You should write a fic about stiles getting migraines after the nogitsune and his medication making him sick and him not telling anyone and Derek realising and doing magical werewolf pain drain and running his fingers through Stiles' hair and Stiles falling asleep in his lap. - definitely anonymous person
Derek is sitting outside the Stilinskis’ before he realizes he's decided to go looking. Stiles missed the pack meeting, the second one he's missed this week. And the group chat, which Derek desperately avoids interacting with, is noticeably absent of Stiles' usual wit and sarcasm. The sheriff's cruiser is gone, and Stiles is in his room, alone.
When Derek wrenches the window open to swing himself through it, Stiles makes an inhuman noise. The scent of pain in the room is suffocating. He crosses to the bed and nearly recoils from the strength of the pain that hits him when his fingers brush the side of Stiles' head. He moves closer, wrapping his hand around his head and watching his pain bleed into his body. It's so much. "Stiles," he murmurs, as quiet as he can, when the black trailing up his arm slows and finally fades.
Stiles sighs and some of the tension leaks out of his body. He looks exhausted. Derek lifts him, gently, like he's made of glass, just enough to slip into the bed and settle him in his lap.
Stiles shifts a bit, face pillowed on his thigh. Derek runs his fingers into Stiles' hair, softly scratching at his scalp. Every few minutes, Derek feels a sharp spot of pain solidifying itself under his fingers and he draws it out. Stiles' breathing slows until he finally falls asleep, cradled in Derek's lap with his fingers in his hair.
After a few hours Derek tells himself that he should just leave. Stiles might not even remember. But if he doesn't remember, he might not ask the next time. Derek doesn't leave.
Stiles wakes with a start, his hand getting tangled in the back of Derek's shirt where he'd been clinging to him for the last several hours. He picks his head up off of Derek's leg and winces at the drool he's left there. Derek smiles and shrugs a little; he can't bring himself to make fun of him.
"You stayed." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he sits up.
"Why didn't you say something Stiles?"
He looks away. "Got new meds, they were supposed to help. This is the third one they've tried. But they made me puke. It was- worse. Or- I dunno. Sucks." He shrugs, like he's talking about the store being out of his favorite brand of chips.
"I would've come. Or Scott."
"I- I don't know. It seemed stupid. I didn't want to ask. Then it got worse and I- couldn't."
"I'm sorry, Stiles. I should've come sooner."
Stiles looks at him then, like he's trying to figure him out. Or maybe them out. Where he stands after Derek spent the night sucking the pain about of his head and cradling in his lap.
read on ao3 (titles are the devil's work)
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