Stiles was gesticulating furiously as he explained his newest discovery. That was his thing- trying to use his hands to communicate his thoughts, but not being able to move them fast enough. That was when he felt his mistake.
It tugged.
His sleeve it tugged; the scab tore.
The sting lasted only a second, but he felt the warmth blossom on his sleeve.
It had happened before: arm down, make excuse, walk away. No need to worry. No need for his heart to start beating a million miles an hour. No need to panic.
"Ah… Gotta piss…" he mumbled, turning to walk away. Fucking fuckitty fuck.
"Stiles."
Fuck.
He dramatically stopped and swiveled around to look Derek in the eyes, daring him to say something. He heard the growl in the werewolf's voice: Derek had seen.
"Uh. Gotta go…" He turned on his heel and started to walk away.
A large strong hand grabbed his wrist.
"Stiles."
"Yes, Derek?" Stiles willed his voice to stay steady and nonchalant.
Barely a growl, but still full of authority, the taller man ground out "Why. Do. I. Smell. Blood?"
"I really have to piss?"
His sleeve was jerked up roughly. Apparently sarcasm was not well received when Derek was worried. Duly noted.
"Fuck, Stiles. Fuck. Why?"
He hated the moments where he had truly nothing to say.
"Nights are hard."
And said nothing more, determinately walking away, gaining momentum with every step, trying to escape, hoping that this would never be mentioned again.
And if Derek climbed in his window that night,
and if Derek murmured soothing words,
and if Derek held him close to his chest while he shook and cried
well, it was never mentioned.
AN: Sorry this isn't great. It's the first time I've written fic in a while and the urge struck me. I may or may not write more fic dealing with Stiles and self harm.