Derek's muscles are killing him. It's not from a wound and it's not from a fight or anything.
No, Derek's muscles are sore from being suspended in water for two hours while immobile. Derek's muscles are sore from Stiles' little act of stupid heroism. And Derek's body can't magically heal the sore, tight, achy feeling in his muscles because it's not a physical injury.
Stupid fucking Stiles.
By the time Scott got to the pool, Stiles had been completely submerged for nearly four minutes.
The air bubbles had stopped floating to the surface almost two and a half minutes prior.
The venom in Derek's veins was starting to wear off, the adrenaline of having a dying sixteen year-old pinned beneath his heavy and useless form expediting the process. By the time he could move his arms, Scott had already shown up. Derek levered himself up onto the side of the pool, Scott grabbing him and tossing him the rest of the way.
"Scott! Stiles - Get Stiles!" Derek yelled as the Kanima edged ever closer. Scott was well ahead of him, hauling a pale, still, water-logged Stiles out of the pool as if he were a ragdoll.
"He's not breathing!" Scott was terrified for his best friend and pseudo-brother because Stiles couldn't... Couldn't die! Stiles was always the one who was supposed to make it through anything because he always did... The defeaning silence of Stiles' chest cavity took Scott over for a long second, his own heart and lungs desperate to join his blood brother's in their vow of stillness.
Unfortunately, gigantic poisonous lizards wait for no man.
Derek's eyes turned their bloody, Alpha red and his claws made a cracking sound as they sprang forth from his nails.
Stiles had been unconscious (not dead, never dead, not Stiles, nope) for nearly five minutes.
With a tuck and roll that any gymnast would have been proud of, Derek and Scott switched places. Derek hadn't fully regained the use of his limbs so he was definitely not in contention for Kanima duty.
As soon as he hit Stiles' side, Derek ripped the teenager's shirt off. He didn't need to put an ear to his chest or a finger to his wrist to know that he was dead.
Not for long if Derek had anything to say about it.
One, two, three... Derek counted aloud - all the way up to thirty - while he pushed down on Stiles' breastbone. Derek could feel his ribs cracking and separating and he knew that if Stiles lived, he would be in a lot of pain for quite some time. At least he would be alive.
After one count of thirty, Derek tipped Stiles' head back and breathed two large breaths into Stiles with one hand holding Stiles' nose firmly closed.
Derek tried to ignore how much it felt like a kiss - how much he wanted it to be a kiss.
How much it was slowly killing him that Stiles had thrown his life away for Derek of all people.
Derek did another round of chest compressions, hoping for some of his lifeforce to drain down into the pale form beneath his hands. (Praying for them to trade places because Stiles is so so stupid and Derek died being smothered by tendrils made of smoke and ash six years ago...)
When Derek did his second round of rescue breaths, the hand not securing Stiles' nose found its way to Stiles' hair. Please... Please just wake up... Please... His fingers combed through the short hair once, then gripped it. They had to prove to him that his physical body was there. That there was still a chance.
His hands made their way back to Stiles' chest for the third round of compressions.
Derek faintly remembers hearing Scott scuffle with the Kanima but he didn't pay him any attention. He just kept pushing and pushing and praying and begging Stiles to live.
"Come on you fucking asswipe, open your eyes!" Derek yelled at him. A litany of unflattering and wholly unwholsome names flew from Derek's mouth as he viciously beat Stiles' chest to get his organs working again.
By some miracle - whether it was praying or begging or the CPR mixed with pure dumb luck - Stiles started coughing. It was a wet and desperate sound but one that had Derek's whole system practically singing with relief.
"Oh holy mother of God," Stiles gasped as he heaved what seemed to be a gallon of water out of his stomach and lungs, "Who the fuck let... An elephant... Tapdance on my chest?!" He sounded outraged but in a way that only Stiles ever could. It made Derek want to hug him and punch him at the same time - something he had seriously considered.
"... Dude. Did you just quote the second Sherlock Holmes movie?" Scott asked him, the Kanima having done an impressive aerial escape minutes before. Scott sounded disgusted, amused, and very confused.
"Scott, shut up," Derek ordered. He ran a tired hand over his eyes. By then all of his limbs were in full working order. But there was a stiffness to them that he knew was going to suck later.
Stiles had started shivering pretty violently so Derek - with Scott's help - lifted him to a standing position. Derek was right - Stiles' ribs did hurt like a bitch.
That's alright. Stiles would have his revenge. Maybe not then... Maybe not the next day... But one day, when Derek least expected it... There would be an elephant in tap shoes.
Scott and Derek managed to get Stiles out to Derek's car without too much trouble. There were a few close calls with people leaving the game and Derek sent Scott to run interference with the rest of the pack.
Derek - meanwhile - drove Stiles home. Like everyone else, Stiles' father was at the lacrosse game, which meant that getting him into the house was no problem. Getting him up the stairs... Wasn't going to happen. So Derek set Stiles down on the couch and ascended the Stilinski home to get Stiles some dry clothes.
Stiles wanted nothing but to go to sleep and forget the day had even happened. He wanted to forget the guy with his Jeep, the lizard with the spunk of death (as Stiles had taken to calling it), and most importantly he wanted to forget the things he saw while he was... Unconscious. (Dead sounds too permanent and clearly it wasn't for him - this time). Especially because those things included his mother and that was not a thing he would want to share with anybody.
But alas, his knight in red-eyed murder had returned with a change of warm, dry, non chlorine-scented clothing.
The tremors had only gotten worse the longer he was stuck in his clothes (of course his bare chest did little for the cause in November weather). And as much as it pained Derek to have to do so, Stiles needed help getting his clothes on and off. The bruises on his chest were a deep, ugly purple and spattered all across his chest with the focal point at his sternum.
It made Derek sick to think that he had done that to Stiles, no matter what the cause. It was a slow process - one that took nearly twenty minutes - but eventually Stiles was in warm clothes again.
The really hard part had been convincing Stiles to go to the hospital. Which - of course - he had refused.
"Sorry Derek but don't you think that the people professionally trained to save lives will be able to tell that something big and heavy was repeatedly shoved into my chest? The fact that they happen to be handprints won't make their Scooby-sleuthing any harder," Stiles argued haltingly. His breathing was labored, he sounded congested, and he was still shivering. But he had the Stilinski Sass back in him, at least, so it could have been worse. Or so Derek thought at the time.
"Well all that hard work will have gone to waste if one of those ribs ends up breaking, now won't it? So I suggest you suck it up and go to the hospital." Derek's tone wasn't nice but it wasn't mean either. It met Stiles' snark with his own brand of heady sarcasm.
"And tell them what exactly, oh almighty wolf-man? That I drowned saving a paralyzed werewolf from Nagini with legs?" Stiles practically snorted at him. And of course he was making Harry Potter jokes too. He just didn't know when to quit. But Derek had to admit that he had a point.
Derek sighed before giving Stiles a reluctant 'fine' followed closely by, "Then you're going to Deaton and he's going to give you the X-Ray."
Stiles groaned but Derek heard no argument from him as they began hobbling out of the house once more. This time, Stiles left a note telling his father that he'd gone out with some friends for an after game thing and that he'd be back later. That way his dad wouldn't worry and Stiles could get away with being out for a few hours. Just in case.
The drive over wasn't pleasant for Stiles either and Derek almost felt bad about that. Almost. It was Stiles' fault for being an idiot anyways - he never should've let himself drown like that. In any case, Derek tried to take the bumps and potholes in the road easy.
Deaton didn't look happy to see them but he didn't look surprised either. Of course he gave Stiles the 'I'm not a people doctor' spiel but he did the X-Ray anyways.
Stiles' ribs had separated from his sternum and a few of them had been cracked - as they had expected. Derek... May have been a bit overzealous in his efforts to save Stiles' life, causing one rib to actually have broken. When Deaton gave him the stink-eye, Derek had the good grace to look mildly cowed at the very least.
"Stiles, I can't give you any pain medication because you're not an animal. You're going to be in a lot of pain but your ribs will heal on their own. The break isn't too bad but I'd be careful. No lacrosse for at least a month. Take naproxen when you get home and I would recommend not going to school for as many days as you can get away with it. Goodnight, boys," Deaton said, dismissing them quite effectively. He would burn the X-Ray film later, in case anyone should wonder why a human ribcage with such obvious damage was on display.
Derek got Stiles back in the car and took him home again. The Sheriff still wasn't home - good news for the both of them - which made getting Stiles back up to his room even easier.
Stiles had insisted that Derek go home - that he take care of his pack and make sure no one was hurt. Derek could tell Stiles was getting tired very quickly because he actually sounded concerned about the other wolves. Normally he would have hidden it with sarcasm or empty threats - sometimes even a plaintative whine for good measure.
So Derek left Stiles tucked up in his bed, no longer shivering but still smelling of pain.
Derek had missed Stiles' first cough.
Stupid, stupid Derek.
