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Stiles sat next to the hospital bed, dozing but still shaking his leg anxiously. His eyes were drooping and he tried not to think about why he was sitting there, listening to the slow and steady beeping of Derek’s heart monitor.
“What?” Stiles asked sleepily into the receiver, rolling over to check the time. “It’s four fifteen in the morning.”
“Derek’s been taken and we don’t know where he is,” came Scott’s frantic reply.
Stiles sat bolt upright in bed, flinging his blankets off. “I’ll be right there.”
Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to stop the flashbacks, to stop seeing how he’d sought out Derek after they found where the hunters had taken him.
Three days later the pack stormed into a small cabin in the middle of nowhere; how cliché. Scott only picked out two heartbeats besides Derek’s much fainter one and he, Boyd, Isaac, and Erica tore through the house with a vengeance. The two hunters had their throats slashed quickly and Stiles ran through, unconcerned for his own safety or the angry snarling werewolves as he broke down the door to the basement.
What he saw was bad enough for any man but Stiles ignored the churning in his stomach caused by a combination of the sight before him and the putrid scent of blood, split flesh, and decay. He fell to his knees and pried open the door of the huge cage that was pushed into the far corner where Derek was lying motionless.
“Derek, Derek, c’mon,” Stiles urged, unaware of the tears streaking down his cheeks.
He reached inside to gently pry the bloodied mangled mess of human flesh from the cage, making himself ignore the whimpers of pain coming from Derek until he got the Alpha fully out. Derek had been stripped down to his boxers and nearly every inch of exposed skin was covered in a smear of blood except for a few places here or there. There were cut and gashes and stab wounds; small circular cigarette burns and longer burns from high voltage electricity wands, causing the skin to darken and peel away.
“Oh my God,” Erica gasped, rushing to collapse at Stiles’ side where he was holding Derek gingerly.
“He’s not healing. The wounds aren’t healing. WHYTHE FUCK IS HE NOT HEALING?” Stiles shouted frantically, looking around helplessly.
“Faerie blood,” Scott whispered in shocked horror, disgust written over his face as he examined a rolling cart of various knives, daggers, swords and things no one would want to have names for. He picked up a long skinny dagger and Stiles saw something dark purple and sticky dripping off of it. “It completely stops werewolf healing processes. He’s going to heal at a human speed.”
“Derek, Derek, please wake up,” Erica pleaded, tears streaming unabashedly down her cheeks as she brushed Derek’s tangled, matted hair back away from his face where it was caked on with blood.
“I’ll call Deaton,” Boyd offered, voice solemn and carefully controlled.
--
Derek started coming to, pulling himself out of the darkness but he wasn’t quite out. He could feel his limbs, aching and hurting like they never had before. He was laying on something soft, but he couldn’t hear anything so he must be back at his home. But…no, that couldn’t be right because even when he was alone he could hear the ambient noises of the woods.
So Derek struggled, pulling at the restraints that wanted to keep him in the warmth of darkness. He wiggled his fingers first and then his toes. Next he felt something stuck in his arm and panicked before strong warm hands were clamping around his wrists as he tried to yank whatever it was away. His eyes flew open and he saw Stiles standing over him, looking towards the door with his mouth moving quickly. He looked like he was yelling but Derek couldn’t hear him.
Two nurses and a doctor came in and the doctor’s mouth moved but he couldn’t hear anything. His eyes widened and he looked at Stiles in alarm.
Stiles seemed to know what was going on and Derek could make out the distinct way his lips moved when he cursed. There was more talking between the doctors and nurses and Stiles; the Sheriff appeared in the room and disappeared again; Lydia came in with Erica, tears on their faces; Boyd, Isaac and Scott came in to squeeze the small part of his arm that didn’t hurt; the doctor shone a light in his eyes and then checked his ears before walking out; and then it was just him and Stiles again. Derek was surprised to see tear tracks across Stiles’ cheeks and it must’ve shown because the human quickly dragged the back of his hand over his face.
Stiles seemed to have an idea and he caught Derek’s gaze quickly. Do you sign? He asked, moving his hands in a slow motion.
Derek nodded his head yes and then looked down at himself pointedly, the bandages covering 65% of his body, then at the machines around him before looking back at Stiles.
Some hunters ambushed you at the cemetery…you ran for the woods and they shot a flash arrow at you. Deaton thinks that it hit too close to your head and ruptured your eardrums. That’s…why you can’t hear anything, Stiles signed, face solemn but Derek could see he was holding something back.
Derek made what he hoped was a go on sound and it must have been because Stiles’ shoulders sagged.
The doctor doesn’t know how long it’ll be until your hearing comes back…or if it will at all.
Derek’s chest tightened and he felt panicked again. Why aren’t I healing? Derek signed back, with movements as small as he could make them.
The hunters…dosed you with faerie blood and used it on their…weapons, Stiles told him. I’m so sorry, Derek.
Derek closed his eyes and leaned back into his pillow. He hadn’t cried since he buried Laura but he felt the tears stinging his eyes. He felt Stiles’ warm hand wrap around his tentatively and he let the weight comfort him.
--
Make yourself at home, Stiles signed with a smile, nudging open the door to his house for Derek.
Derek nodded, going inside and looking around politely. Are you sure your dad is okay with this? Derek asked, turning to look at Stiles. Stiles rolled his eyes and nodded, going into the kitchen.
Are you hungry? My dad’s gonna actually be home for dinner so I was going to make some real food, Stiles signed, opening the fridge then the pantry to see what they had.
Derek shrugged and nodded.
Allergic to anything? Stiles questioned and Derek shook his head. Picky? Derek said no again and Stiles nodded, pulling things out quickly.
It’s only four o’clock, Derek pointed out as Stiles set a carton of whipping cream on the counter.
White chicken spinach lasagna takes awhile dude. Especially if you’re picky like me and insist on making your own sauce from scratch, Stiles explained, putting a large sauce pan on the stove and pouring the whipping cream into it after turning up the heat.
Derek leaned against the counter watching, but not hearing, Stiles flitter about the kitchen. He put chicken on to boil; grated a block of parmesan cheese; chopped up spinach; parboiled noodles. Finally an amazing-looking lasagna was placed into the oven and Stiles pulled out a loaf of French bread, cutting it in half and then slicing it right down the middle. He spread butter evenly over the surface and then sprinkled garlic salt and parmesan over it. Corn and green beans were steamed and seasoned next and soon Derek felt, rather than heard, the front door slam closed.
Stiles yelled something and Derek turned to see the Sheriff walk into the kitchen. Derek wasn’t sure what he expected maybe a side eyed glance or glare or caution in the man’s eyes. What he didn’t expect was the warm smile the Sheriff flashed him and the hand on his shoulder.
I’m so sorry about what happened to you, son, the Sheriff signed, sympathy in his eyes.
Could’ve happened to anyone. I’m glad it was me, Derek replied with a slight frown.
You’re a better man than me, Derek, the Sheriff said before going to help Stiles pull the lasagna out of the oven. Derek was shocked but he set the table when Stiles asked politely and pulled a beer out of the fridge for the Sheriff, sodas for himself and Stiles.
Dinner was a calm affair; Stiles and his dad tried to sign as much as possible to keep Derek included the conversation but they’d forget and start talking while they ate.
I have to study for finals, Stiles signed, catching Derek’s attention. You can hang out down here with my dad or hang out upstairs and watch me study, your choice.
Derek shrugged and nodded up the stairs and Stiles nodded, saying something to his dad before motioning Derek to follow him.
--
It had taken Derek less than ten hours in the hospital to actually admit to himself that he missed Stiles’ voice and the chatter that filled up the silences, and it had only gotten worse.
He’d been without hearing for six days now and had been at Stiles’ house for twelve hours. It was five am and he was sitting in the little nook by the window in the guest bedroom, staring up at the crescent moon. He jumped, startled, when he felt the hand on his shoulder and grabbed the wrist tightly, bending it backwards. Stiles’ face was screwed up and Derek let go instantly, looking apologetic.
Stiles rubbed his wrist and signed an apology. Shouldn’t have snuck up on you. I forgot.
It’s my fault, Derek replied. What are you doing up?
Was going to the bathroom and I…might have checked in to makes sure you were okay, Stiles admitted with a sheepish smile. Are you okay?
Derek shrugged and looked outside again. Stiles tapped his shoulder and he glanced up.
Let me know if you need anything…you can always talk to me, okay? Derek nodded and Stiles squeezed his shoulder gently before leaving again, shutting the door.
Derek didn’t remember his time being held in that basement and he was thankful for it (Stiles translated for Deaton while he explained that when faerie blood was injected into a werewolf’s bloodstream in large enough amounts, it would be absorbed into tissue and negate the werewolf’s healing powers.) But he did remember being found. He couldn’t hear anything then either but he could see Stiles through the blood that made his eyelashes stick together, could see the tears streaming down the boy’s face, could feel him shaking with anger and smell the disgust coming from him. But it wasn’t disgust for Derek; it was disgust for what had been done to him. He was barely conscious but he could feel Stiles next to him during the entire rescue; the way he held onto Derek’s hand while the pack carried him out; the way he sat on the seat of the car with Derek’s head in his lap as they headed first to Deaton’s then to the hospital. Eventually whichever drugs he was given at the hospital knocked him out but the last thing he was aware of was Stiles’ hand squeezing his fingers before everything went black.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the memories; unwilling to live through them again not for his own sake but because he didn’t want to remember Stiles so broken and angry and scared for him.
--
Scott and the pack came by in pairs or alone to see Derek. Stiles would translate for them back and forth and more often than not, whenever Scott would come over they’d end up in front of the TV playing video games and shouting things Derek couldn’t hear. So he’d grab a book from Stiles’ extensive collection (which he really shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was because the kid was freakishly smart) and sit in the chair to read.
Stiles coaxed him out occasionally to go on a walk in the park but Derek hated it because by then everyone in town had heard about Poor Derek Hale, he was kidnapped and tortured for three days for information about his uncle and whoever they came across would stop them to ask how Derek was doing. Stiles did a good job of fielding the questions or glaring people away (which Derek tried not to be proud about).
--
It was just another morning; the same routine it had been for the past five weeks staying in the Stilinski house. But when he went into the kitchen Derek heard…yes, heard a soft buzzing sound. He waved his hand at Stiles who was standing against the counter while his father fried eggs at the stove. Stiles raised an eye brow in question.
I think my hearing is coming back, Derek signed and watched Stiles’ mouth form a shouted WHAT? But he couldn’t make out the syllable, just the buzzing sound. It’s just a buzzing.
That’s good, though, right? John signed, looking between his son and Derek.
Stiles nodded and beamed. It means that the faerie blood is starting to wear off and your healing is kicking in! Without warning Stiles launched forward to drag Derek into a hug.
Derek hugged back tentatively and met the Sheriff’s gaze who smirked before going back to the eggs. Stiles pulled away with pink cheeks and embarrassed eyes before quickly going back to busying himself with getting breakfast done.
--
What if it doesn’t come back? Derek had signed one night, sitting on the floor in Stiles’ room.
You can’t think like that, Stiles signed back. You just have to trust that things will work out. And if they don’t, then you’ll learn to manage. You’re smart. You can do it.
I can’t defend myself from attackers if I can’t hear them coming, Derek shot back, hands moving in angry jerking motions.
It looked like Stiles sighed the way his shoulders dropped slightly and he looked at Derek sternly. Follow your own advice, Derek. You told Scott that you have to depend on all of your senses, not just one. But you depend solely on your hearing. Use your scent, the taste of the air, the breeze on your skin, what you see. Stiles replied calmly. You won’t be helpless. And you can stay here as long as you want.
--
“Stiles,” John sighed one night when Derek had excused himself to bed early.
“Yea, Dad?” Stiles replied, looking up from his Calculus homework he had spread across the living room floor where he was laying on his stomach.
“I…be careful, okay?”
“What do you mean?” Stiles wrinkled his brow, pushing up on his arms so he was sitting up.
“I just mean…I don’t want you to get hurt,” John tried to clarify, but just served in confusing Stiles further.
“I thought you trusted Derek. He’s a good guy. He’s been here for weeks without incident. You see that right?” Stiles asked, concerned.
“That’s not it. Yes, I trust Derek. Yes, I’ve gotten past my misconceptions, fueled by your stories by the way. And it helps that I know about the whole werewolf business. But I mean, I see the way you look at him. And I saw the way you acted around him while he was in the hospital. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up and end up with a broken heart,” John explained, voice tender and concerned.
“So you’re not gonna comment on the fact that I’m pining after a guy, but that you don’t want that guy to break my heart?” Stiles asked with a raised eyebrow and then smiled sadly. “You’re the best, Dad. But don’t worry; Derek doesn’t see me that way. So I’ll just keep my mouth shut until it blows over. His hearing is already starting to come back and Deaton says it should be mostly restored within the next two weeks. He’ll move out and everything will go back to normal. I’ll fall for incredibly attractive people and they’ll continue to not notice me.”
John frowned at his son. “Stiles…”
“I’m going to bed, Dad. I have a test tomorrow. Thanks, though, for caring. But I’ll be fine,” Stiles interrupted, packing up his things and standing up.
“Goodnight, Son,” John replied, still frowning. Stiles kissed the top of his head and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.
He stripped down to his boxers which were an embarrassingly bright shade of red and checked the hallway before crossing over to the bathroom where he used the toilet and brushed his teeth before heading back to his bed. He was dancing the line of sleep and consciousness when a soft knock on his door pulled him back awake. He rolled over and got up, knowing if it was Derek he wouldn’t hear him.
Stiles raised a brow but his eyes were soft as he looked at Derek, standing in the hallway without a shirt in basketball shorts.
Can I sleep in here tonight? I….I don’t want to be alone, he admitted grudgingly.
Stiles eyes grew wide but he nodded, pulling the door open completely to let Derek in. He was about to pull out the down sleeping bag from under his bed but Derek walked right past him, flopping onto the bed and reaching out to grab Stiles’ wrist.
Stiles fell down next to him and Derek shifted, rolling over to press his back against Stiles’ and falling asleep within minutes. It took Stiles a little longer, but eventually he gave into sleep as well.
And if they woke up the next morning with Derek’s chest firmly against Stiles’ back, legs pressed together, one of Derek’s arms pillowing Stiles’ head and the other wrapped protectively around his waist, well, that was nobody’s business but their own.
--
As the days went by the buzzing in Derek’s ears became louder, able to hear fluctuations in volume but not much more; he couldn’t hear pitch or syllables or Stiles’ laugh. That was the worst part; when he’d see Stiles throw his head back into a full body laugh, mouth white open and the soft skin of his neck completely exposed, dotted with dark moles and Derek couldn’t even hear him.
But about three days later he woke up…feeling like he was underwater. The birds’ chirping outside was muffled and garbled but he could hear it…sort of. He got up out of Stiles’ bed (because that had somehow become a thing after that first night) and headed downstairs but…no one was home.
Damn, Stiles was at school and the Sheriff was at work.
Derek hesitated before squaring his shoulders and heading back upstairs.
He was getting dressed in Stiles’ room when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He stepped closer and saw that most of his smallest cuts had healed over, nothing but clean skin left behind; even some of the minor cigarette burns on his arms and collarbone had begun to fade. He felt the stitches become a little bit tighter in two of the smaller stab wounds in his side and leg. This was good; it meant his healing was starting to kick in again.
He got dressed, careful not to pull at his stitches as he pulled on jeans and a t shirt, foregoing the leather jacket in light of the warm May morning.
He left a note for Stiles telling him where he was going, unsure how long his little field trip would take.
There was no car in the driveway because the Sheriff wouldn’t let him drive without being able to hear so he started on foot to the vet clinic.
He was paranoid the whole walk over, glancing behind his shoulder and down any dark corner he passed to make sure nothing would jump out at him. He got to the clinic without incident and pulled the door open, the little bell tinkling above him.
Derek waited, knowing Deaton heard his entrance but unable to walk past the counter even though Deaton didn’t consider him a threat, the ash wood counter preventing it.
Deaton walked out a moment later, drying his hands on a towel.
“Derek!” Deaton said but Derek couldn’t hear his voice, not exactly. “Oh, uh, I…” Deaton grabbed a pen and paper from under the counter and quickly scribbled, I don’t sign, sorry.
“It’s okay,” Derek said, his voice sounding weird in his ears.
“Oh can you hear?” Deaton asked aloud but Derek just pointed to the paper.
I asked if you could hear again but I suppose that answers that question, Deaton wrote, showing Derek before pulling the paper back. What can I help you with, Derek?
“I’m starting to slowly get my hearing back, and some of my injuries have healed,” Derek explained slowly, weirded out by the fact that he couldn’t hear his own voice clearly. “But I can’t understand words…it sounds…kind of like I’m underwater.”
Well that is certainly promising. Would you mind if I took a look in your ears and at your wounds? Deaton asked with a polite smile, pulling open the gate to allow Derek behind the counter.
Derek nodded and followed Deaton to the back room. Derek tried to push his hearing but the garbled ambient noises in the clinic started to give him a headache so he stopped. Deaton pulled an otoscope out of a drawer and came to stand in front of Derek. Derek turned his head to display his left ear first and Deaton looked inside, before nudging the wolf’s chin to check the other. He nodded and picked up the pen and paper he’d carried in with him.
It looks to be healing well, if still slowly. From the looks of it…I’d say you should be able to hear at a human level in a matter of days. It may take longer to get back to your werewolf abilities, though. Don’t push it, Deaton wrote down quickly, showing it to Derek to read.
“Thank you,” Derek replied, still feeling extremely odd about being able to talk but not knowing how he sounded. He never knew that it would be weird not to hear his own voice or how he’d taken it for granted but it was and he had. “Is there anything that could speed up the process?”
I’m afraid not, my friend. Time is the remedy here, Deaton replied and Derek nodded. May I take a look at your wounds now?
Derek nodded, lifting his shirt over his head to let Deaton look at him.
--
It was four in the morning and Derek couldn’t sleep. He was sitting up against the headboard of Stiles’ bed, with the boy’s back pressed against his legs, head at his hip.
He’d told Stiles about his trip to Deaton’s, choosing to sign it instead of saying it because not being able to hear his own voice correctly was still weird as hell. Stiles had looked genuinely pleased but Derek didn’t miss the flash of mild disappointment in the kid’s eyes; which, what? That couldn’t be right. Why would Stiles want Derek to stay deaf?
Derek missed hearing things. Had never realized how much he’d taken it for granted. He missed the quiet whisper of the wind, the soft rustle of the leaves, the almost inaudible shift of the blades of grass as they danced in the breeze, the call of the birds, the snuffling of rabbits, the sound of cars passing, the idle chit chat and heartbeats of the people around him; mostly he missed Stiles’ voice though - the slight roughness of it, the way it would taper off when he’d ramble at a mile a minute until he had no breath left in his lungs.
He missed Stiles’ heartbeat, too. It was distinct, everyone’s heartbeat was, but Derek could pick out Stiles’ from a mile away in a crowd full of people. The way it beat just a little too fast and a little too hard, like his heart was as excitable as he was.
Derek felt his eyes start to droop so he shifted down the bed and looked over at Stiles.
“I miss your voice,” he whispered, still unable to hear himself. He rolled over so their backs were pressed together and fell asleep.
--
Melissa came by to check on Derek and to take out his stitches that were tightening more and more uncomfortably by the day. Most of his cuts were gone but a few of the worst ones were still healing, leaving little raised pink lines across his body.
Deaton had said to expect scars since he was not only injected with faerie blood, but it was used on the weapons. Traces of it would still be at the sight of any open wounds or burns. Derek was just thankful he was healing at all at that point.
--
“CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?!” Scott yelled in his ear and Derek turned to glare at him.
“Yes,” he replied shortly.
“HOW LONG DO YOU THINK IT’LL BE TIL YOU GET YOUR HEARING BACK?” Erica shouted next, into his other ear.
“I don’t know,” Derek snapped.
The pack took turns yelling to fill him in on what happened, leaving out anything sensitive that someone might hear. But the only one who didn’t yell was Stiles and Derek was internally disappointed. Stiles just sat and smiled or laughed at something someone said. Occasionally he’d make comments but they were all too quiet for Derek to hear.
--
Derek was running through the woods, unable to hear a thing but just knowing that his pack was in danger was enough to keep him going. He felt Stiles’ presence behind him more than he heard it and he tried to push out his good senses to make up for the loss of one. He was running but it didn’t feel like he was moving. Didn’t he already pass that tree a minute ago? Where was his pack?
All of a sudden he felt the atmosphere change and he whirled around just in time to see a wolf descending upon Stiles’ back, closing his huge maw around the boy’s neck. Stiles’ eyes widened and his mouth opened but Derek couldn’t hear the scream.
--
Derek woke up, sitting bolt upright and covered in sweat. He was breathing heavily and the room was dark, the bed beside him cold. All of a sudden he realized he could hear the wind whipping at the window and the rain pounding on top of the roof. His hearing was back.
“Hello,” he said experimentally, grinning when he was able to hear his own voice.
He rushed out of the room to find Stiles but the bathroom was empty so he took the stairs quietly so as not to wake the Sheriff. He was so excited that he almost realized too late that there were voices in the dining room. He paused on the last stair, hidden from view and listened to the soft, beautiful tones of Stiles’ voice as he spoke to his father.
“I dunno, Dad…it’s selfish,” Stiles muttered softly, the shuffling of his feet under the table like music to Derek’s ears.
“It is,” the Sheriff agreed and Derek imagined him bobbing his head gently. “But you’re human, and as a human you’re allowed to be selfish.”
“I want him to get better, I do!” Stiles insisted and ran his hands over his face tiredly. “I just…when he does…he’ll leave and it’ll all go back to the way it was.”
“What’s so bad about the way it was? You were happy before weren’t you?” the Sheriff asked gently.
“Yea but…I dunno. Things changed while he was here. I…I don’t want to go back to the way things were before; where I only saw him when he needed something or for pack meetings. I don’t…God, you were right, Dad. I got too close and now it just fucking hurts.”
Derek’s chest tightened when he heard the hitch in Stiles’ breath; smelt the scent of salty tears.
So that was the disappointment that had been in Stiles’ eyes before.
Carefully and silently he climbed back up the stairs, back to Stiles’ room to sleep again.
--
Stiles smiled when Derek came down in the morning and Derek answered something he asked his father. Both men turned around to grin but Derek could see plainly the disappointment in Stiles’ eyes even though he tried to hide it.
“I’ll call Scott,” Stiles smiled, clapping Derek on the shoulder before heading upstairs.
Derek frowned after him and then turned back to the Sheriff.
“Does this mean you’ll be leaving, son?” John asked, handing Derek a plate of toast, eggs and turkey bacon.
Derek rubbed the back of his head and nodded. “Yea, I’d feel a little weird staying here when I didn’t really need to,” he answered, sitting down at what had become his usual seat at the table.
The Sheriff nodded but didn’t say anything as they sat down to eat. Stiles came in a few minutes later, still with a smile as he grabbed his own plate from the kitchen.
“The pack is on the way,” he told Derek, shoving half a piece of toast in his mouth.
“You’re disgusting,” Derek replied, frowning at Stiles’ eating habits.
But Stiles just rolled his eyes and went back to his breakfast. Derek would need to figure out a time to talk to Stiles alone which seemed like it wouldn’t be for awhile considering five other teenagers would soon be arriving to distract them. So they ate and made idle chit chat, Derek nearly glowing at being able to hear the sounds around him again after so many weeks.
The Pack arrived fifteen minutes later, pouring into the house and hardly noticing when the Sheriff bid a goodbye on his way to work. They laughed and chattered and ate; Erica and Lydia both hugged Derek and told him they were glad he was better. Isaac asked tentatively to see his scars and Derek complied, knowing they all had some of their own.
Derek had one long one across his back that ran from his right shoulder to left hip; at that point it was no longer raised and pink, but flat and silvery white, jagged at the edges and tapered at the tips. He had others across his ribs, his abdomen, his bicep, his thigh, and the pack’s eyes were all huge. The one scar he hated most, though, was one that he didn’t show; it was on the inside of his left thigh, stretching around the back from an electric burn. It was ugly and his skin was a revolting shade of white and pink, stretched like melted wax that someone had tried to reform.
Eventually Derek grew overwhelmed by the flurry of activity and onslaught of noises he needed to be readjusted to, so Stiles shoed everybody out with false excuses about studying.
“Thanks,” Derek sighed, slumping into the couch.
“Sure,” Stiles agreed with a nod. “You looked a bit flustered and overwhelmed.”
Derek grimaced. “I was,” he admitted reluctantly.
Stiles pursed his lips and rocked back and forth on his heels like he did when he wanted to talk about something but wasn’t sure how to approach it.
“Spit it out,” Derek finally said bluntly, raising a brow.
“I guess this means you’re leaving now, huh?” Stiles asked, defeat and disappointment in his eyes.
“Yep,” Derek agreed with a nod.
Stiles bobbed his head in a cartoonish way that might have made Derek laugh if Stiles didn’t look so pathetic trying to look happy but really just looking miserable.
“Well, I’m glad you’re better, but uh, I’m gonna go do some reading for school,” Stiles excused himself, hooking his thumb over his shoulder and darting away before Derek could stop him.
Derek sighed heavily and stood up, going into the kitchen to get himself some water. He needed to talk to Stiles and it was an opportune time with the house to themselves but he didn’t know how to say what he needed to.
--
It was the third night Derek spent back at his house and 3am found him awake yet again, unaware that across town a teenage boy was staring out his own bedroom window at the same moon in the sky. He got up, moving back to his bed even though he knew sleep would be impossible. It was hard when he was used to being in a house with actual people; even if he hadn’t been able to hear their heartbeats he could still sense their presences, could smell their scents. The only scent here was his own and there was no warm lean body in his bed to hog the covers and press hotly against his back.
He tossed and turned, tangling himself in the bed sheets and falling over the edge more than once before he gave up on sleep. He shuffled around his house, the same one that burned with his family and the same one he’d brought back to life with his own two hands. He cleaned the bathroom, mopped the kitchen floor, rearranged the pantry, cleaned out the fridge, washed his sheets, did the laundry.
The sun started peeking into the windows around six thirty, throwing shadows across the floors and rays of golden lights dancing over the walls. He couldn’t take anymore waiting so he snatched up his phone and texted Stiles.
Can you meet me at the park in an hour?
He wasn’t expecting a reply right away, but it came anyway.
Sure.
Derek dressed in his usual jeans and t shirt but opted for a heather blue one instead of black. Too antsy to sit around and wait, Derek hopped in the Camaro to head for the park. He reveled in the feel of the leather seats and gentle purring of the engine.
Everyday his hearing was getting better and better, closer and closer to the way it had been, and he could hear the whir of the pistons in the engine now. It was soothing, calming his nerves as he stopped at the small coffee shop on the way, picking up a caramel macchiato with no foam for Stiles and a pumpkin spice latte for himself.
When he got to the park it was empty, no one around or even in the parking lot.
He pulled into a space and got out, taking the coffees with him as he wandered towards the path to seek out his favorite bench.
It was a pretty morning, clear blue skies and a warm breeze that tickled the hairs on the back of Derek’s neck. He sat himself down on the wood and wrought iron bench, staring at the water that flowed clear and crystalline over multicolored stones in the river; shallower here at the curve than any other part.
Crunching leaves alerted him to the newcomer’s approach and he checked the clock on his phone. It had barely been thirty minutes since he’d sent the text.
Stiles came into view, rounding the bend in the trail and looking slightly shocked when he saw Derek already there. Derek gave him a tiny smile and stood up, offering him the coffee.
“Thanks,” Stiles said, taking the cup and giving Derek a strange look.
“You’re welcome,” Derek replied, the corners of his lips twitching.
“How come you wanted to see me so early? Did you miss me that much?” Stiles’ tone was teasing as they headed back to the bench but Derek nodded.
“Yes,” he agreed easily, bluntly.
Stiles’ head snapped up to stare at Derek in shock before he schooled his features. Derek sighed and sat down.
“Just drink your coffee, Stiles,” he ordered softly on an exhale. Stiles listened, still looking at Derek as he lifted the cup to his mouth. “You know, I never realized how often I took things for granted until I couldn’t hear anything anymore. It wasn’t even really the big things but the little things I never paid attention to that kept me…grounded.”
“Like what?” Stiles asked softly.
“Like…like heartbeats and the way the wind sounds in the trees and the way leaves sound when they brush together,” Derek answered honestly. “I missed the big things too, like being able to talk while my hands were busy or being able to listen to someone talking to me without having to watch their hands fly around.”
“My signing is awesome,” Stiles interrupted, poking Derek’s bicep with a smile.
Derek chuckled. “It’s…just like you - flail-y,” he allowed and then glanced at Stiles. “How do you know sign language anyway?”
“Oh, well, my Aunt Ruby was in a car accident when I was a year old and something happened and she was never able to hear again. So I had to learn sign language to talk to her when I got older. She died six months after Mom from double kidney failure before she could get a transplant,” Stiles replied with a frown. “What about you?”
“Peter…he had a daughter, Lauren, who was two years younger than me who was born deaf. We all learned it,” Derek told him.
“Peter had a daughter?!” Stiles exclaimed, waving his hands about and making Derek chuckle softly.
“Peter was actually a good uncle before the fire, a good man. He was funny and smart; I thought he hung the moon. He married a human woman named Mona and everyone loved her. She and Lauren both died…” Derek answered.
They were quiet for a long moment and then Stiles nudged him. “So you were saying? About taking things for granted?” he prompted and Derek nodded.
“I did take those little things for granted, but there was one thing that I never knew I would miss hearing so much. I used to think I could go my entire life without ever hearing it again but I was wrong,” Derek continued softly. “It was the one thing I could listen to for the rest of my life.”
“What?” Stiles asked, his voice coming out breathlessly.
Derek shifted to meet Stiles’ eyes evenly. “I missed your voice,” he replied quietly.
Stiles’ eyes grew wide and a smile spread across his lips hesitantly. “My voice? But you’re always telling me to shut up,” he pointed out.
Derek rolled his eyes but there was no heat behind it. “I just told you I was wrong, didn’t I?”
“Yea, you did,” Stiles agreed with a dopey smile. “So, can I kiss you now or are you going to punch me if I try?”
Derek pretended to think about it but then grinned. “You can definitely kiss me now,” he decided, leaning forward to catch Stiles’ lips with his own.
Stiles pressed forward eagerly, forgotten coffee falling to the ground as his hands reached for Derek’s shoulders to pull him closer. Derek’s fingers gripped tightly at Stiles’ hips and he traced the edge of Stiles’ lower lip before the boy opened his mouth to him. Derek licked as they fought for dominance of the kiss. Eventually he pulled back, both of them slightly breathless and sporting matching stupid smiles.
“I hope you know I’m going to hold that over your head for the rest of our lives every time you tell me to shut up or that my voice is irritating,” Stiles pointed out with a laugh.
But Derek just smiled back and held him closer. If there was one thing Derek could listen to for the rest of his life it would be Stiles’ voice. And he’d never take that for granted again.
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