There are brief mentions of the nogitsune in this chapter, and maybe a little PTSD on Stiles' part because of it.
Chapter Four
I always need you
.
Dr. Owens, the emergency room resident on call, is attentive and thorough in his assessment.
First, though, before he gets to the physical part of the exam, he sits next to the bed and asks Stiles to give him a rundown on what's brought him to the ER this fine evening.
It's awesome.
"So, what's going on tonight, Mr. Stilinski?"
"I woke up coughing."
"Blood," Derek cuts in, oh so helpfully, "He was coughing up blood."
"There was a little blood," he concedes.
The doctor grunts in acknowledgment, his brow furrowing as he jots something down on his clip board. "How much blood is a little?"
"A few spots on a napkin," Stiles answers.
"Bright red spots," Derek just has to emphatically add, "There were several bright red spots."
Dr. Owens gives them both a concerned look at that, then glances down at the tissue still sitting on the bedside table. "Can you think of anything that may have happened to cause that?" he asks, "Have you been ill recently? Or traveled outside the United States?"
Stiles shakes his head 'no'.
"Anything specific you may have done that could have led to you waking up coughing blood?" the man inquires, calm as can be. "An injury you obtained, maybe?"
Stiles' heart skips a beat, because here it comes, the moment he's been dreading.
The mortification.
Or, maybe the deflection.
Yeah, that works too.
Deflection totally works.
"Well doc, you see, here's what happened: I was practicing my killer sword swallowing routine last night, for this guy," he hooks his thumb over toward where Derek's sitting ramrod straight beside him, "and I was doing super great with it too, until my hand accidentally slipped and the sword fell down—ow!"
He's abruptly cut off by Derek's own hand grabbing his and squeezing in a not so loving manner. Also, he can practically feel the death glare the other man is shooting at him like it's a living, breathing thing; so he sighs and reluctantly starts his story over, with a little less fabrication and a little more truth.
The doctor just sits there patiently throughout the whole exchange like this is all completely normal behavior.
"Okay, fine. But look, I'm eighteen, just so you know," he feels the need to say at the beginning, as a prelude, just in case it needs saying or something, "And I can most certainly make my own life choices, and whatever they are, they're mine, and they're perfectly fine, and acceptable, and, and...and I stand by them! All of 'em!"
The doctor just continues to stare at him, completely unfazed, giving him a nod and a quiet, "Uh huh."
It's unnerving.
Seriously.
Stiles doesn't know if the guy's just extremely used to witnessing squirrely-ass shit from his plethora of patients or if he's got an amazing poker face.
Either way, it's truly impressive.
And very professional.
He continues on.
"So, my boyfriend, Derek here, and me—I...I mean I," he glances toward his wolf, looking for some sort of support or comfort during this difficult time, but all he gets in return for his trouble is a look of utter shock and 'what the fuck'. He doesn't exactly know what he's supposed to do with that, and it's not helpful in the slightest, so he quickly averts his eyes and looks down at his lap instead. "We were getting kind of frisky...uh, hot and heavy, you know, romantically, last night and..." he's about to lose his brain-to-mouth filter, he just knows it, he can feel it, "And Derek's freakin' hung, okay?" and yep, there it goes, "Like, we're talkin' hulk sized proportions or something, but, you know, not green or anything. Of course. 'Cause that would obviously be really super freaky and weird, and Derek's dick is definitely not weird, like, at all. It's pretty great, actually. Fantastic even! A true gift to humanity, and to me. Mostly me, I guess. It's my gift, and I love it, and it was my first time..."
He trails off, his voice giving out and his throat hating him for all the work it's having to do—what with all the talking and the making an utter fool out of himself. He glances up at the doctor, who's still just placidly staring at him, waiting for god knows what.
"Damn it...okay," he huffs, giving himself a little nod, attempting to psych himself up to just let it all out, rip the proverbial band aid off and all that, "Okay. So, here's the deal. I sucked Derek's humongous monster cock last night, and my throat's not that big, really, but I wanted it to be good for him, and like, it was. It was really, really good. So good. But we may have maybe gotten a little carried away with everything, with the whole blowjob and fucking my face thing; and I may have sorta gagged a few times, choked and whatnot; but it was still great, and I'd do it all again because I'm an adult and I can make those kinds of decisions for myself...but I might not do it quite so aggressive-like the next time, you know?"
He stops babbling incessantly and looks between Derek and Dr. Owens again, who are now both staring at him in a sort of slack jawed awe, silent and shocked, and his cheeks burn even hotter. He can feel the heat of his blush clear in the tips of his damn ears.
How is this his life?
He knew this was gonna be mortifying.
Absolutely mortifying.
"So, yeah," he concludes, a bit more sedate, throat and brain both screaming at him to just shut the fuck up, "That's pretty much what went down—oh my god—no! I mean, what happened. That's what, um, that's what happened."
Derek's grip on his hand hasn't eased up in the slightest, and his fingers are going numb.
"I see." The doctor clears his throat and stands, moving closer to the bed. "Well, I must say, that is quite a story you've got there, Mr. Stilinski; but it's not nearly the craziest thing I've ever heard. Or seen, for that matter."
"Oh yeah?" he rasps, the edge of his mouth quirking up despite himself, his curiosity piqued, "You got any good stories you wanna share with the class?"
"Maybe later," the man chuckles, pulling his stethoscope from around his neck.
Stiles chances a glance at Derek again, and there's a bit of a pink hue painting his stubbled cheeks.
Embarrassedwolf.
It's pretty damn adorable.
Apparently the humiliation of having Stiles ramble on and on about his junk to a complete stranger isn't enough to run Derek off, though, because he just eases his hold on Stiles' hand—finally—and lifts it up to his mouth, kissing the back of it before letting go and moving out of the way so the doctor can get on with his examination.
Stiles' stomach does a little flip flop at the sweet tenderness of the gesture.
Dr. Owens listens to his heart and lungs like the nurse did earlier, but he also has him take several deep breaths—which inevitably leads to more of the horrific and bloody coughing, so, that's awesome—and checks his reflexes. He jots down the most current blood pressure and oxygen readings and takes note of his last temperature check, then pulls out a pen light and has Stiles 'open wide and say ahhh' a few times. When that's all said and done he sits back down and gestures for Derek to rejoin them, then starts in on his spiel.
"Alright, Mr. Stilinski, here's the deal. Your vital signs look relatively good, but your respiratory rate is slightly elevated, and your oxygen saturation is sitting at ninety-one percent. That's a little low, and most likely due to the hyperventilation you're currently presenting with, but I'm gonna go ahead and keep you on the humidified O2 for now," he motions toward the cannula already in his nose before continuing, "Also, I'm ordering a CT scan with and without contrast to make sure you haven't damaged your pharynx or your larynx. The blunt force trauma you experienced earlier this evening may have fractured or torn something in your throat—muscles or cartilage, possibly even injured your vocal cords. And even though I feel it's highly unlikely that you've actually ruptured your airway, given that you're awake and talking to me right now, I'm going to go ahead and get an image of your trachea as well, just to cover all our bases."
Stiles' tenses up a bit at the mention of the scan—and also at the idea that he may have ruptured his freaking airway, holy hell—but he tries to shake off the cold feeling of dread that washes over him. He really doesn't wanna think about going into that machine.
Like, ever.
His distress doesn't go unnoticed by Derek, who once again takes his hand and starts rubbing soothing circles in his skin as the doctor continues.
"So, we'll get an IV inserted for the contrast, start you on some fluids to keep you hydrated, and give you a dose of Toradol for the pain."
Stiles likes that idea. The more pain-lessening mojo he has on board, the better as far as he's concerned.
"When was the last time you had anything to eat?"
"Um, dinner?" He thinks about it, and realizes it was actually the S'mores they'd made. "I mean dessert. Around eight last night, I guess."
"Anything to drink?"
"Yeah. Water, when I woke up coughing. Uh, around..." he has to stop and clear his throat, his voice grating and painful.
Derek squeezes his hand and finishes for him. "That was a little before two this morning, right before we came up here."
"Okay. Well, at least for now, I'd like to keep you NPO—nothing by mouth—just in case we need to take you up to the OR."
"Is that a possibility?" Derek asks, his voice strained, his hand tightening around Stiles'. "He might need surgery?"
Stiles doesn't have to have werewolf senses to feel the panic and worry radiating off his boyfriend at the prospect. He's scared too, and he certainly doesn't wanna have to go under the knife for any reason, but he's more concerned with reassuring Derek at the moment.
An on edge werewolf is not a good thing.
"Der, it's cool," he croaks, grimacing a little at the sound of his own voice. He shakes it off, quirking his lips and turning his hand over in the alpha's grip until they're palm to palm, threading their fingers together, "I'm sure Dr. Owens here knows what he's doing. That's why he gets paid the big bucks after all, right doc?"
Dr. Owens gives him a knowing grin, but moves on quickly, addressing Derek's obvious concern. "It is a possibility, but we'll know more after the CT. I may get a laryngoscopy to better visualize the inside of your throat," he directs this part to Stiles, "but I want to see what the scans show us first. You don't appear to be in any immediate distress, so I'm hopeful that we can manage this issue non-surgically."
"Sounds like a solid plan, doc."
No cutting open of the Stiles sounds like a great plan. He's all for that plan.
The doctor leaves then, but Derek remains by his side, hovering, anxiety emanating off him in thunderous waves.
Stiles just tries to relax through it, lying back against the pillows and closing his eyes until nurse Jenny returns to start his IV. The needle she pulls out of that TARDIS-like drawer under his bed is entirely too big as far as he's concerned; not too long, really, but much larger around than he'd like if he'd gotten to choose it himself. The sharp pinch-sting he feels as the needle punctures his skin, however, does give him something new and exciting to concentrate on instead of the slight pain in his upper chest and throat.
At least for a few moments.
He's trying to look on the bright side.
Once the IV is in place, Jenny tapes it all down to within an inch of its life and connects it to a bag of clear fluid that's hanging high on a metal pole next to him. Then she pushes the pain medicine the doctor ordered for him through the line and his head goes a little fuzzy for a few minutes.
It's great.
And lovely.
And all very quick and efficient, too.
Everything had ended up being pretty quick and efficient, actually.
About five minutes later an orderly had come in with a wheelchair to take him for his CT scan.
Derek had ended up having to stay behind, though; which he was obviously not happy about if the angry growl he'd let loose was any indication. Unsurprisingly, the wolf had picked up on Stiles' uneasiness about the test from the get-go, from the moment Dr. Owens had mentioned it. He'd known exactly why Stiles was on edge—enclosed spaces aren't really his thing anymore, especially that particular enclosed space—and he'd wanted to stay by his side in case he needed anything, or in case something happened to him.
In case he freaked the fuck out, or his condition took a turn for the worse.
Protectivewolf.
But Derek had been forced to stay behind, and he'd glared death daggers at the orderly as the dude wheeled Stiles out the door and down the hallway.
Red-tinged death daggers.
.
The orderly disconnected him from the oxygen and blood pressure cuff, and grabbed his IV bag as Stiles hobbled out of bed, making his way over to the wheelchair. As he was sitting down Derek moved to follow, but the guy stopped him in his tracks.
A decision both brave and stupid.
"Sorry sir, but no one's allowed back in radiology with him. He should only be gone about ten minutes, though, so you can wait for him here in the room."
Derek glowered at that, and Stiles swore he saw a flash of ruby red in his eyes as he stared the dude down.
Hastily, he put up a hand, trying to placate his overprotective wolf. "Der, babe, it's okay. I'll be okay."
"Are you sure? Because I can go and just wait in the hall, be there if something happens. If you need me for anything."
"I always need you," he countered, smiling, "Always. But I'm good. Really. It'll be fine. I'll be back before you know it."
.
Now, as he's lying on the hard surface of the scanner, he's trying his best to believe his own words.
He's good.
It'll be fine.
He's gonna be okay.
They inject something into his IV that instantly warms his veins, and then there's a blanket covering him and he's left alone in the room. He tries his hardest not to think about the last time he was in this very same machine.
Because that way lies madness...and horror, and blood, and death.
All the bad things.
No, this time is different. Way different. So totally different that it's on a whole other planet—or galaxy, even.
A different universe.
He's not here because he thinks he's going insane, or because he may be developing what his mother had, or because he's been possessed by a goddamn fox demon hell bent on death and destruction to get its rocks off.
He knows he's not going to lose control of his faculties.
He knows he's not going to get trapped inside his mind.
He knows he's not going to end up murdering tons of innocent people.
He knows.
He does.
He's in control.
It's all gonna be fine.
He closes his eyes and taps his fingers against his thigh, counting them, one by one, making sure they're all there, right where they're supposed to be.
Reassuring himself, just in case.
Then he lets his mind wander.
He thinks of Derek—about how much he loves him, and how funny he is when no one else is around to witness the wonder of it, and how patient he is when Stiles' ADHD starts acting up.
He thinks about sex—because come on, of course he does; he's an eighteen year old guy, he can't help it—and how lucky he feels that Derek chose him of all people to do that sort of thing with.
So lucky.
He thinks about all the other things he wants to do with Derek, of the sexy and the non-sexy variety, and that leads him to thinking about other things—the future, and collage, and maybe even marriage someday.
Kids, jobs, where they'll live.
If they'll get a dog or a cat.
Before he knows it the test is over and he's being pulled out of the machine and taken back to his room in the ER.
He didn't freak out once.
.
.
While waiting for the CT results, Stiles distracts himself from the nagging scratch in his throat with a heated game of Angry Birds. Derek is still by his side, sitting in the the chair next to the bed with his own phone out, reading articles about other sexual mishaps that have landed people in the ER.
Stiles doesn't really feel so bad about how he got here anymore.
But when he'd first returned to the room, Derek hadn't been in quite as good a mood as his is now.
The opposite, really.
The alpha had been sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, jaw tight, looking lost and pissed as all hell—at himself, no doubt, and maybe the orderly.
But mostly himself, probably.
The martyrwolf.
After Stiles had been hooked back up to the oxygen and tucked safely in bed, they'd finished the conversation they'd started before Dr. Owens had interrupted them, and they'd come to the mutual conclusion that what had happened the night before was no one's fault.
Which, duh.
It was just an accident. A bit of Stiles not knowing his own limitations and being a little too enthusiastic—wanting to do everything all at once, wanting to be the best, wanting to have his cake and eat it too. And also, a bit of Derek being so completely, devastatingly smitten and overwhelmed by Stiles' absolute sexiness that he just couldn't control himself.
Understandable, when you think about it. Stiles is a sexy beast, after all.
They'll pace themselves better in the future, though.
They're not in a rush.
They have time.
.
.
Stiles takes in a breath the wrong way—if that's even a freaking thing, holy god—and is hit with another wretched bout of coughing and throat spasms. It aches, and he maybe cries a little, because this shit hurts and he's tired of it.
So damn tired.
But then Derek's hand comes up to rest on the back of his neck, gently soothing away the pain, and everything gets a little less awful and little more tolerable.
"Thanks, nursewolf," he whispers, grateful for the reprieve as he leans back against the pillows.
Derek ignores the name, but Stiles knows he secretly enjoys all the wacky variations he comes up with. It keeps things interesting, makes life exciting and all that jazz.
Once he's calmed down he lets Derek gently wipe his mouth off, and they both let out a sigh of relief when the tissue comes away clean. No signs of blood. "Hey...would you looky there," he huffs, "I'm gettin' better already."
"Yeah," Derek hums in quiet agreement, leaning down to kiss Stiles' forehead. His lips are warm and dry, and he lingers there, reverent, tenderly stroking the hair at the nape of Stiles' neck as he breathes in his scent, long and deep. It's nice. Really nice. Stiles wants him to stay there forever and ever. "Just, keep it up for me," he softly adds, before pulling away and sitting back down in the chair.
Stiles smiles.
Supersweetwolf.
.
