Darling one <3 my prompt word is "tummy ache" which is alarmingly fitting right now.
hope this helps, boo!
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It's early, too early for daylight.
Derek opens his other eye and assesses the situation: puffs of air on the back of his neck, too abrupt for normal breathing.
Beside him, Stiles doesn't so much shift as jerks a little, as if he's trying not to move any more than that small amount.
"Hey, you doing okay?" Derek whispers.
Beacon Hills sheriff might have an inkling that Derek has been climbing though Stiles's perpetually open window for the past two years or so—in the daytime. But Derek is positive he doesn't know about the sleeping-with-his-only-son part that has been happening for the last few months. Because Derek is still alive.
So. Whispering it is.
Silence.
Then a pitiful, drawn out groan.
"Stiles?"
More groans. Then a croaked, "I'm dying."
Derek is on Stiles in a millisecond. "What is it? What's wrong? Stiles? What's—" and his hands are flying over every inch of the kid.
"Shit, Der, I'm not really dying," Stiles whispers back, batting Derek away.
Derek wouldn't need to be looking at Stiles to know the face he's pulling.
"Ugh, feels like it though. My tummy hurts so fucking bad right now. I can't get comfy, I can't get back to sleep and I hate everything and everyone and I would honestly be perfectly okay with passing over to the other side, now. Like. RIP me. Swear to God, Der, the afterlife never sounded so good."
Derek rolls his eyes. His very human boyfriend is so very fucking dramatic.
Boyfriend.
Thinking about him and Stiles like that still makes Derek's stomach flip like he's fourteen again. Even when he's smooshed up right next to him in bed. He wonders if that will ever change and immediately doesn't think it will.
Derek peers down through the gloom at a pained looking Stiles, then instinctively flicks his eyes to the numbers glowing a dim blue on Stiles's alarm clock.
4:32
Stiles is about to say something but Derek quickly silences him with a hand placed across his mouth, essentially gagging him.
Just when Stiles looks as if might sink his teeth into Derek's fingers, there's an ominous creak on the landing, and they both simultaneously stop breathing.
Thud. Trickle. Drip, drip, drip. Flush. Running water. Creak.
The town's sheriff is nothing if not habitual.
After another moment, Derek removes his hand but puts a finger to Stiles's lips to tell him to stay quiet. Then he strokes Stiles's cheekbone as he shifts a bit in the bed, until he can place his other hand gently on Stiles abdomen.
Derek now focuses all of his thoughts and senses on Stiles, until there's only Stiles, everything Stiles is. Until he's aware of Stiles's pain. Until he is Stiles's pain. Derek's face twists a little with what is a really nasty, sharp feeling but looks up to thankfully see Stiles's features smoothing out as the hurt drains from his body.
"Dude," Stiles whispers, before his eyes widen and he's slapping his own hand over his mouth—his dad could still be awake.
Derek un-grits his teeth and cracks his neck, removing his touch from Stiles and flexing his hand a few times as the pain in his arm starts to fizzle away.
Better? Derek asks silently with raised brows.
Stiles grins so big it makes Derek's heart thump harder in his chest.
Dude! Best. Boyfriend. Ever! Stiles mouths back, in such an exaggerated manner Derek's pretty sure even a person who speaks no English could tell what he said.
Given the current hushed situation, Derek supposes he'll let the dreaded 'dude' slide.
(Realising for the first time that he's completely head-over-heels in love with this adorable idiot has absolutely nothing at all to do with it).
