Stiles is so tired and so deeply asleep, he doesn't hear the soft sniiiick as his window is opened. Nor does he see the jeaned leg that cautiously but quickly slips in, the body it is attached to silently sliding in after it.
Derek does not need to look at the kid to know he is deeply under; the steady thrum of his heart is unbroken and nothing short of dumping a bucket of water on the boy will wake him. Even then he would probably only splutter for a few seconds then drop back off again. Instead, Derek fixes his senses to the other rooms of the house. Sheriff Stilinski must have the night shift or is working mind-numbingly long hours for him not to be home at three in the morning. Perhaps the man fell asleep in his office.
The refrigerator is thrumming low in the kitchen, the clock hanging in the hall by the front door is ticking quietly enough for it to be ignored, and the simple creaks and sounds of a house were easily filtered by his mind.
But what was oddly calming and claimed his attention was the deep, languid breaths that came from Stiles. Muscles that Derek was sure were relaxed suddenly unwound, his stormy thoughts settling into a gentle breeze. Seeing the human safe and in one piece calmed Derek more than he would care to admit to himself. He makes his way over and sits in the desk chair, watching and breathing as silently as he can. He knows why he is here but for the moment can only watch.
He freezes when Stiles shifts slightly, embarrassed and angry at being caught out. But Stiles does not wake. He is on his back, one arm above his head, the other at his side, neck bared and eyes fluttering under their lids. All Derek can see is breakable skin when the boy's cotton pyjama shirt is hiked up as he moves, so many fragile bones hidden from view. It is suddenly hard to imagine how such a limp body could encase such a quick, agile mind and transport such an infuriating mouth, especially when Stiles looks so exceptionally vulnerable like this.
A cloud slips past the not-yet-full moon and silvery light cascades down, illuminating the pale skin. Stiles almost glows, looking younger and older at the same time. His eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones but his body is far too fatigued to allow him to wake. Derek tenses when he sees the large, darkening bruise blossoming on Stiles' stomach. Then another when Stiles turns his face towards Derek, still very much asleep and abruptly, Derek takes in Stiles' appearance. There are shallow and clean but painful gashes along his left thigh and right bicep and his left hand has sharp claw marks trailing parallel to his knuckles. What is worse and feels like a punch in the gut is the huge burn that starts on the kid's elbow and finishes under his shoulder
It is like the moon has become a giant, traitorous eye, glaring at the lacerations then at Derek, blaming him.
The cuts looks like they have been cleaned and not just by Stiles rubbing at them in the shower, although he smells like the cheap, supermarket brand shower gel and his hair is slightly damp. No, they have been thoroughly examined and doused in antiseptic cream. Stiles has even picked out the gritty pieces of dirt from the burn as well and Derek can only imagine how painful that must have been.
The fact that not only had the kid been forced to attend the injuries alone – Derek leans forward guardedly and inhales deeply, yes, Scott has not been near Stiles since he has been home – but he was actually hurt this severely and managed to hide it from werewolves has Derek growl inaudibly. Those cuts would have bled profusely and the ones on his legs should have restricted his movements to a mere hobble at best. But he had seen with his own eyes the kid walk to his jeep and drive away, waving away Scott's questioning – albeit distracted – shout.
Stiles moves again, but this time groans. It is a pitiful sound, one that Derek could mistake as the whine from one of his betas. One similar to the ones Erica and Boyd made whilst he was forced to chain them during their first full moon. Forehead crinkled in pain, Stiles takes a deeper breath and gasps lightly as the large bruise is stretched across his stomach.
Derek is on his feet, leaning over the bed before he can stop himself, one hand bracing himself on the pillow next to Stiles' ear, the other ghosting the contours of the boy's stomach. Stiles is wearing loose blue boxers, but they are pulled taut by his movements, making his thin hips stick out through the material and pressing against his lithe thighs. Derek feels tears prickling across his vision when Stiles sobs in his throat but he pushes them away. He allows his hand to rest against the skin, fingertips laying over the purpling skin.
Concentrating, Derek feels the rush of power and slowly, oh so slowly, tiny black veins appear on his flesh. They snake up his arm and Derek can feel them tug away the hurt from the human's skin. It takes a few seconds for Stiles to respond but when he does, it is with a small gasp – this one more surprised and unbelievably grateful – and Derek feels Stiles' hand slide up and grasp at his own.
Hurts. It seems to whimper. Please, please make it stop.
Pushing all the energy he has into it, Derek draws out as much of the shadows surrounding the injuries as he can. There are many. Some are mere scrapes that are almost as thin as would be caused by a paper cut but Derek draws the black away regardless. The raw red around the cuts fades, as do the frown lines on Stiles' brow. Although the bruises will not fade, they do quieten and will only twinge should Stiles move. But it is the scorched skin that proves difficult. Pain has latched onto the singed dermis and it takes minutes of hacking away at their roots before they too slip into his system where his wolf can rip them apart.
When he does, Stiles almost wakes. His eyes almost open, his mind almost releases him but at the last second, something akin to realization dawns across his features and his right arm slowly lifts to grasp at Derek's neck. Fingers carve through Derek's hair, clumsy and sluggish with sleep.
You're here, they seem to say. You helped, you came for me, you care.
Stiles opens his mouth as, at last, the hurt is gone. The level Derek has gone to will only allow the pain to creep in slowly over the course of the next few days but with regular cleaning and doses of paracetemol, Stiles will be able to keep it under control. The human's face is that of surprise, gratitude and happiness, as if he had been waiting for the werewolf to take away his anguish.
Stiles' fingers map around his skull, not pulling him in closer but rather like one would touch a close friend during times of hardship.
Thank you, the digits now whisper. I needed you and you were there. Thank you.
Derek allows a tear to dribble down his cheek and nose.
Derek stokes the skin beneath his hand, promising with every ounce of his being. I will always be there for you. Never doubt that again
...
Based on the amazing drawing by KinderCollective on Deivantart.
Search in Google - /art/Hurt-Stiles-Sterek-343622969
Talk not of love, it gives me pain,
For love has been my foe; He bound me in an iron chain,
And plung'd me deep in woe.
But friendship's pure and lasting joys,
My heart was form'd to prove;
There, welcome win and wear the prize,
But never talk of love.
Your friendship much can make me blest,
O why that bliss destroy?
Why urge the only, one request You know I will deny?
Your thought, if Love must harbour there,
Conceal it in that thought;
Nor cause me from my bosom tear
The very friend I sought.
By Robert Burns