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Derek has had vivid dreams since he was a small child. In the past years they’ve darkened, come to him in the small hours as nightmares. He wakes up twisted in his bedclothes, a weight on his chest, tears on his cheeks. He remembers little—hiding, being hurt, running, terrified and alone. After he comes to the palace, they lessen a little, but he still has a bad night at least every few weeks, and it’s one of these nights that he swims up to consciousness, struggling against hands pulling him down, gasping in fear, and Stiles kneeling on his bed, leaning down over him, saying,
“Wake up—“ an order, loud enough that he had to have been trying to awaken Derek for some time.
“sorry—” Derek chokes out. He can’t draw enough breath in, his chest heaving under Stiles’ hands.