Chapter Text
One day, Stiles’ impulsiveness is going to get him killed. Unfortunately, it looks like that day might be today as Stiles runs between trees, his legs burning. He’s going to die and it’s all because of his own stupidity. His arrogance to think that he could follow a pack of alphas without being seen or heard or smelled.
His eyes blur with tears as the cold autumn air whips past his cheeks. His limbs are numb and Stiles knows he won’t be able to run for much longer. His body is exhausted from lack of sleep and weak from lack of food. It’s been a month, or maybe more, Stiles doesn’t know exactly. He couldn’t keep track of the days in the dark room he had been locked in, but he knew it had been a long time. Long enough for the isolation to drive him slightly paranoid, wondering if his friends or his dad or anyone was even looking for him at all.
Twigs snap and footsteps that aren’t his own come from behind him and he pushes forward, a final burst of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He doesn’t know how the wolf found him. He had almost thought he’d got away, that he was safe, home, but of course, they must have been following him. After barely managing to escape his capture, he’d managed to hitch a ride with a kind old man in a truck who only slightly creeped him out. Just as they had been passing the Beacon Hills sign, something had landed on the roof, denting it, and the next second broken glass was falling around them as truck’s windscreen smashed. He had not had time to scream, the truck had veered off the road, crashing into a tree and then all he could do was run.
Screams told him that the old man was dead, also Stiles’ fault. The distraction had given him a second’s head start. But the alpha should have caught up with him by now. Stiles wasn’t a fast runner even for human standards and the alpha had not waited long to follow him into the woods. Stiles realises with a feeling of dread that the wolf is enjoying this, that he’s just playing with his food before he inevitably gets bored and pounces on him.
The woods are familiar now, but through his panic Stiles still has no idea where he is. He could be running away from safety for all he knew.
And then his foot catches on a tree root and he goes crashing to the ground, twigs and tree branches scraping his skin painfully. A stone scrapes the palm of this hand but the pain doesn’t register in his head. Because he’s going to die and it’s his own fault.
“Shit,” he mutters, scrambling forward, pain shooting up his leg as he crawls through decaying leaves and dirt, uselessly dragging his body over the earth, trying to get away from the approaching wolf. But he is only seconds behind him. Stiles’ panicked heart beats rapidly against his rib cage and he attempts to get to his feet, but before he can even push off of his hands the alpha is there, forcing him back to the ground, nails digging into his already throbbing leg. A growl rips from the alpha’s throat as his claws shred through Stiles’ already ruined jeans.
But the growl, Stiles realises, sounds too far away and much too familiar, but Stiles knows his mind must be playing tricks on him because he isn’t that lucky. But then a pained yelp comes, much closer and much less familiar, and then the weight on his back is gone.
Wasting no time and with adrenaline pushing him forward, Stiles continues his crawl through the dirt, mind set on getting as far away as possible. His limbs scream in pain as he tries to stand, stumbling to his feet and using the trees to make a pathetic attempt to run.
There’s a blood curdling roar and then silence. Stiles doesn’t have time to turn around to see which of his pursuers has been defeated because the champion is already running towards him. A whimper escapes his lips unwillingly as Stiles pushes himself from the tree, managing two steps before the wolf is on him, arms encasing him.
“No!” Stiles shouts, struggling against the hold uselessly. Another cry escapes his throat and his legs give out beneath him and all he can do is let his body slump into the firm chest at his back. But he doesn’t fall. Because the arms that are wrapped much too gently around him are keeping him up.
“Stiles calm down,” the wolf says, tightening its grip as Stiles twists his body. Stiles has to concentrate to understand the words. “Please. Stiles, it’s me. You’re ok, you’re safe.”
The voice is gruff but so familiar after so long with only stranger’s harsh words that Stiles’ breath catches. He turns his head, staring wild eyed at the man behind him, then breathes out a relieved, “Derek?”
What little fight Stiles had left in his body drains away and Derek’s hold loosens as Stiles stops trying to escape him. Stiles can’t help but twist in his around and wrap his arms around Derek’s shoulders. He’s so relieved to see a familiar face, to see Derek’s face, that he buries his head in his shoulder without hesitation. He closes his eyes, gulping deep breaths of air. His heartbeat begins to slow from its thundering pace and Stiles feels exhaustion seep into his bones. Emotion is embarrassingly bubbling to the surface and no matter how hard he tries to keep it down his breaths come out shaky and his grip tightens on Derek’s shoulders.
Derek is speaking again and Stiles’ mind keeps drifting off, shutting out all outside sounds and feeling. But his mind tunes back in as Derek strokes a hand over his hair and down his neck. “You’re safe. I’m here. You’re ok.”
Stiles forces himself to pull back from the embrace but Derek keeps his hands under his elbows, as if scared he will fall. He’s calm enough now to feel ashamed of how he had been clinging to Derek. He rubs furiously at his eyes, hoping Derek won’t notice the tears as they spread with dirt over his cheeks.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Don’t apologise,” Derek says and Stiles flinches at the anger in his tone. Derek clenches his jaw, eyes searching Stiles’ body and his next works are spoken with careful gentleness. “Are you hurt?”
Stiles almost laughs. Everything hurts. His head has been pounding for about a week after running his mouth a little too much and being rewarded with a hit over the head, leaving a nasty cut that hadn’t healed. His stomach has been growling for longer, but mostly his body is bruised from head to toe, aching in every joint.
Derek is watching him, concern written all over his face and Stiles realises he hasn’t answered his question.
“I need to take you to the hospital.”
Stiles shakes his head. His eyes are drooping and he wants to go home, wants to sleep in his own bed indefinitely. “No. Please I just want to go home.”
The thought of a hospital bed, doctors asking him questions and having to think of a lie for why he’s in such a mess is exhausting. Derek is quiet for a moment but there is understanding in his eyes and he doesn’t press the issue.
“Can you walk?” he asks instead.
Stiles nods, though the thought of moving sends a wave of nausea through him. Sensing his hesitance, Derek pulls one of Stiles’ arms over his shoulders and wraps his around his waist. They barely take one step before pain is shooting up Stiles’ leg as he puts pressure on it. He attempts to hide his grimace, but Derek stops walking, a deep frown between his eyebrows.
“I’m fine,” Stiles chokes out.
Derek rolls his eyes at his stubbornness. “No, you’re not. You can barely stand Stiles.”
Stiles wants to argue but as he tries to take another step, tears burn the corners of his eyes. Derek sighs and pulls him to a stop.
“I’m going to carry you,” he says decidedly. It’s more of a command than a request, but Stiles protests all the same.
“No, I’m fine. You don’t need-” he’s cut off as Derek secures his arm more firmly around his back and the other goes under his knees to lift him up. A pathetically pained sound escapes him as Derek’s hand closes around an old scratch and Stiles latches onto his neck instinctively.
“This is humiliating,” he says, but makes no attempt to remove himself from Derek’s hold.
“It’ll be faster for me to carry you and if you won’t let me take you to a hospital, I’m not letting you hurt yourself more,” Derek says, rearranging his hand to avoid any of the scratches on Stiles’ back.
As he’s carried in what Stiles assumes is the direction of Beacon Hills, he takes a proper look at Derek. Lit only by the light of the moon, Stiles can see that his face and hands are covered in blood. Stiles only then registers that he killed the alpha. It had taken only seconds. Stiles didn’t even have time to run. The thought should scare him, remind him of the brutal violence of the past month. But with Derek’s strong arms wrapped so gently around him, all he feels is safe. That feeling, along with the rhythm of Derek’s steps, causes his eyes to droop and his head to feel heavy. When he doesn’t have the energy to keep it up any longer, he rests his head on Derek’s shoulder and closes his eyes.
Derek’s muscles tense but he doesn’t comment and Stiles’ thoughts turn sluggish, the warmth of Derek’s body a comforting contrast to the concrete floor he’d been made to sleep on. He remembers lying on that floor for hours, wondering if he was going to die there, wondering if anyone would hear if he screamed for help, but being too exhausted to try.
Stiles had assumed the alphas were going to use him as leverage against Derek, but then a month went by and nothing happened. Stiles thinks they might have told him they were going to take another member of his pack, deeming him insufficient due to his human status, but the memory is blurry now.
His mind absently drifts to Derek, appearing as if out of thin air exactly when Stiles needed him. Where had he come from? How had he known where Stiles was? It’s a stupid question, Derek’s a werewolf, Stiles knows he can hunt an animal down from miles away. But he’d almost assumed he had given up looking.
“How did you find me?” he thinks he asks into the crook of Derek’s neck. But he is already half asleep and, if Derek gives an answer at all, Stiles doesn’t hear it.
•••
Derek grows increasingly concerned as he carries Stiles towards his car. He’s too light. Derek can feel his ribs under his hands and, before he’d fallen asleep so quickly Derek had strained his ears to make sure Stiles still had a pulse, he’d been muttering. He wants to run, to get Stiles to safety as soon as possible - there might be more of the alpha pack hunting him - but Derek doesn’t want to hurt Stiles any more than he already is.
When they eventually reach the road where Derek parked his car, he places Stiles gently into the passenger seat. He deliberates ignoring Stiles’ protests and taking him to the hospital but decides he selfishly wants to check that Stiles is ok himself first. And though, besides the blood and dirt, Stiles doesn’t smell any difference than normal, he still wants to make sure he hasn’t been bitten. In the light of the car, he gives Stiles’ clothes a quick once over. There’s not too much blood, nothing to suggest a fatal injury. To the sheriff’s house it is then.
He expects to find the sheriff’s car in the drive, but as he pulls up in front of the house, the drive is empty. He must be working a night shift. Derek glances at Stiles, still asleep in the passenger seat and decides against waking him. He gets out and unlocks the front door before returning to the car and carefully lifting Stiles back into his arms.
He kicks the door closed behind him then settles Stiles’ slumped body onto the couch. He feels a little lost. His wolf instincts are telling him to go back into the woods, find the rest of the alphas, and kill them for harming a member of his pack. But there’s only one of him and they’ve been able to hide from him until now. He wouldn’t know where to find them, not yet anyway. Besides, he doesn’t want to leave Stiles, not until he knows he’s ok.
He needs to call the sheriff. That’s what Stiles needs right now, his father, not Derek’s clueless attempts at comfort. But before he can take his phone out of his pocket and dial his number, Stiles’ rumbling stomach interrupts his train of thought. He thinks of how light Stiles was in his arms and feels another spike of rage at the alpha pack for doing this to him.
He turns to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator in search of food for Stiles. He finds half a pizza stuffed in there and takes it out, then fills a glass with water and walks back to the where he’d left Stiles on the couch. Bending to set the pizza box and glass on the table, he doesn’t notice when Stiles’ eyes start to flutter open. But as the glass clinks against the coaster, Stiles’ eyes fly open and he sits up fast enough that Derek reacts instinctively, reaching out to stop him. His hands close around his wrists and Stiles yelps in pain. Derek lets go immediately, causing Stiles to fall back against the couch. The confusion and fear in his eyes sends an ache into Derek’s heart, unwanted images of how Stiles might have spent the past month and a half filling his mind. Guilt accompanies the ache, at having let this happen in the first place and for being careless enough to scare Stiles now.
But when Stiles’ eyes fall on Derek, he calms visibly, leaning back into the cushions and putting his head in his hands.
“Sorry,” he says, as if any of this is his fault.
Derek only watches him hesitantly, before picking up the half eaten pizza and glass of water from the table, sitting in their place across from Stiles. Stiles drops his hands from his face and when he sees what Derek is holding, he reaches for the water first, gulping it down in two seconds then taking the pizza.
A silence follows as Derek struggles to find something to say. But he comes up with nothing that that doesn’t sound extremely idiotic. Stiles is hurt and most likely traumatised and Derek struggles with words at the best of times.
Giving up, he gestures to the scratches and cuts covering Stiles’ arms and neck and says, “I need to clean those.”
“Oh.” Stiles looks down in surprise at the blood and dirt covering his arms as if he’d forgotten the state that they were in. He hesitates, glancing up at Derek then back down at his pizza that is now almost gone. He shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand. “I can do it. You don’t have to stay, I’m ok now. Really.”
His fragile smile is unconvincing. Derek rolls his eyes.
“Don’t be stupid Stiles, you’re a mess. Let me help you.”
“Thanks,” Stiles says sarcastically, and though it’s not the jabbering that Derek has grown fond of, it still makes the corner of Derek’s lips twitch up into an almost smile. He’s missed him so much. How it took Stiles being taken from him for Derek to realise how much he needs him, he didn’t know. He didn’t remember when his feelings for Stiles had started, he just knew that they had grown into something that scared him. Something out of control and irreversible.
Ignoring it was pointless. He’d tried that and look where it’d got him. He hasn’t spared himself any heartache and he’d let Stiles put himself in danger.
“Come on,” he says when Stiles has finished eating, getting up and gesturing for Stiles to follow. Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue. Though Derek suspects its more because he doesn’t have the energy.
Derek helps him up the stairs and into the bathroom, more aware than before of where his skin is touching Stiles’ in the quiet of the empty house.
When they reach the bathroom, Stiles stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, wobbling on his feet. He steadies himself against the sink as Derek eyes his ruined clothes.
“I’m going to get you something to change into,” he tells Stiles, but he’s not sure that he’s listening as he catches sight of his reflection, fingers touching the bruise under his eye. Derek turns away, walking down the hall to Stiles’ bedroom.
•••
Stiles stares at his bruised and slightly sunken face in the mirror for what feels like only a second but when he looks up, Derek is gone. Before he can start to panic, his stomach twisting into a knot, the door opens again and Derek steps back inside. Seeing Stiles’ startled expression, he lifts the bundle of clothes in his hands in surrender. Only then does Stiles remember him saying he was going to get him some clean clothes to change into. He wonders if the hit to his head might have caused more damage than he’d thought.
Derek places the pile of clothes next to the sink. “You need to take a shower and I need to call your dad.”
Stiles nods absently, blinking at his surroundings blearily. “Yeah… ok.”
Derek pauses for only a moment, but when Stiles starts to unbutton his jeans, he turns to the door, fishing his phone out of his pocket. Stiles pulls his jeans down to his thighs then sits on the closed toilet seat so he doesn’t have to put pressure on his leg. But as he slides the material the rest of the way down his leg, he hisses in pain before he can stop himself and before Derek has a chance to close the door behind him. Without his werewolf hearing, Derek probably would not have heard him. Stiles wishes he hadn’t. But he stops, looking back at him with an apprehensive frown over his concerned green eyes. Stiles likes his eyes. He likes how softly they were looking at him now, but maybe that was just the exhaustion distorting things. He swallows.
Derek’s fists are clenched at his sides as he steps back into the room and asks, “Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
“Do you need help?”
Stiles pushes down the embarrassment rising in his stomach and nods.
Derek blinks at him for all of ten seconds, then, phone call forgotten, he steps back into the room and closes the door. Derek avoids his eye as he hesitantly moves to stand in front of him. “Tomorrow, after you’ve slept, you’re going to the hospital, ok? I’ll drag you there myself if I have to.”
Stiles starts to shake his head.
“Please, Stiles. You’re in pain, let me help you.”
“You are helping,” Stiles mumbles. “I just twisted my ankle. It’s nothing.”
Derek just gives him a stern look.
“Fine.” Stiles crosses his arms petulantly.
Derek swallows but loosens his clenched fists to reach forward to help. He crouches down and Stiles is vaguely aware that if this were any other situation, it would be extremely hot to have Derek crouched between his legs. Instead, his mind is filled with a rushing in his ears as his ankle lights up with pain. He breaths in suddenly, despite trying to keep quiet, and Derek’s eyes snap to his.
“Sorry,” Stiles says, not sure why he’s apologising.
Derek ignores his apology, returning his attention to his leg, wrapping a hand around the back of his calf as the other gently pulls the material of his jeans over his heel. His palm is warm against his skin and Stiles has to avert his eyes from the sight of Derek holding him so delicately. Instead of the pain returning as Stiles expected, there is only a numbness and when he looks down, dark lines are running up Derek’s arm as his hand follows the movement of his jeans and Derek slips them over his over his foot. He does the same to the other side, even though Stiles could have done it himself and then Stiles is sitting, half naked in front of Derek as he stands.
Stiles looks up at him and Derek makes a noncommittal gesture towards his shirt. He lifts his arms up and that’s all Derek needs to reach forward and take the hem in his hands. Stiles winces slightly as Derek pulls his ripped shirt over his head. Derek stares at the array of bruises, old and new, covering Stiles’ ribs.
“Stiles…”
Stiles folds his arms over his chest and looks away. Derek does the same, standing and clearing his throat. He considers the ruined clothes in his hands before deciding to leave them on the floor to deal with later
“Those are my favourite jeans,” Stiles says, a pathetic attempt to break the tension.
“Not anymore,” Derek says. “Do you need...” he trails off. Stiles’ cheeks grow hot at the implication that Derek is offering to help him shower. He may be slightly delirious, but he’s not crazy. Derek looks away from him and shakes his head. “Never mind.”
But as he turns once again towards the door and Stiles gets up to hop on one foot towards the shower, he wobbles, grabbing Derek’s arm to stop from falling over. Derek’s arms are back around him in an instant, steadying him. Stiles feels his touch like fire against his bare skin. He lets go but Derek still holds on firmly. “Sorry”
Derek sighs and looks at the shower warily.
“I’m going to stay here,” he says decidedly and when Stiles gives a slightly panicked look he adds, “I won’t look.”
Stiles feels a little stupid, standing in front of Derek, naked but for his underwear, protesting him being in the room as he showers. So he shuts his mouth and when Derek sits on the closed toilet seat, facing the door, he steps into the shower, pulling the curtain closed. He sits on the floor and slides off his underwear. It’s almost more painful, as the loose material passes over his foot, than taking off his jeans since he doesn’t have Derek to take some of the pain away.
He turns on the water, standing under the spray and letting it wash over his skin and the built up dirt from a month of being held in a concrete room. The heat of the water makes him feel slightly nauseous, causing him to sway on his feet, but it sooths his aching muscles all the same. He cleans his body, avoiding the cuts and scrubbing it of grime, hoping the memories might wash away with it.
Then he reaches for the shampoo, stepping forward under the water, forgetting about the wound on the side of his head. He holds back a hiss as scolding water hits the open wound. He turns from the water, holding himself up with a hand on the wall as his head goes fuzzy.
The fuzz starts to clear but not quick enough to stop his mouth from forming a quiet, “Derek.”
He doesn’t hear him get up over the sound of the water but when Derek says, “Are you ok?” his voice is closer than before.
“I can’t-” he cuts himself off, head against his arm braced on the wall. Is he really going to do this?
“Stiles?”
In the quietest voice possible, so Derek can only hear it because of his heightened senses, he says, “I need help.”
Derek is silent and Stiles almost thinks he’s left before he hears the rustle of the curtain.
“I’m coming in, ok?” Derek’s gentle voice says and only when Stiles replies with a reluctant “ok” does he hear the curtain push aside. He squeezes his eyes closed, pushing down the shame and hoping Derek never mentions this again.
Derek steps into the shower behind him and Stiles knows he can hear his heartbeat picking up again but he says noting, only reaching around Stiles, careful to keep his movements slow and not to touch him. He takes the shower head from its stand, spraying it over the uninjured side of his head. And when he lathers the shampoo into his hair, his fingers are so gentle that Stiles shivers under the touch. It has been so long since he’s been touched without the intent to cause harm. He closes his eyes, glad Derek can’t see his face.
Derek rinses the shampoo from his hair then shuts off the water and steps back out of the shower. Stiles finally opens his eyes, feeling ridiculously exposed and embarrassed, not sure what to do now, but Derek is back before he can move, a towel in hand. He dries off his hair, avoiding the cut, then wraps the towel around Stiles’ waist, letting go once Stiles takes it in his hands.
He slowly turns around but Derek is already gone and when Stiles draws back the curtain, he’s rummaging through the cabinets, paying him no mind. Stiles hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels as he steps shakily out of the bath.
•••
Silently, Derek looks through the cabinets until he finds what he needs. He glances at Stiles and finds him already watching him. Pointedly avoiding looking at the any exposed skin, he focuses his attention on piling what he needs onto the counter and pouring some disinfectant onto a cloth.
“Sit here,” he instructs, manoeuvring Stiles so he’s sitting next to the sink.
Stiles allows Derek to move his pliant limbs without any protest as he gently he wipes away the some of the blood from around the wounds that are yet to heal on Stiles’ pale skin. Suddenly conscious of how fragile humans are - though the shower has washed away most of the dirt - Derek pays extra care to make sure none of Stiles’ injuries will get infected.
He’s so engrossed in his work, wiping the disinfectant over Stiles’ hands, that he doesn’t notice Stiles’ eyes following his every move until he says in a whisper, “I’m sorry Derek.”
Derek’s eyes snap to his, pausing his work. Stiles’ eyes are sadder than they ever have any business being and Derek hates it.
“Why do you keep apologising?” Derek asks.
Stiles’ eyebrows draw together in a deep frown. “It’s my fault. I should have listened to you.”
Derek sighs. The last time he saw Stiles he was manically researching at his desk, claiming he was ‘onto something for sure this time’. Derek had left through the window he’d come through, telling Stiles not to do anything stupid without him.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Derek says, continuing with his task. You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.
Stiles is shaking his head, staring at the gash on his palm that Derek is still holding. “I’m such an idiot.”
Derek can hear the emotion tightening in his voice and he swallows around a lump.
“You are an idiot,” Derek says. Stiles chokes a laugh and Derek’s lips curl into a smile. It gives him the courage to let himself be honest. “But you’re also the smartest person I’ve ever met.”
Stiles looks down and Derek can smell tears. Stiles says nothing, rubbing furiously at his eyes. Derek grabs his wrists, carefully not to hurt him this time and wipes his cheeks gently.
“I’m serious Stiles. You shouldn’t have gone alone, but you were right and I should have listened to you.”
Stiles sniffs and forces a smile, finally meeting his eyes.
“Are you admitting to being wrong? Who are you and what have you done with Derek Hale?” he teases and Derek rolls his eyes, continuing his task.
“If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you,” Derek says but any threat is lost as he places Stiles’ hand on his leg and moves his attention to his face, holding Stiles’ chin between his fingers.
“Sure,” Stiles says quietly. Derek meets his eye for a moment, wondering how Stiles manages to make him feel like the one who’s exposed when he is the one sitting in just a towel.
Just as Derek is satisfied with his work, he finds a deep scratch on the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles ducks his head to allow Derek to clean the wound, hissing as the liquid seeps into his tender skin. Derek can smell the last remains of adrenaline dwindling as he works and Stiles’ head slowly droops forward until it’s resting on Derek’s shoulder, wet hair dampening his shirt. Derek freezes but when Stiles doesn’t move, instead shifting his face into the crook of his neck, Derek lifts his arms to wrap around him. He turns his head to the side, breathing him in and just letting himself be surrounded by Stiles. Stiles grabs a hold of the material of his shirt and Derek steps forward, closing the little distance that was between them and Stiles shifts his knees to allow Derek to stand between them.
“I’m so tired.” Stiles’ lips move against the skin of his shoulder.
Derek’s eyes squeeze closed and he curses his body for the way it reacts to Stiles’ closeness. But he lets Stiles cling to him because whatever comfort Stiles wants to take, he’s willing to offer.
When Derek doesn’t reply, Stiles pulls back, looking up at him with more emotion than Derek is prepared to deal with. He holds his gaze, suddenly very aware of where his knees are resting on either side of his hips.
Derek clears his throat and puts the dirty, blood stained cloth into the sink.
“Well you can’t sleep here,” he says.
Stiles just hums. Derek takes his hands and pulls him to standing. “Come on.”
With Derek’s help, Stiles limps down the hall to his bedroom and he sits down on his bed, clearly revelling in the comfort of his own room and bed. Derek moves to stands at the door, shifting uncertainly with one hand on the open door. He doesn’t want to leave Stiles alone, but he doubts that he wants Derek hanging around. As much as it pains him to leave him alone, Derek would never presume to know what Stiles wants. If he wants to be alone then Derek will suck it up and stay away.
“I’ll sleep on the couch…” he says. “If you need anything.”
Stiles stares at him, and Derek can hear his already rapidly beating heartbeat increase as he reaches for the door handle.
Derek clenches his fists, eyes flitting from Stiles to the floor. “Is that… ok?”
“Can you…” Stiles trails off. Derek takes a minute step into the room. “Can you stay?”
Derek doesn’t need convincing and he is already closing the door behind him, saying, “Of course.”
As Derek crosses the room, Stiles lifts his covers and lies down, staring at the ceiling. There is enough space for Derek to lie next to him but, losing his nerve, he sits down with his legs crossed and his back against Stiles’ bed. Stiles doesn’t say anything and Derek can see his face to know what he was thinking.
He has so many questions on the tip of his tongue, but he’s not sure that he wants to know the answers. He doesn’t want to know what the alphas had done to make Stiles the shaking mess he is now. So he asks a different question that has been bugging him since he found Stiles being chased through the woods.
“Why did they let you go?” Derek asks, shifting so he can see Stiles’ face.
Stiles turns onto his side, putting a hand under his cheek and giving Derek an offended look. “They didn’t. I escaped.”
Derek blinks at him. Of course Stiles escaped. Why would he assume otherwise?
“How?”
“By outsmarting those fuckers,” Stiles says proudly, though a little sleepily. He blinks slowly already giving in to sleep. “Why are you looking at me like that? You don’t think I’m capable of that?”
“No, you’re just-” Derek cuts himself off before he can continue his sentence and say something stupid. “I guess I just underestimated you.”
“Too right, you did,” Stiles says, eyes slipping completely close now. “None of you appreciate my talents.”
Stiles is joking, but Derek suddenly realises just how much truth is behind his words. None of them give Stiles enough credit for what he is put through because of them, without complaining. Well, maybe there is a little complaining.
The point is, Stiles has proven to Derek that not all humans are as useless and irritating as he’d previously thought.
As Derek’s eyes roamed Stiles’ peaceful half asleep face, Derek takes him in. The bruise under his right eye, the cut on his chin and the way his hair is almost curling around his ears after not being cut for too long. But also the array of freckles, his dark eyelashes and his slightly pouted lips.
Stiles peaks one eye open and catches him staring but Derek doesn’t look away.
“Where are they Stiles?” Derek asks softly.
Stiles doesn’t need him to clarify who, and just as he falls asleep, Stiles mumbles out the rough location. Its not exact but its enough.
Derek looks down at him, glad to have him back and safe but his heart aching to see the purple bruises on his face. He looks to the window, at the pitch-black sky and walks over to close the curtains. He takes one last look at Stiles’ sleeping form then once again pulls his phone out of his pocket, dials the sheriff’s number, then turns to leave.