H5-0SuperWolf

There’s no one he can blame for this. It’s self-generated pain, the kind that only leaves when you stop thinking about it, but how can he stop thinking about it when it’s completely taking over, when it’s eating him alive with its intensity?

There’s no way he can go back to work after this. He’s due back at the bookstore in half an hour, Stiles will be expecting him, but he can’t move. It’s even worse than having an actual dagger in him, because at least then he could rip it out and heal from it in seconds. 

He has no options here. Nothing to make the pain— the sensation stop. Sure, he’s been in worse pain in his life, plenty of times. But the solution was always either death or rescue. It was predictable, simple.

Nothing like this.

It’s been almost a year now of unrelenting stomach pain, and he should be used to it, should be able to brush it off like it’s nothing. His synapses are trained to expect it now, and it’s familiar, but that doesn’t mean it should have to be, Stiles tells him. 

It doesn’t mean he can get used to it, either.

Especially this kind, with the stabbing and the digging in and the pulsing. There’s no pipe to pull out of his torso this time, nothing he can do but sit here and take it. 

That, at least, he’s used to.

But no one’s coming to save him, this time. Stiles is at work, Cora’s in South America, John’s out on a case. As if Derek would actually ask for help, anyway.

The part of this he’s used to is dealing with it himself, waiting it out and suffering in invisible agony until it passes. And the worst part of it isn’t even the pain. Because Derek’s used to pain. It’s the not knowing, the bracing himself for it, the maddening mind games of not understanding where it’s coming from, why the pain is still here after all these months. 

The helplessness of not being able to stop it, to make it go away. He’s stuck with it till the next time, and the time after that, and so forth. 

There’s just nothing he can do.

This doesn’t mean acceptance. He’s still not at that level, yet. It’s… resignation.

The pain’s shifted now. The dagger’s moved towards his hip, like that’s any better. He can breathe a bit easier now, at least, but there’s no way he can walk any time soon.

Well, he can. The things Derek’s had to do while in excruciating amounts of pain — Barbara wouldn’t have the tools to help him, then. Sensations wouldn’t cut it.

So Derek sits there in the empty loft, dust floating in midair within the sunbeams shining in through the window. The clock ticks, and Derek breathes, and misses Stiles, and grits his teeth, and clutches his abdomen. Thinks, I should be used to this, why is it still so painful, why am I so weak?

He yearns for Stiles, yearns to be pressed against his body and held in his arms, yearns for his comforting scent and his warmth and his words, to be told everything’s okay, I’ve got you, and to feel the brush of his lips against Derek’s forehead. He can’t do this by himself, doesn’t want to label these stupid sensations. He just wants Stiles.

But Derek can’t even think to himself that Stiles would know what to do, because he wouldn’t. Doesn’t. They’ve exhausted all the research, all the options, all the tactics. Nothing works, nothing calms down the pain. 

Sometimes Stiles himself is the only way, and the enormity of his comfort can soothe Derek’s nervous system enough for the pain to ebb. But it’s not a given, it’s just chance, like everything is, at this point, like the pain itself is. 

Derek hates burdening Stiles with this in the first place, hates how it’s consumed their entire lives, it seems, like everything revolves around Derek and his pain.

Derek wants to jump up from his stupid chair and leave the stupid loft and run and run until he can’t anymore, wants to leave his stupid body with his stupid stomach and just give up already.

But he can’t. Can’t give up, can’t run, can’t even move. 

Why should he? What’s the use of escaping this episode of pain when he knows another one is just around the corner?

What Derek hasn’t admitted to Stiles, even to himself, though it must be obvious — is that he’s exhausted. He’s no longer Derek the alpha, though he still has the red eyes to prove it. He’s not the Derek that Stiles married, nor the one he fell in love with, most likely. He’s a lesser version of himself by now, a weakened one, and how Stiles has stayed with him throughout all this is a mystery to Derek. 

Stiles has never expressed any of this, but Derek recognizes the pity in his eyes, hates being looked at like that. Stiles’ kisses still feel the same, but there’s something more to them, now, something like desperation and longing. Longing for the Derek that Stiles misses, the Derek he wants back.

It might all just be in Derek’s head. He knows that pain can mess with you, with your memory and perception.

But Derek is used to pain, okay, he’s had a lifetime of it, and yes it fucked him up a little, as it did to Stiles with his own trauma. So why do a few stomachaches get to ruin Derek’s mind now, why are they running his life? Why is he letting them?

Because, like many things in Derek’s past, he doesn’t have a choice. It’s not something he can outrun, or fight off, or beat up, or snarl at. The pain exists within Derek and the only way he can think to escape it is perhaps to claw out his own stomach, and it’s not like he hasn’t considered it. 

He just has a feeling that the pain would linger, even still. That he could claw out his stomach over and over, and still the pain would persist, that it’s coming from a part of him he can’t even see, let alone reach. 

Derek’s claws lengthen now, where they’re still wrapped around his aching abdomen. The pain’s faded maybe ten percent, and it’s better than nothing, but Derek can’t focus on that, can’t get his hopes up or relax or believe that the worst is over. 

Until it’s solved, it’ll keep coming back, and he’ll have to keep dealing with it, and hurting, and burdening Stiles, until something changes. Something else that’s out of reach.

His claws prick his skin through his shirt, and the new pain, the one he has control over, seems to cut through the one underneath. He doesn’t break skin, but he wants to, almost. Anything to gain some semblance of control again, anything to redirect the agony, to let him be in charge of his own body once more.

He knows it won’t solve anything in the long run. But he almost craves the rusty pipe through his torso again, just for something real to deal with for once, something that has an easy solution, that’s valid to be complaining about. 

The minutes tick by on their stupidly loud clock. 

Finally Derek gets to his feet with a sudden huff. 

He grabs the clock off the wall and tears angrily into it with his claws till it’s shredded into jagged pieces on the loft floor.

Sharp pieces embed themselves into Derek’s palms, but he tears them out easily, hardly feeling them, and watches his skin heal over. Proof again that he still can heal, though not where he needs it most.

He breathes heavily when it’s over, but this just feels like the tip of the iceberg.

The clock’s too loud, and he hates the stupid thing, doesn’t know why they had it in the first place. It was a gift from someone, probably, but none of that matters right now. 

Derek got back a little control again, finally, and he growls to no one, to himself, maybe, hearing it echo back around the empty room. A loud snarl full of pain and hurt.

He needs his anchor, feels like he’s the one shredded into pieces instead of the awful clock. 

The smell of Stiles isn’t enough, he needs him in the flesh, needs Stiles to squeeze him tight and cover up the morning with his words and the breath from his lungs and the warmth from his mouth and the grip of his hands. Needs Stiles to make everything okay again, for however long it lasts.

So Derek drives back to the bookstore in a haze, the pain slowly ebbing due to god knows what, and replacing itself with a fury, a deep unsettling feeling that almost brings Derek to tears if he dares to look at it too deeply. 

Crying never helps anything, anyway, usually just makes him feel worse. Stiles helps, he’ll take care of everything, he’ll make it all right.

The too-loud bell over the door rings to announce Derek’s entrance, and he doesn’t even remember parking, let alone most of the drive here. The neighborhood’s black cat that Stiles kind of adopted greets him at the door, before smelling his angst and immediately backing away to go hide in her corner. Derek knows the feeling.

His panicked eyes find Stiles’ where his husband pauses in the middle of preparing a decoction for a customer. Derek heads straight for the backroom as he watches Stiles hold up a pointer finger with a fake smile, hears him murmur a “Hang tight, I’ll be right back,” to the lady in front of him.

They meet in the cramped, dark room and Stiles smells like home, smells like cinnamon and brown sugar and cayenne and tree bark, and Derek could cry, almost does, before he stops himself. 

“What happened?” Stiles is right in his space now, and Derek wants nothing else. He can’t help but reach out, wrapping both arms around Stiles’ waist, clinging on tight and burying his face in Stiles’ neck, where it’s warm, where it’s safe.

Stiles clings back, his own arms coming up immediately and gripping onto Derek’s back with one, the other hand cupping Derek’s skull protectively. A hint of sourness comes through his scent, his anxiety for Derek, and Derek only shakes his head in response and clings on tighter.

It’s all too much. His therapy session, the sensations, his stomach, his day, his life. He doesn’t know how to handle this, wasn’t equipped to deal with something so chronic, something so human. It’s not like his parents would know what to do, either. If Deaton can’t solve this, if Stiles can’t solve this, what hope does he have?

“It’s okay, Der. Whatever happened, I’m here, you’re okay, now,” Stiles soothes, petting through his hair and wrapping Derek in his scent and his voice and his love. 

Derek doesn’t want to move, would gladly stay here in Stiles’ arms forever, where everything is safe and nothing can hurt him again. It’s a lie; Derek chooses to believe it anyway.

“I’ve got you, love, it’s alright,” Stiles continues. His neck is damp now with a few of Derek’s tears that leaked out, and it really is alright, Derek thinks, because now their scents are mingled, intertwined like they always should be. 

If he’s focusing on sensations, it’s Stiles’ warm body he now feels against his own; Stiles’ chest moving quickly but evenly; Stiles’ long fingers in his hair, gently scratching and soothing and taking away what hurts like only Stiles can do. Stiles’ smell, warm and spicy and familiar. Stiles’ voice, like heaven, like a promise that everything really will be okay. 

Derek’s attention drifts to his own body now as they continue to stand there pressed together. His hands clutched in Stiles’ shirt like a lifeline; his wedding ring heavy and grounding on his finger; his— his stomach, twinging with leftover aftershocks, pressing against Stiles’ own abdomen. 

They don’t move for a long while, and Stiles, clever Stiles, susses out what’s going on immediately. Derek’s not actively writhing around in pain, nor bleeding, nor shifted, nor clawed. Something triggered Derek, whether it was his therapy session or a reminder of Kate or his family or the usual stomachache. It’s clearly affecting him and he’s having trouble keeping it together. 

He just needs his anchor.

Stiles knows Derek’s been losing his patience at the drop of a hat recently, knows the toll the constant pain has been taking on his husband. He’s stopped offering teas at least, understands Derek’s frustration at their lack of efficacy. Stopped bringing Derek to healers far and wide, but still researches potential solutions constantly. Is still there for Derek the second he needs him.

It makes Stiles feel useless, knowing he can’t permanently take away Derek’s pain, doesn’t understand more than Derek why it’s there in the first place, though he has his theories. If all he can do is clutch his husband to him for long minutes in their backroom, if he loses a customer over it, or five, or bothers the cat, then so be it. He’ll do anything for Derek, anything to make sure Derek knows this.

He soothes a hand up and down Derek’s back in slow calming motions, until he feels Derek breathing more evenly, feels his grip loosen slightly on his plaid shirt. 

But he doesn’t let go.

Perhaps half an hour goes by, there’s luckily no stupid ticking clock in this room to keep track of the time. Derek will have to clean that up later, have to explain it to Stiles.

Derek has a feeling Stiles will understand right away.

He doesn’t want to let go, knows they have to get back to work soon. But the feeling of Stiles’ fingers in his hair and traveling from his neck and back up, his warmth surrounding him, keeping him safe, is better than the most healing balm, better than therapy, better than anything else Derek can imagine.

Besides getting better, maybe.

Derek pulls away first, not wanting to take up any more of Stiles’ time. He got his fill, feels a bit calmer and grounded, but looks forward to tonight when they get off work so he can have Stiles all to himself again, have him wrapped around himself the whole night. 

Derek doesn’t care that he’s needy and greedy for Stiles’ attention in times like these, just wants the pain — physical and emotional — to finally stop.

And it has, for now. Stiles fixed him again. It’s not permanent; it never is. But it’s something. 

Stiles’ amber eyes meet his own and he still looks concerned. Derek hates the stress he’s putting on Stiles, knows how much of a burden he must be, but Stiles never complains, never expresses this like the saint he is. If there’s anything Derek can be grateful for throughout the continued horrors of his life, it’s Stiles. It will always be Stiles.

“Okay, Der?” Stiles asks, checking in again now that he can finally see Derek’s face properly. The faint tear tracks are dried on his tanned skin and Stiles leans in to wipe them away before kissing his cheeks, then his temple, his forehead, his nose, and finally his mouth.

Derek melts against him and it’s like the previous hour never happened, at least temporarily. Everything’s all right when he’s kissing Stiles.

Eventually they break apart and lean their foreheads together. Derek keeps his eyes closed, doesn’t want to see Stiles’ worried face looking back at him again. He’s seen enough of it to last years.

“Fine,” Derek replies, like always. “Better now.” His voice is hoarse.

Another kiss is pressed to his forehead and Stiles rests his lips there for another moment, just thinking. There’s nothing he can say that will permanently take Derek’s pain away, but he says the next best thing.

“I love you,” Stiles whispers into Derek’s skin. “So much. You know that, right?”

A small smile graces Derek’s face for the first time in hours. It’s warm, easy, feels foreign on his lips. It feels like happiness, like home, like love. 

It’s a good sensation; paired with the warmth in his chest from Stiles’ words.