The pain turns to flames, licking at his arm. His vision starts going white.
"Last resort," he says.
Stiles looks hesitant when he asks, "Which is…?"
He feels the heavy metal in his hands. "You're going to cut off my arm." And the burning will stop. He's breathing heavily, as if through smoke. His eyes feel dry and the pain is numbing. He can barely see Stiles' face, doesn't register the shock in his expression.
He doesn't remember how he ends up clutching Stiles' plaid shirt. The flames have spread to his abdomen. His stomach is curling in on itself. Sweat does nothing against fire, he thinks. He retches onto the floor, barely able to stand even with Stiles and the exam table holding up his left side.
"Just do it!" He can't die. He wants to, but he can't.
He breathes in as the cool metal settles on his arm below the turniquette. He doesn't hear or smell Scott until he's in the room.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Scott. He must have the bullet. "Did you get it?"
He tries to focus but his eyes won't let him see what's in his hands.
He feels his head hit the ground. The fire is everywhere. The room is on fire. He has to save them but he can't move. He can't breathe. He needs to save them but he just wants the flames to consume him.
The flames die with a punch. And there's Stiles, as if he'd doused him with water. Stiles is kneeling over him. He finds the stamina to stand with their help. He presses the ashes into the wound where the fire began. He feels sick again from the pain. The stamina is gone. He hears himself screaming and howling. He'd heard his mother give birth and his baby brother break his own neck. He'd never heard screams like his own before. The flames grow and grow until they seem to sink inside him.
When it's done, he isn't sure who it was he wanted to save.