The day Derek comes home and finds Stiles passed out on the floor is a day he never wants to repeat.He knows something is off upon approaching the door, keys in hand as he trots up the porch steps. Lifelong experience as a werewolf had taught him that a sudden chill up his spine usually indicated that something was amiss, but when he bursts in and discovers Stiles crumpled face-down in the middle of the room, he can't say it's much of a surprise. The stubborn idiot hadn't been eating half of what he should've been, and apparently it had finally caught up with him. But upon catching sight of Stiles's lifeless form, dread like no other seizes Derek anyway, because for a split second he thinks that Stiles might have done something else-
Something worse.
The paper bag of groceries in his arms hits the floor with a crumpled 'smack,' spilling out oranges and denting a carton of milk that spurts across the hardwood as he bolts forward and drops to a crouch, quickly grabbing his shoulders to roll him onto his back. Stiles flops over like a wet rag doll, limbs lolling limply with the movement. He's passed out cold, unresponsive and absolutely drenched in clammy sweat. Dark tousles of hair cling to his damp forehead like strands of seaweed strewn across an ocean shore, which makes his drained complexion pop out like bleached alabaster. He's pale, too pale, even for Stiles, and his heartbeat is weak and fluttery, like it's trying desperately to escape his ribcage but lacks the strength or knowhow to break through. There's also a small bruise on his left cheekbone, presumably from where his face must have slammed into the floorboards.
A string of curses slip through his teeth in vicious, tight-lipped mutters as he shakes Stiles by the shoulders and slaps his cheeks in an effort to rouse him, perhaps a little harder than what was necessary because he's so damn angry- angry at Stiles for not caring enough to eat anything more than a stupid protein bar, but even angrier at himself for not stepping in sooner. He had seen the way Stiles shied away from the cupboards, eyeing meals as if the food was laced with arsenic and crafting excuses to avoid eating as if it were his career. Meanwhile the leftovers Derek put aside for him had stacked up in the fridge, untouched. He had decided not to push and let Stiles have his space, hoping that sooner or later he would snap out of it on his own.
And now the kid was sprawled out on the floor in hypoglycemic shock, all because his new coward of a housemate didn't try hard enough to make him sit down and eat a fucking meal.
Finally Stiles comes around, if just barely. Derek manages to drag him up onto the couch, noting with a frown how light he is. The harsh curve of his ribs sticks out from beneath his jacket as he plops him down against the cushions, and his gaze strays instinctually to the chiseled edges of the teen's cheekbones.
He mentally kicks himself all the way to the kitchen and back, sighing in vexation when getting the can of soda down Stiles's throat proves no easy task. The human's head lolls listlessly to the side, fingers slack and useless around the drink, and Derek is convinced that somehow in his half-lucid state Stiles is testing him; challenging him to see how far he would overstep the invisible wall between them to get the liquid past his lips.
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Just The Beginning - Sterek
FanfictionJanuary seventh. Seven days since the start of 2015, and seven days since his father's death. The bastard, he thinks bitterly. The past year Derek Hale had made it very obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove...