Derek chapters tend to be shorter than Stiles chapters, just a little FYI. If you read, review? 3


Chapter Three: VISITING HOURS || Derek


"'On the fifth day I had read up to Sherman's siege of Atlanta in Gone with the Wind, owed Johnny a hundred and fifty bucks from poker games, smoked two packs of Camels, and as Johnny had predicted, got sick...'"

Derek read, pausing occasionally every few paragraphs to look up at Stiles. His heart ached when he did so, but when his gaze returned to the book on the mattress and fell upon the words printed on the thin paper, he got distracted. Once he became invested in the book again, he'd momentarily forget that Stiles was in critical condition, lying on that hospital bed. He'd forget that there was a good chance Stiles would never wake up and that he probably wouldn't even remember the alpha if he did.

As awful as it'd be, Derek supposed that it'd be a good thing if he was a total stranger to Stiles when and if he woke up. He could start all over again, with no recollection of the existence of werewolves and creatures that go bump in the night. Life would be easier for him then, right? Life without the pack; without everybody subconsciously relying on him; without knowing his best friend was half-mutt; without Derek. Stiles would be so much better off without him, wouldn't he? All Derek had done was get him into trouble, and he didn't want to get him into any more.

"'I hadn't eaten anything all day; and smoking on an empty stomach doesn't make you feel real great. I curled up in a corner to -'"

Derek froze. There were a familiar set of footsteps plodding down the hallway; hesitant and sorrowful and heavy on the welcome mat at the front of the hospital. Without a doubt, it was Stiles' father. What was he doing back so early? The werewolf looked down at Stiles, a pained look on his face. He bit his lip and stood up, pushing the chair back into the corner, tucking The Outsiders inside of his leather jacket.

"Stiles," Derek cooed softly. His knuckles grazed across the arc of Stiles' cheekbone and he sat down on the mattress beside him. "I have to go, okay? Your dad's gonna be here in a minute. I'll be back to finish the book, I promise." He forced a smile down at the unconscious body lying on that creaky bed - more for himself than for Stiles. "Stay gold, Ponyboy," he whispered, craning his neck to kiss Stiles' forehead ever so lightly, as if he didn't want to wake him.

And with that, Derek ducked out of Stiles' room, pushing away the tears that had welled up in his eyes. He clung tightly to the paperback in his jacket as he hurried down the hallway to his left, listening to the door to Stiles' room open. The Sheriff headed right on in, blissfully unaware of the werewolf's presence in the hospital.