lemme get some near-fainting and collapse up in this place
your wish is my command
—
Sometimes he forgets that Stiles isn’t superhuman like the rest of them.
That he can’t just bounce back from something, or heal instantly, or ignore his pain for the moment because his body has the strength to do that.
Sometimes he forgets that Stiles is just Stiles; he’s not weak, nor cowardly, he’s just… human.
And of all the times Derek prays he would just shut up for even a single second, Stiles chooses moments like these to stay quiet, to soldier on, to keep his friends in the dark.
“Derek, Derek, wait,” he hears Stiles pant from behind him, and that Stiles is even acknowledging there is a problem sets off alarm bells, “I need to, need to catch my breath a sec.”
“What’s wrong?” Derek demands to know, aware that he is coming across as aggressive, but still unused to showing emotion in any other way.
“I just, just,” Stiles trails off, staggering closer.
A few of the others have looped back to see what the hold up is, and when Stiles notices, he grimaces. Derek knows he hates when he’s to blame for something like this.
“Keep going,” he signals to Scott, waving a hand. “We’re okay.”
Scott nods, then sets off again, the rest of the pack in tow.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says breathlessly as he jogs the last few metres, finally stopping in front of Derek. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- you should-“
He doesn’t finish the sentence, because he wavers alarmingly, and Derek puts out a hand to steady him.
“You okay?” he asks, still worried, taking in Stiles’ ashen face. “Stiles, talk to me.”
“I didn’t mean to… I think maybe I just…”
He trails off again, and Derek turns Stiles’ head to face him in the unnaturally gentle manner he’s been practising.
“Stiles, I need you to tell me what’s wrong,” Derek asks calmly, trying to keep his voice even. He’s scanning Stiles though, and the boy isn’t okay; his perpetually mischievous, irritating face is blank now, and it scares him.
“Derek,” Stiles breathes out, his eyes fluttering shut as he goes to fall, but Derek catches him, keeps him upright, determined to find out what the problem is.
“Damn it, Stiles,” he half-yells, and the boy flinches, “What is wrong?”
Stiles looks at him again, his eyes unfocused, and Derek knows he’s going to lose him any minute.
“We were getting shot at,” Stiles says dazedly, and Derek nods, vaguely remembering tearing a few bullets from surface of his skin as they ran. “And then my arm hurt.”
Horrified, Derek takes Stiles’ arm, an arm which he only now notices is hanging limply at Stiles’ side. His sleeve is coated in blood, and when Derek presses even slightly anywhere, Stiles hisses.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Derek growls, masking his fear.
“We were running away,” Stiles answers simply.
And then he finally gives in, his eyes rolling back into his head as he collapses like a deadweight into Derek’s arms.
