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Don't Scare Stiles

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Stiles stumbles through his front door and drops his head against it once its shut. Today had been a particularly shitty day: lunch time detention with Harris for challenging him on the answers to a pop quiz, forgetting to do his AP history readings, Coach made him do suicides for being late to practice, and then put away all the gear afterwards. Stiles was going to have a shower and then sleep for a week, wolfy emergencies be damned.

He staggers up the stairs slowly, every muscle in his body screaming, and finally makes it into his room. He shucks off his lacrosse shirt and shorts, the sight of his bed renewing his energy and he moans happily. He turns to head to the bathroom when he sees a tall, dark, and brooding werewolf glaring at him.

JESUS CHRIST!” Stiles screws his eyes shut and throws out his fist.

There’s a crunch. Then silence. And then pain.

“Stiles, what the fuck?” He feels his hand being lifted gently and his fingers being straightened out. Stiles drops to his knees.

“No, no, no, no, no, don’t touch it” he whimpers, and the hands holding his immediately still.

“Okay, okay. Stiles? Can you look at me? I need you to open your eyes,” Stiles blinks the tears away and looks at Derek crouching in front of him.

“There you are,” he says smiling softly, “I need you to concentrate on me okay?” Stiles nods, looking at his eyebrows. “I know you don’t like me bossing you around but I need you to do exactly as I say,” Stiles whines a little and Derek’s smile turns genuine. “I know, but its only for a little while okay?” Stiles breathes and nods again.

“Your hand is injured, possibly broken, so we need to take you to hospital. You probably don’t want to get dressed, but I’m not taking you anywhere unless you put some pants on.” Stiles blinks and looks down. Yup – he’s sitting in nothing but his boxer briefs. He looks back up to Derek pleadingly.

Derek sighs. “Alright, I’ll find you some sweatpants.” He moves Stiles’ right arm to his chest, so his hand is being cradled against his collarbone, and looks into Stiles’ eyes. “Do not move. It will hurt more if you do.”

While Derek is rummaging around his drawers, Stiles looks longingly down the hall to the bathroom. He just wants a long hot shower. He stands up slowly to walk out of his room when his eyes catch on a hole in the wall beside the door frame. He distantly feels his feet being lifted into his sweatpants and Derek pulling them up to his waist.

He’s still blinking at the hole when Derek ducks his head into Stiles’ line of sight. “Stiles. Look at me.” He waits until Stiles has focused on him. “We are going to the hospital now. Tell me where your phone and keys are.” Stiles moves his arm to point to his bag, but his wrist pulls and he cries out.

Derek throws the bag over his shoulder and shushes him softly, running his hand through Stiles’ hair. “Stiles, look at me. I need to move your arm so I can take some of your pain.” Stiles shakes his head, he’s never moving it again. Maybe Derek can cut it off with a saw like the good old days. “Nothing about those days were good, Stiles,” Apparently Derek is a mind reader. “I’m not. Stop talking.” Oh. That makes more sense.

“Stiles? Stiles. I need you to trust me, okay?” And then Derek is tugging his arm away from his body. Stiles braces himself for the pain, but instead he feels a little woozy. He starts to tip forwards and Derek supports him with an arm around his waist. He feels himself being lead down the stairs and out of his house and towards the Camaro, but he’s fairly sure he’s asleep before the engine even starts.

Derek wakes him when they reach the hospital and takes a little more of his pain before leading him inside. Derek signs him in and while they’re sitting in the waiting room, Stiles starts to wake up a little more.

“Dude,” Derek turns to him quickly, concern in his eyebrows, “You were in my house?”

Derek’s eyebrows switch to frustrated. “You missed a pack meeting. I was waiting for you.”

“You could’ve messaged me,” Derek takes Stiles phone from his bag and passes it to him. Stiles sees 4 unread texts and 2 missed calls. “Aw Sourwolf, you do care!”

Derek just glares some more, and Stiles swallows hard. “Okay, so you show up in my room and break my hand as punishment for missing a wolf-date?”

“I didn’t break your hand, Stiles.”

“Well, I broke it on your face. Still counts.”

“No you didn’t. You put your fist through the wall.”

Stiles pauses. “I punched a wall?”

“Through a wall.”

Stiles pauses again. “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense, actually.”

Derek looks at him likes he’s a moron. “How the hell does that make sense? You punched a wall! Is your aim really that terrible?”

“Well damn it, Derek! I wasn’t going to punch you!”

“Why not?! I would’ve healed faster than you are!”

“Fuck, Derek, that doesn’t give you an excuse to get hurt! Stop being a fucking martyr.”

Derek’s silence is ringing, and Stiles looks down at his injured hand to try avoid it. “I think I instinctively knew it was you. Maybe my subconscious shifted my fist so I’d punch something else.” He looks at Derek again, “You’re always throwing yourself into danger. The whole pack has noticed. No-one likes seeing you hurt.”

He’s saved from hearing more of Derek’s messed up sense of ‘sacrifice’ when the nurse calls out for him.