[ derek's never been great, when it comes to sleep. even before the fire, he'd toss and turn all night, anxious over one thing or another - fixating on problems and reliving them over and over and over again from every possible angle has always been one of his more intrusive flaws, and he's never really grown out of it. it's the middle of the night, heading into morning, and derek's still awake. staring at the ceiling. thinking. remembering.
his phone buzzes, and derek knows it has to be stiles, because he doesn't think anyone else would text him so late. he slides his thumb, taps in his unlock code, the cold light of the LCD warming him when it takes the shape of stiles' name. derek sits up, scratches his bare chest, and kicks back his sheets. if stiles were here - he'd be asleep. this bed feels so fucking big.
but then his brain catches up with the rest of him, and before stiles' messages even completely register in his mind, he thinks what if something's wrong and it instantly consumes him. he sits up in bed a little straighter and waits for more messages to come through, but then-- but then they don't, and derek's chest tightens, and he thinks of veracity, and he hears the sound of those guards busting through his room at 5am and subduing him the second he tried to fight, and he looks at his front door and could swear he hears a gun being cocked.
it's panic, that gets him moving. he doesn't put on his shirt, he doesn't put on shoes. it's just him, grey sweatpants and determination as he opens his front door, barely remembering to lock his apartment shut behind him. he forgets his phone - it's still in his bed, dimly lit as derek descends the stairs two steps at a time, too impatient to wait for the fucking elevator, again.
it's not until he's in the elevator that takes him to the down that he realizes his phone isn't in his pocket. his feet are dirty and sore, his skin is prickling from the cold night air, his chest's red from exertion. he's breathing hard and he only notices how loud he is when he's alone, trapped in a metal box that's moving so fucking slowly. there were no guards in the up, but-- but maybe they're in the down. he could have sworn he saw them leave, but maybe they're-- maybe they're in the down.
the elevator opens and derek's out, and he knows where stiles lives, but he still seeks out his scent, because he needs that security, needs to know where he is. it's forty minutes, maybe a little more, before he finally gets to stiles' rundown, shitty, communal housing, and derek climbs the stairs to his room on muscle memory and desperation alone. he thinks he ran here, full speed. he can't remember.
he just - pounds on stiles' door, as hard and as fast as he can, and when stiles doesn't answer right away, he rattles the knob and tries to bust in. ]
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his phone buzzes, and derek knows it has to be stiles, because he doesn't think anyone else would text him so late. he slides his thumb, taps in his unlock code, the cold light of the LCD warming him when it takes the shape of stiles' name. derek sits up, scratches his bare chest, and kicks back his sheets. if stiles were here - he'd be asleep. this bed feels so fucking big.
but then his brain catches up with the rest of him, and before stiles' messages even completely register in his mind, he thinks what if something's wrong and it instantly consumes him. he sits up in bed a little straighter and waits for more messages to come through, but then-- but then they don't, and derek's chest tightens, and he thinks of veracity, and he hears the sound of those guards busting through his room at 5am and subduing him the second he tried to fight, and he looks at his front door and could swear he hears a gun being cocked.
it's panic, that gets him moving. he doesn't put on his shirt, he doesn't put on shoes. it's just him, grey sweatpants and determination as he opens his front door, barely remembering to lock his apartment shut behind him. he forgets his phone - it's still in his bed, dimly lit as derek descends the stairs two steps at a time, too impatient to wait for the fucking elevator, again.
it's not until he's in the elevator that takes him to the down that he realizes his phone isn't in his pocket. his feet are dirty and sore, his skin is prickling from the cold night air, his chest's red from exertion. he's breathing hard and he only notices how loud he is when he's alone, trapped in a metal box that's moving so fucking slowly. there were no guards in the up, but-- but maybe they're in the down. he could have sworn he saw them leave, but maybe they're-- maybe they're in the down.
the elevator opens and derek's out, and he knows where stiles lives, but he still seeks out his scent, because he needs that security, needs to know where he is. it's forty minutes, maybe a little more, before he finally gets to stiles' rundown, shitty, communal housing, and derek climbs the stairs to his room on muscle memory and desperation alone. he thinks he ran here, full speed. he can't remember.
he just - pounds on stiles' door, as hard and as fast as he can, and when stiles doesn't answer right away, he rattles the knob and tries to bust in. ]