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There’s a pit of anxiety making its way into Derek’s stomach, and it just gets worse the longer Stiles is gone. It’s been hours, and he was supposed to be back at some indeterminate time, and Derek tries to be calm about it, but every time his mate is out of sight it just feels wrong. Their pack bonds are still going strong, but the invisible string that ties them together has been tense and tight and thrumming with stress the last couple hours. Derek has no clue what’s going on, where Stiles is, if he’s okay or safe — just that he’s alive.
His phone is dead; Derek knows because he’s tried calling him practically every minute since he started getting worried, and his location is nonexistent, and he’s not answering his texts. Derek has no leads here. He’s seconds away from rushing into the preserve and sniffing Stiles out himself, but Stiles isn’t even supposed to be in the preserve, he had a whole list of errands to get through all over town. The forest just happens to be where shit usually goes down, where trouble finds Stiles or Stiles finds trouble.
But Derek should wait here if Stiles comes stumbling home. If he’s hurt, if he needs Derek. There’s too many options, and none of them feel right, and the panic is seeping into Derek’s chest now, overtaking him along with the rush of his heartbeat in his ears and the pounding in his throat. His claws are out and he doesn’t even care enough to try and retract them. He’s sure his eyes are glowing red, and his fangs have dropped minutes ago already. Where is Stiles? Where is his mate?
Unable to keep to the loft any longer, about to wear a hole in the floor with all his pacing, Derek makes a decision. He steps towards the door in a haze of stress, reaching to yank it open, when a faint sound suddenly makes its way to his ears.
Stiles’ heartbeat.
It’s not strong, but it’s there. And it’s increasing in volume as the seconds pass, as Derek stands stock still in the doorway. Then there’s the hum of the Jeep, the screech of tires on the road, and now Stiles’ heartbeat is growing louder in his ears and Derek nearly collapses with relief.
He’s down the steps in no time, rushing out into the parking lot just as Stiles is slamming the car to a stop haphazardly. His heartbeat is spiraling now, pounding and beating almost straight through his chest, and Derek runs to him, meeting him as Stiles pushes open the car door. He's itching to hold him, his bones aching with the need, feeling like he'll jump out of his skin if he doesn't get his hands on Stiles in the next five seconds.
"I'm fine, I'm okay, I promise," Stiles rushes out in a mumble, like he knows how worked up Derek's been. He can probably feel their bond as well. "Got caught up."
That's an understatement. There's blood seeping through Stiles' shirt where he slouches on the seat, and he's sweating, his pale face wincing as he glances warily up at Derek to gauge his reaction.
"What the hell happened?" Derek asks angrily, grabbing Stiles' waist and thigh where there thankfully doesn't seem to be any source of blood.
"Something— with claws," Stiles pants out. He's got a hand wrapped around his side, pressing against a wound, and there's blood on Stiles' wedding band, and Derek stares at it with his murder-brows full on display, concerned and anxious. "Didn't get a good look. Think it's dead now."
"You think?" Derek echoes, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.
"Well, could you come back from the dead after your head's cut off, Derek?" Stiles snarks weakly. He lays his free hand over one of Derek's. "I mean. Maybe it runs in the family. With Peter, and everything. Huh."
"Shut up, Stiles," Derek says, exasperated and stressed and smelling the sickly scent of blood in the air. "We need to get you to the hospital."
"Nonono," Stiles gasps, already trying to push his way out of the car, his hand shoving meekly at Derek's chest. It does nothing, obviously, since Derek's a brick wall. "It's not that bad, I'll fix it myself."
"You'll fix it yourself?" Derek repeats, because Stiles says a lot of weird shit on a good day, but especially when he's bleeding out and in pain. "You're insane."
"I already knew that, thanks, Worrywolf. There's a first aid kit in the back, I'll just—ah, ow—sew it up. It'll be fine."
There might as well be steam coming out of Derek's nostrils and ears from all the stress his husband is causing him.
"No," he balks immediately. "I'll drive you—"
"Noooo, Der, please, I've done this like a million times, I know what I'm doing, it'll be fine! It's just, like, a scratch, it looks worse than it is. Really." Stiles' puppy dog eyes are out but his pale, sweaty face kind of ruins the effect.
But then Derek thinks of the hospital, of the waiting room and the bleach and antiseptics and bodily fluids and the stench of pain and sickness, how Stiles always looks even more pallid and unwell in the horrible fluorescent lights, how it takes forever just to be seen. And he trusts Stiles, he does — Stiles is practiced in stitching himself up and taking care of his own mild wounds, so sighs and rolls his eyes, squeezing them shut for a moment before making a decision.
"Fine," Derek accepts, "but only if you let me take care of you after."
"Well, of course, how could I turn that down?" Stiles grins, looking a bit woozy. He tries to sit up from his slouched position, but Derek can tell it's hard, so he helps him, holding him with firm hands and a steady grip. He kisses Stiles on the temple for a long second before making his way to the back of the Jeep, finding the extensive first aid kit easily and bringing it back to Stiles.
"It's a good thing you're not squeamish," Stiles starts, prying open the kit and digging out the supplies he's looking for, "because seeing this much blood every fucking day would really suck, y'know?"
"I'd argue that it still currently sucks," Derek mutters. He walks around to the passenger side door and climbs in next to Stiles. This would really be easier to do in an actual room with four walls and maybe even a tile floor, but Derek doesn't want to carry Stiles in this state lest he get more injured.
Derek watches, wincing, as Stiles pulls up his shirt and plaid and examines the wound. It's really not deep, just a scratch that's still bleeding, but the worst is indeed over and it would be a shame to go to the ER just for that. So Stiles douses it in antiseptic and starts threading a needle, and yeah, Derek's not squeamish, but this is still slightly disturbing.
Stiles struggles to hold up his shirt and see what he's doing at the same time, so Derek nudges him and helps him pull off his multiple tops carefully, wincing again when Stiles makes a face at the pain from the movement. His clothes sit balled up in Derek's lap and Derek reaches for Stiles again immediately after his hands are free. Stiles has got bruises everywhere on his torso, plus some old and new scars, and Derek thinks he'd like to kiss them all when they're settled back in the loft. To make them all better.
Derek's hand reaches Stiles' jean-clad thigh and he settles his palm there, pain seeping up into his black veins immediately. Stiles' body relaxes at once, melting back into the seat as his eyes close and he sighs out.
"Fuck," Stiles breathes. Whenever Derek takes his pain, it's like a weight has been lifted off his body. He hurts so much on the regular that he doesn't realize how much pain he's in until he's relieved of it. Derek knows this, and tries to insist on helping more, but Stiles is stubborn, so that's usually the end of those conversations.
"Better?" Derek doesn't even have to ask; he can taste Stiles' relief in the air.
"Amazing. Thanks, dude," Stiles says gratefully, smiling at him. The pain must have been bad enough for Stiles to let Derek take it, and Derek doesn't know how to feel about that.
"Don't call me dude," he says instead, and Stiles just rolls his eyes and leans forward to bite at Derek's jaw.
"Hey," Derek mutters, grabbing Stiles' face gently in a hand before he can pull away completely. He makes their eyes meet by tipping Stiles' chin up, and Stiles' are honey-filled pools of caramel that look at him with adoration, and Derek loves him.
"I was worried about you," he tells Stiles, and Stiles' expression drops at once.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes truthfully, "I'll keep it charged next time, I promise. Or I'll learn telekinesis so we can talk to each other in our minds. I really think I could do it—"
"It's telepathy, dumbass," Derek interrupts, quirking the edge of his mouth before pressing the most gentle kiss to Stiles' plush lips.
"Don't be mean to me, I almost died!" Stiles pouts, but kisses Derek back anyway, just a few small pecks that provide the most comfort either of them have had in hours. Their noses brush and Derek's heart swells.
"Don't even joke," Derek growls. He pushes Stiles gently away from him at last, so Stiles can resettle in his seat and dig out the sterilized needle again.
Derek's pain drain does the job, and Stiles stitches himself up again with practiced ease. There's little pain because Derek took it all, but by the end Stiles looks sleepy and relaxed, and Derek just wants to gather him in his arms and never let him go.
He settles for tugging Stiles' face towards him again, resting their foreheads together while they share the air between them and close their eyes for a break. Derek strokes Stiles' cheek with his thumb as he holds his face so softly, touching him so reverently, so grateful that Stiles is back safe in his arms, that he can feel his skin against his. Stiles is here, warm, and alive, and Derek will keep him close forever.
"I love you," Derek murmurs out against Stiles' lips. He feels them quirk beneath his, and then Stiles is echoing the words back to him, softly and sweetly, just for Derek. "Let me bring you upstairs," Derek finally decides after they've sat together, hands interlaced tightly, for a bit too long now. He wraps Stiles up in his plaid again, shoving the bloodied t-shirt in his back pocket.
"Mmkay," Stiles slurs, pressing a kiss to Derek's cheek and moving to slide out the door. Derek's around the other side before his feet can touch the pavement, and he lifts Stiles into his arms easily, feeling at once like everything is right again. Holding the person he loves the most in the world right to him, his warm weight in his arms, Stiles' tired head leaning against his shoulder, moving to nestle into his neck where only Stiles is allowed to touch. Derek will keep him safe like this, no matter what.
He walks them up the many flights of stairs, and they could take the elevator, but this way lets Stiles stay in his arms just that much longer. Stiles nuzzles against him like a sleepy cat, pressing a few slow kisses against his skin, and Derek nearly melts where he stands, full of the utmost adoration for the man in his arms.
There's only so many times he can say I love you, but he thinks Stiles knows anyway by the way Derek holds him so dearly to his body, the gentle way he places him down on the bathroom counter when they get back in the loft, the long, tender kiss he leaves on Stiles' lips before anything else is done.
"You're mine forever," he whispers out, uncaring if his words are too obsessive or possessive. This is his Stiles, and that's all that matters.
Stiles feels the same, he knows, and just grins slowly back at Derek in a dazed way, pulling him closer by the front of his shirt, rather bloody now, and kissing him again. Stiles is sweet like this, all drugged up from the pain drain, loopy and giggly and happy. He smells amazing, even through the scent of blood filling up the quiet bathroom, but there's no pain this time, only sweetness around the tinge of iron.
At last they break apart, rather unwillingly, Derek pressing one last kiss to Stiles' familiar lips. He can't express to Stiles all that his love encompasses, how utterly vast it is, how Stiles is his whole universe and then some, but now Stiles is grinning again, gazing back at Derek just as fondly, so Derek thinks he probably has an idea.
He tugs off Stiles' plaid again, dropping it onto the bathroom floor for the time being, and goes to wet a washcloth, making sure the water runs warm and soothing into the fabric. They stay there in the low light of the bathroom for a while, while Derek cleans Stiles up so very gently, starting with his sweaty, sleepy face and moving slowly down his chest. He runs the washcloth over his arms, his palms, in between his fingers and under his nails, caked with blood. Cleans around the wound, with a furrowed brow and a frown, but Stiles just clings onto him and tries to rearrange Derek's face to something less Grumpywolf.
It feels so good to just touch him again after hours of being apart. He's obsessed with touching Stiles on a normal day, but after a scare like this it feels extra indulgent and necessary. He runs the washcloth over places he doesn't even need to, just to feel Stiles' skin and muscles underneath his palms, just to feel his blood thrumming under the surface, alive and well and his.
Stiles' legs are wrapped around Derek's waist by now, and he moves easily when Derek needs him to, pliant under Derek's touch. Derek presses a kiss to everywhere he's cleaned, so by the end, there are as many kisses left on Stiles' skin as the moles bespotted there.
Stiles' scent now is sweet like sugar, warm like chamomile tea and slow and syrupy like maple. He wraps his arms around Derek's neck while Derek wrings out the washcloth, promising to wash his hair as soon as the wound is healed enough to get him wet.
"You okay?" he asks Stiles, just to make sure. His voice is soft, like he doesn't want to break the quiet, serene air between them.
"Me okay," Stiles grins back. His palms slide to Derek's chest and Derek's go around his waist, pulling him to the edge of the counter. Their foreheads find each other's again followed by their lips, and now everything really is okay.
That is, until the loft door slides open and a voice rings out.
"Stiles?"
Everything in Derek's body tenses.
"Hey, buddy, I need your help with something, there's a wendigo reported as heading into town and I need you to research—"
Derek's growl drowns out the rest of his sentence.
"Leave, Scott," Derek grinds out, tugging Stiles closer still. Stiles goes easily, still loose and warm and sleepy.
"But—"
"Stiles is hurt, he needs to rest," Derek explains with false patience, knowing Scott can hear him from across the loft.
"I think Stiles can tell me that himself—"
Derek growls again. Why is this idiot still in his life?
With a restrained sigh and a deep regret, he unravels himself from Stiles and moves towards the bathroom door, but not before pressing one last kiss to Stiles' forehead. Stiles doesn't seem to care about the intrusion, still comfortable and pain-free, and Derek refuses to get him involved, make him work and research and deal with the dumbass werewolf out there when he's just had a brush with death. He will exaggerate the situation as heavily as possible to said dumbass werewolf, if it gets Scott off their backs and out of the loft.
"Sorry," Derek whispers to Stiles before he moves, and Stiles only shrugs and yawns. Derek loves him.
"Come on, dude, we really need help with this," Scott starts when Derek approaches, seeming to ignore the blood on his shirt and the scowl on his face.
"Didn't you say the wendigo wasn't even in town yet?" Derek challenges, arms folded across his chest.
"Yeah, that's why we need to figure out—"
"And did you check the bestiary?"
"Well, I just thought it would be easier—"
"So you have plenty of time to get this sorted out, and you already have the material to do it, and I told you that Stiles is hurt, and you're still here." Derek is fuming now, growing angrier with each second Scott spends in his home, in his den, with his wounded mate in the other room.
"Don't be like that, bro, Stiles always helps—"
"That's because he's a good person, and he likes you," Derek starts, "but you know what, Scott? I don't. What about this situation makes any sense to you? Stiles is hurt. No matter the circumstance, that should always come first." His claws are out of their own accord, indenting into his own biceps, and his face is half-shifted, he can feel it.
"Why are you such an asshole, man?" Scott nearly pouts. "Of course I care about Stiles. But I care about the town, too, isn't that more—"
"If you say 'more important,' Scott, I will rip your throat out right here. You already have the bestiary, and that's all you need. Go home, Scott." Derek widens his stance, dropping his arms from their crossed position and tensing them at his sides. He growls, locking eyes with the other werewolf, and now Scott's claws are coming out, too.
At Derek's loudening voice, Stiles stirs from the bathroom at last. He pads out slowly, standing somewhat like a small child in the entryway to the room, like watching his parents fight.
"Wha's going on?" he slurs, glancing between the two werewolves. Derek can tell he's still so tired, a little out of it, and he probably just wants to be in bed by now, sleeping off the day. It's Scott that's preventing him, and Derek's anger grows a little more.
"Nothing, baby," Derek tells him, voice going as soft and kind as it can under his wrath. "Scott was just leaving."
"I was not," Scott bites back like a petulant toddler. "Stiles, I need your help with something, can you look up—"
"Sure, Scotty," Stiles agrees slowly, and Derek's brows raise. "But I'm kinda tired right now, can it wait till tomorrow?"
Derek is so proud of him.
"Oh, I — well, we kind of need — Derek said you were hurt, but it looks like you're fine, so I just thought—"
"What part of fine does he look like to you?" Derek snarls at Scott, moving to stand in front of his mate with another growl. "He has a bandage over his side. He smells like exhaustion. What is wrong with you?"
"You don't have to be so rude, man, I just needed—"
"No, Scott, what you need is to get out," Derek rumbles, his eyes reddening and fangs lengthening. Stiles stands behind him, slouched against the wall, but says nothing more. He likely agrees with Derek but is too polite to say anything.
"What is your problem—"
"I'll give you five seconds, Scott. Five, four—"
"Dude, what the hell—"
"—one. Get out, Scott. Let Stiles rest. We'll help you tomorrow if you haven't found anything by then. I need you to leave."
"I just—"
"Get. Out!" Derek finally roars. Saliva spews from his fanged mouth and he's glad to see Scott recoiling. Stiles doesn't even flinch behind him, content to lean against the wall and rest upright for the time being, all he can handle right now. At Derek's fury, Scott finally backs away, looking more pissed off than fearful, head tipped down to glance up from under his furrowed brows in that ridiculous way he thinks looks threatening.
"You're a terrible alpha," Scott tells him before he heads for the door.
"No he's not," Stiles says quietly from behind them both. They turn their heads to look at him, and Stiles is watching warily, but his heartbeat is steady, and Derek's eyes soften as he looks at him. "Go home, Scott. I'll help you tomorrow. But it's time to go."
He's polite as he says it but there's an exhaustion that lies underneath that has nothing to do with his injury, and Derek wonders how long he's really been sick of Scott's bullshit just like Derek has. How much Scott takes Stiles for granted, how much Stiles wears himself out by trying to help all the time, when it's hardly even appreciated.
At Stiles' words Scott finally scowls and turns to leave. Derek's fists are clenched at his sides with his claws digging into his palms, but the wounds heal before they draw blood. Scott stamps out the entryway like a child and slams the sliding door closed behind him, and Derek thinks, good riddance.
"Are you okay?" is what he ends up saying to Stiles, after he's calmed down for a minute and the fury has faded from his chest. He goes over to him, cupping his face and meeting his pretty honey eyes. Stiles' hand comes up to clutch at Derek's wrist in a comforting grip.
"Fine," Stiles mumbles, "Just forget about it. He's always gonna be like this. It's okay."
"It's not okay," Derek says, but Stiles interrupts.
"Can we please not get into this right now? I just wanna go to sleep. I just want you to hold me. I just want this day to be over."
Derek softens immediately.
"Of course, baby," he murmurs, and presses a kiss to Stiles' cheek. "Come on."
He takes Stiles' hand and leads him towards the bed, patting it to make Stiles sit down. His jeans are still stained with dried blood so he patiently wiggles them off Stiles' legs, replacing them with a pair of his own pajama pants, soft and faded. He slips a baggy clean t-shirt over Stiles' head and makes sure he's cozy and warm, and then helps Stiles crawl onto his side of the bed, lifting up the blankets for him and settling them back over him.
Derek presses a kiss to Stiles' forehead before going off to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. When he gets back, Stiles is laying on his back with his eyes closed, and he looks so small and tired, and Derek sighs out something long and sad and heavy, sets down the water glass on the nightstand, strips quickly, and crawls into bed right next to him.
"Come here," Stiles whispers without opening his eyes. He wriggles his arm out from underneath the sheets and holds it out for Derek to snuggle into.
Derek goes easily, but instead of curling up into Stiles' side, he pushes up Stiles' shirt and settles so his head lays directly over Stiles' bare chest, and his arm is thrown over his stomach. Stiles' hand comes up to play with his hair, burying his long fingers in the strands. It's all that Derek has been craving all day; Stiles close to him, Stiles' touch, Stiles' heartbeat under his ear. His mate is warm and alive underneath him, real and here and in his arms, and the bonds in his chest are strong and steady now, and Stiles is okay, and safe.
The wolf hugs Stiles to him as much as he can in this position, and Stiles seems to know exactly how Derek's feeling because he only tightens his own arms around him in return. Derek feels a kiss being pressed against his hair, and he nuzzles Stiles' warm skin in response, presses a kiss there as well, and closes his eyes, inhaling the sweet cinnamon scent of home and Stiles.
He moves a little after a while, shifting himself carefully along Stiles' uninjured side, and sticks his face into Stiles' neck, where it belongs. His arms loop around Stiles' torso again and tug him close, because Derek missed him, craved him, needed him, and needs this touch now like nothing else. It's been hours, and Derek went from thinking he'd never see Stiles again to seeing him injured and stitching up his own bloody skin. Never mind Scott.
"I'm glad you're okay," Derek whispers into Stiles' neck. An understatement.
"I'm fine, Der," Stiles murmurs back, his fingers once again entangled in his husband's hair. "I love you so much, sweetheart. Everything's alright."
Derek doesn't have a response other than a small whimper in the back of his throat, but it's okay. Stiles knows he loves him too, knows that fact more than anything. Derek only nuzzles closer, and Stiles understands, running his fingers and palms all over Derek's skin, touching his back and arms and neck, soothing his anxiety and worries, making him whole again and encompassing him in love and affection.
They fall asleep together like that, some time far into the night, and Derek only sleeps long after Stiles has fallen unconscious. Black veins slither up his arms so that Stiles sinks into sleep in blissful comfort, wrapped in warmth and peace, all that Derek can give him.
"I love you," Derek whispers against Stiles' temple, before kissing the spot and burying his nose back into Stiles' neck. I'll love you forever, Derek thinks, as he tightens his arms around Stiles and commits to never, ever letting go.