Derek’s claws reach out for Stiles like a lifeline.
The hunters hold him back and he writhes and snarls in their grip. Stiles’ face across from him in the forest is a mirror of his own, desperate and haunted and terrified, angry and wild. They reach for each other, but it’s fruitless; they’re too far apart, and the men are dragging Stiles backwards, away from Derek, further and further from him.
Derek roars, spit flying everywhere and sharp teeth snapping at the hunters surrounding him, but his red eyes stay glued to his mate. He thrashes, Stiles’ cries and yells echoing in his ears over the sound of his own rapid heartbeat.
At last he turns around in the hunters’ grasp, intending to slash their throats out with a swipe of his claws, but a needle plunges into his own neck, and his world fades to black.
The last thing he hears is the mournful, harrowed, desperate sound of his own name on Stiles’ lips.
The forest goes dark around him.
*
Long fingers stroke through Derek’s hair. His head is pillowed on something soft, and everything is nice and warm for a moment.
“You with me, big guy?”
Stiles’ voice is familiar and soothing in his ear. It sounds rough and wet, but it’s Stiles. His scent is off as well, and Derek furrows his brow as his senses start to come back to him.
Slowly, his attention draws towards his body, and a sense of pain starts to build. It’s tingling at first, then sharper, then burning, and at last he opens his eyes with a start as his limbs feel like they’re on fire, scorching and aching all the way down to the bone.
Stiles pets his cheek and temple in a comforting motion as Derek tries to curl in on himself, closer to Stiles, his face pressing into Stiles’ abdomen where he’s laying in his lap.
“It’s wolfsbane,” Stiles murmurs to him, his gentle strokes on his face unrelenting and anchoring. “They injected you with it, and locked us in a cellar. I don’t know what they want,” Stiles explains, voice breaking though he tries to be strong.
“Does it hurt?” Stiles asks, even though he already knows the answer.
Derek nods into his shirt, squeezing his eyes shut again as he clutches Stiles closer, moving an aching arm to hold him around his waist.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles mourns, fingers sinking back into his hair, “There’s nothing I can do from here. I don’t have anything to get it out, to get us out. I don’t fucking know what to do, Derek.” His breathing is ragged and sharp, and when Derek peeks up at him from his lap, there are tear streaks on Stiles’ face.
“It’s okay,” Derek whispers, trying to provide any type of comfort despite the incredible pain he’s in. Stiles looks unharmed for the most part, but his face is dirty and raw with a few scratches, nothing too deep, which Derek is relieved to note.
He can feel himself fading, though. Awakening from the blackness only to feel it pulling him under again too soon.
“Stiles,” he mumbles, lips barely moving. Stiles bends his head to hear him, and a tear lands on Derek’s face, but whether it’s his own or Stiles’, he isn’t sure. “Stiles. I lo—“
“Don’t say it,” Stiles rushes, cutting him off, “You’re not gonna die here, you’re not allowed. I don’t want the first time you say it to be in some musty basement when you’re— when you’re— fuck, Derek, just stay with me, you have to—“
Stiles' words fade away along with the pain in Derek’s body, the rushing in his ears, Stiles’ too-fast heartbeat and the scent of his panic. It all disappears until Derek’s left floating, unaware of anything except the feeling of Stiles’ love still around him. He sinks into nothingness, and it’s bliss.
*
“He will awaken when his body is healed enough,” Deaton says calmly, irritatingly, as Stiles paces around the vet’s office, unable to take his eyes off Derek laying there too quietly, too unmovingly on the cold metal table. It can’t be comfortable, Derek deserves to be warm and taken care of—
“Are you sure you got it all out?” Stiles asks, observing a vial of violet liquid on the countertop, the remains of the aconite poisoning Deaton was able to remove from Derek’s bloodstream. He’s still jittery, anxious. Derek’s been unconscious for too long. He was barely breathing when the Sheriff found them, and the adrenaline from the pure relief Stiles felt at their rescue is still thrumming through his veins.
“Yes, Stiles,” Deaton tries to reassure, but it only irks Stiles, the man not understanding just how much Derek means to him, how essential it is that he be safe and unharmed. “You’re welcome to wait here with him until he wakes up. I have other matters to attend to in the meantime,” he adds. “And Stiles?”
Stiles tears his eyes away from Derek at last and looks over to Deaton, who’s standing in the doorway.
“He’ll be okay.” The words of consolation are rare from Deaton, and don’t do much to quell Stiles’ nerves, but he appreciates them nonetheless.
Stiles nods and makes himself finally settle down on to the stool beside the table. Deaton closes the door behind him, and he and Derek are alone again.
“Hey, big guy,” Stiles whispers as he takes Derek’s hand in his own. He cups it between both of his and his grip is tight, desperate. “Think you can wake up for me?” His voice is shaky and raw.
Derek twitches, but otherwise doesn’t move. Stiles doesn’t know how long this is supposed to take, or if what Deaton did worked at all. But there is no way in hell Stiles is leaving this building till he knows Derek is alright. Even if it takes all night, a day, a month. A year. Stiles will stay by Derek’s side forever.
Hours tick by. Deaton checks on them again before he leaves for the day, and Stiles only shakes his head in response. He leaves the lights on and closes the door behind him, leaving Stiles and Derek alone in the vet’s office for the night. John is supposed to come by at some point, but Stiles doesn’t know when. Time doesn’t exist right now.
He doesn’t let himself fall asleep. Commits to staring at Derek’s face and taking it in, memorizing it, just— just in case.
At long last, when Stiles’ pulse continues to rise and anxiety still swirls in his stomach like eels, Derek stirs.
“Fuck,” Stiles lets out in relief on a heavy, sharp sigh, gripping Derek’s hand again. "Der?"
Derek blinks his eyes open. They're clear, and beautiful, and his face is clean of blood and poison, and Stiles stands over him and grips his hand, and cries.
He can't get any words out as he cups Derek's face, brushes his hair back, kisses him all over. Derek clings back, holds Stiles to him. His last memory was dying in the cellar. Where it was dark and damp and smelled like fear. He didn't want to leave Stiles behind, couldn't bear it, especially before he told him—
"I love you," Derek whispers.
Stiles breaks down in his arms as he loses it completely. The sheer relief he feels at knowing Derek is okay, alive, safe with him at last. He shakes as he climbs onto the metal table and wraps himself around his mate, and Derek clutches back with the same relief.
"I love you too," Stiles whispers to him when he can form words again. He lets his lips rest on Derek's temple for second, before Derek turns his head to meet his lips.
"I know," he says when they part, with a soothing hand over Stiles' back. They gaze at each other, with deep affection, dependency and love. Stiles snorts a wet laugh through his tears and lays his head back down against Derek's neck, nuzzling. "Stay with me," Derek says seriously after a moment, his arms tightening around Stiles as his hands continue to stroke and calm.
Stiles' response is honest, and immediate. He meets Derek's eyes and speaks easily, calmly, lovingly.
Am I ever going to get tired of drawing this guy? Probably not.
Am I taking out all of my OWN angsty feelings on him? Absolutely yes.
Am I going to fix the blotchy shading? Nahhhhh.
--
This one started to feel overworked so I had to let it go a little earlier than I planned, but DANG does it feel good to draw again. (And nobody point out that his piercing keeps switching sides. It lives on whichever side I want to draw it on, okay?)
As always, do not reupload or feed to any AI, and if you share off-site, please ask first and be sure to credit/link to me! :)
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