Chapter Text
The sheriff leaves to go to work soon after they all finish their breakfast, and Stiles and Derek are left alone to entertain themselves for several hours.
They watch some TV to pass the time. Family Feud is on, followed by a couple episodes of The Price is Right, and then a Scrubs marathon starts up—which Stiles finds hilariously appropriate, considering where they are at the present moment.
They play on their phones a bit when the roar of the television starts to become too tiresome, and Stiles finally beats the Candy Crush level he's been stuck on for fucking weeks. Shortly after enthusiastically celebrating that hard-won victory, though, Derek decimates him in a game of Words with Friends; then they each take turns drawing doodles all over his whiteboard. It all starts off innocent enough—cute little sketches of wolves and foxes frolicking around in the preserve—but at some point things begin to devolve and the pictures take a turn, spiraling down into Not Safe For Work territory.
Way down into it.
The X-rated material is mainly Stiles' fault, he'll readily admit, but Derek does nothing at all to deter him—the enablerwolf.
If only his dad could see them now....the man would be so proud.
Every time Stiles needs to go to the bathroom, Derek helps him wrangle all the various things he's hooked up to so he doesn’t trip over anything and brain himself; and whenever he has a coughing fit he gets a hefty dose of werewolf mojo to ease the pain away, because his boyfriend is the best.
The absolute best.
They make another game out of trying to guess what sorts of culinary delights will be brought up to him for lunch, and then they finally come up with a plausible explanation to tell the pack for why he's actually in the hospital.
It's all very exciting stuff.
Thrilling, even.
The story they decide to go with is that Stiles scarfed down way too many Doritos all at once, just shoving them in his mouth all willy-nilly style—which, let’s be honest, believable—and scratched the ever-loving fuck out of his throat; so much so that he'd started coughing up blood in the middle of the night. Derek, being the worrywolf he is, had woken up, seen all the blood, and promptly proceeded to freak out; then raced him straight to the ER—also believable, and totally, one-hundred percent true.
When lunch does arrive around noon, the nurses take pity on Derek and give him one of the extra trays so he doesn’t have to leave the room to go hunting for sustenance.
Stiles receives a generous dollop of bland mashed potatoes, a matching portion of shredded chicken, a small bowl of cottage cheese, a glass of apple juice, and some strawberry jello for dessert—which just so happens to be Derek's favorite flavor.
It's delightful.
Derek seems to be much happier with his own complimentary meal of chicken strips, french fries and chocolate cake; and for hospital food, it doesn't look half bad.
It looks pretty damn good, actually.
Stiles tries to steal a fry and is immediately shot down by the most impressive bitch-face he thinks he's ever seen; and coming from Derek's broody mug, that's saying something.
He huffs, glares at the older man, and refuses to share any of his jello.
He starts getting visitors after lunch. His nurse—Suzie, now—comes in all smiles with a bounce in her step, and switches out his IV bag, then checks his vital signs for the umpteenth time.
Scott follows her in, Allison trailing close behind, and Stiles lights up when he sees them.
After the nurse has finished with her rounds Scott comes right up to him, all sad puppy dog eyes, and gives him the bestest best bro-hug in the history of best bro-hugs; then pulls back and examines him just like his father did earlier that morning, eyes searching for any sort of anomaly or injury. “Dude, what the hell happened to you?” he asks, concern slowly seeping into his features.
So Stiles tells them the fabricated events that led to his hospitalization, and he only feels slightly guilty about the whole lying to his best friend part.
Scott, true to form, looks acceptably distressed and horrified on his behalf.
Bless him.
Allison looks a little more dubious in her belief, but she goes with it nonetheless.
Bless her, too.
And when he asks his brother-from-another-mother if said mother is working, he's extremely pleased to hear that she's not. Apparently Melissa McCall has the next three days off and is visiting a friend in Redding.
Bless the scheduling gods.
It's a small mercy, and Stiles appreciates it to no end.
Lydia comes flouncing into his room a little while later, bearing gifts of completed homework assignments since they still have a few weeks left of school; and Stiles flails with joy at the glorious wonder that is his strawberry-haired goddess.
Derek only growls a little at his antics.
Jealouswolf.
Stiles could mention the fact that most of his nurses have been surreptitiously shooting heart-eyes in Derek's general direction every time they come in, and a particularly feisty aide has even been low key flirting with the man, but he keeps his mouth shut.
It's all innocent enough, and what Derek doesn't know won't hurt him.
Obliviouswolf.
Isaac, Boyd and Erica stop by a few hours later, and they sneak him in a nice, greasy bag of curly fries from the diner he loves; but his overprotective jerk of a boyfriend snatches them away before he can even get so much as a whiff of their warm, salty deliciousness.
“Curly fries aren't on the soft diet, Stiles,” he says, right before he pops one of the super long, super curly ones right into his own mouth, chewing happily.
And loudly.
The traitor.
Stiles draws an angry hand flipping Derek off on his little board.
He ends up going over their cover story with each member of the pack as they arrive, Derek taking over whenever he feels like Stiles has talked too much—which means Derek ends up doing most of the talking; and if any of the other wolves catch the lie in their heartbeats they don't say anything about it.
Thank god.
He's pretty sure all their friends know exactly what he and Derek got up to the previous night—mainly because Stiles had been talking about it almost nonstop for the last several weeks in unbridled anticipation—but they don't bring it up.
They can all live in blissful denial as far as he's concerned.
He doesn't care.
He's totally okay with that.
Stiles does, in fact, get discharged the following day; but not until mid-afternoon, after Dr. Owens has made rounds and had a chance to examine him one last time.
And he's definitely ready to leave.
So, so ready.
He's feeling a lot better, actually. His throat doesn't hurt nearly as bad as it did the day before, and he can breathe a lot easier, too. There's been no coughing up of any suspicious bodily fluids, blood or otherwise, and less coughing in general. He was even able to eat solid foods for breakfast and lunch without much difficulty or discomfort, a fact that he realizes he's maybe a little bit too excited about. It's just further proof that he's going stir crazy and really needs to get the heck outta dodge before he starts climbing the freakin' walls or some shit.
His dad's there to help him get ready to leave, but only because he took a late lunch. He has to go straight back to the station after Stiles is safely squared away at home—which is how Stiles managed to talk the man into letting him stay at Derek's loft instead of at his own house.
“Dad, look, just hear me out, okay? I know you want me home, and I get it, I really do. You're worried about me and stuff. Which is a totally valid concern, but think about it for a sec,” he paused there, trying to gauge the expression slowly creeping onto his father's face.
It was something akin to 'well, this oughta be good'.
Stiles didn't let it deter him in the slightest.
“You've gotta go back to work, right? But see, Derek doesn't have a job, because he's, you know, independently wealthy or whatever....so if I stay with him he can give me all the attention I need.”
“Isn't his 'attention' exactly what landed you in the hospital to begin with?”
“What? No! Dad, oh my god....not that kind of attention! Jesus. Look, what I meant was, like, he can stay with me at all times and, you know, make sure I don't die or anything. Holy hell....”
“Alright, alright,” his dad chuckled and shook his head, relenting, “Fine, kid, you can go with Derek—but you’d better take it easy. I mean it. You need to rest and recover, so let him take care of you.”
“Oh yeah, definitely,” he readily agreed, nodding his head and trying his best not to snicker, “I promise, I'll let Derek take care of me so, so good.”
The werewolf chose that exact moment to walk back into the room from his coffee run on the fourth floor, and a heavy, loaded silence descended. “Um,” he looked between the two Stilinski men, “did I miss something, or...?”
Stiles did snicker then, because he just couldn't help it.
His dad simply rolled his eyes.
His newest nurse, Melody, comes into his room carrying a stack of papers and starts to go over all of his discharge orders with the three of them:
Don't do anything too strenuous for the next two weeks—Stiles bites his tongue, his mind wallowing in the gutter, where it lives most of the time, honestly.
Don't talk too much—Derek and his dad both huff in unison.
Drink plenty of fluids— that one's doable.
Continue taking the antibiotics until the bottle is empty—also doable, provided someone's there to help remind him.
Call his primary care doctor or come back to the ER if he gets a fever greater than 100.4, if he has any trouble breathing, or if he starts coughing up blood again—Derek's whole body tenses at that one, but Stiles gently pats his arm, drawing soothing little circles across his skin and playing with the hairs there until he feels the wolf start to relax.
When she's finally finished with her spiel, Stiles states his understanding of all the instructions, signs several pieces of paper, and then sends Derek down to pull the Camaro up to the front entrance.
The alpha is still wary to leave his side for very long, but he does as Stiles asks, albeit reluctantly.
Melody unhooks him from all the various devices he's been attached to, gives him one last dose of pain medication through his IV, then takes that out as well.
After that's all said and done she leaves him to change into some comfortable clothes his dad brought up for him—a pair of baggy sweat pants and a soft, old BHPD t-shirt—since when he'd arrived at the hospital two nights prior he'd only been wearing his boxers and a thin undershirt.
They push him down in a wheelchair, despite his protests that he can walk just fine on his own; and Derek hops out of the car when they exit the building, running around to open the passenger side door for him. He gives his dad a big hug and an “I love you”, thanks the nurse for all her help, and plops down in the passenger seat of the Camaro, pulling his seat belt on while Derek says goodbye to the sheriff.
That exchange is probably awkward as hell, and Stiles really wishes he had werewolf hearing so he could eavesdrop on the conversation because his imagination is kinda going wild with all the embarrassing possibilities.
Derek climbs into the driver's seat a few moments later, his dad gives them both a farewell salute, and then they're finally on their way.
Halle-freakin-lujah.
The drive from the hospital is eerily reminiscent of the drive to the hospital for Stiles.
Derek glances toward him no less than twenty-seven times during the short journey, worry lines crinkling the skin between his eyebrows. He looks like he's on edge; like he's just waiting for something horrible to happen.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Waiting for his whole world to implode, destroying him and everyone he loves right along with it.
Stiles gets it, though. He does.
He understands that Derek is concerned—the guy's lost so much Stiles can't even begin to fathom it—and he even appreciates all that concern to an extent. It shows him just how much the other man truly cares about him; but he really is okay, and he wants Derek to believe that. He wants Derek to know that bad stuff doesn't always have to happen to him; that he can be happy and the world's not gonna end because of it.
“Babe, I'm okay,” he murmurs, “They wouldn't have let me leave the hospital if they thought I was gonna keel over or anything. They'd have kept me there to cover their own asses, and you know it. So please, stop worrying and just relax.”
Derek's jaw ticks and his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows, but he gives a curt nod of acceptance; and Stiles takes that as his cue to grab the hand resting on the gear shift, threading their fingers together, palm to palm. His thumb starts a gentle back and forth caress along the line of Derek's own, and he leans his head back against the seat, watching as his wolf continues to drive them home.
Derek deserves nice things, Stiles has decided, and he's so gonna give them to him.
All the nice things.
Derek mother hens him like a boss once they get back to the loft.
He gets him all set up in the bedroom, with warm blankets and fluffy pillows and a huge glass of ice water. He makes sure Stiles has his laptop, and his phone, and the remotes to the TV and the DVD player. The whiteboard his father gave him is placed on the nightstand beside the bed, just in case Stiles actually wants to use it at some point. Derek even sets the thermostat to the temperature he knows Stiles is most comfortable with, even though it happens to be several degrees warmer than what Derek himself prefers.
Then he just sort of hovers in the doorway, like a lost little puppy that's not sure what it's supposed to do next.
“Uh, you doin' okay over there?” Stiles asks, and Derek immediately crosses the room, sitting right on the edge of the bed next to him, like he was just waiting for an invitation to come closer.
Or an opportunity to let out all of his pent up emotions.
Or both.
Probably both.
“Not really, no,” he says, shaking his head, “I don’t think I'm okay at all. You scared me half to death, Stiles.”
“I know. I know I did.”
“That night....the night when you woke up coughing....when I saw all the blood....fuck....”
“I know, Alpha....”
“It was bad, Stiles, but it could have been so much worse. A lot worse....” Derek's eyes look watery, and it makes Stiles' heart ache to see him blinking back tears, looking so open and vulnerable, wounded, scared, “What if it had been something worse? What if I'd hurt you more? I don't know what I would have done if it had been worse, Sti. I....I don't think I could have survived that, I just—”
“Hey, it didn’t, though,” Stiles cuts in then, taking Derek’s hand in his and meeting the man's worried gaze, “It didn't. You didn't. You didn't hurt me, Derek, and it all worked out just fine. See? I'm okay. I'm here. I'm right here with you, and I'm okay, Der.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it's just....god, I fucking hated seeing you like that. I can't stand it—can't stand seeing you get hurt. Can't stand not being able to do anything....not being able to fix it....”
“I know. I'm really, really sorry.”
Derek just gives him another nod, staring at him, his brow furrowed in thought as the silence lingers.
After a minute or so, Stiles breaks the quiet bubble they've drifted into.
“Anything else bothering you, big guy?” The name pops out of his mouth unbidden, and he grins despite himself, biting his tongue; then promptly gives up the cause and repeats, because he just can't help himself. And also, because he desperately needs to lighten the mood a bit, “Heh....big guy. You sure lived up to that nickname, didn't ya?”
Derek glares at him for several long seconds, but then his lips quirk up ever so slightly and he slumps, his rigid posture relaxing a bit. He shakes his head again—but it seems easier this time, lighter, a lot less angsty—and he lets out a long-suffering sigh, running his fingers through his unruly hair.
Adorablewolf.
Stiles wants so very badly to kiss him, so he does. He leans forward, slowly, carefully, meeting their lips in a soft press of warmth.
Chaste and sweet.
Tender and questioning.
It takes a few seconds, but Derek gets with the program soon enough, returning the kiss with a little more heat and fervor. He nips at Stiles’ lower lip, and Stiles eagerly opens up to him, moaning as their tongues slip together seamlessly.
It feels like coming home.
He circles his arms around the wolf’s neck, goes to straddle his lap, to rock into him; but strong hands put a stop to his endeavor, halting his movement and holding him in place.
“Der, babe, come on,” he mumbles against scratchy, two-day old stubble, “I want you. Wanna show you exactly how much I want you, so lemme go....”
“Shhh.”
“Again with the shushing? Seriously?”
Derek pulls away from him, and he starts to protest the loss, but before he can get a word out those big, wolfy hands are gently guiding him down to lay on his back. Derek crawls on top of him, straddling his thighs, and suddenly Stiles is a little more on board with whatever this is.
“I’m not saying we can’t mess around, Sti,” Derek starts, placing a pillow beneath Stiles' head, making sure he's comfortable, “but we’re gonna take things a lot slower from now on.”
Slow is good.
Stiles can totally do slow.
He realizes he kind of scared the shit out of Derek, so he can do whatever the other man needs him to do in order to feel better about everything.
So, slow it is.
“Okay,” he agrees easily, “Totally. No problemo. We'll take it a bit easier from now on. Go slow. Whatever you want. Anything you want.” He leans up and kisses Derek again, a quick little peck. “I love you, and I'm really sorry I scared you....” he stops, grins, then adds, voice all sing-song and lovey-dovey, “my big, sweet softywolf.”
Derek rolls his eyes at him, but smiles in return. “I love you too, god help me....and yeah, we are gonna take it a lot easier from now on. No more trying to deep throat my 'humongous monster cock', as you put it. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, sure—I mean, wait....what? No! Oh, come on! You can't be serious! Don't take something that glorious away from me, Derek....please,” he protests, voice going a bit hoarse again with the effort, “You don't actually want that, babe. Really, you don't. I know you don't want that because you loved having my mouth all over your dick. And I don't want that either, because I loved having my mouth all over your dick. We both love my mouth on your dick, okay? So no one wants anything to do with that nonsense talk. It'd be a sad, sad state of affairs all around—“
Derek kisses him quiet, all open mouthed and dirty, greedy and probing, hot and urgent.
Stiles goes with it.
“We're gonna need to tame that enthusiasm a bit,” the alpha murmurs after their mouths have parted ways, “We don't want another trip to the ER, do we?”
“I hate you so much right now.”
“No you don't.” Derek leans down and kisses him once more, the smirk never leaving his smug, beautiful face. “Now, I want you to listen very carefully to what's gonna happen next, baby. You're gonna lie back, relax, and let me. Take care of you.”
That last part is emphasized with the most seductive, sultry purr he thinks he's ever heard; and it sends chills shooting up his spine while blood plummets to the depths of his suddenly very eager and attentive dick.
Before he has time to even nod in agreement, though, his sweat pants are being ripped off of him, right along with his boxers; and Stiles' brain sort of short circuits as wet, writhing heat instantly surrounds his half hard cock.
He flails at the contact, his eyes darting to where Derek's gorgeous pink lips are spread wide around his rapidly growing erection, sinking slowly down the shaft until he can feel the wolf’s nose burrowed deep into his pubic hair, hot breath searing his skin like a brand.
It’s literally the best.
“Oh my god, dude....” he gasps, his head falling back down to the pillow below him, “Fuck. You're gonna kill me, you know that? Death by insane, mind-blowing orgasm or something....”
Derek just hums in acknowledgment, and Stiles smiles so hard his cheeks hurt, because really, how is this his freaking life?
The mouth enveloping him starts to move, gently bobbing up and down along his leaking cock—sucking, and lapping, and swirling—sending delicious sparks of pure pleasure zip-zinging through the entirety of his body, from the top of his head to the tips of his curling toes.
He moans at the feel of it all, long and low and needy, then stretches out and does exactly what he’s been told to do.
He lets Derek take care of him.
End.