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what we do is what you wish to do

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Stiles does not have time for this right now.

He’s trying to dodge a multitude of bullets from trigger happy henchmen while still holding on to the six year old hostage who’s frantically clutching at his shoulders. Stiles whispers soothing words to the child as he swings his body forward, casting another web as they start to fall to the ground. “I hope you realize you’re shooting at a little kid right now!” Stiles shouts at the henchmen, trying to find the kid’s parents. “There’s a special circle of hell for that y’know!”

And then, suddenly, Stiles spots him, looking up towards Stiles, surrounded by the crowd. His eyebrows are pulled in a frown, and, thanks to his new perfect eye sight, Stiles can see the beginning of his face changing.

Oh shit.

Stiles swings down, reminding himself not to swear in front of the nameless kid in his arms. He lands gracefully and quickly in front of him, and plops the kid in his arms.

“Find his parents,” Stiles says, pitching his voice lower, suddenly aware of screaming people behind him. Villain Of The Week must be getting close. “And get out of here. Now.”

Stiles swings towards the screams, surrounding the area for large lizards or men with robotic arms. Those have been popular lately.

He lets himself glance once back at Derek, holding the child in his arms, his face normal and human, staring confusedly up at Stiles. But he does begin to walk away quickly from the chaos.

Stiles doesn’t turn back again.

--

“Seriously?” Stiles whines, staring at Derek’s hunched shoulders and cut, bruised face. The masked man holding up the bank raises his hand to strike again, but Stiles is quicker, shooting out web to wrap around the man’s wrist, yanking the web hard. The man goes flying.

“Shit,” one of the other goons says as Stiles scans the crowd for any more injured, but Derek seems to be the only one. “It’s Spiderman! Let’s get outta here.”

The guy sounds straight out of a 1930’s movie, and Stiles resists to roll his eyes as he webs the door shut as the 3 remaining goons head for it. “I don’t think so,” Stiles says sweetly, grinning under his mask, “do you?”

Goon Number Three finally realizes that, oh yeah, he has a gun, and lifts it in Stiles’ direction. “Don’t move,” the goon spits out, though his hand is shaking, “or I kill you.”

“I’m sure,” Stiles drawls, taking a step forward. Unsurprisingly, the goon drops his gun. “That’s what I thought. Sit on the floor till I’m ready to deal with you.”

The goons sit.

Stiles moves towards Derek, who’s staring up at him with untrusting, but thankful eyes. Stiles kneels in front of him, lifting a hand to touch at his wounds, which are already starting to heal over. Derek flinches away, and Stiles is confused for a second before realizing that, oh, yeah, Derek has no idea who he is. Stiles sighs, already knowing the answer. “Why are you the only one who got hurt?”

Derek looks away, “I tried to help.”

“Of course you did,” Stiles groans. He points a finger at Derek. “Stay out of trouble,” he says, suddenly at a loss for what to say. “Or…or else.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

“Yes? Yes!” Stiles grins proudly, straightening himself up. “I could totally whoop your ass.”

Derek chuckles darkly. “I’d really like to see you try,” he says dryly, giving Stiles a brief flash of red eyes.

And, of fucking course it’s just as frightening and as much as a turn on as it was when Stiles was sixteen.

Fucking great.

Stiles makes a run for it, Derek’s low laughter following him as he swings away.

--

Stiles hits the mugger one last time with a hard jab to the face with his elbow. The mugger falls the ground, landing nice and neat beside his two friends.

“What do you not understand about stay out of trouble?” Stiles hisses at Derek, glancing around to make sure there aren’t any more people with gleaming knives around.

“I had that covered,” Derek growls, low and dangerous, and Stiles snorts.

“I’m sure,” Stiles says sarcastically. “And you were just going to have Sourwolf come out and beat their asses? You know you’d have to kill them. You don’t want anyone running mouth about a werewolf in town. What the hell!”

Derek flinches back, shocked out of his glare. Stiles tenses, replaying the sentence in his head.

Shit.

They stand in silence for a moment, their labored breathing filling the alley. Finally, Derek takes a deep breath and looks Stiles right in the eye. Well, tries to. Y’know, through the mask and everything.

“Nobody’s called me that in a long time,” he admits quietly, eyebrows pulling together, searching for any movement from Stiles. “And the boy who did ran out of my life quickly and effectively.” He squints. “Kinda like you and your crime fighting skills, huh?”

And Stiles isn’t an idiot, he knows what’s Derek’s trying to do but he can’t. Not after Stiles has gotten his own bite. Not after he’s spent so much time creating a new life for himself, running away from Beacon Hills, from his father, from Derek.

“I have to go,” Stiles chokes out, spinning quickly on his heels and running down the alley, shooting a web and swinging away into the night.

Faintly, he can hear his name being called, a name nobody’s called him in years because that’s not his name anymore.

It’s Peter, now.

But Spiderman works too.

--

Well, Stiles thinks as the slimy tail wraps around his neck, this looks a little familiar.

His web shooters have been pulled from his tattered and torn suit, he’s 99.9% sure his left leg is broken and he has the worst fucking headache in the world and he’s just done.

“Any last words, Spiderman,” The Lizard hisses, breath hot in Stiles’ face and god does he need a mint. “Or, should I say, Peter Parker?”

Stiles closes his eyes and silently wishes he could have said goodbye to his father.

“Actually,” comes a voice from behind The Lizard, “It’s Stiles.”

The Lizard turns sharply, dropping Stiles right on his ass.

Fuck, his leg.

Stiles looks up to see Derek morphing into his full wolf form, claws ripping at scaly flesh.

Stiles realizes mildly that this is the first time he’s seen Derek totally alpha. And fuck, if it isn’t the coolest thing in the world.

There’s a jumble of hisses and growls and Stiles tries to watch the fight but he can’t. He can’t keep his eyes open. All he can see is a blur of green and brown as he lies there, eyes unfocused, trying not to focus on the pain radiating from everywhere.

There’s a final howl, and the hissing abruptly stops.

Suddenly, Stiles feels himself being pulled into a sitting position, rough hands mapping his mostly covered skin.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek breathes, fully human but eyes still glowing red. “I thought you were dead.”

Stiles manages to snort. “Ha,” he mumbles wearily. “You wish.”

Derek becomes very serious very quickly. “No,” he whispers, pulling the mask off of Stiles and leaning in close. “I don’t wish that at all.”

When Derek kisses him, Stiles doesn’t hear church bells, doesn’t hear fireworks. All he hears is Derek’s rough heartbeat against his erratic one. But it’s fucking awesome.

“Don’t do that to me again,” Derek says as he pulls away, laughing a little at Stiles’ dazed expression.

“Sure,” Stiles agrees, grinning, “but please do that to me again.”

And Derek does. And it’s still awesome.