Heartbeat // A Derek Hale Love Story (Teen Wolf)

Life Over Limb

A/N: Hey all, sorry there was no update last week. It was Family Day here in Canada and I was hanging with my fam off the grid. Tonight, I'm posting mid-commercial break while watching the Oscars. I'm hoping Rami Malek wins Best Actor because his performance in Bohemian Rhapsody was a work of art.

Update: RAMI JUST WON. I literally wrote these paragraphs at two different breaks and my heart is so full. I'm screeching. If anyone here is a fellow BoRhap fan, HIT. ME. UP. 

ANYWAY,

Please listen to the song above while reading, and pretty please give me your thoughts on this chapter. Is it as powerful as I tried to make sure it was?

Warnings: Blood, stitches, pain, general medical trauma.

Happy Sunday,

- TAAF_

Lillian's POV

As I pulled up my driveway, my brain shredded though everything I knew about spinal injuries and lacerations. I supposed helping Derek might be easier than a regular person because regular people didn't automatically heal from almost anything but I was still panicked. I parked at the side of the barn to attract less attention, and jumped into the bed of the truck, carefully avoiding Derek's outstretched arm.

"Derek?" I breathed, checking his pulse to make sure the drive hadn't killed him. His heart was still beating, barely, and he was still unresponsive. Fresh, black blood had pooled around him and my heart plummeted. Could werewolves bleed out? Would he bleed out because his wounds were too severe to heal?

My heart kicked into overdrive as I sat there trembling, contemplating the pros and cons of getting my dad involved. I knew he would be able to fix Derek better than I could, he was a freaking surgeon. It was his job.

"Derek, please," I whispered, looking down at his broken body, tears streaming unchecked down my face, my chest convulsing as I struggled to breathe through my terror. 

His spine was broken. It had to be. I had surely made things worse by dragging him into the truck. 

Life over limb decisions were impossible. But I knew I would never forgive myself if he was paralyzed. I wished Derek would wake up and wiggle his toes for me. "Dammit," I hissed, pulling out my phone and speed-dialling Stiles.

"What?!" was Stiles' frantic reply.

"Derek isn't dead," I snapped, running a shaky hand through my hair, my breath just not reaching my lungs. "But he's-- he's really badly hurt."

"God, Lillian, are you outside?!" Stiles screeched, the noise of people around him coming through. He wasn't just with Scott but I didn't care.

"No!" I barked. "I brought him back to my house, but he's still bleeding too much and I'm worried he isn't healing. Do you know if there's anything that the werewolf healing powers won't heal?"

"I-- I think they'll--" Stiles stopped, something clattering to the floor in the background. "I think any injury will heal unless they die first. That's what Derek told me about Scott."

A glimmer of relief broke into the darkness of my chest, and I took a breath. Unless they die first. The words rang through me as I thought of what to do. I numbly hung up on Stiles without another word, rising to my knees and hopping back out of the truck.

I didn't see my dad's car as I approached the house at a sprint. Maybe the decision about whether I would drag him into this or not had already been made for me. I tried not to let the door slam as I walked into the house, keeping an eye out for Rosie. There was a note on the table.

Called into emergency surgery, be back late.

Dad

Reading the words, the weight of the fact that I was on my own helping Derek, stopping his hemorrhaging, hit me like a stack of bricks. Dad was not here to help. 

I bolted to my dad's room, knowing exactly where his personal medical kit was. I snatched it up and left quietly and once I was back at the truck, pulled out my headlamp from my glove compartment. I was going to need to see what the hell I was doing.

Derek shifted as I sat down next to him, groaning softly.

"Derek?" I whispered. "Wake up." I placed my hand on his shoulder but didn't shake him. I was too afraid of causing more damage than I already had. He groaned again, louder this time, his eyebrows scrunched together. The blood around his mouth, why it was there, made me nauseous.

When he sucked in a breath like he heard me and was readying to speak, my heart soared. "Lil..." The sound of my name nearly made me cry. He knew I was there.

"Derek, I need to know if you can feel your legs," I told him. "That's all I need to know. Yes or no."

"Yes," he murmured, his eyes still closed. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding, fresh tears slipping free. Not paralyzed. And if he could come to consciousness, the blood loss must not have been as awful as I thought.

I still knew I needed to stitch him up to stop the bleeding, and I opened my dad's kit. He had everything I needed in there. I ignored the selection of scalpels and found the stitches, careful not to disrupt the order of things. I would have to put it all back carefully. I took the scissors used for cutting clothes and hoped they'd work on leather.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, taking the twin blades to his beloved jacket now ruined by blood and claws. I made quick work of cutting off his jacket and shirt beneath, and nausea hit me again at what I uncovered.

His back was in ribbons, the claw marks long and deep and covered in blood. His skin was paper-white, especially with the black blood everywhere. There was a total of four gouges, each leaking blood, but the second to the middle was the worst. The one I would start with. I didn't think anesthetic would do him any good, and my stained hands shook as I readied the needle.

Just like a dog, just like a dog, I told myself, visualizing stitches on someone's pet instead of my boyfriend. I tried to tell myself that everything was okay, that Derek would be okay, and forget the specifics of my task. I blocked out his face, his hair, anything that made me remember it was him. In a way, he was kind of like a dog.

I settled into a rhythm as I sewed him up, watching as the blood gradually stopped trickling. I occasionally felt his arm for a pulse and found it getting stronger with each stitch. It motivated me to the last thread, and when I was finally done, I let out a huge breath.

As I surveyed what I'd done, I wondered if he'd have scars, or if his abilities would wipe away any trace of what happened. I used the remnants of his shirt to wipe away the blood as best I could; if I took gauze from my dad's kit he would likely notice.

He was still too weak to go anywhere, and I knew it, so I found myself leaning into the side of the truck and feeling the stress drain from me. Some of it, at least. His pulse was stronger and he wasn't paralyzed. All I had wanted or let myself hope for. My hand found his hair, fingers running through the inky strands before sliding down his neck to his upper back.

I'd forgotten how muscular he was. Even completely at rest, his back held powerful, harsh lines of muscle and bone. I found myself tracing them gently, going over the dimples of his shoulder blades, lines I always admired the most in his back. They looked almost like wings.

We stayed there for a long while, my hand tracing patterns on his back, feeling the warmth, his breathing, the strength there. I didn't feel the need to go anywhere. I was still shaking so badly that I wasn't sure I could stand up. Exhaustion gnawed at my bones and my head was pounding. 

But he was alive, and that was enough.