How Do We Rise Up
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03 : Arms Up
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by: stop-the-fading
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Cliche thought or not, afterwards Derek would marvel at how everything happened so fast. One minute, he'd been arguing with Stiles in line for some kind of disgusting syrupy-slushy-drink-thing at the Circle K, and the next...
The next minute, Stiles was stepping in front of a stranger who was, unfortunately obviously, calling 911. And a breath later, there was noise and blood and Stiles was falling, weight dragging at Derek as the wolf caught him in his arms.
"I said don't move! Nobody touches their phones! You!" He aimed the shotgun at Derek. "Don't move!"
Derek slowly lifted his free hand, keeping the other pressed firmly against the bullet wound in Stiles' abdomen as he lowered himself down to lean back against the slushy machine with the teen leaning back against him. "I'm not moving. I need to make sure he doesn't bleed out."
The moron with the gun huffed a terrified laugh. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
Derek couldn't help but agree.
Pushing back against Derek's chest, Stiles grimaced up at him in pain. "Holding me lovingly in your arms as I die? Really, Derek? We're going there?"
"Shut up. You're not dying." You're not allowed to die.
"Right." Derek must have pressed down a bit harder, because Stiles winced. "I totally believe you."
The shooter was still freaking out, still waving his shotgun around and demanding that everyone get down, and Derek was pretty sure he could disable him without risking getting shot and exposing himself to the patrons of the local convenience store.
Pretty sure.
"Don't," Stiles breathed, turning to press his cheek to Derek's shirt. "Too risky. Too many people, someone could get hurt."
"Someone else," Derek reminded him in a low tone.
Stiles flashed him a grin, which was ridiculous, because there was nothing amusing about having been shot. Derek would know, since he'd been shot more than once in his lifetime, and about 90% of those incidents occured after having met Stiles. "Hmm."
"I can't just sit here, Stiles," Derek hissed. "You need medical attention, and this guy might end up losing it and just shooting everyone. I have to do something."
Stiles shook his head. "Too risky," he repeated. "My dad's got it. He'll have a hostage negotiator here soon. You get too uncooperative, this guy probably will lose it and shoot everyone."
"I-"
"Derek." Struggling to turn sideways in the wolf's arms, Stiles reached up and grasped at the lapel of his jacket. "Shut up. Stay quiet and stay calm. Let the people trained to do this kind of thing handle it." He paused, settling back between Derek's legs and letting his fingertips brush against the hand Derek was using to keep pressure on Stiles' wound. "Trust me, okay? Just a little."
Derek nodded. "Okay. Okay. I'll keep out of it for now."
Of all the ways Stiles might have ended up in Derek's arms, bleeding from the gut after being shot by a trigger happy moron trying to hold up a convenience store wasn't one of the scenarios Derek had ever imagined.
Not that he thought about holding Stiles.
Much.
Things had been so awkward between them lately, and Derek could only blame the stupid hag that had stuck them together for two and a half weeks. Really, it was all her fault. And, well, yes, his subsequent avoidance of Stiles might have strained things a bit, sure. He could have been mature about it and not conveniently vanished - he didn't hide, hiding from someone you kind-of-sort-of-maybe-might have a crush on is something twelve year olds do - every time he heard the approach of Stiles' ancient Jeep. He just...didn't really want to.
It wasn't exactly a secret that Derek was, as Peter said (often and loudly), the Supreme Mugwump of Terrible Life Choices. He wasn't sure why it seemed that every choice he made, every time he tried to do the right thing, he ended up not only screwing himself over, but also everyone else within a five mile radius. Even his smallest decisions, like whether or not to stop when Stiles begged him for a slushy-thing even though they were meant to be meeting everyone to bind a wood nymph back into her tree in an hour. Every one of his choices. All of them.
It was a curse. It had to be. Derek made a mental note to talk to Deaton about it, before he ended up causing a nuclear holocaust by deciding to switch toothpastes.
Objectively, Derek knew that blaming himself for everything that's ever gone wrong in the world since the moment he was conceived could be considered laughably melodramatic.
Subjectively, he'd yet to see a decision he'd made not end up getting someone hurt.
"I'm bleeding on your booty jeans, dude."
Case in point.
"Booty jeans." Derek stared down at Stiles, who was looking up at the whirring slushy machine like he was considering asking if Derek would still get him one.
"Yeah," Stiles replied, looking back at the alpha and offering another slightly-pained grin. "Jeans that emphasize your bodacious badonkadonk."
"I don't have...Stiles, will you please shut up?"
The teen snorted as Derek shifted, trying not to jostle him too much. He was pretty sure Stiles wasn't supposed to be noticing his butt at all, much less which of his jeans said butt looked best in. Not that Derek himself was paying attention to that. And he definitely never wore them on purpose, such as when he knew he'd be alone with Stiles for any length of time, because on the scale of his life decisions, (one being Could Possibly Just End In Slight Maiming and ten being Everyone You Love Is Going To Die), trying to instigate any kind of a THING with Stiles Stilinski would be at least a seven (a.k.a. - There Will Be Screaming And Probably Blood). It wasn't even just that Stiles was human, or that he was Scott's best friend and it was awkward because Scott's status as pack was still fairly reluctant, or that Stiles was underage, which...christ. Those were all very good reasons for why a THING with Stiles would be a bad sort of THING, but they weren't the worst of it.
Trying to please Stiles with a cheap frozen treat had gotten the teen shot. Derek didn't want to know what might happen if he tried to flirt with him. There would probably be a volcanic eruption or an earthquake or something, and oh, God, Derek really needed to try thinking of a natural disaster that didn't sound like a sexual euphemism. People would get hurt, was the point, and Derek spent more than enough time getting people hurt already.
"You know," Stiles slurred in a whisper when the shooter was occupied talking to a police negotiator, "there's this puzzle I've been working on."
"Oh?"
"You know how much I like puzzles."
Derek sighed, the hand that wasn't slick with blood fisting in Stiles' shirt. "Yeah. What is it this time?"
There was no answer.
For a much-too-long second, Derek felt the world fall away. Then, quivering, he zoned in on the sound of Stiles' heartbeat. It was threadier than it should be, frighteningly weak, but it was there, and Derek let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes in case they were flashing red. Stiles was alive. He was going to survive. He would be fine.
Derek carefully gathered the unconscious teen closer, pressing his face into Stiles' hair for a beat before looking up at the shooter, who was staring at Stiles' slack face in horror.
"You're going to let us out of here," Derek growled, teeth bared, but human. "You're going to let me get him to a hospital, because this is the sheriff's only child. If he dies, what I plan to do to you will be a mercy killing compared to what the sheriff would do."
"I c-can't-"
Derek snarled. "Call in the EMTs, or I will shove that shotgun up your ass and pull the trigger."
Waiting for rescue was overrated, anyway.
That should have been the end of it - handing Stiles off to the EMTs, watching Sheriff Stilinski rush to the gurney, clambering in the back of the ambulance, giving a statement to the police. Going home and washing the blood out from underneath his fingernails, rinsing his mouth out until he couldn't taste the metal-and-gunpowder scent that had been in the air anymore. Tearing off his bloodied clothes and stuffing them down at the bottom of the garbage can, tying the bag off and hurling it into the Dumpster. Checking his phone with twitching fingers until Scott texted him that Stiles was stable and going to be fine. Finally, collapsing on his bed and pressing the ends of the pillow against his ears, trying to drown out the echo of gunfire and a too-weak heartbeat.
"You know," came Erica's muffled voice, "you could have called or something. Let us know you were okay."
Sighing through his nose, Derek peered at her. She crossed her arms, tossing her hair over her shoulder and pouting.
"Isaac called. He went to wait with Scott. Deaton took his sister, Peter, Lydia, and Boyd to do the binding thingy."
"And you're here because...?"
"Because we all know you're an idiot and that you'll just hole yourself up in your little Batcave of a room and brood dramatically about how this is all your fault like the emo asswipe you are. And because we care about you enough that we'd like to avoid letting you do that." She shrugged, slipping into the room and bouncing onto the bed, curling up against Derek's side. "Also, Lydia's better at Rock-Paper-Scissors, so I kind of had to stay and play guidance counselor."
"No, you don't. Go...do something else." He threw his pillow at her. "And I don't brood."
"You do. You're practically a pro at it. Angel brooded less when he got his soul back."
"What?"
Erica sighed, throwing the pillow back. "Just go to the hospital, okay?"
"Fuck you."
"Hey," she huffed, kicking him in the side repeatedly until he slipped off the edge of the bed and rolled to his feet, "you had your chance, Were-weenie."
And that, Derek realized with a bit of something akin to hope warming his heart, was actual evidence of a life choice he'd made that had ended in the best way possible. So maybe he was only a little cursed.
Stiles was propped up by the time Derek got up the nerve to stop...thinking, not brooding, never brooding...in his car and actually enter the hospital. The room was otherwise empty, and Derek's brow furrowed. He'd expected it to be full of everyone who wasn't up north butting heads with a dryad.
"I made them go have dinner," Stiles explained, picking at the sheet draped over his legs as he stared at Derek's shoulder.
"Ah."
Awkward silence, Derek thought, wasn't nearly as awful as people believed it was. It was an absence of saying awkward things, which would be much worse, and the resulting silence could therefore be seen as the lesser of two evils. It made it bearable, then, when Derek was left standing just inside the door, watching the lines of the EKG machine spike regularly, large cup clutched in his hands sweating cold condensation over his fingers.
"So...what's with the cup?"
Derek's gaze jerked to Stiles, who was actually looking at him now, though he averted his gaze when Derek tried to meet his eyes. The wolf looked down at the Big Gulp. "Uh, a slushy-thing. From 7-11. Since you...didn't get one." He stepped forward, setting it down heavily on the bedside table, and folded himself into the uncomfortable plastic chair the hospital provided.
"Don't know if they'll let me have it yet," Stiles mumbled, cheeks flushing, and Derek felt a bit stupid.
"Oh. Right. Sorry."
Stiles shrugged. "S'okay. Hey, listen, did I say anything...I mean, the last bit of...I don't really remember, it's kind of fuzzy, but did I say anything...embarassing?"
"You mean besides what you said about my 'bodacious badonkadonk'?"
The EKG chimed, jerking Derek's attention away from the deepening blush that was spreading to the back of Stiles' neck. The monitor settled back into normal sinus rhythm almost immediately, though, and Derek leaned back again. "No," he said quietly. "You were mostly trying to keep me from taking the guy out myself."
"Ugh," Stiles groaned, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, can we talk about that for a second? Between Scott's stupid Peter-Parker-great-responsibility mentality and your stupid martyr complex, I think I'm starting to come down with stupid-heroics-itis or something."
"Yeah," Derek rumbled, crossing his arms and tilting his head back challengingly, "let's talk about you, once again, running headfirst into dangerous situations with no regard for your own safety and leaving me to rescue you."
"Okay, for one thing, nine times out of ten it's us rescuing you because, again, stupid martyr complex. And for another, I'm not always running headfirst into things, okay? I'm the one with actual survival instincts, remember?"
"Right, so that time Jackson almost killed and/or drowned you because you wouldn't just run when I told you to, or the time you thought injecting a feral kitsune with a mountain ash serum on your own would be a good idea, or the time you fell into a ravine trying to play keep-away with a golem, those were all, what, anomalies? How about the fact that instances of you getting involved in situations humans shouldn't be in far outweigh the instances where you listen to one of us when we tell you to stay away? Do you need to play the hero so badly? Is it really worth your life?"
"You're a moron," Stiles snapped, sheet bunching up in his fists. "You really don't get it, do you? I mean, I knew you never really thought of me as pack, which is fine and all, but are you really that stupid?"
Derek bristled. "What part of that wasn't the truth, Stiles? What part of you taking a bullet for some random bystander isn't about trying to be a hero?"
"I'm not a hero," the teen ground out, face pale but for the angry heat splotching his cheeks. "I don't want to be a hero. I will never, ever be a hero, okay? I'm not..." He huffed, scrubbing his hands over his face. "I'm not like Scott with his gotta-save-em-all thing, or like you with your my-life-is-of-little-value-as-compared-to-others thing. I'm selfish, okay? I'm not gonna just go around rescuing babies from burning buildings with my underpants outside my tights. That's not me."
"You already do that," Derek sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I mean, not the underwear thing, but...look, you probably saved that woman's life, okay?"
"I didn't mean to." Off Derek's incredulous glower, Stiles spread his hands out and shook his head. "I know that sounds horrible, but I didn't mean to step in front of her, I didn't even think about it. And that's kind of what I meant with the whole stupid-heroics-itis thing. I've gotten so used to stepping in between the people I care about and the things trying to kill them - because they're just too selfless and ridiculous and dumb to save themselves - that I guess it's kind of turned into a reflex. I can't help it anymore." He narrowed his eyes at Derek. "You guys have given me a saving-people-thing. I actually think your reckless stupidity and melodramatic heroism is catching. And have I mentioned lately that I hate all of you and that you'd die without me? Because, and I don't think I've ever clarified this before, I mean that literally. You are all hopeless, and you would die without me around."
Which was very true, in ways Derek could never bear to tell Stiles about, but his thought process was too busy snagging on a new realization to say anything about that, anyway.
Because Stiles had said 'the people I care about', and he'd included Derek in that. 'You guys'. He was part of 'you guys', lumped in with people Stiles had just admitted to being willing to die for. Stiles dying to save Scott, or his dad, or Lydia, or...really anyone...it was a devastating thought, but not one Derek could deny having understood and accepted. Stiles dying to save Derek?
No.
No, that could never happen. It couldn't. Stiles wasn't that kind of person, that kind of hero. If it came down to it, Stiles would do the right thing. He'd let Derek die, wouldn't be stupid and brave and selfless, wouldn't value Derek's life so highly. Stiles would be selfish, and he'd survive. He had to.
Derek had never had a panic attack before, but he was pretty sure this was what one felt like, with the racing pulse and the inability to breathe properly. He couldn't be positive, because his head was full of a strange rushing noise and his vision was tunnelling, and-
"Derek! Derek, breathe!" Hands wound around his wrists, jerking him back to reality, bringing the room into sharp focus once more.
"You care about me?"
Stiles blinked at him, eyes wide and startled, lips parted in surprise. "Uh..."
Derek swallowed, coming back to himself a bit more. Humiliation roiled in his stomach, sickly and acid-hot. "No. Never mind. I don't..." His hands were shaking worse then they had been when he'd been washing Stiles' blood off of them. "It doesn't matter." He stood, motions jerky and robotic, and waved a hand at the Big Gulp. "If you can't have it, give it to Scott or something. Just...I'll see you, Stiles."
"Derek-"
"Feel better."
He wasn't running away, he told himself, barreling past Scott in the hallway and nearly slamming into the automatic doors when they didn't open fast enough. Alphas don't run away. They strategically retreat with alacrity and dignity. The latter of which, he admitted as he lunged into the Camaro and sat, shaking and gasping, was not something he had a lot of anymore. Still.
He wasn't running away.
Really.