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Derek strides out to the emergency room sidewalk of Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, where Erica, Isaac, and Kira wait for the incoming ambulance. The summer afternoon is balmy, and the stifling heat creeps along the back of Derek’s neck, not-so-gently reminding him he’s on the tail end of a fourteen-hour shift.
“Alright, what do we have?” he asks, preparing for the worst.
As a trauma surgeon, Derek never knows what he's walking into. Still, he's grateful for the emergency room team on shift tonight. Isaac and Kira are the most competent and compassionate residents he's had the privilege of working with. Along with the attending physician, Erica, whose humor, work ethic, and willingness to challenge Derek is refreshing. The team perfectly complements his no-nonsense demeanor. He knows some of the other doctors and nurses gossip about him, call him cold-hearted and too severe, but he has a job to do.
“22-year-old male. No known allergies, no prior surgeries. Medications are ...” Erica glances at the tablet in her hands as she lists off pertinent information from the call that came in moments ago. “GSWs to the chest and right thigh. Patient has traumatic pneumothorax of the right lung and hypotension.”
A cool breeze trickles across the parking lot, chasing Erica’s words. If he were superstitious, he’d worry the goosebumps breaking out across his skin was a bad sign. Beacon Hills doesn’t see many gunshot victims; they're more likely to handle wild animal attacks. But after years of working together, he knows they’ve got this.
“Chest wound, huh?”
Erica nods. Boyd, the cardiothoracic surgeon, should be there too, but Derek glances along the sidewalk and doesn’t spot him.
“He’s finishing his rounds,” Erica states, catching Derek’s eye. Of course, she’d know where her soulmate is.
With the patient's current condition stated, it’s a waiting game—nothing for them to do until the ambulance pulls up.
“So, Kira.” Isaac tugs at the sleeve of her green scrub top and winks. “Heard you and Malia went out again last night.”
Kira blushes and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Derek tunes them out and shares an exasperated look with Erica. Almost everyone he knows is paired off, and he’s only slightly jealous that another friend has found their soulmate. His fingers absentmindedly trace over the triskelion’s swirls imprinted on his left forearm; skin still prickled with goosebumps. The mark appeared, as they all do, on his 16th birthday. And for the past 14 years, Derek's wanted nothing more than to meet his own soulmate.
The ambulance skids up the drive, siren wailing like a banshee, rendering everyone silent as they await their next patient. And Derek, knowing the high mortality rate of gunshot victims, steels himself for the possibility that the arriving patient may not make it to the operating room.
Boyd appears like a ghost behind Derek as the ambulance doors burst open. “Just got word from triage,” he says, a little breathless. “The victim is a deputy.”
“Oh shit,” Derek exclaims. An injured deputy raises the stakes significantly.
Isaac and Kira rush forward to help the familiar paramedics—Danny and ... Ethan? He can never remember—unload the gurney. Danny relays the patient’s vitals, but Derek barely hears him. A disheveled deputy flies from the back of the ambulance, barking orders and spitting curses, demanding they move faster.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” the deputy yells, voice strangled as Derek holds him back. The deputy grabs Derek’s wrist in a vise-like grip, making empty threats. “That’s my partner! If he dies, I’ll have you fired! I’ll have your medical license revoked! I’ll have you arrested!”
“He’s crashing!” Erica climbs over the patient’s stomach to administer CPR. Kira checks the injured leg as they disappear through the bay doors.
Christ, what a mess. Derek shoves the deputy away, knocking him into Isaac. He can only imagine how powerless the deputy must feel. “Hey! You wanna help your partner? Back off and let us do our jobs!”
“Do you know when he last ate?” Isaac demands as he steadies the deputy. If it was recent, the patient runs the risk of vomiting or aspiration—an unnecessary complication in an already precarious situation.
“He had curly fries this morning. Why does it matter? Just do your job and save him!”
Leaving Isaac to explain, Derek sprints into the hospital. He rushes past the nurses' station and down the hall, chasing the gurney. It’s all routine as he scrubs in, clinical, like the operating room he’s about to enter. Still, in his head, the patient is not a person; it’s a procedure.
He backs into the room and lets the familiar, frenzied sounds of machines beeping with various alerts wash over him. Boyd hurriedly cuts away at the patient’s shirt. It falls in bloodied tatters to the floor, kicked away as Erica cleans the chest wound for Boyd to work.
As Isaac barrels into the room, relaying the information he learned from the deputy, Derek pushes his way towards the bed. He sidesteps the crash cart that’s always in the way and stands next to Kira as his focus narrows to where she's applying pressure on the leg.
“How bad?” Derek asks, assessing the severity of the wound as Kira desperately tries to stop the bleeding long enough to find the source.
Kira shakes her head and casts him a worried glance. "His oxygen is below 85%, Dr. Hale."
Dammit! Where's the anesthesiologist? They need Lydia.
But she's already there, standing at the patient’s head. There’s an air of calmness surrounding her—a quiet stillness as she concentrates and holds the scope steady in her hands. “Starting intubation now!”
“Oh, shit.” Boyd’s sudden exclamation is startling. In all their years of working together, Derek has never heard him swear in the operating room.
“Boyd?” Derek asks, warily watching as the rest of his team gasps and exchange incredulous looks. The air in the room is thick with an unspoken secret Derek clearly isn’t privy to, judging from the weary glances his colleagues spare him. But there’s no time to think about why he’s suddenly become the focus of everyone’s attention when they have a defenseless patient on the table.
“What the hell is going on?” he demands, watching in confusion as avoidant eyes frantically dart between him and their patient. Derek follows their gaze, fixating on the chest wound’s ragged edges, on what is simultaneously the most beautiful and heart-wrenching thing he's ever seen.
They say the day a person meets their soulmate is supposed to be the happiest day of their life. Unfortunately, for Derek, life is a cruel bitch.
His vision goes white at the edges. Peeking through the bloodied mess of tissue, marred only by the abraded skin of the bullet wound, is a familiar soulmark. His soulmark. Their soulmark.
Suddenly, it’s as though the air sucks out of the room. The usually confident, stoic, detached Dr. Hale is reduced to Derek, the man who just walked in on his entire future lying lifeless on a hospital table.
And Derek doesn’t even know his own soulmate’s name.
He springs into action. Nudging Kira out of the way, he takes over, pouring all his concentration into extracting the bullet so he can close the wound. “I need a clear picture!”
“Derek, you can’t… Are you sure you should be doing this?” Erica asks, the concern in her voice barely registering in his frantic and desperate mind. It was the first thing they learned in medical school; soulmates don't operate on each other.
Ignoring her, Derek yells for forceps. But when none appear in his outstretched palm, he jerks his head up, fury alighting his stomach. “What are you waiting for?”
Boyd moves first, and then it's a flurry of activity as everyone refocuses on the task at hand. A pair of forceps is held out, but Isaac’s soft voice stops him. “Maybe this isn't such a good idea, Dr. Hale.”
Derek locks eyes with him for a second as he takes the forceps. “Don’t.” His voice comes out hard as he tries not to get emotional. This is just another person on the table, a random patient, a procedure.
The seconds tick away as Derek digs for the bullet dangerously close to the femoral artery. He’s so lost in the task, he startles when a hand clasps his shoulder. Looking up, he finds his mother and Uncle Peter standing next to him. Of course, the Chief of Surgery and Chief Medical Officer would be called when one of their surgeons operates on their own soulmate. Once he finds out who called them, he’s going to rip their throat out with his fucking teeth.
“Derek, you need to step away.” As Chief of Surgery, Talia Hale is a booming presence, and it takes every ounce of strength to ignore her.
“Derek!” Peter’s fingers dig into his shoulder.
But he wrenches away. “No! I almost have it!” he cries, digging for the bullet with a desperate vigor. Finally, the forceps grab ahold of the obstruction and he pulls. The tiny twisted bit of blood-coated metal hits the mayo stand with a clang.
A cacophony of sounds signals a new myriad of complications.
“Peter, get him out of here!”
Derek barely registers his mother’s voice, unable to process anything as Peter drags him out of the room and down the hall.
“What were you thinking?! As soon as you found out—” Peter is in his face, lips pursed, gripping his shoulders. "And he's a deputy! Do you know what kind of PR nightmare this could turn into if people found out one of our top doctors, the son of the chief surgeon, operated on his soulmate? You are a good—no, great surgeon, Derek. But you need to step the hell back. Right now."
“I—” But nothing else comes out. The severity of everything crashes over Derek, and his legs wobble.
“I’m going back in there, and you are going to find one of the private waiting rooms and stay put. Do you understand, Derek? Don’t you dare step foot back inside that room.”
When Peter turns on his heels, Derek’s knees give out. He collapses against the wall, heaving heavy breaths. Sliding to the floor, he buries his head in his hands. He’s not sure how long he sits there, but the soft whoosh of the operating room doors draws his attention in time to see Theo, one of the surgical interns, waltz out.
“Oof! So that was your soulmate, Hale? Yikes...” Theo’s tongue clicks. The noise makes Derek twitch. “Well, at least you didn’t know him yet.”
The words are said with such condescension that Derek reacts instinctively. Pushing up from the floor, Derek lunges at him. The dull thud of Theo’s back hitting the wall echoes in the otherwise silent hallway.
“Don’t you fucking talk about him!”
An arm wraps over Derek’s chest, and he’s tugged back. He watches Theo stumble down the hall as someone yells, “Get the hell out of here!”
Derek rips away from whoever’s holding him, ready to use force if necessary, until he comes face-to-face with the sheriff. “I—I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t—”
“How is he?” Derek startles as he looks to the deputy from earlier, the one who’d come flying out of the ambulance when the patient—his soulmate, Jesus Christ—had arrived. “You’re the doctor, right? The one that took Stiles back?”
“This can’t be a good sign,” the sheriff says, stepping around the deputy. “Normally, I’d assume Stiles said something stupid enough to get his own doctor to quit, but…” Emotion chokes the words, the joke falling flat.
“I… What?” The words jumble in Derek’s head, unable to make sense of them. “I—I’m sorry, sir. I don’t—”
“Why aren’t you in there?” The deputy asks, words dripping with accusation. “Why are you out here instead of helping save Stiles’s life?”
Stiles?
Stiles?
“Stiles?” The name weighs heavy on Derek’s tongue.
“Jackson, hold it together. If I can do it, you can do it.”
“But how? How are you so calm when that’s your son in there? The damn doctor isn’t even holding it together.” The deputy—Jackson—scoffs, gesturing towards Derek.
Son? Derek goes through a complex range of emotions as his gaze snaps to the sheriff. “Stiles is your son?”
“Doctor?” The sheriff grips Derek's forearm gently, earning his attention. “I’d really like to know the status of my son, Stiles.”
Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.
There’s a strong possibility Derek will never know Stiles. That he'll never know the sound of his voice or if his face lights up, eyes crinkling in the corners when he smiles. That the man standing in front of him may never hear his son laugh again or call him dad.
The fluorescent lights of the hallway cast a grey hue on Derek’s forearm as he holds it out, revealing his soulmark, raised like braille on his skin.
“Shit,” Jackson gawks.
Derek is enveloped in a tight embrace. The sheriff’s arms aren’t familiar, but their warmth is comforting nonetheless. He wonders if hugging Stiles would be similar and then throws the thought away.
“Oh, hell, kid,” The sheriff’s quiet words are spoken with such compassion that Derek sags against him.
After a few moments, Derek pulls away, clearing the tennis ball of emotion from his throat with a scratchy cough, “Can I—Can I wait with you, sir?"
They make their way to one of the waiting rooms. It was smart of Peter to suggest a private one. This way, they can avoid the worried gaze of the hospital staff as word undoubtedly spreads of Derek’s soulmate on the operating table. Also, if Stiles doesn’t survive surgery—which Derek refuses to think about—they don’t have to worry about the sheriff, or Derek, making a scene when the news is delivered.
Derek knows all too well how this works.
The sheriff and Jackson speak in rushed, hushed tones which Derek ignores in favor of staring out the window. People bustle about below. He wonders how often he’s gone about his daily routine while someone, somewhere, is barely holding it together after a life-altering moment. Experience as a trauma surgeon tells him it’s far too many. But never in his 30-years has he been on this side of it.
Derek's head snaps up when the doors open, and his heart stops as his mother walks in, her green scrubs splattered with Stiles’s blood. It hasn’t been long enough, has it? A glance at the clock shows that somehow two hours have passed. Derek tries desperately to read her face as she looks at him before her gaze settles on the sheriff.
“He’s made it through surgery.”
Derek breathes out a massive sigh of relief and sags further into the couch he’s sitting on.
Talia approaches the sheriff. “Your son has been moved to intensive care. He’s still in critical condition. I don’t think I need to tell you these next twelve hours are paramount, sheriff. We’ll know more by morning.”
If Stiles survives the night. Those are the words his mother isn’t saying.
Derek jumps up, sprinting to the ICU. A crazy notion plays in his mind, that if he could just see Stiles, touch him, Derek could will strength into him. It’s ludicrous; soulmates can’t do anything of the sort. He bypasses co-workers calling his name, but he can’t stop. He needs to see Stiles for himself.
He’s always envisioned meeting his soulmate would be movie-worthy.
But if this is a movie, it’s a tragedy.
Stiles’s skin is parched white, as pale as the sheet covering his body. An IV drips clear solution into his veins. Hanging beside it is a bag of blood replenishing all he lost during surgery. A halo of tubes and wires frame Stiles’s ashen face, connecting him to a bank of beeping, blinking machines—their steady sounds are the only sign of life in the room.
Derek pulls a chair up to the bed. The wood frame groans as he sits. He shifts forward to lean over and takes one of Stiles’s hands in his own. Stiles’s fingers are cold from the operating room, but that doesn’t stop Derek from pressing them to his cheek, relishing the physical proof that his soulmate is right in front of him.
He sits quietly, rubbing Stiles’s knuckles against his lips as he maps out the features of his soulmate’s face, wondering how long it’ll take him to memorize them.
Beep
Beep
Beep
The steady beep acts as a beacon, beckoning Stiles to consciousness, though he’s not exactly sure when he fell asleep. It grows louder as the fog in his mind lifts, as he fights against the strange sort of exhaustion pulling at him. His body is heavy as he tries to open his eyes, lift his arms, or move his legs.
It’s like emerging from deep waters, and it takes a few days for him to become fully aware. It’s as if his head keeps breaking water, but every time he comes up for air, he’s disoriented. One moment, he’s surrounded by doctors and there’s pain. So. Much. Pain. In the next, he’s in a sort of half-sleep, listening to unfamiliar voices speaking words he can’t begin to understand. Sometimes, it’s just a flash of light as he blinks only for darkness to consume him again, and other times, he’s lucid for a few minutes. It’s all chaos and confusion except for the moments when there’s a gentle pressure on his hand. Peace washes over him in those times, calming him in a way he’s never experienced before. The sensation is foreign and overwhelming, yet makes him feel complete. It knows no bounds nor depth nor length. It is absolute.
That’s what gets him through the strange dream-like state.
Stiles Stilinski wakes up not knowing where he is or how he got here. Sun streams through the windows, momentarily blinding him as he blinks awake. There’s an unsettling feeling of déjà vu. Memories flash through his mind: an unfamiliar face telling him not to speak, another of his father’s worried eyes while someone helps him sip some water, always with that incessant beeping.
It should be terrifying—especially when Stiles’s vision clears, and he realizes he’s in a hospital room. The last thing Stiles remembers is sitting in the cruiser before stepping out for a call and a panicked look across Jackson’s face.
It should be terrifying, but it’s not. Stiles feels grounded and settled, safe, and he knows it’s because of the person hunched over his bed, gripping his hands like a lifeline. He can feel a link, a connection that can only mean one thing.
The anticipation is thick as he regards his apparent soulmate. Stiles wants to reach out, trace his fingertips over the man’s face to erase the worry-lines creased between his brows. He tentatively moves one hand, letting out a soft sigh when it slips free of the man’s grip without waking him. The only reaction is a slight frown on an already distressed face—anxiousness and vulnerability evident even in his unconscious state. It’s a stark contrast to the sharp cheekbone and strong jawline, accentuated by an unkempt beard.
How long has this man been here waiting for Stiles to wake up?
The man moves, twitching in his sleep, and Stiles brushes away raven-black hair that’s fallen over his creased forehead. It’s soft to the touch, and Stiles can’t help but card his fingers through it, scratching lightly. That earns him a moan, so he continues to massage the top of the man’s head until he wakes.
The man's eyes are a startling hazel—a sunburst of gold, surrounded by a pool of green with a dark blue rim. Eyes that stare at him with an intensity that speaks of disbelief and doubt, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.” Stiles’s voice is low and rough, raspy after days of disuse. The words seem to spark something in the man, though, and Stiles drops his hand as the man sits up.
“You shouldn’t speak.” He clears his throat and reaches for the glass of water sitting on the tray table. “Your dad will be back soon. He stepped out to get something to eat.”
Stiles raises a brow but complies, taking a sip of the offered water held to his lips. His face warms at the caring gesture and the fact that the man had considered the possible fear at the absence of his father. When he averts his eyes from the man’s gaze, they land on familiar swirls—their soulmark. It calls to him like a siren song, and Stiles traces the triskelion on the man’s forearm with a feather-like touch.
“You’re my soulmate,” he says quietly, affirming what he already knows to be true. The man nods, eyes locked on Stiles’s hand, and Stiles grins. “Does my soulmate have a name?”
“Derek,” he breathes, voice brittle as glass. “I’m Dr. Derek Hale.”
“Doctor? Impressive.” The tips of Derek’s ears turn pink. “Oh. Oh, you’re adorable.” It’s quiet for a moment before Stiles slides his hand down Derek’s arm to twine their fingers together. “Hi, Derek. It’s nice to finally meet you. My name is Stiles.”
Derek flashes a brilliant smile, relief washing over his features, and the realization hits Stiles like a tidal wave; he gets to be on the receiving end of that smile for the rest of his life.