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Summary
"I have… well… she said that she thinks that I maybe have… PTSD?”
The line goes so dead that Derek almost thinks Stiles hung up on him. He waits eight very quiet seconds, and says softly, “Stiles?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles says, breath whooshing back over the phone line.
“I have PTSD,” Derek says more firmly. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, not as a question. It hasn’t really seemed real, until now. He’d spent the whole of his last session arguing that Tamara was wrong about him, and saying it out loud is like admitting it’s true. “Post-traumatic stress dis—”
“I know what it means,” Stiles interrupts, “I just didn’t think I’d heard right. Oh my God.”