When Stiles opens his eyes, he's surprised to see the pale cream of Derek's ceiling. Well, okay no, he's actually surprised that he woke up at all to be honest. His hands clutch at the sheets as he remembers running through the trees, so hard to see where he's going in the dark, every breath catching in the back of his throat with the heavy, rhythmic thud of something close on his heels. Knowing that even as the forest was full with the pack's angry howls the creature, with its matted fur and too long teeth, was too close.

Stiles shifts, heart starting to beat rabbit fast, but he doesn't move, doesn't dare because he remembers the too bright flash of pain that had come after he'd tripped because of course he'd tripped. His life is the equivalent of a horror movie, all the monsters and none of the cheesy guarantees of survival. There'd been a moment of vertigo, his foot catching and ending up airborne for a few long seconds before crashing into the ground, his wrist twisting beneath him.

Just enough time to turn over and then the creature had been on him and he'd seen the claws, a prayer on his lips, hoping desperately that someone, Scott, Derek, anyone would appear and save him. The way they always do.

Stiles swallows hard, and he slowly starts moving his hand up from where its laying across his chest, slowly, because he remembers pain and just because he doesn't feel it right now doesn't mean it's not waiting around the corner, ready to pounce. And there was pain, a thick, tearing agony and hot, wet heat that his brain assures him was blood even as it tries to crawl away from the idea that it was blood, his blood.

His breath is coming faster now, panic slipping cold and slow through his gut. He was hurt, he knows he was hurt bad, but that doesn't explain why he's looking up at Derek's ceiling, which means he's in Derek's apartment and not the hospital. The sick memory of claws and pain and blood says he should be in the hospital and he's not, and he can't feel any pain. He keeps moving his fingers though, up over his chest and all he feels is smooth, warm skin, and as they climb higher instead of calming he can feel the panic spreading because he's not in the hospital.

He stops just shy of touching his neck, heart pounding so fast it kind of feels like its smashing against his ribs and he swallows, a distant part of him insisting that he shouldn't be able to do that and he can't take it anymore so he closes that last bit of distance. Smooth, warm skin beneath his fingers and then Stiles is shooting off the bed, icy panic turning to nausea because the last thing he remembers is getting his throat ripped out and he can't feel so much as a band-aid.

His pulse is pounding in his ears and he's on all fours on the floor, taking deep breaths that don't seem to be doing anything and he tries to focus, tries to stay calm. Which is when his pulse develops an odd echo, a slow steady thump beneath the quick pounding that he can feel at his wrists and neck, the neck that is whole and solid when it shouldn't be.

He hears swearing, it fills the room like thunder, oddly distorted, before large familiar hands grab a hold of him. One at the back of his neck and the other at his shoulder. Stiles stares at the dark blue carpet and what he can see of Derek's knees, sucking in breath after breath.

"Stiles. You need to calm down." Derek's voice is rough, gravelly around the edges with the hint of a growl and Stiles tries, he really does, but he keeps reliving his last memories over and over again on a constant loop behind his eyes and the panic keeps biting deeper.

"Derek is he - "

"Not now, Scott!" Derek snarls, a slight slur that means he's flashing fang to back up the order.

Stiles doesn't look towards the door, just struggles to breath and tries to focus on Derek's firm grip on the back of his neck. He thinks he might be getting somewhere when the hand moves, sliding over his shoulder and presses against his chest. Then Derek's pulling him back and Stiles ends up leaning back against his chest, between Derek's legs.

"Just take deep breaths. I've got you." Derek's hand is spread across Stiles chest, holding him in place, and the other curls around his forehead to draw his head back against Derek's shoulder. Derek is hot, a werewolf's body temperature, and its perfect against the cold still worming through him, and now that his head is tipped back breathing is easier.

Stiles doesn't know how long they stay like that before his breathing slows, his heart slowing down until can match the slower beat he can still hear, like his pulse but weird in that he can't feel it in the rest of his body. He licks his lips, regrets it when it only makes him more aware of how dry his mouth is. "I'm not at the hospital."

Derek doesn't stiffen, instead he grows still, until Stiles can't feel the even rise and fall of his chest. The odd thumping in Stiles ears picks up. "No, you're not."

"I got hurt." He wants it to be a question, but he doesn't seem to have control of his tongue, too wrapped up in remembering how to breathe, to fight off the panic that hasn't left but is still circling.

Derek's fingers briefly dig into Stiles chest before relaxing and Stiles knows what he's going to hear before he feels the warm exhalation against his ear and neck. "Yes." The weird thumping gets louder, faster, and Stiles can feel his own heart rate start to follow. Derek seems to remember that he has to breathe and he sucks in a deep breath of his own, chest expanding against Stiles' back. "It was bad, Stiles."

The kind of bad that lead to him waking up in Derek's bed, the memory of pain and blood, but no bandages. "Bad enough that I can hear your heart beat?" Stiles swallows and it's a dry click of sound, stomach bottoming out as he waits for Derek to respond, because he knows what he's going to hear.

There's a rough sound, caught between a sigh and a growl. "Yes."

Stiles doesn't answer, just stays against Derek's chest and keeps breathing.