Archive of Our Own ^beta

“It’s been too long. Something should’ve happened by now, right?”

Derek grits his teeth. The anxiety is rolling off Erica and Boyd in waves and it’s getting to him, too. He takes a deep breath. 

“He’ll be fine,” Derek says firmly, eyes facing out into the Preserve. “He’ll signal us when she's after him.”

He hates this plan. Hate really isn’t even strong enough to really describe how he feels about it. It never is when Stiles comes up with a plan like this. 

There’s a rogue Alpha in Beacon Hills, and the death toll is already up to five. Five people in less than 24 hours. 

Of course they called Stiles and Lydia as soon as the third body had shown up, and he’d made the two hour trip back from UCLA, arriving just after seven in the morning. Lydia arrived from Stanford at 9:30, and that’s when she found the fourth body: laying mangled near the WELCOME TO BEACON HILLS sign. 

So Stiles came up with his less than original plan: he’d be bait. Again. And they could ambush the Alpha from all sides once he lured her somewhere away from other people. 

The plan had to be made hastily, but that doesn’t mean Derek has to like it. In fact, he and Scott had resolutely rejected it, since Stiles’s safety is usually the one thing they can agree on, until both Boyd and Allison had pointed out there was no other option. 

He’s the Alpha. He should be able to shoot down a plan when it puts his pack in danger, especially the more delicate, vulnerable, human members. 

And it isn’t that Stiles is human; he’s proven many times to be exactly what a situation calls for, despite the lack of razor sharp claws and teeth. 

It’s just… he’s very invaluable to them. Werewolves heal quickly, in most circumstances, but Stiles doesn’t. Neither does Lydia, for that matter, but she’s not entirely human. 

When the fifth and final body had shown up at the high school, half an hour before school let out - a janitor, who Stiles and Scott said they remembered from their high school days - they knew it was time to set the plan in motion. 

All that leads Derek to exactly where he is now: the middle of the Preserve, waiting for Stiles’s signal - one long, loud whistle - and they’d converge on the designated ambush spot. 

They have to wait further away from the spot than Derek would like, considering this is a werewolf they’re after; they can’t risk her catching their scent and going completely off the rails. 

They’re split into three groups, minus Stiles and Lydia. Erica and Boyd are with Derek, Scott and Kira are together a few miles to his right, and Allison and Isaac are the same distance away but on his left. Lydia’s back at the loft, waiting on news of the outcome with Deaton. 

It’s dusk now, and the edges of the sky glow pink and deep purple. It should be just enough light for Stiles to be able to see where he’s going, but dark enough that the general population are safely at home. 

Derek checks his watch and sighs agitatedly; Stiles should be poking the metaphorical bear now, or at least heading to the location they’d manage to track the rogue Alpha to. 

They’ll be done with this soon. 

Still, Erica’s been restless since the sun sunk below the horizon and Boyd’s been doing his best to soothe everyone all day. 

“Seriously,” Erica says, once the cicadas start chirping and the night starts to cool off. Her eyes flick around the woods, eyes looking iridescent in the steadily growing moonlight. “Something’s not right-”

Like the Universe was listening in and decided to prove Erica right, a distant, heart-stopping scream tears through the trees. 

Derek tenses as a wave of terror bursts through his group and down his spine like cold water. He’d know that voice anywhere, and it should never sound so panic-stricken; so distressed. 

Derek makes eye contact with the others, just to make sure they heard it too and he wasn’t losing it, but another scream rips through the air, this one cut off at the end, and Derek is shouting, “Let’s go!” over his shoulder and taking off before he can register it. He knows the pack can hear him from their vantage points, spaced around the Preserve. He knows they’ll follow, even if he weren’t the Alpha, because this is Stiles. 

As they run, he tries not to think about Stiles’s screams and fails spectacularly; how they sounded like they’d been wrenched from the very depths of his soul. How much pain did someone have to be in for them to sound like that? 

Stiles’s scent grows stronger the closer they get to the Nemeton, which is where they’d decided Stiles would lead the rogue Alpha. It’s neutral territory, so it doesn’t smell too much like Pack and Alpha. They all knew how uncomfortable it made Stiles - this place, the things that happened here, and what transpired afterwards - but that’s something Derek admires about him: his ability to do the right thing, despite his own limits. 

When they arrive in the clearing of the Nemeton, Derek doesn’t see anything overtly wrong, but he can smell it. It’s the smell of blood, and a foreign Alpha in his territory, and it makes Derek’s hackles raise. 

It’s completely still and quiet here, barely even the sounds of the trees rustling in the wind. It’s like all the wildlife knows to avoid this place. Hell, even the Wolf in Derek is snarling at him to turn back. 

Erica and Boyd tumble into the clearing just after him, looking crazed as they scent the air. Erica’s got leaves and twigs in her hair and Boyd’s boots are covered in mud. 

He turns back to the clearing and his breath catches when he spots something he hadn’t before. He feels frozen when recognition dawns on him because there, laying limply on the stump of the Nemeton, is Stiles. And just like everything else here, he is utterly silent and unmoving. 

Derek’s ears ring. 

The smell of blood and pain is suddenly so thick, it overwhelms him for a second. Behind him, he can hear Erica heaving deep breaths, like she’s trying to calm herself, and Boyd whispers brokenly, “No.”

And Derek is about ready to collapse to his knees, emotion threatening to choke him, when he really takes notice of it: the scent of pain. Stiles’s pain. His heart lurches in his chest, because dead bodies can’t smell like pain. They don’t feel it, which means…

It means Stiles has to be clinging to life. 

“He’s still alive,” Derek manages to rasp out and he moves so quickly to the stump - to Stiles - that it’s like he blinks and he’s there. 

He’s stumbling over himself and he does fall to his knees once he’s at Stiles’s side, because it’s so much worse close up and he physically doesn’t think he’s able to hold himself up. 

Stiles’s eyes are barely open, fluttering open and closed as he lazily watches Derek. He doesn’t know where to put his hands and they hover awkwardly over Stiles for a moment; there’s so much blood. He didn’t even know a human could bleed so much without dying. 

Eventually, Derek adjusts so he can cradle Stiles in his arms, half draped over his legs. He focuses his hearing and listens to Stiles’s heart pounding rapidly and to his breaths that come out in short, uneven gasps. He groans and sobs when he’s jostled and it’s then that Derek realizes his leg has been broken. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Derek whispers, leeching some of his pain. Not all of it - he can’t afford taking too much and having Stiles pass out from relief, which makes Derek want to cry - but enough that Stiles sags into his grip and for a low whine to escape him. 

The source of the blood isn’t obvious to him at first, but then Stiles makes this awful clicking-gurgle sound in the back of his throat and he can see it. It, being the claw marks going from the left side of his jaw to the right side of his collarbone. Derek’s not human, but he’s been around them enough to know basic anatomy and he can tell it just missed his carotid. 

Still, despite the luck in that department, it’s not looking good. Derek shrugs out of his jacket and presses it to Stiles’s chest, who grunts - pained - and scrunches his eyes shut. 

Boyd’s next to him in a heartbeat, clasping Stiles’s hand in his own and Derek watches black lines seep into his skin. He inhales sharply at the sheer amount of pain Stiles is in and Derek murmurs, “Careful, not too much.”

Boyd just nods and the lines grow less intense. He smooths a thumb lightly over Stiles’ bloody hand and whispers, “Hang in there, man. We’re gonna get you some help.”

That snaps Derek back into Alpha mode better than a physical hit could’ve. What is he doing, sitting around like a helpless child? Stiles is dying. 

“Erica,” he says, voice strong and firm. She’s next to him in the blink of an eye, eyes flicking between Stiles' prone form and her Alpha. “Signal the others, now.”

Evidently, she doesn’t need to be told twice, because she stands and walks a few paces away before she lets out a howl that could shake mountains. We’re right here, it says. Come find us. 

Barely two minutes pass before Scott and Kira burst into the clearing, Scott in his Beta shift and Kira with her katana out. 

The second Scott spots Derek and Stiles, his Beta shift recedes and he rushes towards them. Boyd must be able to sense Scott’s need to be there, unhindered by anyone else, so he backs off and makes his way towards Erica and Kira. 

Kira looks pale as she observes the scene, clearly shocked. Her katana is held limply in her hand, without her usual finesse and grace. 

“What happened?” She manages, and Scott looks to Derek for the answer, even as he cups Stiles’s cheek in hand and leeches pain from him. 

“I’m not sure,” Derek admits, and then, “I think the Alpha got to him before we could.”

A heavy silence falls over the group for just a second as that settles. They’ve never been late before. Sure, there have been close calls, but Stiles has never been this bad off. 

But the distance was key this time. If the Alpha caught even a whiff of Derek or the Pack, waiting to ambush her, she’d probably go on a worse rampage. More than five people would’ve ended up dead. 

Instead, it’s one of their own. Both a blessing and a curse, or at least Stiles would see it that way. 

“Where’s Isaac and Allison?” Boyd asks, eyes flitting through the trees, probably looking for them. 

“I don’t know,” Kira says, glancing at Scott, “We thought they’d meet us here after we heard Erica’s howl.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” Erica growls, sounding agitated as she gestures to Stiles and says, “What matters is getting him out of here.”

They’re all tense and shifting on their feet like they’re ready to take off at a moment's notice. Or maybe it’s more like they can’t stand being helpless. Derek gets it, and it pains him to admit it, but Erica’s right. They’ll have to find Allison and Isaac later; there’s more pressing matters at hand. 

“Scott, you take him,” Derek orders, and before anyone can object, he continues with, “The rest of us are going to stay and look for the Alpha.”

“I rode my dirt bike here,” Scott says, shaking his head and looking like his heart is in his mouth, “I don’t think I’ll be able to keep him on it safely.”

“Take the Camaro,” Derek says, remembering how Erica had complained on the drive here how cramped she was in the back seat with Boyd next to her. How Stiles sat in the passenger seat, grinning smugly. “I parked it just off the road to the entrance of the Preserve. That’s only a couple miles from here. You can get him there.”

Scott’s eyes are huge, but he looks like he takes Derek’s words to heart. “I’ll need help,” he says as he shifts to take more of Stiles’s weight. Kira steps up immediately. 

“I’ll come,” she says, and Derek nods. Scott sends her a fleeting smile in thanks as she comes up next to them, crowding their already limited space. 

“There’s still time for him,” a new voice calls out from the tree line, smooth and alluring. Derek and the rest of the pack turn to face her so quickly, it’s definitely a good thing werewolves can’t get whiplash. 

And there she stands, just at the edge of the clearing: the Alpha. Her claws are still dripping blood and they shine ominously in the moonlight. Her grin widens when Stiles sputters and jerks in Derek’s arms. 

“Poor thing,” she coos, popping a bloody finger in her mouth and licking it clean. She hums appreciatively and the pack tenses, growling. “I could do it for you, you know. Maybe I should’ve in the first place but he just cries so pretty, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I only wanted to watch a little more.”

Derek growls, hunching over Stiles’s body. “You won’t touch him again,” he says, voice gravelly. Any Beta - or even Omega - would see the threat for what it was, but she’s an Alpha. One, seemingly, without a Pack. She’s got a death wish, whether it be her own death or someone else’s. 

“What’s she want?” Scott whispers, still smoothing his hand over Stiles’s forehead and through his hair, taking his pain as he does it. 

Derek bares his teeth. “She wants to give him the bite,” he explains quietly. Scott growls. 

“Why?”

And isn’t that the million dollar question? It could be for any reason, really, but Derek has an inkling. She hadn’t been interested in turning anyone so far, just causing as much death and chaos as possible. 

Until now, anyway. Until she realized Stiles wasn’t just some wandering prey, and was part of a pack without actually being part of a pack; not a werewolf, not a mate, not a supernatural creature of any kind. 

But he is valued, and she can tell, so she wants him. 

“Greed,” Derek answers simply. “She just wants him because he’s important to us.”

The Alpha is clearly listening in on their hushed conversation. Her eyes flicker with want, and her scent shifts to that of arousal. 

Derek growls at the shift in the atmosphere and his Betas shrink back slightly, despite knowing it’s not them he’s protecting Stiles from. 

“Oh, c’mon. I was just having a little fun with him,” she prods, taking a few lazy steps forward, like she hasn’t a care in the world. Her grin and tone are predatory when she rumbles, “And I wasn’t quite done yet.”

And Derek is reminded, then, that not every Pack sees humans the way Talia taught him to. That the lives of humans - hunters or not - are still valuable and can provide crucial insight and powers to a Pack. His father was a human, and he was just as vital to the Pack as his mother was. He provided comfort and solace and strength. He wasn’t an Emissary or Druid, but he did have the ability to care profoundly for everyone and thing. 

He remembers how disgusted he felt, learning what other supernatural beings would do to humans, should they have an unfortunate chance encounter. How vampires would compel humans to stay awake for days, until they couldn’t physically keep themselves awake anymore. How the Fae would lure in unsuspecting humans to gain complete control over them. How some werewolves, just like the Alpha in front of them, like to exert their power over them, hurt them in more ways than one just for the fun of it. 

Talia always taught him, his sisters, and the rest of her Pack that, no matter the amount of power supernatural beings have, humans are not playthings. They should be respected. 

This blatant disregard for human life - for Stiles’s life - puts Derek on his guard. It frightens him, that someone could be so careless with someone like Stiles. Stiles shudders weakly in his arms and Derek can’t help but think about where that recklessness got them. 

“He’s not a toy,” Derek manages, spittle flying as his fangs drop. “And this isn’t your territory. Get. Lost.”

She grins, fangs dropping, and that’s a threat if he’s ever seen one. The Pack seems to get that message, too, because they’re closing ranks and obscuring Stiles and Derek from view. Next to him, Scott snarls viciously and he thinks, just maybe, he’ll break his own moral code for Stiles. Derek thinks he might kill this woman. 

“Move,” the woman snaps, sounding more wolf than human now, “Or I’ll move you.”

The tension reaches a fever pitch and the first one to lash out with their claws is the Alpha. Derek doesn’t think even a command from him could truly stop his Betas from going after her at this point. 

There are snarls and roars and howls, all completely animalistic, coming from the fight. Scott looks torn between jumping in and staying as the last line of defense between the rogue Alpha and Stiles. 

Derek sees his opportunity and lunges for it. 

“Scott, get Stiles out of here,” Derek says over the din of fighting. Scott hesitates, looking both angry and worried. “Someone needs to get him to a hospital,” he swallows thickly, then adds, “And someone needs to tell his dad.”

And Derek knows that’s a low blow. He knows that Scott sort of sees John as a father figure, and that telling him what happened - under the Pack’s watch, no less - will kill him. 

But Derek can’t leave, otherwise he would. He’d be out of this grove in a second if he thought he could get away with it. If he didn’t think this Alpha wouldn’t absolutely tear his Pack apart in order to get to Stiles and give him the bite, like she seems so dead set on. 

Quickly, Derek shuffles Stiles into Scott’s arms and tries not to notice how pale he looks under all that blood. Stiles groans as his leg shifts - or maybe his chest twinges, who really knows - and Derek calls, “Kira, get over here!” 

It’s another minute before she’s able to tear herself away from the fight, the Alpha having noticed Kira trying to leave and going after her twice as hard to make sure she stayed, until Boyd landed a particularly strong kick to her ribs to distract her. 

“Get out of here,” he says, helping settle Stiles into Scott’s arms bridal style. Kira takes up the rear, katana out and ready should someone attack, and they head in the direction of the Camaro. 

His heart tugs painfully in his chest as he watches Stiles’s face scrunch up in pain at every step Scott takes. Derek starts to feel both worse and better, the further they move away. Worse, because he wants it to be him that’s presiding over Stiles’s safety, but better, because he trusts Scott with him. And the further away from here they get, the better off Stiles is. 

Just as Scott, Stiles, and Kira disappear into the woods, Isaac tumbles into the clearing suddenly and slashes at the Alpha’s back with his claws. 

The Alpha howls in pain and she snarls at Isaac immediately, looking ready to go for the kill, when Erica grabs a fistful of her hair and tugs, knocking her to her knees from behind. 

“Where the hell have you been?!” Derek shouts while Erica and Boyd have the Alpha distracted, “And where is Allison-?”

“Busy,” Isaac answers distractedly, watching the trees as the others continue to fight. “She’ll be here,” he says, softer this time. Derek’s brow raises skeptically, then turns to see what Isaac’s searching for. 

It takes him a minute to spot what - or rather, who - he’s looking at, but then he catches movement high up in the branches. There, he sees her: Allison, climbing up one of the taller ones, then making herself comfortable on a thick branch. There’s a crossbow strapped to her back. He looks back at Isaac, who’s got a love-stuck expression on his face as he watches her. 

“Isaac,” Derek calls, getting his attention. He raises his brows and asks, “Are you sure?”

Isaac’s jaw sets resolutely. “She can do it,” he says, flinching when the fighting gets loud again. “Just stay out of the way of her bolt. It’s laced with Wolfsbane.” 

It’s times like these that Derek’s so fucking grateful the Argent’s are on their side, now. He remembers what it was like to be hunted by them, and then everything Kate did to him; what she put him through. 

He watches her for a moment more, long enough to see her fiddle with the bolt in her crossbow. She catches his eye, then, and nods subtly. Now, it says. Get ready to move now . 

And Derek doesn’t have to be told twice. He looks toward his Pack and shouts, “Fall back!” as loudly as he can, despite knowing they’d hear him no matter what. 

The looks he gets are a mix of confusion and frustration, but they listen nonetheless. They back up until Derek’s standing front and center. The rogue Alpha sizes him up, claws still bloody and eyes shining bright red in the moonlight. 

“What’s the matter?” She asks mockingly. She jerks her head towards his Pack and asks, “Didn’t think they could handle me, right? Had to make sure you could protect your precious human.”

She’s trying to rile him up, but he won’t take the bait. Instead of attacking her, Derek’s eyes flash red and he thinks he sees what might be a modicum of genuine, honest to god fear in her eyes, but she just snarls to cover it up. He smirks, then says, “Not quite,” and the sound of the bolt being drawn and released echoes through the air. 

Derek isn’t sure where Allison was aiming for, but it catches the Alpha right in the shoulder, and she screams and writhes like she’s dying. 

She is, Derek thinks cruelly, as he watches her crumple to the ground. Good. 

He stalks towards her, his Pack at his heels, and now that he’s closer to her, he can tell she’s young. Maybe just a year or two older than Lydia, the youngest among them. He almost feels bad for her, but images of what she did to Stiles - to the other residents of Beacon Hills - flashes through his mind and his resolve settles. 

She whimpers as she pushes away from them, back hitting a tree - she looks panicked as she holds her shoulder, where the bolt is still sticking out; there’s nowhere else for her to go. 

“Working with hunters,” she heaves, eyes still flashing a dangerous red. “Betraying your own kind?!”

Derek laughs once, harsh. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“What’re you gonna do to me?” She whispers shakily. She’s beginning to look pale now, and Derek assumes the Wolfsbane is starting to take. She glares, “Gonna kill me?”

“Already did,” he says simply. Then, he crouches in front of her and says softly, “But if you do manage to escape, I want you to listen to me. Don’t ever come back here. I promise you, things will be much worse next time.”

She swallows, then coughs. Black, viscous liquid stains her teeth and leaves droplets on her lips. 

Without further ado, Derek stands and faces his Pack. None of them look too worse for wear - Boyd’s sporting a black eye that’ll be gone in an hour, and Erica’s got a few already-healing scratches above her eyebrow - so Derek just nods and says, “Lets go.”

The Pack turns and Derek takes up the rear so he can watch their backs, but through the crunching leaves under their feet and the pounding of their hearts, he hears it: the sound of rustling behind him. Suddenly, he hears Allison shout from her position in the trees, “Derek, look out!” and he reacts.  

Derek pivots on his heel, claws raised high, and snaps his teeth before slashing down. 

—

Scott hasn’t talked to him since Derek told him what happened with the Alpha. Any time Derek walks into a room, Scott finds some reason to not be there. 

He knows he’s going to have to talk to him about that. Derek knows what he did - what he had to do - goes against everything Scott stands for, but sometimes things like that can’t be helped. 

And now there’s one less threat because she’s dead. 

Derek can still remember the feeling of his claws slicing through her throat. The way his fingers had been immediately covered in thick, hot blood. How it had gushed out of her, and the way she choked and sputtered on black and red liquid as she fell to the ground, clutching her neck. 

He remembers the deafening silence after her heart stopped beating. 

In the immediate aftermath, with the body right in front of them, Derek remembers thinking, What now? 

That’s when Peter had shown up, seemingly out of nowhere. Considering he hadn’t been fighting anyone and didn’t have adrenaline coursing through him, his thoughts were a little clearer. 

He said he’d take care of the body and told Derek and the others to wash up before they headed to the hospital. They had to come up with a cover story. 

When Derek arrived at the hospital - the others left sitting in their respective cars, waiting for Derek’s word - it seemed Kira and Scott had a handle on that. They were supposed to meet up with Stiles for a run. When he didn’t show, they got worried and went looking for him. They’d found him like that, assumed an animal had attacked him, and hightailed it to the hospital. 

There’s been no official word from the sheriff's department yet, but Derek has a feeling that’s more John’s doing than anything else. 

Now, in the bed, Stiles breathes deeply. He’s got a nasal cannula under his nose and he’s paler than Derek’s ever seen him - which is a feat, really, considering he’s seen him in the dead of winter. His veins stand out like someone drew on his skin with marker, but the IV in the crook of his arm transfusing the blood should take care of that. 

His leg is in a huge cast, already signed by the entire pack, who Melissa had managed to - accidentally - not see sneak into the ICU. The Alpha had broken his tibia in two places. They were lucky he didn’t need surgery. 

The worst part, however, are the bandages peeking up from underneath his hospital gown, thickly padding the claw marks that mar his skin. The doctor had been grave when he told them it was going to scar, and a lot of it was going to be very visible. 

And Derek’s trying not to feel too guilty about it - Stiles knows the risks of this life, maybe better than anyone else - but every time he looks at him, he’s reminded of his failure to protect his Pack. 

Derek’s only allowed to be here because of John’s quick recovery to the doctor’s questions. “My son’s husband,” he explained, and Derek had blinked like a moron for a moment until John subtly nudged him, so he just nodded and agreed. 

The doctor had seemed suspicious but hadn’t said anything. In a moment of privacy, John had slipped Derek his own wedding ring, said, “Do not lose this,” and nothing else before they both slipped into Stiles’s room. 

He was beginning to realize exactly where Stiles had gotten his mischievous, sneaky side from. 

It’s been two hours since then, and Stiles has been in and out a few times. He hasn’t said anything, just blinked blearily and fell back asleep. Once, he smiled so very softly upon seeing Derek, which did all kinds of things to him. 

John got up about fifteen minutes ago when a deputy popped in, apologizing but asking for him down at the station. John had sighed and Derek could smell the resignation and detestation coming off him in waves as he stood to follow her out. Before he could completely leave, he pointed a finger at Derek and said, “Keep an eye on him. He’s trouble, you know.”

Derek had simply smiled and looked towards Stiles, feeling oddly bashful. “I know,” he answered. “Trust me.”

The ring keeps reflecting in the light and Derek has to remind himself this isn’t real. Stiles isn’t his husband, and he’s not his mate, no matter how Derek feels about that. 

And Derek’s known for a while now just what Stiles means to him. He’s pretty sure Stiles feels the same way - it’d be hard not to know, considering Derek’s so in tune with all of Stiles’s scents and moods - but he can’t and won’t push him into anything. He’s in college. Or, he’s supposed to be, when he’s not coming back home every other weekend to fight off the latest monster that stumbled into town. 

He wants to be with Stiles. He wants Stiles to be with him. But Derek won’t hinder him, not like Kate did. 

Derek brushes his thumb over the back of Stiles’s hand, closes his eyes, and breathes deep. Despite the hospital smell, there’s still that uniquely Stiles scent under it all: like pine and petrichor and spearmint gum and something indistinguishable but sweet. It’s comforting; the smell and the rise of his chest and the warmth of his hand. He’s alive. He’s safe. 

There’s a soft inhale, sharper than the previous ones, then Stiles’s honey-sweet, overused voice calls out quietly, “Der?”

Derek is alert in an instant, eyes wide as he registers that Stiles is really, truly awake - enough to say an actual word, which is more than he has in the past two hours. 

Stiles watches him with a half-lidded, sort of amused expression. Dopey is probably a good descriptor. 

“Hey, hi,” Derek says, hands fluttering up to cup his face, then back down again to grip at his hands. He didn’t miss the way Stiles had immediately leaned into Derek’s palms, like he was the only thing holding him together. Derek’s heart twists. “Welcome back,” he says, matching Stiles’s wispy tone. 

“Where ‘m I?” Stiles asks, voice still very soft. Derek brushes his hair away from his forehead. They did their best to wipe away the sweat and blood when they were cleaning him up but some dried blood flakes out of his hair. Derek brushes it away, ignoring the knot that forms in his stomach because of it. 

“The ICU,” Derek answers in a whisper. Stiles is silent for a moment, which is odd for him, but then that furrow between his brows becomes more pronounced and his lips purse. Derek has to smile, because he recognizes this expression; Stiles is thinking hard about something. 

“How’re you here?” Stiles slurs finally, eyes heavily lidded. He won’t remember any of this, Derek’s sure. “I thought the ICU was for immediate family only.”

“Good thing, too,” Derek says, eyes flicking towards the door as he continues with, “Kept having to kick out a bunch of miscreants.” Derek runs a thumb over Stiles’s knuckles softly; he keeps checking periodically for any pain seeping through the cracks of whatever drugs they’ve got him on, but it must be the really good stuff. He sighs and decides, It’s now or never, as he answers Stiles’s original question with, “We’re married, actually.”

Stiles’s brows shoot up. “Really,” he says, rolling his head on his pillow to get a better look at their intertwined hands. “Don’t see my ring.”

Derek smiles. “Got lost in an animal attack, can you believe that?” 

“Animal attack,” Stiles repeats drowsily, more of a distant hum than anything. Then, his eyes shoot open and he jerks, hissing as he pulls on his stitches. Derek gently pushes him back down into the bed while Stiles asks frantically, “The Alpha, what happened to her?”

His heart rate monitor ticks up. “Calm down,” Derek murmurs, watching the door to make sure no one’s listening or about to come in as he settles Stiles back into bed. “Breathe, baby. It’s okay.”

Derek cringes internally - the pet name had just slipped out, he really didn’t mean anything by it, other than to comfort him, but. Fuck. He’s never going to admit it to anyone, but it felt kind of… good to say. 

Stiles doesn’t seem to have noticed it anyway, or he’s choosing to pretend he didn’t hear it. He can be very one-track-minded, sometimes. “Der,” Stiles says, a little more firm this time, and Derek thinks this might be the only thing that sticks from this conversation. He’s focusing intently when he asks again, “What happened to her?”

Derek sighs, smooths a hand over his forehead and into his hair, scratching lightly. Stiles blinks heavily, like it’s taking all his effort to stay awake, and Derek knows he could never deny him anything. “She attacked you,” he says, “And you were hurt. Badly. Do you remember that?”

Stiles blinks slowly, then makes an aborted nod. “Sort of,” he says, closing his eyes to think. Derek reaches over to dim the lights, and Stiles hums appreciatively and pats his hand lightly in thanks. Derek’s Wolf practically preens at the approval. “I remember… I was running? Then I tripped, or my leg got caught and I fell. There’s not much after that.”

It’s more than Derek’s expecting him to remember so he just nods. They can get into the gorey, nightmare inducing intricacies later. Stiles might not even remember anything after that and, if Derek’s lucky, he might not want to know. 

Who’s he kidding; it’s Stiles, of course he’ll want to know every specific detail about what happened when he’s more coherent. A guy can dream, though, right?

“She hurt you,” Derek reiterates, then presses a soft kiss to his knuckles. It’s unfair. He knows he shouldn’t do this, but he can’t not. Not when he was so close to losing Stiles before he could even have him. “So we took care of her. She’s gone.”

Stiles regards him silently, eerily lucid for someone on as many drugs as he is, then says, “Gone, as in left town, or gone as in gone for good, dead-gone?”

No use in lying to him now. “Second one,” he answers quietly. 

Stiles leans back into the bed, eyes closed. His breathing evens out and for a moment, Derek thinks Stiles just fell asleep. It wouldn’t surprise him, considering, but Stiles mumbles, “Scott’s probably pissed, huh.”

Derek tilts his head in consideration and says, “Yeah, he’s not happy.” Then watches as a corner of Stiles’s mouth quirks upwards. He swallows and asks, “Are you?”

He doesn’t get any kind of verbal or physical response from that but his smell shifts. Through the scent of antiseptic wipes and sedatives and pain meds, he can smell something else; relief, for one, and that hits him like a ton of bricks. Then, under that, guilt. 

“I’m not mad,” Stiles finally answers, heart rate staying steady as he says it. “I think I was scared,” Stiles admits in a small, shaking voice, “Really scared.”

Those words tug at his heart. He’s known Stiles for years and never once has he seriously admitted to being scared by something. He’s good at covering up his fear by using humor to cope or distracting them with the often more pressing situation at hand. 

Now, Stiles is the pressing situation. And maybe it doesn’t count since he’s drugged to high heaven, but Derek’s just glad Stiles feels safe enough to confide something like that - something so personal - in him. 

Derek must have some kind of look on his face - one that’s serious or thoughtful - because Stiles moves his hand out of his grip and cups the side of Derek’s face. 

When he looks, his breath stutters out of him because Stiles is looking at him with a similar expression Isaac had been wearing when watching Allison earlier. Fond and loving as he scratches Derek’s beard with blunt nails. 

“I’m okay now, though,” he says, head tilting in an admittedly cute way. His grin spells mischief, and then he says, “My husband’s right here, how could I not be?”

Derek sighs wearily, but a grin is pulling at his mouth. It still pains him to say, “We’re not actually married, y’know.”

Stiles just shrugs and takes it in stride, like he always does. “Not yet,” he says and his heartbeat stays completely steady when he says it, like it’s something he believes with his whole being. 

Derek thinks he might cry. Or laugh. Maybe he’ll throw up. Definitely one of those. He leans into Stiles’s palm and kisses it lightly. Stiles sighs happily and Derek revels in it. 

They’ll have to talk once Stiles gets better, preferably once he’s out of the hospital all together. But for now, Derek knows he can rest easy in the knowledge that they’ll get there eventually. They’ll be alright.