Derek hated hospitals. It reeked with the stench of disinfectant, medicines, sickness, and death. The places always made his nose burn with all the sterile scents. If he had the choice, he would have been anywhere in Beacon Hills besides there.
But there he was, sitting in a hard plastic chair of a hospital room, staring intently at the bed. Specifically, at Stiles.
The teen's eyes were closed, partially because his right eye was swollen shut, a spiderweb of stitches across his brow. There was a thick bandage wrapped around his head, though Derek could still smell the blood underneath. Stiles's left leg was propped up on a pillow, encased in a cast from his ankle to his thigh.
Derek grit his teeth. After dealing with rogue Alphas, Kanimas, insane hunters, to think the most damage inflicted on Stiles would come from a drunk driver. He swore that Stiles would be getting a freaking tank after this.
He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Stiles was alright, he knew that, even without the heart monitor he could hear the human's heartbeat. Everything would be fine, he just had to keep telling himself that.
Stiles's hand was resting on top of the hospital sheet. There were small scrapes on his knuckles, but otherwise, it was intact. Derek stared at the hand for a few moments, debating what he should do. Inevitably, he gave in, taking the battered hand in his own.
If there had been any other member of the pack in the hospital, he never would have shown the affection. But it was just the two of them, he could relax a bit.
His fingers traced the gentle contours of Stiles's hand, feeling the small calluses on his fingers from the teen's lacrosse experience. Stiles always claimed that's what the calluses were from, but the few times Derek had been in Stiles's room had revealed a small guitar under the bed.
He chuckled, remember the time he had confronted Stiles's about his music skills. The poor teen had seemed so embarrassed to admit that he was teaching himself to play. Someday, he'd get Stile's to play for him.
Derek let his fingers follow the creases of Stile's palm, lingering on the tender flesh where his palm met his wrist. It was one of the few times they got a moment of quiet (whether due to Stiles's constant chatter or the dramas of running a pack).
"Hey Sourwolf."
The Alpha looked up from Stiles's hand to his face, blinking. He hadn't even noticed that the teen had woken up.
Stiles was smiling softly, his one open eye watching Derek, "If you wanted to hold my hand, you could have just asked. You didn't need to wait for me to get T-boned and doped up on morphine."
Derek snorted. Even in pain, Stiles could find time to be a smartass, "When else could I find the time to enjoy some peace and quiet with you?"
"Well unless you've been watching me while I sleep, which I do not condone that Twilight crap-"
There was the Stiles Derek knew and loved. He shook his head, lacing his fingers gently with Stiles's battered ones. "Shut up for a bit, ok?"
Stiles stopped, looking at Derek. The werewolf felt a gently squeeze on his hand, "If all it takes to get some affection from you is a car accident, I might do it more often."
"You will do no such thing." Derek said firmly, bringing Stile's hand up to his mouth. He gently kissed each scrapped knuckle before holding the hand between both of his own.
The teen just smiled, "Ok…but only if you can hold my hand more often."
Derek just smiled