Lullaby for the Wounded

The forest was eerily quiet after the fight, the only sound being the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. Stiles was still catching his breath, leaning against a tree as he tried to steady his trembling hands. Damon stood nearby, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, scanning the tree line for any signs of danger.

Stiles glanced at him, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the lingering adrenaline. "You know, for a guy who's over a century old, you're still pretty fast on your feet."

Damon raised an eyebrow, a smirk of his own forming. "And for a tribrid, you're not completely useless in a fight."

"High praise, coming from you," Stiles shot back, but his smile faltered as he noticed something—something Damon was trying to hide.

A dark stain was spreading across Damon's sleeve, and Stiles's eyes widened when he realized what it was. "Damon," he said, his voice suddenly serious. "You're bleeding."

Damon glanced down at his arm, his expression unreadable. "It's nothing. Just a scratch." But Stiles wasn't buying it.

"Let me see," Stiles said, stepping closer.

Damon hesitated, but Stiles's determined expression gave him no choice. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing a deep gash running along his forearm. The wound was jagged and dark, the edges already beginning to blacken. Stiles's stomach churned at the sight.

"It's poisoned," Damon said, his voice calm but strained. "Wolfsbane. Probably something worse mixed in."

"Why didn't you say something?" Stiles demanded, his voice rising in panic.

"Because I didn't want you to worry," Damon replied, his eyes meeting Stiles's. "Besides, it's not like there's much you can do."

"Don't be an idiot," Stiles snapped. He grabbed Damon's arm, his mind racing. He didn't know much about healing, but he couldn't just stand there and watch Damon suffer. He had to try something.

And then it hit him. His Spark—the chaotic, untapped magic that had been growing inside him ever since he'd arrived in Mystic Falls. And his siren powers, the ones he'd inherited from his mother's bloodline, that allowed him to manipulate emotions through song. Maybe, just maybe, he could combine them.

"Hold still," Stiles said, his voice softer now.

"What are you doing?" Damon asked, his tone wary.

"Just trust me," Stiles replied, his hands resting gently on Damon's wound. He closed his eyes, focusing on the energy swirling inside him. It was chaotic and wild, but he could feel it responding to his will.

And then he began to hum.

At first, it was just a soft melody, a lullaby his mother used to sing to him when he was a child. But as he sang, he could feel the magic building, the air around them growing thick with energy. His hands began to glow with a faint, golden light, and he channeled that energy into Damon's wound.

Damon's breath hitched, his eyes widening as he felt the warmth spreading through his arm. The blackened edges of the wound began to recede, the poison dissolving under the power of Stiles's magic. The pain that had been gnawing at him faded, replaced by a strange, almost euphoric sensation.

Stiles's voice grew stronger, the lullaby echoing through the forest as his spark and siren powers merged, the chaotic and the melodic intertwining in perfect harmony. The wound on Damon's arm closed completely, the skin smooth and unbroken as if it had never been injured.

When Stiles finally stopped singing, the forest fell silent once more. He opened his eyes, his breath coming in short gasps as he looked down at Damon's arm. The wound was gone.

"Did it work?" Stiles asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Damon stared at his arm, his expression a mix of awe and disbelief. "Yeah," he said slowly. "It worked."

Stiles let out a shaky breath, his knees buckling as the exhaustion hit him. Damon caught him before he could fall, his arms wrapping around Stiles to steady him.

"Hey," Damon said, his voice softer now. "You okay?"

"Just... tired," Stiles replied, leaning into Damon's chest. "That was a lot."

Damon held him close, his hand resting on the back of Stiles's head. "You saved my life," he said, his voice filled with something Stiles couldn't quite place.

"You'd do the same for me," Stiles said, his voice muffled against Damon's shirt.

"I would," Damon agreed, his grip tightening slightly. "But that doesn't make it any less incredible."

Stiles pulled back slightly, looking up at Damon. Their faces were inches apart, and Stiles could see the raw emotion in Damon's eyes—gratitude, fear, something else that made his heart race.

"Damon…" Stiles started, but Damon didn't let him finish.

He kissed him, his lips pressing against Stiles's with a desperation that took Stiles's breath away. It was different from their first kiss—deeper, more intense, filled with all the things they hadn't said. Stiles kissed back, his hands gripping Damon's shirt as he poured all of his emotions into the kiss.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathless. Damon rested his forehead against Stiles's, his voice low and rough. "I can't lose you, Stiles. I don't know when it happened, but... you're the one thing I'm not willing to lose."

Stiles's heart felt like it was going to burst. "You're not going to lose me," he said, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside him. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Damon's eyes searched his, as if he were looking for some kind of assurance. "Promise me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I promise," Stiles replied without hesitation.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was heavy, filled with all the things they had been too afraid to say. But now the walls were down, and there was no going back.

"Damon," Stiles said, his voice soft but firm. "I'm in love with you."

Damon's breath hitched, his eyes widening in surprise. But then, a slow smile spread across his face, and he pulled Stiles closer. "I'm in love with you too, Stiles. More than I ever thought possible."

Stiles felt like his heart might burst. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Damon's in a soft, tender kiss. It was different from the others—slower, sweeter, filled with the weight of their newfound confession.

When they finally pulled apart, Damon rested his forehead against Stiles's, his voice low and steady. "Whatever happens next, we face it together. Deal?"

"Deal," Stiles replied, a smile spreading across his face.

And as they stood there in the quiet forest, wrapped in each other's arms, Stiles knew that no matter what the future held, they would face it side by side. Together.