#lonewolfed

"Stiles!"

"Sorry, I couldn't help it," he raises his hands in surrender, and it's enough to distract him for a while.

"You suck," Scott complains, and Stiles waggles his eyebrows.

"Hell yeah I do," he grins. Scott literally looks like he's about to punch him, and Stiles is getting ready to duck out of the way when there's a knock on his door.

He dives to the floor just as Scott lunges for him, and there's a brief scuffle, before he manages to wrench the door open, all the while shoving his hand in Scott's face to keep him away. It might be playing dirty, but Scott's a werewolf. He can deal.

He's not expecting Derek there, looking as awkward as he did on their first date, when he wore an overly starched black dress shirt and brown shoes. Brown shoes. Lydia would've had a conniption.

They'd decided to stay in instead, and order takeout so Derek could watch the new Captain America movie in Stiles' sweats and an old Beacon Hills Police Department shirt that was too big for him but perfect on Derek.

He's smiling at the memory when he realizes he's still got Scott's face in his hands and Derek's shifting awkwardly on his feet.

"Shit, sorry, come in," he drops his hand from Scott's face, and steps to the side, letting out a little 'oof' when Scott takes the opportunity to jab Stiles in the side. "Scott, you can go now," he says unsubtly, and doesn't miss the way Derek's mouth twitches up into a smile briefly. It makes his heart thud in his chest, something he belatedly remembers both guys can hear. Too bad, he doesn't care. Derek looks downright adorable in a maroon thumbhole sweater, a gift from Stiles his birthday two months ago.

Scott stands there for a moment, watching Stiles carefully, as if to say "you're sure?"

Stiles nods, almost imperceptibly, and Scott beams at him. He skirts around Derek, but not before nodding at him with a wide smile, and patting him on the shoulder.

The door has just closed behind Scott, when Derek pins him with a look. A sexy look. Stiles wriggles in excitement, his cheeks flushing preemptively, but even while Derek is leaning forward, he can't really get the whole blowjob snooze button thing from this morning out of his head. So, before Derek gets to his mouth, Stiles inhales sharply, and blurts out,

"Why did you snooze button me?"

Derek loses his balance, toppling forward in surprise and accidentally headbutting Stiles in the face.

+++

"Ow," Stiles whines, when he finally comes to. His whole face aches. He's lying on his bed, where Derek must've carried him, and he's sitting at the edge of it, looking guilty as sin. "That hurt."

"I'm sorry," Derek says gruffly. "You surprised me."

"No shit," Stiles says with a sigh, closing his eyes.

Derek clears his throat. "About this morning - "

"No, it's okay!" Stiles cuts in quickly. He just realized he doesn't actually want to know if he sucks at blowjobs, or if Derek wants to break up with him. Especially not right now. They only just got together. "You don't have to explain."

Derek looks like he's about to march into war without a weapon.

"You should hear it," he says seriously. Stiles heart sinks, and he opens his eyes to find Derek studying his feet.

Bastard should at least look him in the face when he breaks up with him.

"Okay." Stiles' voice is small, and it takes a bit of effort to make sure it doesn't crack.

Derek takes a deep breath, and opens his mouth -

"I'll be better at blowjobs, I swear!" Stiles nearly shrieks, the panic in his chest rising. He really, really doesn't want to lose Derek. "I'll practice, every day. But only on you! No one else! Or," he winces. "On like, toys and stuff, until I'm good at it. Please," his voice drops low, and he's not sure he wants to look at Derek, but he does it anyway. Derek looks gobsmacked. That's the only word for it.

"What?"

It's one word, and Stiles swallows against the lump in his throat. He's not got a lot left to lose anyway.

"I'm sorry I'm bad at blowjobs," he starts, and to his mortification, he can feel his eyes stinging. He holds the tears back by sheer force of will, and he stares at Derek seriously. "I'll get better at them. I just haven't had much practice, so I know I suck. But please don't leave because of it."

"I..." Derek looks lost for words, and Stiles feels like an idiot.

"Never mind," he mumbles. "This was stupid."

"You don't suck at blowjobs," Derek tells him, and Stiles' head snaps up.

"I don't?"

Derek shakes his head. "I don't want to break up with you. Not because of your blowjob ability, which is more than satisfactory, by the way," Derek's cheeks go pink, but they're no match to Stiles' own, which feels like they're warm enough to fry some eggs. "That's a dick move, first of all, and I'm not like that. I don't want to break up with you at all."

He stares at Stiles, who shrinks under his gaze.

"I was trying to be funny," Derek admits, after a long pause. Stiles blinks in shock. "You're always the funny one, but... I just wanted to make you laugh."

Stiles can feel his heart do a happy dance in his chest.

"You always make me laugh," Stiles tells him, and Derek shakes his head.

"I didn't mean to make you feel bad, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, it was nice to hear I'm not bad at blowjobs, so I guess it was a win-win," Stiles shrugs, unconcerned. Derek smirks, and his eyes darken. Stiles feels a flash of lust surge through his belly.

"You're more than good, Stiles," he says quietly, and Stiles feels like he's on his way up a roller coaster, the anticipation making his head dizzy. "But you could always practice more, if you'd like. On toys," he continues, his voice dropping as he puts a knee up on Stiles' bed. "I bet I could give you some pointers." Stiles can feel the bed dip under Derek's weight, and his breath catches in his throat when Derek keeps moving, crawling up Stiles' body, pressing against his own. "Or," Derek's voice is nothing more than a whisper now, and Stiles has to hold back a whimper. "You could always practice on the real thing. I wouldn't mind."

Stiles inhales sharply when Derek settles over him, and the sheer bulk of Derek feels so good against his body, that he can't help but thrust up against it. The friction makes him choke, and Derek looks every inch the predator he is. Derek's acting really casual, and his fingers are tracing feather-light touches on Stiles' collarbone.

+++

Stiles checks the clock on his phone and squeezes his eyes shut.

Three days, fourteen hours, and six minutes.

It’s the Stilinski curse, he thinks.

Soulmates are rare, most people never find theirs, content instead to spend the rest of their life with the second best option. It’s not exactly ideal, but it works. Well enough, anyway. Everyone swaggers around like they’re invincible, which Stiles supposes is true, because the only person who can kill you is your soulmate, and you’re supposed to be lucky if you find yours.

Stiles wants to laugh at that.

Lucky isn’t the word he’d use.

He remembers the horror on his dad’s face when his mother got her test results back, and he imagines that his face is set into that same expression, now.

Lung cancer, cells are malignant. We’re sorry, Mr. Stilinski, but there’s nothing we can do.

Stiles remembers being a little boy, long and complicated words flying over his head, but he understood the numbers they gave him. Three months is a really short time when you’re ten years old and you never get to see your mother again.

All he knows is that dad blamed himself because he couldn’t quit smoking when his mother had asked and she ended up lying helpless in a hospital room, slowly dying.

He remembers numerous apologies, days when dad couldn’t even go into mom’s room because he’d been wracked with guilt. He’s the one person on Earth that could’ve killed his mother.

And he did it.

Just like Stiles has done with Derek.

Stiles doesn’t blame his father, has never blamed his father, because his mother had made sure that she was there to stop himself from thinking things like that, despite how much his dad blamed - blames - himself, still.

Only your soulmate can kill you, the stories whisper, but the time you spend with them is worth it.

They never talk about is how you might never get the chance to really meet them before you kill them.

Stiles’ eyes fall to the serene expression on Derek’s face, the way his eyelashes fall softly over the soft skin stretching thin over his cheekbones, and tries his hardest not to think about the fact that Derek hasn’t had anyone visit him in all the time he’s been here.

Derek’s alone, for whatever reasons, and eventually, Stiles will be, too.

This time, no one’s here to stop Stiles from putting the blame on the one person whose fault it is; himself.

+++

It’s thirteen days, six hours, and twenty-seven minutes when Scott comes in and begs him to come home.

He barely hears when Scott tearfully exclaims that he needs to rest, needs to take a proper shower in his own home, and eat something other than hospital food. Stiles is actually surprised the hospital is still feeding him, but he figures it’s the soulmate thing all over again. It’s obvious that they pity him; Stiles hears the whispers when the nurses come in to check Derek’s vitals and they notice him curled up in his - because it’s pretty much his, now - chair. They always think he’s asleep, but the truth is he hasn’t properly slept in days, not since he first came in.

Not since the accident.

Because that’s the issue, isn’t it?

The accident.

It could’ve happened to anyone, and it did. It happened to them. It wasn’t even a special night; Stiles couldn’t sleep, haunted by the thoughts of his dead mother and his guilty father. He was tired, it was dark and rainy, and he didn’t see Derek until it was too late. He couldn’t swerve to avoid Derek fast enough.

Stiles went for a drive that night to run away from his ghosts, and instead he created another one.

He doesn’t come home, and Scott stops asking.

+++

Twenty-seven days, four hours, and forty-eight minutes later, Stiles feels something akin to despair curl underneath his skin.

In that time, Stiles has lost thirteen pounds, and the dark circles underneath his eyes start to look permanent. His dad brings him a change of clothes every two days, and squeezes the breath out of Stiles’ body when they hug, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He knows all too well what Stiles is feeling, and while his father’s hugs are comforting, Stiles can see the pity reflected in his father’s eyes when his gaze drags up and down Stiles’ rapidly shrinking frame.

Derek can’t die.

He can’t.

He doesn’t realize he’s saying this out loud until he’s sobbing out the word ‘no’ over and over again into his father’s shoulder, while he strokes a hand down Stiles’ trembling back.

His dad doesn’t tell him everything will be okay, he doesn’t say that things will get better; he doesn’t say anything at all, and Stiles isn’t sure if he’s grateful for it or not.

+++

Thirty-six days, twenty hours, and twenty-eight minutes pass, and Stiles wonders if he could ever forgive himself if he gives up.

+++

Sixty-seven days, two hours, and ten minutes after the accident, Stiles is shaken awake by one of the nurses.

The doctor would like to see you, she tells him, and he squares his shoulders for the final decision. He promises himself that he won’t cry when they pull the plug, and he wishes that he had his father, or Scott, with him, because he knows that promise won’t hold true.

HIs whole body aches from where he’s been curling into the same chair for months now, and his movements are slow. He feels like he’s moving through molasses.

It’s like he’s walking towards the gallows when he finally gets to the door to the doctors office. He pushes it open slowly and he can already feel his chest tightening, his breaths getting shallower; the precursor to one of his panic attacks. It’s a good thing he’s already at a hospital, he thinks grimly.

He’s not expecting the words that come out of the doctor’s mouth.

The impossible has happened.

Derek’s vitals are improving.

Stiles’ soulmate is getting better.

+++

Seventy-two days, one hour, and fifty-three minutes has gone by when Derek opens his eyes for the first time and meets Stiles’ own.

He doesn’t really know what to say, and it’s not like Derek could reply, what with all the tubes and wires winding their way in and out of his body.

So they don’t say anything, and after a minute and thirty-four seconds of staring at each other, Derek holds out his hand, and Stiles clings to him like a lifeline.

+++

It’s seventy-seven days, sixteen hours, and two minutes later that they declare Derek stable, and they remove the tube to his lungs that has been responsible for his breathing for the past two and a half months.

He still has a long way to go, in terms of recovery, but he’s okay.

Some whisper that love conquers all, or that Stiles is a mage of some sort, but Stiles doesn’t give a fuck about all that bullshit.

Derek’s okay.

“Hi,” he whispers, once the doctor have gone and it’s just the two of them again. He’s got tears in his eyes, and he doesn’t fucking care.

Derek takes three labored breaths.

“Hello,” Derek says, just as quietly. His voice is rusty with disuse, and it still manages to send shivers down Stiles’ spine.

Stiles squeezes Derek’s hand twice, and he’s more than thrilled when Derek squeezes his in return. “I’m Stiles.”

“Derek, but I think you already knew that.”

Stiles lets out a wet, shaky laugh, and the relief he feels is a lot like the sunlight after a storm; rain after a drought.

Derek smiles once; big, bright, and absolutely beautiful.

Stiles is happy.

“It’s nice to meet you, Derek.”

+++