She squeezes him tight and he mumbles, “thanks, Melissa” into her hair. Feels like an eight year old boy with muddy feet chastised by his mom. One thing at a time, okay? Dragging him all over California isn’t going to fix it and we both know it.”ĭerek ignores the way his stomach threatens to reacquaint him with his breakfast. You do all the little things that make a difference. You do everything you can do to make him feel better when they happen. You have to learn to focus on what you can control. But you being frustrated all the time is just making him feel worse.” “I know you care about him and I know you’re trying. She catches his arm and drags him out into the hallway while Stiles gets his blood drawn for the nine millionth follow up for the newest doctor. They have whispered angry conversations in the kitchen when Derek slips out from behind Stiles to bring him water or turn down the thermostat.Īs usual, Melissa takes matters into her own hands. The sheriff is better at keeping it from Stiles, but he feels the same. But he’s just so fucking frustrated and he doesn’t know what to do. The last thing he wanted was for Stiles to feel like he was angry with him, or blamed him, or that he didn’t want to take care of him anymore. He knew it was making him edgy, short, snappy. Of Derek doing the only thing he knew to do: pulling the pain from his head.

One beautiful month of Stiles not curled into a ball, whimpering in pain and hiding from the light. One worked for about a month, and Isaac told him that he hadn’t seen him or the sheriff smile that much in forever. They all make him puke, make them worse, or don’t do anything at all.

They’ve put him in on every goddamn migraine medication there is. He’s taken him to every migraine specialist in California, in case the doctors in Beacon Hills missed something. Stiles’ head tries to kill him with increasing frequency and he can’t fucking do anything.