[ He flinches when he steps forward, closing his eyes, ready for the pain that's going to come, the ghost whooshing over his body and leaving him tired and cold and holding another snapped thread of his sanity, but there's just what feels like electricity against his palm, and he snaps his eyes open again and watches, something like wonder underneath his gaze when Derek's pulse comes under his hand.
Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.
It's the lifeline. The same one he's listened to a thousand times over, dozing off in bed in the mornings, goofing around at night. It's there. The ghosts, the visions, whatever they were, they never touched back. They never had that tattooed beat, th-thump, th-thump, th-thump, the one that filled into the spaces between his and his face just crumples as he looks at him.
Is it a miracle? He doesn't know. Stiles doesn't care. The logical part of his brain is so far gone lately that it spends all of its time trying to find ways to blame him for things more--all that matters is this is Derek, this is his Derek, standing right in front of him, breathing and leaving and the first real anchor that he's had since the day everything went so horribly wrong (he remembers a conversation, once, he and Allison had about anchors, how everyone needs something to keep them sane). If Wonderland is fixing itself, if this is some kind of--demented Christmas present, he doesn't care.
The lump in his throat is so big it feels like it's choking him; he whispers, just barely audible, like he might break the spell-- ] Derek.
[ And his hands are moving, then, up his neck where Derek placed it and touching his shoulders, his chest, coming up and grabbing his face, and looking so--shocked, wondrous, and the smile feels unfamiliar on his face when he's confronted with the first vision he's ever been happy to have and uses the grip he's got on his jaw to push himself forward and press a kiss to his mouth, hiccuping out a sob and letting go of his face to fling his arms around his shoulders.
no subject
Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.
It's the lifeline. The same one he's listened to a thousand times over, dozing off in bed in the mornings, goofing around at night. It's there. The ghosts, the visions, whatever they were, they never touched back. They never had that tattooed beat, th-thump, th-thump, th-thump, the one that filled into the spaces between his and his face just crumples as he looks at him.
Is it a miracle? He doesn't know. Stiles doesn't care. The logical part of his brain is so far gone lately that it spends all of its time trying to find ways to blame him for things more--all that matters is this is Derek, this is his Derek, standing right in front of him, breathing and leaving and the first real anchor that he's had since the day everything went so horribly wrong (he remembers a conversation, once, he and Allison had about anchors, how everyone needs something to keep them sane). If Wonderland is fixing itself, if this is some kind of--demented Christmas present, he doesn't care.
The lump in his throat is so big it feels like it's choking him; he whispers, just barely audible, like he might break the spell-- ] Derek.
[ And his hands are moving, then, up his neck where Derek placed it and touching his shoulders, his chest, coming up and grabbing his face, and looking so--shocked, wondrous, and the smile feels unfamiliar on his face when he's confronted with the first vision he's ever been happy to have and uses the grip he's got on his jaw to push himself forward and press a kiss to his mouth, hiccuping out a sob and letting go of his face to fling his arms around his shoulders.
He's alive. ]