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He was driving when it happened.
Just to clear the air, have some privacy.
His phone began to vibrate and his stomach dropped.
He remembers gripping the steering wheel with white knuckled fists. He remembers his shaking as he went to pick up the call.
Everything felt wrong. Twisted.
He answers, listening to the calm voice that didn’t belong to Stiles.
He slams down the breaks and struggles to breathe.
-
He’s at the hospital in record time even though its south of Beacon Hills, mind a blazing mess of emotions.
Stiles.
Car crash.
He feels sick. The worry is threatening to make him heave but he shoves it down for the painstakingly slow minutes it takes for the nurse with Stiles to arrive.
She’s not smiling as she approaches. Derek clamps down on a whimper.
"Derek Hale?" The same voice on the phone, the same voice telling him Stiles was in surgery.
"Yes."
"You were listed as Stiles Stilinski’s emergency contact. There’s a few things I need you to sign." Her gaze is harsh, forcing him to composure. He’d be thankful for it if he could just hear Stiles’ heartbeat. Just reassure himself he’s okay.
"How is he?" He manages to ask in a hoarse voice. The nurse pats his arm, understanding in her eyes.
"He’ll be okay."
He lets out a shaky breath and leans on the counter. His knees buckle under the relief that swept through him and he shuts his eyes against the tugging on his heart.
"He’ll be okay," she repeats probably thinking Derek is Stiles boyfriend, lover, closest friend. Anything that warrants this kind of reaction.
He doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t bother correcting her.
-
It had took Derek ten minutes to gather the courage to hold Stiles’ hand.
At first, he’d stood by the window, calming himself by the steady thump of the boys heart. The smell was harsh, bleach, chemicals. Death. He inhaled deeply and caught a whiff of Stiles. It wasn’t enough.
He had to feel his warmth. He had to place his head in his neck and just breathe.
He wanted to look into vivid whiskey eyes.
He wanted to taste his breath.
Stiles had suffered a major collision. He had two broken ribs, internal bleeding and a broken arm. His face was a canvas of bruises that disappeared under his hospital gown.
Derek shakes as he rubs circles into Stiles hand. He shakes as he slowly presses his lips onto each finger.
He shakes as he kisses the top of his forehead.
The sheriff and Scott were on their way, another hour before they’d get here.
Derek looks at Stiles’ face once more, lax with sleep. A barrage of emotion smashes into him, making his breath hitch and his eyes tingle.
Anger. Disbelief. Pain. Worry. Love. Fear.
Love.
Love.
He closes his eyes and rests his head on Stiles arm, letting the familiar pulse lull him to sleep.
-
He wakes with a start as fingers run through his hair.
He jerks his head back and blinks at Stiles. Who was awake.
He was smiling softly, eyes dancing in pure life. They were tired, pained, but god, they were beautiful.
"You…" Derek breathes, his voice failing him.
"Sleeping on the job, Derek?"
His voice. His fucking voice.
Derek’s heart swells and his eyes tear up. Before he knows it, he’s leaning in. Getting closer to the boy he loved.
"Don’t ever scare me like that again, Stiles." He whispers. It’s all he can manage. His eyes sweep over Stiles, cataloging everything.
Stiles heart rate picks up and his smirk falters as Derek moves so there’s barely inches between them.
"Even more reason for you to stick around," Stiles breathes, eyes flitting between Derek’s intense gaze and his mouth. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips and Derek follows the movement.
He puts a hand on the side of Stiles face, gentle, thumb swiping his cheek. Making his intention clear.
Stiles smiles at him. Soft and private.
It’s all he needs.
He moves and captures those lips in his, tasting Stiles. It’s magnificent, it’s perfect. It’s breath taking.
The kiss is slow and Derek savours every second.
Stiles is here, pulse thrumming under his palm.
His Stiles is alive.