[ it takes stiles twenty solid minutes before he can even manage to pick up his phone again. his hand still shake, his breathing is still ragged, his chest hurts. he's still right on the edge of panicking, he still feels like he's going to be sick, but he has to talk to derek. he needs to talk to derek, and the fear of not knowing is only making this worse.
he should call, but stiles' throat already feels too tight and his tongue feels too big for his mouth. he doesn't even need to say anything — if he could just hear derek's voice, he'd probably be okay, but he just keeps thinking about derek's phone ringing and ringing and ringing while derek is bleeding out somewhere and if he just texts— if he just keeps texting him, he can pretend derek's just sleeping and his phone is dead and he's just being stupid, is all.
he tries again anyway:
Derek
Derek wakeup
I'm gonna cll you please pick upp
and he does call, thumb fumbling over his screen, hand shaking as he lifts his phone to his ear. it rings, and it rings, and it rings, and stiles feels his stomach churning the second it goes to voicemail. he hangs up. he feels his eyes start to sting, his nose starts to burn, his throat feels too tight, his skin. he has to go. he has to get up and he has to go find derek, wherever he is, but all stiles manages to do is to slide from his bed to the floor, lightheaded and weak-kneed. he draws his legs up, puts his face between his knees and wraps his arms around his legs, and he breathes. he's not going to get anywhere if he doesn't calm himself down.
for ten minutes, stiles just sits there on his floor, back leaned against his bed, eyes open and unfocused on the dark, shadowy space between his feet.
and then someone is fucking pounding at his door and rattling the knob and stiles' adrenaline skyrockets. his heart thumps so hard against his chest that it hurts and he snaps his head up to stare at his door, his skin breaking out with a cold sweat. the last time someone was beating on his door, there was a swat team behind it, waiting to haul him off to a correctional facility with everyone else.
what if it's them again? what if they're back to take him away this time because it wasn't a nightmare? what if he really did do something terrible, and his nightmare is really a repressed memory, superimposed over the events in fort harmony? stiles stares at the door with burning eyes, and it takes everything in him to get up. if stiles hurt derek, if he hurt tate - then he deserves what's waiting for him out in the hall.
stiles trips over his feet towards the door, catching himself with one hand pressed flat against the cool wood. he curls his other hand around the knob, thumbing the lock, and with a deep, shuddery breath, he pulls the door open—
and it feels like the breath gets punched out of him when he sees derek. his entire body almost sags with relief, and he doesn't think about it. he takes a rushed step forward, then another, and he pushes his face into derek's shoulder, closing his eyes and wrapping him up in a hug so tight that stiles muscles ache with it. ]
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he should call, but stiles' throat already feels too tight and his tongue feels too big for his mouth. he doesn't even need to say anything — if he could just hear derek's voice, he'd probably be okay, but he just keeps thinking about derek's phone ringing and ringing and ringing while derek is bleeding out somewhere and if he just texts— if he just keeps texting him, he can pretend derek's just sleeping and his phone is dead and he's just being stupid, is all.
he tries again anyway:
Derek
Derek wakeup
I'm gonna cll you please pick upp
and he does call, thumb fumbling over his screen, hand shaking as he lifts his phone to his ear. it rings, and it rings, and it rings, and stiles feels his stomach churning the second it goes to voicemail. he hangs up. he feels his eyes start to sting, his nose starts to burn, his throat feels too tight, his skin. he has to go. he has to get up and he has to go find derek, wherever he is, but all stiles manages to do is to slide from his bed to the floor, lightheaded and weak-kneed. he draws his legs up, puts his face between his knees and wraps his arms around his legs, and he breathes. he's not going to get anywhere if he doesn't calm himself down.
for ten minutes, stiles just sits there on his floor, back leaned against his bed, eyes open and unfocused on the dark, shadowy space between his feet.
and then someone is fucking pounding at his door and rattling the knob and stiles' adrenaline skyrockets. his heart thumps so hard against his chest that it hurts and he snaps his head up to stare at his door, his skin breaking out with a cold sweat. the last time someone was beating on his door, there was a swat team behind it, waiting to haul him off to a correctional facility with everyone else.
what if it's them again? what if they're back to take him away this time because it wasn't a nightmare? what if he really did do something terrible, and his nightmare is really a repressed memory, superimposed over the events in fort harmony? stiles stares at the door with burning eyes, and it takes everything in him to get up. if stiles hurt derek, if he hurt tate - then he deserves what's waiting for him out in the hall.
stiles trips over his feet towards the door, catching himself with one hand pressed flat against the cool wood. he curls his other hand around the knob, thumbing the lock, and with a deep, shuddery breath, he pulls the door open—
and it feels like the breath gets punched out of him when he sees derek. his entire body almost sags with relief, and he doesn't think about it. he takes a rushed step forward, then another, and he pushes his face into derek's shoulder, closing his eyes and wrapping him up in a hug so tight that stiles muscles ache with it. ]