrollably, sweat beading up by his temples, and his head is pounding, or maybe that’s his own heartbeat in his ears. He refuses to let go of Derek, doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to part from him again.
They haven’t had a scare like this in a while, and it’s terrifying, Stiles’ body unused to the adrenaline after so long away from it. His breaths come in panicked huffs against Derek’s neck, and it sounds like Stiles is sobbing, taking big gulps of air and almost choking on them.
“Baby, come on, breathe. It’s okay,” Derek tries to soothe, attempting to pull Stiles’ head away from Derek’s neck so he has a chance at breathing better. But it doesn’t help; it only seems to make it worse.
Nausea continues to rack through Stiles’ body, threatening to spill over, though he’s not quite there yet. But the feeling is overpowering, sickening, imminent, yet Stiles can’t break away to head to the bathroom, cannot bear to part with Derek for even a second. Can’t stand an inch of space between them.
So he swallows down more bile, feeling sour saliva fill his mouth, mixed with the taste of relief of having Derek in his arms again, safe and sound. It’s just that the adrenaline still hasn’t left his body, hasn’t caught up with what’s right in front of him, yet, and now Stiles is panicking for another reason.
The panic itself is continuing to build in him like a cyclone, swirling and spinning and raging.
“Stiles, breathe,” Derek insists, almost begs him, cupping Stiles’ face with his large, warm palms, but Stiles doesn’t, can’t.
Stiles shakes his head minutely, swallowing down another rush of bile, mouth tasting tinny and sickening. He squeezes his eyes shut as his own hands come up to clench around Derek’s wrists. He’ll never let go.
“I — I can’t,” Stiles manages. He’s sobbing uncontrollably, now, cannot catch his breath for the life of him. Each inhale turns into a hiccup, erratic and intense, and he feels like he’s gagging yet forced underwater with each attempt at a breath.
“You can,” Derek assures, but Stiles shakes his head wordlessly, helplessly.
Derek repeats his own words, a calm, stable exterior put on for Stiles, but not without his own slight panic underneath. He hates that his absence did this to Stiles, hates that he cannot reliably calm his mate down, that Stiles is suffering so much, that he himself caused such an intense panic attack.
Stiles is pale and gray and sweating, looking like he’s moments from passing out or throwing up, and Derek can only stand there and keep him upright, make sure their skin keeps contact, that Stiles knows Derek isn’t going anywhere without him ever again.
At Stiles’ faraway glance, pupils too dilated, Derek’s brain comes back online and he grabs ahold of Stiles and slowly lowers him to the ground. Stiles slouches instantly against him on the cement floor, and Derek leans against the wall, arms looped around his shaking mate. At least Stiles is safer now, if he does pass out.
But hot tears still flow freely down Stiles’ cheeks as he continues to gasp for air. So Derek thinks wildly back to his old internet research of how to stop a panic attack, before he and Stiles even got together, wanting to be prepared to help the boy if needed.
He doesn’t have time to head to the kitchen for water or ice, and Derek doesn’t think Stiles could handle him leaving his sight again, even if only to the next room. He searches his brain madly for any other hacks he read about, and there’s something, he remembers the phrase ‘bilateral stimulation,’ whatever the hell that means, aha—
Derek shoves his hand into his pocket in his awkward position on the floor, dragging out his phone with clawed fingers and handing it to Stiles. Stiles’ grip is slack and his face is perplexed. Derek doesn’t blame him. He wraps his mate’s shaking fingers around the phone, making him hold onto it, though a few teardrops land on the screen at once.
“Toss it back and forth between your hands,” Derek instructs, reaching desperately back into his memory. He cannot fuck this up, cannot make this any worse for Stiles than it is already.
“It stimulates both parts of your brain to calm you down,” Derek explains, half-guessing at this point, though he knows the basis is true. “Like how you’re supposed to think of math to stop from crying. It helps you think rationally and deactivates the fight-or-flight response.”
The more Derek talks, the safer Stiles feels, though Stiles can hardly focus on his words right now. Derek demonstrates passing the phone from hand to hand, clasping Stiles’ hands in his own to show him the technique.
Please work, Derek prays as he continues to observe Stiles’ hiccupping sobs with his own tight chest.
Stiles fumbles the phone a little, gasps when he’s about to drop it on the floor, nearly chokes on his inhale and gives a pained cough that looks like it hurts.
“It doesn’t matter if it breaks,” Derek says, and it’s true. His phone is the least important thing right now, and it’s funny how the phone started all this off in the first place. But it’s not really funny at all.
“Come on, you can do it,” Derek whispers, his brows tilting in, worry creasing his features. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if this doesn’t work; Stiles’ panic attacks are rarely this bad.
Stiles is clumsy, but he’s trying, and succeeds in passing the phone from hand to hand, just like Derek did. Derek doesn’t move his arms from around him, only shifts them a little to allow Stiles more movement.
Something’s working. A long minute passes of Stiles concentrating on the phone trick, and all his attention is on this, now. His breathing begins to regulate, ever so slightly, but it’s a huge success, and Derek takes a deep breath himself in relief.
Stiles is calming. The trick worked, Derek helped, thank god.
Tears still flow easily down Stiles’ cheeks, but as the minutes tick on, he’s not gasping for breath anymore, the hiccups and sobs ceasing. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is hot and tearstreaked, still pale and clammy, but he looks a bit better, and Derek couldn’t be more grateful.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he murmurs into Stiles’ ear, pulling Stiles against him when Stiles finally sets the phone down out of exhaustion. Stiles sags into his side and buries his face in Derek’s neck again, arms clinging like he regretted letting go in the first place.
The pair stay like that on the cold cement floor of the loft’s dark hallway, huddled together and unmoving for many more long minutes. The only sound is their breathing, labored and harsh, but breathing nonetheless.
Not an inch of space exists between the two, and Derek knows they’re both staying home from work tomorrow, will likely spend the whole day in bed with each other, clinging and hugging and gripping tight.
“I’m sorry,” Derek whispers again, but Stiles shakes his head against Derek’s neck, squeezing him briefly. He’s not quite as nauseous anymore, the churning and spinning kept to the background for now.
“Me too,” Stiles mumbles back, cheeks heating and betraying the shame and embarrassment he always feels after his panic attacks. He must have looked pathetic, out of control and weak and an absolute mess—
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” comes Derek’s loving response, and god, what did Stiles do to deserve him?
Tears fill his eyes again of their own accord, and really, Stiles is surprised at himself. He thought he had none left.
“I was so scared,” he chokes out, cuddling closer to Derek, practically on his lap, now.
Derek will never forgive himself for this day. He vows to make it up to Stiles, to never let this happen again.
There’s nothing he can say that will convey all this, the extent of his remorse and guilt, so he says the next best thing, but it doesn’t feel like enough.
“I love you. So fucking much, Stiles,” he breathes, like the love he feels for his mate can hardly be contained.
“Love you too,” comes Stiles’ soft response.
They continue to cling to each other until Stiles is too cold to sit on the freezing concrete anymore. Derek helps him up and they walk hand-in-hand back into the apartment at last, both glad, not for the first time, that they don’t have neighbors to witness Stiles’ breakdown. It’s too intimate, too harrowing, the baring of Stiles’ soul just something that needs to be kept between them.
They share a hot shower together, warm up again and never take their hands off each other. Derek makes chamomile tea, but Derek himself is what continues to soothe Stiles the most. When they climb into bed, Stiles cuddles up to his wolf immediately, wrapping every limb he can around him and tucking his warm face against his chest.
Sleep doesn’t come for hours, thoughts of losing each other too fresh in their minds. Quiet words are exchanged, and even quieter kisses. They say all they need to with soft breaths and loving gazes.
When Stiles finally falls asleep, it’s to dreams of Derek running just out of his grasp, infuriating and maddening and harrowing, and Stiles wakes at three in the morning with a strangled sob, falling back into Derek’s arms like he never left.
After that, they don’t try to sleep again that night.
The next day brings peace and languidity, laziness and exhaustion, but they deserve the rest. Stiles doesn’t seem to take his maple eyes off Derek the whole day.
They spend the time off tangled on the couch together, just breathing, now that Stiles can, again, now that Derek’s here to share his breaths with in the first place. They’d be meaningless without Derek.
Things like this still happen to them sometimes, events that summon the past, bring up things they thought were finally over, fears they hoped were forgotten.
The only way to get through it is with each other; they both know this, know how they have no hope of existing without each other. It just wouldn’t be possible.
So they make the most of their day off, refusing to leave each other’s side.
Just breathing and breathing and breathing.