I'm really not sure about the flow of this chapter, but it's important sort of 'the beginning of recovery' stuff and honestly i'm too tired right now to try and figure this out better. Undiagnosed illnesses and college exams are kicking my butt, so i'm sorry if this is screwy.
The sound of a door slamming and agitated voices are what wakes Stiles up. The sleep had been fitful, light, peppered with images from the day and from every day before that for the past 7 months. Images of pack and their pain, their disappointment with her abandoning them. Images of her fathers pained face when he'd seen her today, and the same expression painted there every time he woke her from a nightmare or gently pried the bottle of Adderall from her hands. Flashes of those men pressed against her with their bodies and their hands, mouths opening and teeth digging in. Guns pressed to her spine and knives to her ribs.
She sighs deeply, but that flares pain in her side and causes a mighty headache to make itself known. The moan that escapes her through the pain is hardly muffled by the pillow she bites down on. Tears gather in the corner of her eyes and she can't think. Can't breathe. Can't move. It's like she's trapped under the weight of something she can't see and that's terrifying. It's been like this ever since it started. The pain would appear as soon as she snapped back into the present and then the panic attack would happen. For a while now she'd been dealing with it on her own, her dad having given up on trying to get her to work through it and talk to him. Stiles can feel herself gasping and shaking, can't suppress the wheezing, wailing noises she knows she's making.
It's too late when she remembers she is in a house full of werewolves.
Derek comes barrelling into the room- Stiles vaguely wonders if this is his room - and searches almost desperately for any kind of danger within these four walls. Finding none, he approaches Stiles slowly, gently. The rest of the pack are gathered in the doorway, watching intently for any sign that he needs help and Stiles still can't fucking breathe.
"Stiles?" His questioning voice sounds tinny, like it's coming through a TV with 50 year old speakers. She can't reply, can't even open her eyes. All Stiles can do right now is curl up into herself as much as she can and hope that the pain of that action will snap her out of it soon enough.
"Stiles?" His voice breaks through again and she can feel the tentative outstretch of his hand, wanting to soothe her but not wanting to startle her with his touch at the same time.
Stiles startles herself when she uncurls, gasps painfully and then throws her trembling, injured body into his and clings for all she's worth.
The only time she's felt safe in months was the times today when she was touching Derek. When Derek had his arms around her, strong and supportive instead of the painful embraces she's come to know. It had happened all of four times today, being held by Derek, and those where the only times she felt like she could really breathe, really see, really feel for the first time in forever. There is clarity in Derek's arms. There is safety. There is nothing that can hurt her here.
Derek's arms wrap around her, not to tight but enough to know that he's not letting her go. Stiles gasps into his chest, fighting for air, as her fingers clench and unclench in the material of his shirt gathered at his sides. His hand, wide and strong almost covering half of her back with just one, rubs gently in time with his won intake and exhale of breath.
"Breathe with me Stiles. Match your heartbeat to mine. Shh, come on now. It's okay, you're okay." And surprisingly, that works. With her ear and cheek pressed to Derek's chest she can feel his heart rate and the movement of each breath he takes and after a while that's enough. She matches herself to that and finally - it feels like it's been an eternity - she can breathe normally again.
By the time Stiles opens her eyes again the pack is gone and the door is closed. Derek's arms are still around her.
"Stiles… what can I do to help you?" Derek asks, quietly. Uncertainty creeping into his voice. She contemplates it for a moment before she replies.
"This is safe." Is all she says. Exhaustion is overcoming her again and it's all she can do to keep her eyes open. Derek's head, cheek pressed against her hair, nods above her.
"You're safe here with us." Stiles shakes her head and sighs lightly, trying not to create more pain in her side.
"No. You're safe. Like this. I'm only safe like this." Stiles had always been a tactile person, and good with words, but right now she can hardly string together a coherent sentence.
"You're always safe with me." Derek whispers almost under his breath in reply, holding her tightly, gently, against him with his soothing hand still rubbing soft circles into her spine. Stiles just nods against his chest, fingers that had tightened around his shirt loosen and Derek helps her shift back onto the bed until she's buried under blankets and her head is nestled in pillows instead of his chest. Her breathing is even and slow now as she settles back into the residual warmth in the bed and Derek goes to move away from her. The panic returns slightly and her eyes shoot opened just as she reaches out a trembling hand and grasps his wrist with a strength that surprises even herself right now.
"Stay?" She pleads, fighting against the exhaustion threatening to take her again. Waiting it out until Derek gives a soft exhale and a nod, climbing into the bed beside her, on top of the covers, and then turns to face her. He doesn't reach out to touch her, but Stiles still has a firm grip on his wrist, her fingers over the pulse point below his thumb.
Even in her sleep, she uses his heart to measure her own.
Stiles was in pain, even in her sleep. Derek could smell it, he could feel it in the way her fingers twitched against his wrist, could hear it in the acceleration of her heartbeat. She was buried under blankets that made her look like a child, thin and vulnerable. Juxtaposition beside developing bruises, cuts that will scar, lines of pain around her eyes that Derek is pretty sure she'll never lose now. He wanted to pull her close and take her away to somewhere he can keep her safe.
Safe.
Stiles only felt safe with him. She'd said it herself, in her delusional half sleep-half pain mumblings. It made something inside of Derek strengthen and weaken at the same time. Stiles was safe with him, would always be safe with him, from now on. But he had failed to keep her safe before this, had failed her in the worst way and he was unsure as to whether Stiles would ever recover from this. The violation of her very being.
He wasn't sure he could ever forgive himself for letting this happen, but if Stiles needed him beside her every second from now on just to measure the beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest then he would be there. Starting right now, as Stiles slept beside him with a firm grip on his wrist. Derek realised that he was counting her heartbeats and the countenance of her own breathing because it was rhythmic, matching his own, pulling him down to join her in sleep which they both needed.
When he awoke, it was to something firm and tense under one half of his body and the sound of weak whimpering.
"M'sorry. Whatever I did. Sorry, sorry. Please don't. I'm sorry." Derek's eyes shot open as Stiles' voice broke through into his sleepy comfort. The tense thing beneath him was the frozen form of Stiles' body, turned over onto her stomach. He had an arm and a leg thrown over her, half of his chest resting on half of her back and she was pinned beneath him. Pinned and whimpering, he could smell her tears and her fear. He pushed away, throwing himself half way across the room and watching, frozen, as Stiles melted into the mattress and sobbed. Slowly, arm outstretched even if Stiles couldn't see him, Derek approached her.
"Stiles?" He whispered quietly, leaning over the bed, hovering his hand over her ankle debating whether to offer the touch or not. Whether it would be rejected or accepted. He got his answer when she whimpered.
"Please, stop. I'll so whatever you want, just don't hurt them." And oh, god. Derek understood what was happening now. He should have expected it sooner, really. He'd seen this before. Laura had experienced flashbacks of the fire every time someone flicked a lighter in front of her for six months after they left Beacon Hills. Now, after Derek had probably rolled onto her in his sleep and held her down with his body, Stiles had been thrown back into the experience those men had put her through. Forced to relive it in her mind over and over unless he could get someone to pull her out of it.
Derek knew it couldn't be him, couldn't be a male voice. He moved to the door, Jackson and Lydia had the bedroom beside his these days and he could hear she wasn't asleep. Could hear her scribbling away at their desk while Jackson read to her. He rushed along the hallway, throwing open their door in a blatant disrespect for the privacy he usually allows them.
"Lydia. Stiles needs you right now. She's having a flashback." Derek didn't wait for a response, just turned and went back to the doorway to his own room, hovering and watching as Stiles cried and writhed in pain on his bed. Lydia pushed past him a second later, Jackson coming to stand beside him to watch with rapt horror at the scene in front of him.
"Stiles, sweetheart. It's me. It's Lydia." Derek watched as Lydia sat down and scooted up the bed towards the headboard. Lydia kept her hands to herself, but was close enough if Stiles wanted to reach out and grab onto her.
"Come on now, Genève. Come on. It's Lydia and the men that hurt you are gone. No need to be scared, sweetie. It's over now. It's over. You're safe." Derek watched as Lydia slowly coaxed Stiles away from the nightmare inside of her head, finally able to reach out once Stiles was calm enough and pull her to her in a hug. Rocking back and forth as Lydia whispered barely audible things into Stiles' ear. Eventually, Stiles breathing began to calm again, the tears dried in lines along her pale face and she turned wide hazel eyes up to Lydia's face.
"I need to.. I need to get clean Lydia. Please. God, please. I need to get them off me." Lydia stroked Stiles thin face gently.
"Of course. Lets get you into a shower, yeah?" Stiles nodded against Lydia's collarbone as Lydia turned her head to look at Derek. She jutted her chin out towards his en suit and mouthed 'can we use yours?' over the top of Stiles' head. Derek nodded once, glancing over both of the girls before Jackson wrapped a hand around his arm and pulled him gently away from the door and downstairs to get coffee while Lydia helped Stiles clean up.
"What happened in there?" Jackson asked quietly as he thrust a mug into Derek's hands. Derek sighed, taking a sip of the bitter black caffeine that Jackson had given him.
"I fell asleep next to her. Must have rolled over and pinned her. It sparked a flashback." He replied, glancing at the ceiling above them like he could see what was happening upstairs through the plaster and floorboards. Jackson looked at him with something between regret and anger, but it wasn't directed at him.
"We should have protected her from this." Jackson muttered, taking a drink of his own coffee before slamming it down onto the breakfast bar a little too hard. "How the hell did this get past us for almost seven months?" He demanded.
"I'm not sure. We were occupied, but we dropped the ball. We should have been more vigilant." Once upon a time, Derek would have clammed up and refused to have replied to Jackson's venting. Would have taken it as an insult to himself, when really Jackson was doubting and hating them all in equal measures, including himself. There was silence, the sound of muffled whimpers and the shower running, soothing tones of voice floating down the stairs but no identifiable words. There was the sound of scrubbing, and Lydia's shrill 'Stiles, stop it! You're hurting yourself. You're clean.' It had both Derek and Jackson listening intently incase they were needed, but soon after there was a faint sound of a tired sigh and the shower turning off.
"How do we make this better?" Jackson was focused on his cup intently, not looking up at Derek as he shrugged.
"Be there for her, I guess. Let her know she's safe. Take it at her speed." Jackson's shoulders slumped even further, acknowledging that there was nothing immediate they could do was never easy for him.
"Where are the others?" Derek asks as they both listened to the sounds of Lydia redressing Stiles and helping her back into bed.
"Erica and Boyd went for a run. Danny and Isaac went to see Stiles' dad. He rang for an update while you were asleep. I think he wants Stiles to stay here for now. Said he'd explain to them once they got there." Derek nods and drains the last of his coffee just as Lydia's voice floats down to them.
"Derek, Stiles needs you." Derek almost smiles at the face that Lydia didn't ask for him to come upstairs, just made it a statement and expected it to be followed. He and Jackson both made their way up, meeting Lydia in the doorway to Derek's bedroom. A quick glance in showed Stiles drowning in one of Derek's long sleeved black shirts and a pair of his sweats rolled up to her ankles. It was adorable, in a painful kind of way. Lydia fell into Jackson's arms with the tracks of old tears staining the edges of her eyes red, and looked up at Derek from her position cushioned against her boyfriends chest.
"Go on, then." Lydia nodded towards Stiles who was perched on the edge of his bed, hands in her lap where here eyes were intently focused. Refusing to look up at them.
"Derek?" Her voice, so tiny and quiet that he could almost deny it being Stiles, called to him from across the room and he turned back to look at her again as she glanced up at him through her damp bangs. Lydia and Jackson had already made their way back to their room by the time Derek glanced behind him. He hovered in the doorway, unsure as to whether she wanted him back in there or not.
"Stiles?" He questioned cautiously. She looked fragile and small, on the edge of disappearing before his eyes.
"I'm sorry." It was barely a whisper as she looked up at him. Derek took a step inside the room and closed the door behind him lightly.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, Stiles." She shook her head, tears building in her eyes.
"I don't know why that happened. I've been trapped under any number of pack at puppy pile time. I'm sorry." Derek took light steps towards he slowly until he knelt down in front of her, not touching but close enough for her to reach out to if she wanted to.
"You've had a - traumatic seven months Stiles. It's okay. You don't have to be sorry.." He took a breath. "If anything, I'm sorry. The pack is sorry." He muttered quietly. Stiles looked up at him sharply.
"Why would you say that?" She demanded, although her voice was still hoarse, quiet and weak.
"You went through all of that and we just- I just.. I'm sorry we didn't realise earlier. You got hurt because of us." When Derek looked back up at her, there was more fire in her eyes than he thinks he's seen in a long time.
"You're not allowed to be sorry. I did it to protect you. All of you. I did it to keep you safe. It what pack does." She stressed, reaching out and once again grabbing his wrist tightly, fingers folding over his pulse as she worked to calm her erratic heartbeat. Derek let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and tugged gently on that wrist until Stiles slid forward to her knee's and into his arms. He wasn't sure what had gotten into him. Sure, during pack sleepovers he joined in on the 'puppy piles', and there was always familiar touch between him and his wolves, but he'd never been this tactile with Stiles before. Never given out hugs and reassurance to anyone but Laura like this before now. It felt right though. It felt good to be able to give Stiles this. To provide this safety. His hand reached up to stroke her hair as the other was held in her tight hand by his wrist.
"I know you did." Derek whispers into her hair. "I know, thank you. Thank you." He presses a kiss into the damp strands against her scalp as her breathing once again evens out. The poor girl is exhausted, not that he can blame her. Scooping her up, he settles them back into the general places they were before he fell asleep last time. Inches apart but close enough to feel shared warmth. One hand wrapped around a wrist, Stiles curled up into herself as much as possible without causing too much pain. Comfort. Pack. Safety.
He wouldn't fall asleep this time.