The hospital lights were too bright. There was so much noise, too - Derek had no idea how anyone was supposed to sleep here. How anyone was supposed to get better.

He hated hospitals. Hated the too-white walls, the smell of death that permeated every corner, the sorrow and terror and painful, painful hope on everyone's faces.

He hated the fact that Stiles was in a room somewhere, and Derek couldn't get to him. Couldn't protect him.

Like you did such a good job of protecting him before, a voice whispered in his head. Face it, the best thing you could do for him would be to leave.

Derek considered it, in these long hours, but he made himself a promise - if Stiles woke up, he would tell him how he felt.

So he was here. Visiting hours ended hours ago - Derek hid in a closet until the Sheriff and the rest of the pack had left. Had stayed, kept track of the nurse's rounds and the movements of the hospital and had tried not to go out of his mind with the worry of it all -

But now - now it was almost midnight, and Derek was standing in the corner of Stiles's room. It was the closest they'd been in hours, since Derek had tried to find his pulse on the cold forest floor. Since he'd nearly lost him.

He looked peaceful in the hospital bed. The bandages were hidden by the blankets - it almost looked like he was just sleeping normally. Like he hadn't been nearly disembowelled by what the doctors were calling, 'a freak cougar attack'.

Derek could hear his heartbeat, the steady pulse reassuring and grounding. He reluctantly, carefully, sat down beside the bed and ignored the way the sounds of the machines drilled into his skull.

He traced the lines of Stiles' face - the familiar crease of his eyelashes, the freckles, his mouth slack with sleep. He leaned forward, took a deep breath, finding Stiles' scent beneath the smells of hospital and injury.

Derek had never done this before. Had never sat at someone's bedside, willing them to wake up. He hated it. Hated the fact that he was useless, that Stiles was laying in a hospital and there was nothing he could do to help.

He cleared his throat, shifted closer in the chair, watched the way Stiles' eyes shifted under the lids.

"I promised myself," he said quietly, "that if I got the chance I would - " he broke off. Words had never been Derek's strong suit. He had no idea how to do this, but knew that he needed to. Even if Stiles was sleeping and couldn't hear him, at least Derek would have said it out loud.

"I know that this isn't a good idea, and I know that - that you like Lydia, but I just – " his cheeks flushed. "I love you. I need you to be safe." He found the courage to squeeze Stiles' hand.

Derek sat there for what felt like hours, watching Stiles' chest move under the thin hospital blankets. Time felt still around him, like the whole world had stopped just for them.

Derek couldn't imagine a world without Stiles. He didn't want to have to.

The first time Stiles twitched, Derek thought he'd made it up. A trick of his eyes, a sleep-deprived hallucination, wishful thinking - take your pick.

But then it happened again: Stiles' hand twitched in his.

Derek stopped breathing.

Stiles shifted, let out a breath - and Derek was frozen, hoping, hoping -

Stiles opened his eyes.

"Hey Sourwolf," he said groggily, squeezing Derek's hand tighter. "What'd I miss?"

Derek kissed him.