"I- I," Derek says. He won't look at Stiles directly. "I never thanked you," he tells the air around Stiles' shoulder. "For pulling me out of the fire. I, I'm-" he says, blinking hard, "I'm supposed to be the one protecting you- Or I was, before. And you. So. Thank you." He's too quiet, those last two words. He lets out a careful breath. "You're always," he says, when he's regained some control of himself, "You've always been- More. Than I could ever-" He stops again, shakes his head. "I didn't- Before I met you. Actually, really met you. I thought- You're just some kid. Some lucky kid who everyone loses their minds over just because you know how to lie well. That's what I thought of all of this. It's just people getting paid to lie to everyone, you know? And look good. I just thought- That's what I needed, then. I thought- I can look good, I can lie, that's all I can do-" He exhaled shakily, an almost-laugh, trying to laugh, failing. "So I. I tried to get representation. Go to open calls. It's a lot harder than it looks."
He tries for a smile again, can't quite manage it.
"This job always made a lot more sense to me. Protecting people. Maybe 'cause I couldn't-" He shakes his head. "So when Scott fired me, I- That made sense to me. 'Cause I knew you. Not like I know you now, but- And seeing you," his voice goes rough, angry, "like that, seeing you hurt like that-" His hands form fists at his sides; he has to work to stay somewhat calm. "I wanted you safe."
He looks at Stiles, at his unwavering stare. "I wanted you to have someone who would take a bullet for you. And I wanted- I wanted to be that person."
Stiles doesn't say a thing. Derek looks away again.
"If I could've known before it happened," he says, quietly, hoarsely, "I would've been there. I would've-" He cuts off abruptly, turns brisk, factual. "But I wasn't. And you never talked about it. I get that, not wanting to talk about it. But when Scott fired me... It made sense. You needed me. And he didn't. But when you fired me-" He shakes his head. "It doesn't change anything. You don't have to pay me. I'd figure something out. But do you really think- If it was between taking a bullet and- and losing you- Do you really- god, Stiles." He swipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand, tries not to cry, at least.
"You didn't have to pull me out of that fire," he says, forcing his voice casual. "It was your dad's house and you were sick and that was my job. I should've pulled you out. That was- But you did, anyway. You came back. You risked your life to save mine. If you fired me for that-" and this time he manages a tiny upwards facial tic- "I wouldn't question it. But you said it was because- You said you," he stops, takes a deep breath, forces out: "love me." It's awkward on his tongue. "And you don't want me getting hurt."
He glares at the air around Stiles' shoulder like it has personally offended him. "Well how do you think I feel? Why do you think I- I wouldn't just walk into a bullet, Stiles, if there was a safer option I'd take it. I know you know that. I'm not suicidal. I just- You turned around and went deeper into a burning house for me. You risked your life for me. Why can't you understand that I'd risk my life for you? That just standing on the sidelines, watching some smug asshole do my job, hoping he doesn't make some stupid mistake that gets you-" He ducks his head, glares at his interlocked fists. When he looks up again, his eyes are glittering.
"I know I've never said-" He swallows hard. "Those three words. I've never actually said- You know I mean it. You know I do. You know I have. I can't even remember not being-" He tries; the words stick to the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat- "like that. Not feeling... like that. It's stupid that I don't just say- But I haven't said those- I haven't said that since I was fifteen, and it wasn't- I didn't- I didn't know what it meant. I didn't know this, or you."
He dares a glance at Stiles, again, unresponsive, unseeing.
"But now I do. I've known for years. I've known you for years. And you- you're the best thing that ever happened to me. You know that. You have to know that. I need you to know that." His voice dips low. "And I need you to know that I would do anything to protect you. I would do anything. And I'd be grateful to be able to do anything. If I did it to protect you." His tone is urgent, painfully honest. "Because-" He takes a deep breath and looks right into the camera's flashing eye. "Because I love you. Because I will always, always love you."
"And cut!" Daehler says, pausing the tape. He grins at Derek. "That's a wrap."
Derek nods, once, twice. Looks at the cardboard cut-out of Stiles again, the glinting metal of the gun in Daehler's hand. Doesn't even try the posturing of a glare.
He buries his face in his hands.
Thinks of Stiles' arms tight around him. His lips warm against his neck, his ear. His long fingers wrapping his, tracing his wrist, his pulse.
Don't try to find me, he begs Stiles- the real, warm, living, breathing Stiles- in his head. Stay safe.
Blood leaks steadily from the wound in his side. Clear shot, through and through. It won't be what kills him.
He knows all the begging in the world won't stop Stiles from running to his side, from turning LA over, combing through until he's found. He knows if Stiles finds him, this can only end two ways: Daehler dead, or all of them dead.
Because if Daehler kills Stiles, if Daehler ever, ever tries-
Then Derek's got nothing left to lose.
24 HOURS EARLIER
"Wolfsbane," Derek says, confusing the hell out of Stiles, "is not actually poisonous to werewolves."
Ooookay, Stiles thinks, this is about Derek's intense hatred for teen paranormal romances. Derek won't even hate-watch Twilight with Stiles to snark at the screen, like they do with sarcastic excellence with nearly everything they see together. (They are the Kings of Sarcasm. It's a fact. Scott and Allison can suck it if they need subtitles to hear the dialogue over Stiles and Derek's commentary. Sincere lovers of Jersey Shore have no place in the Stilinski-Hale home.) He won't watch anything with werewolves, actually, which- dude. Teen Wolf was a classic. Michael J. Fox, basketball, how could you not? But for all his avoidance of the stuff, he's incredibly intense about fact-checking Stiles on the subject now.
"Okay," Stiles says, accepting this. It's been a weird morning.
"Because werewolves don't exist," Derek continues emphatically. He's gone rigid in Stiles' arms.
"With you 100 percent, dude," Stiles says, trying to soothe him. Tense Derek leads to tense Stiles. Tense Stiles leads to tenser Derek. It's a vicious cycle of protective tension. He wants to curb it before it gets out of hand.
"Wolfsbane isn't poisonous to werewolves," Derek repeats. "It's just plain poisonous. To everyone."
Stiles isn't even sure Derek can hear him anymore. Anyway, it seems like this random trivia train is going somewhere. He shuts up, listens.
"When I was fourteen," Derek says, "My uncle Peter got aconite poisoning. He'd been camping out in the mountains somewhere, I don't even know. He got treated in time, it was fine, it didn't reach his heart or anything. But people started saying- you know how it is," he breaks off.
Stiles does not. Stiles does not know how it is. Stiles doesn't even know what it is.
Derek doesn't seem to want or need an answer; he asked, he paused, he's off again. "People started saying," Derek says, carefully, "that Peter was a werewolf."
Oh.
Stiles would never have guessed that punchline in a million years.
"Oh," he says faintly, which seems to be enough.
"Yeah," Derek says. "It was bullshit, of course it was bullshit, but it picked up speed. Kids at school started making a list. Of proofs."
"Lycanthropy bingo," Stiles says, kinda-sorta following and nearly pumping a celebratory fist when Derek says, "Yeah."
He restrains himself, though, because the last thing he wants to do is scare Derek out of his sharing mood. "So what happens when you call Bingo?" he asks instead.
"My house burns down."
Wait, what.
"Um," says Stiles. "What?"
"People decided we were werewolves. My whole family. Because- because we were tactile, that's a wolf thing or something-"
"Tactile," Stiles repeats. "Like hugs?" Stiles fucking loves hugs. He's hugging Derek right now. The Stilinskis hugged all the time. His mom was one of the best huggers in the world, and his dad-
Not now, he can't think about that now. This is about Derek.
"Yeah. Just general... closeness. Nothing weird, or anything. We didn't hate each other, okay, that doesn't mean-"
"No, I know," Stiles says. He does. Growing up, he was one of the few kids he knew who actually got along with his parents. People tried to make something of it, called him "mama's boy" or "daddy's little girl" like he had to hate them, or nobody would hang out with him.
He got ditched a lot. Whatever. It was like a million years ago.
Besides, if he'd been popular, he'd probably have become, like, a banker or something. And he never would've met Derek. Or Scott.
Shit, that was a close call.
"And," Derek says, avoiding Stiles' eyes, ears going pink, "hairiness. Was a thing on the list."
(Okay, Stiles can maybe understand that. Derek isn't wolfed-out Michael J Fox hairy, but he's got no need for Hair For Men, either. Even if he did, for reasons Stiles thinks he might finally understand, wax his chest for the first two years of his and Stiles' relationship, and god knows how long before that. He only stopped because Stiles told him he preferred the natural look over TV twink, actually. He might even… pet him, sometimes. Derek doesn't seem to mind. No one's treating anyone else like an animal. There is no plastic bowl labeled "DEREK" in horror-movie lettering. Come to think of it, this might also explain Derek's extreme aversion to the whole people-as-pets kink, a concept introduced to the two of them by the oddly intense but ultimately harmless Patrick Adley at the Golden Globes after-afterparty last year. Derek has always been pretty conservative in his reactions, leading to People magazine making a collage and accompanying online slideshow entitled Best Bitchfaces: Bodyguard Edition, The Daily Mail mentioning him as "The Oscar-award winning actor's brooding bodyguard beau" on coverage of the London stop of Hard Truth's season four press tour, and to team up with to create BitchFace Off, with Derek and Kristen Stewart taking the top two spots, and Derek ultimately winning the title, because aging Twihards are no match for Stiles' fans, who seem to vote whenever his or Derek's name is mentioned, regardless of whether or not the title is actually something Derek will actually allow anyone to call him without reminding them why he won. But a tipsy Patrick Adley lamenting how choke collars were becoming mainstream fashion accessories while human pets remained firmly in the closet, so to speak, got something close to an actual growl from him.
"You know a lot of people thought I was gay back when I was just doing YouTube videos," the multi-platinum popstar-turned actor explained, "So I know your struggle, you know?" He took another sip of his enormous fruity cocktail and went on. "But things have gotten so much better for gay people since then. Hell, we have a lesbian president. Thirteen year old me would be hiding in my Jesus cellar, you know? But pet play is still considered 'alternative' and 'weird'-"
At this point Derek's once-comfortable arm around Stiles's shoulders became a vise grip, and Patrick noticed. "See, it's not that crazy. You have elements of it without even thinking about it. Like you-" He pointed to Derek, who went still and strangely expressionless. "You're a guard dog. Like one of those that bark at vacuum cleaners."
So it made total sense that Derek took the arm that wasn't clamped around Stiles' shoulders, pulled it back, and punched Patrick Adley in the face.
But this, knowing this, makes Patrick's stupid comments about a million times worse.
This confession is really clearing up a lot of why Derek Dereks.)
"And some people said my sister-" He intercepts himself, glares at his clenching and unclenching fists. "People said a lot of bullshit," he says, and then, quickly, "Laura was normal. So what if she liked to party? So she liked guys. Big fucking deal. So she got drunk once and people wouldn't shut up about it like no one's ever skinny-dipped before. It didn't make her-" Derek spits- "a weregirl in heat." He snorts. "Stupid fucking idiots."
Stiles is not even touching that.
"And," Derek says, finally meeting Stiles' eyes, "our backyard kind of cut into a forest." It was awesome, Derek says. The Hale kids would hang out there all the time. Laura was Derek's favorite, but Uncle Peter knew the place like the back of his hand, and he told the best stories. Derek's eyes go wide and wistful, remembering. His face and all the past tenses are making the situation clearer and clearer to Stiles; dread builds in his chest, and he stiffens, and Derek stops.
"It was a long time ago," he says. "We don't have to-"
"Derek," Stiles says, careful. He made it this far, he doesn't want to ruin whatever this is, this new trust where Derek actually talks about his family. Even if it's terrible, it's still Derek. It's where he came from, it's who he is. Derek's known Stiles since the actor was fourteen. Stiles wants to know Derek at fourteen. He wants baby pictures and fond anecdotes and he wants awkward introductions to the family. Even if, the way this story is going, he's probably shit out of luck on that last count. "I wanna hear. If you wanna tell me."
"Fine," Derek says, sounding almost grouchy, but Stiles can pretty much taste his relief. Derek leans back into Stiles' touch; Stiles twitches just so, settles in to a comfortably squashed pose underneath him.
They thought they had all this proof, he says. It was this big joke. There were a billion stupid pranks, someone put a leash in Derek's locker, then dog food, then-
Derek's girlfriend, Kate, stuck by him at first, but she actually started to believe it. Desperate, tired of all of this bullshit, Derek told her that yeah, Peter was a werewolf, but the rest of the pack- Derek grimaced- was human. Kate seemed to accept this; life went on. People were still assholes at school, but Kate was different. Kate didn't laugh at the jokes, laugh as some jerk pinned Derek down and made him- She didn't. She loved him, he thought, and he loved her, and if he had to make up some BS every so often about human packs or how dangerous Peter was or wasn't- it didn't matter. It was almost fun, when it wasn't a way to bully him, when it was just interest and he had to work to make the story make sense.
Turns out, turns out, his lies were convincing enough to have her set his house on fire. His fucking house, with his family still inside it, Mom and Dad and Aaron and Peter and Laura-
But not him. She never hurt him. Because he'd said he was human, and she believed him. Believed all the bullshit he made up about werewolves, about his family.
"I've never lied to you," Derek says. "About anything. I've never- that fire, that's her fire, but it's my fault. That's always gonna be my-"
"Derek," Stiles says, wrecked. This is worse, this is so much worse than he ever could've guessed. "Don't- She was a psychopath. You couldn't have possibly- You were just a kid!"
Derek glares at Stiles. His eyes are narrowed, brows drawn together, but there's a tremble to his lip that has Stiles curling around him protectively.
"I should've known," Derek says, after a while, hoarse.
"How could you have?" Stiles demands. "It wasn't like she was wearing an 'I'm a psychopathic werewolf hunter' sign, was it?"
"No, but-"
"It wasn't like you could just sniff it out, was it? It wasn't like you could… I don't know, could tell she was lying by using your special werewolf senses to listen to her heartbeat, was it?"
"Stiles-" Derek says, impossibly still. "Don't-"
"Sorry," Stiles mouths an apology into Derek's tensed shoulder. "I'm sorry. I just mean- you couldn't've known. You couldn't've stopped her, she would've done it anyway. She was a murderer and an arsonist and delusional and that's not on you."
"I lied," Derek insists. "I got so sick of denying it and I just gave in and lied and she burned my fucking house down. She burned my family alive. And now-"
"And now nothing," Stiles says, because he isn't convinced their ninja assassin is Derek's demonic ex. "She didn't- she left you alone then, didn't she? She didn't try to kill you too, right?"
"So she changed her mind," Derek says. "So she got out from wherever she was and she saw me happy with somebody who wasn't her and she changed her mind."
"And the bullet?"
"Buckshot," Derek says. "The bullet you found was buckshot. She wants to make sure I know exactly what this is about."
"Well, how'd she find us? I'm pretty sure less than two hundred people know that Beacon Hills exists, much less-"
"I don't know," Derek says. "Maybe paparazzi followed us. And-" He's very, very nervous, suddenly, almost tentative when he says, "And I used to live here too. In the-"
"House on the hill," Stiles finishes, eyes wide. "With the forest behind it. Holy shit, you're Sourwolf."
Derek jerks away so hard Stiles nearly falls from his seat. He stops himself, stands up, catches Derek by the arm as he makes to leave.
"I'm not," Derek snarls. "Don't ever call me that. I'm not that. I can't-" He shakes his head, shutters his eyes. "Not from you."
"Hey," Stiles says, brushing his fingers down Derek's cheekbone, bringing his hand down to palm the back of Derek's neck. "I'm sorry," Stiles says. "I didn't mean that." He feels gutted. Derek's shoulders are iron-tense under his hands, and he's looking at Stiles like the actor just punched him in the stomach. "I wouldn't," Stiles says, because he wouldn't. Not on purpose. He should've realized, but it just slipped out. He'd been a little kid back then; it was before he'd even done commercials. But everyone knew Sourwolf, knew the whole werewolf family that lived on the house on the hill. It was like Beacon Hills' own ghost story. No one actually took it seriously, Stiles thought. Sure, there were the stupid kids who dared each other to go up to the house, to touch the house, to ring the bell. Double dare ya, what, are you scared? Sure, people said stupid things. Stiles'd even thought it was kind of cool for a while. Werewolves. A whole werewolf family, are you kidding me? That's awesome! But Stiles' dad was quick to correct him. "That's a good family," he said. "Those are good kids. They don't deserve this." Stiles and his mom stayed up past Stiles' bedtime that night making "Sorry I thought you were a mythical creature of the night" chocolate chip cookies, the kind Stiles liked, with M&Ms in them. He'd gone by after school to deliver them, seen-
Oh god, Derek.
He hadn't looked like Derek does now, made of muscle and only an inch shorter than the actor at 6"1, but Stiles thinks maybe he can see a resemblance in the beaten-down look on Derek's face, the thin wiry frame trembling underneath the bulk. He pulls Derek close, swears he wouldn't have said that, swears he'll never say that again, do you hear me? But he still gets flickers of a boy on the ground, picking up mud-streaked books and boot-printed papers, eyes casting over his shoulder every few seconds, darting around suspiciously. Derek still startled at Stiles- Genim, back then-'s approach, anyway, before saying, cool as he could manage, brushing mud off his knees, "Come to shove my face in the dirt some more?"
"No," said Genim. "I made you cookies. Well, my mom made them, but I helped. The chocolate chips are M&Ms." He held them out carefully; Mom had put the cookies on a nice platter that she was probably going to want back.
"Why?" Derek asked, wary. "It's a joke, right? Some kind of stupid-"
"It's just cookies," Genim said. He brightened, grinning. "I can test one out, if you want," he offered benevolently. "Make sure there's no trick, ya know?"
Derek smirked. "Na, that's okay," he said, hitching his backpack high on his shoulder and accepting the platter. "Who's your mom?"
"Mrs. Stilinski," Genim said, collecting some papers Derek missed. "She's a teacher at BHH."
"I think I had her last year," Derek said. "Biology?"
Genim nodded.
"She was good," Derek said, taking the pile of papers from Genim. "I got an A."
Genim ended up testing out a cookie anyway. Several, in fact. He declared them extremely safe for consumption, and also delicious. Derek concurred.
"Your mom make cookies for everyone in Beacon Hills?" he asked, searching the fridge. "We're out of milk, but there's a couple Yoo-Hoos, if you want."
"Just sometimes," Genim said as Derek returned, chocolate drinks in hand. "She's in remission, y'know. She likes doing random fun stuff, just because. 'Cause she's alive, y'know? And healthy."
"Hey Sourwolf!" someone shouted outside. "Full moon tonight! Better get your freak family locked up where they can't hurt anyone!"
The air exploded with laughter. Derek stiffened, glaring, his hands balling into fists. "You should go."
"Sourwooooooolf!" The call came again. "Come out come out wherever you are! Or we'll huff, and we'll puff-"
"And we'll blow your house down!" came a cacophony of voices. Derek looked around nervously again.
"Who are they?" Genim asked.
"Just some kids from school being idiots, that's all," Derek said, shrugging, but it didn't look like that was all. Genim's eyes narrowed. This wasn't funny at all.
"You should go," Derek said again. "If you get seen with me-"
"How're they gonna see me?" Genim said logically. "I'm inside."
"They've spied on me before, okay," Derek said, in no mood to explain. "And my girlfriend's coming over, anyway. So you can't be here."
"Fine," said Genim. "Whatever. I have stuff to do, anyway."
"Good," Derek said.
Genim went out the back, trekked through the forest and back home. It wasn't an actual dangerous forest. Pretty much just a big overgrown garden. No self-respecting werewolf would ever call that a forest, he thought, a bit bitterly. He really hated getting ditched.
His dad nearly died pulling Peter Hale out of the fire that night. They couldn't save the house, or the others, but when the fire chief told him about how the youngest kid came home to the still-smoking ruin, Dad offered to take him in. He was stuck in the hospital, though- smoke inhalation- and by the time he got out, Derek was gone.
Stiles can't help but think about that. He never would've made a connection, he thinks, and he holds Derek close and leads him back to the table.
Derek hasn't been Sourwolf in forever. He should never have been Sourwolf at all.
Stiles isn't Genim, either- he's come along way since getting doing commercials to help pay for Mom's chemo. He's got a house. He's got an Oscar. He's got Derek.
If Stiles ever has kids, he'll teach them not to be giant assholes. His parents managed to get the message across just fine.
And if anyone ever tries to start shit with his kids- he will fucking murder the little bastards.
Okay, okay. That's a lot of protectiveness for non-existent hypothetical children. But Derek's bullies are the reason his family is dead. Stiles isn't exactly calm, cool, and collected about it. Thinking about Derek feeling miserable and guilty, thinking about how it felt to lose his parents even one at a time, especially his dad, because he wasn't even sick- Stiles imagines losing them both, at sixteen, and feeling like it's his fault, and has to work to keep breathing.
Derek has calmed somewhat, but Stiles still feels like shit for calling him that. He kisses his throat, his jaw, curls his palm around the back of Derek's neck and lets Derek come to him.
"I'm sorry," he says after, and Derek says, somewhat unconvincingly, "'S fine."
"Don't lie to me," Stiles says. "You said you'd never lie to me, remember? Look-" He can see the apology leaving Derek's throat, and he doesn't want it. "No, don't," he says. "You didn't have to tell me any of that-" Derek opens his mouth again. "Wait. Let me finish, okay? You didn't have to, but I'm glad you did. And I swear, it just slipped out. I know that's not you. I won't say it again. Are we good?"
"Fine," Derek repeats. Stiles gives him a look. "I'm not lying. We're fine. I just- No one's called me that in a long time. And you- But it's fine. You didn't mean it. I know you didn't. We're good."
"Good," Stiles says, relieved, and changes tracks. "I'm still not sure she's our ninja assassin, though. Your ex."
"You know anyone else who wants me dead?" Derek challenges.
"Not you, dude. This one might be my thing." At Derek's raised eyebrow, he elaborates: "Jessica."
"It's been ten years," Derek says, frowning skeptically. "Is she even still-"
"Not she, actually," Stiles says. Derek's bemused frown deepens. "Funny story…"
"She doesn't exist, is the starting point, I guess," Stiles says, low and casual. Hey Derek, have I ever told you about that thing I definitely didn't tell you because I never told anyone? "Not by that name, anyway. Well, there are probably plenty of real Jessica Evanses, but the point is, he wasn't one of them."
Like Derek, Stiles isn't a fan of face-to-face deep secret sharing. Like Derek, he looks at everything else instead: Derek's hair through his fingers, his own long fingers, his blunt chewed fingernails (Victoria will not be happy about those). The whorls of his fingerprint. He knows he's trying to distract himself, and it's just barely working.
"He used his little sister as a decoy," he continues after a while, "and she was such a bitch to Lydia, I didn't even consider that she was lying about being my biggest fan. Fuck, maybe she wasn't, I don't know." Stiles takes his hand from Derek's hair. Derek makes a vaguely displeased noise; he puts it back. "I'm not making any sense, am I?"
"I don't know," Derek says, completely, startlingly alert. "Keep going."
"Okay," Stiles says, trying to keep the shock from his voice. It's not like he thought Derek would actively sleep through his super-emotional confession, it's just… they're very cuddly, right now. All curled against each other like lions in a pride. He wonders if there are gay lions. Ha, gay pride. Aaaand Derek isn't going anywhere. He's staying, and he's not falling asleep, and he's listening. Derek just spilled his freakin trauma to Stiles. He deserves something back. And Stiles wants to tell him. Well, no. Stiles wants to have told him. And wants him to have not freaked out. Okay. Okay. "Okay," Stiles says. "Okay, wait, I'll start again."
And then, for the first time in his life, he tells someone about- about how Jessica doesn't exist. About the guy pretending to be Jessica Evans. Stiles' biggest fan.
About what he tried- What he said, grabbing Stiles' wrist, twisting it till he was screaming, clamping a hand over his mouth.
About the way he looked at Stiles as he threw him into the trunk, the way Lydia's eyes were closed and Stiles was sure, he was sure that-
The way Stiles lay curled on his side in the trunk of a strange speeding car, cradling his arm to his chest, terrified out of his mind, the way he could feel the guy watching him in the rear-view mirror.
But nothing happened. Nothing happened. A sprained wrist, some scary-looking bruising, but nothing- nothing like that, okay? What you're thinking must've happened. He was almost expecting it, already tense and terrified and thinking If he puts anything in my mouth I'll bite down so hard he- But he didn't. He just pushed Stiles around, and shoved him in the trunk, and drove less than forty miles to some random indoor parking lot, and threw Stiles out on his ass. And that was it. That was really, really it.
But Stiles knew that if he admitted that Jessica was a big, creepy guy, then everyone would assume that he'd been- and he hadn't. Nothing happened. He got scared to death, that was all, really. Lydia got knocked out with a gun, got a concussion and fucking memory loss. Stiles really was fine.
So he called the guy Jessica, the name he'd gone by online, and everyone laughed it off. Girls, they're so fanatical! The things kids do for love!
Nobody looked at Stiles like he was damaged.
Which he isn't, he clarifies for the fifth time.
But he isn't so sure their ninja assassin is Derek's crazy ex, you know? Sure, a house burned, but Stiles was shot at first. And maybe it was a shotgun, but he's not jumping to that conclusion.
"Jessica" had a gun. Nearly killed Lydia.
He tells Derek everything, and Derek doesn't fall asleep. In fact, the exhaustion just about disappears from Derek's eyes.
He's wide awake, and fucking furious.
"It's okay," Stiles soothes him. Tries to, anyway. "Derek? It's okay."
"What did he look like?" Derek asks.
"Derek, I don't even remember. I never got a good look, really. I was kind of distracted by his gun. And Lydia getting knocked out."
Well that doesn't calm Derek down at all.
"What was he wearing? What kind of car was it? Which parking lot? I'm going back there. Maybe they'll have surveillance of him coming or going."
"Derek, come on. Nothing happened. I'm fine. Look at me. I'm fine."
But there's no stopping Derek. "Did Lydia see him? I'm calling her right now. Give me your phone."
"Derek!" Stiles bursts out. "I said it was okay!"
"So okay he's trying to kill you," Derek says flatly. "Give me your phone, Stiles."
"Can you just-" Stiles kisses him. It's long, soft, distracting kiss. "We've got the whole place to ourselves, there's a bed with our names on it and a 24 hour breakfast bar, come on-"
"Someone's trying to kill you," Derek says.
"Or you, we haven't completely ruled that out," Stiles reminds him.
"I'm not just gonna sit around and wait for the next bullet or fire or fucking abduction," Derek says. "I'm your bodyguard-"
"No you're not," Stiles reminds him. "I fired you, remember?"
"Yeah, well, I don't see anyone lining up to replace me."
Just then, Stiles' phone rings.
Victoria is livid. "Have you fired Derek yet? He's fired."
"What?" Sometimes, Stiles seriously considers the possibility that his agent has planted a bug on him. Or is psychic. Something unnatural, definitely. Maybe she's controlling his actions through some kind of advanced extraterrestrial technology.
"You're on the front page of every newspaper I've seen today." She sounds almost proud. And the Academy Award goes to the actor with a target on his back, for the role of "Scared Shitless Man #2." "Don't worry, you looked strong, heroic. It really built up your new brand. You're not a child anymore, and now the whole world believes it. Derek, on the other hand, looked weak and pathetic."
"Hey!" That is not cool. Victoria knows Derek is a bad-ass bodyguard. Well, was, pre-firing. But still.
"I've hired a new bodyguard. Duke Leon will be meeting you in fifteen minutes. He'll fly you back to my office in LA, where we will talk very candidly about why you pulled your bodyguard out of a burning building. Until then, stay inside, away from windows, and low to the ground. Are we clear?"
"Why I pulled my- Are you serious?" Stiles is more than a little annoyed- What is this, Bash Derek Day?- but she's already steamrolling over his sputtering.
"Do you have any idea how much I've had to beg and plead the studio to delay shooting until this thing is resolved? Do you have any idea how much money rests on you surviving this?"
"Wonderful. It's really nice to know you care," Stiles deadpans.
"There are over a dozen people representing half a dozen agencies who are all bleeding money right now because they won't settle for another actor. Because I won't let them settle. Two have taken out life insurance on you."
"Holy- You're kidding me. Is that legal?"
"It's in your contract. There's big money depending on you, and the smaller studios can't afford to lose it."
"It's called Key Person Insurance," Derek says when Stiles hangs up and vents to him. To Stiles' quirked brow, he adds, "My father was an insurance agent."
"It's insane. Fuck, maybe they're trying to kill me! I'm probably worth more dead than I am alive."
"Shut up," Derek says. He's gone impossibly tense again. "That's not- Don't joke about that."
"Sorry," Stiles says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just want to be done with all of this and go back to staring down prop cadavers and making stupid puns. I'm not cut out to play Hardison Dixon off camera, okay?"
"I think you're doing fine," Derek says. Stiles hugs him. "Thanks, man. I'm okay, I'm just- I'm tired. But thanks."
Duke Leon is tall and oily and smug and Derek hates him on sight. It doesn't help that he's all business but still manages to insult everything Derek's done up to this point. He's brought clothes from their home in LA, which feels like a huge invasion of privacy, but Stiles can't help but be grateful that he doesn't have to walk the streets of Beacon Hills in his boxers.
They fly back to LA; turns out Duke Leon is not only a bodyguard but the pilot of his very own private plane. It feels like he's showing off every time he opens his mouth, and Derek doesn't like his tone when he herds them into their seats. If their ninja assassin is following them anyway, they might as well be in their own house, Stiles figures, and Duke oozes charm as he makes a perfect landing hours later. Stiles doesn't seem to mind Duke at all. Derek thinks that might be the worst part.
The window pane is replaced when they get back; there are still gifts on the table, and flies on the chips and in the dips. Duke is quick to get two men working on installing the new security system while Stiles investigates the never-opened birthday cake in the fridge. Derek sings Stiles Happy Birthday, low and sweet with just a hint of humor, but cuts off abruptly and glowers when Duke just looks at him like he's the biggest idiot in the world. Even Stiles has to pick up on that. Maybe that's why he gives in so easy to Derek's insistence that none of the gifts be opened until Duke is gone. Or maybe it's because Stiles is getting tired quick of having a bossy stranger in the house. He's taking it better than Derek, but not by much.
Later, Erica shows up to hug them both, yell at them for making her find out through the papers like everyone else, and hand Stiles a stack of scripts.
"Oh my God, are you kidding me?" Stiles asks, looking at it. Jay's been really excited about season six of Hard Truths, and Stiles was scheduled to meet him for dinner tomorrow night to talk about his character's new direction, but that was before a bullet shattered Stiles' window. "They do know someone's trying to kill me, right? It was on the news."
"Time is money, Hard Dick," Erica says. Long after fans, critics, and the haters have retired the nickname, Erica still uses it like a fond but severe Who do you think you are? She's definitely not afraid to call him on his shit, but she's not an ass about it. Stiles isn't gonna forget the time Jackson Whittemore tried to convince her to help destroy his image anytime soon. Honestly, the only thing keeping Stiles from punching Jackson in the face is that Jackson would freakin' love to play the victim and cast Stiles as the villain, and that it would mess with the image Victoria had created for her two most popular clients. So Jackson's GQ interview included a forced smile and a casual mention of how he and Stiles were like family, like brothers, all the while slipping hints that Stiles was a drug addict, and explaining to Stiles at the Teen Choice Awards, shrugging, "I hate my brother." That stumped Stiles, who hadn't known he had one, so it took a couple of weeks for Stiles to get his own shot in to Vanity Fair, where he told Kali King how he and Jackson were like wolves in a pack, then made a very dated The Hangover reference, and then explaining that Jackson was a really sweet guy. Docile, you know? A born beta. That had Jackson snarling at him when they bumped into each other at the Oscars afterparty, but Stiles had Derek at his side, an Oscar in one hand, and a drink in the other, and even Jackson's stupid face couldn't spoil that.
"Yeah, I know," Stiles says. "I guess I'll just learn all my new lines while trying not to die, and also somehow have dinner with Jay and do Jimmy Kimmel and avoid paparazzi and help Derek deal with unemployment and how much he hates our new bodyguard and be freaking Batman while I'm at it."
Erica shrugs. "I think you'd make a good Batman," she says. "You've got four different offers to play a superhero just thanks to that picture of you pulling Derek from the fire."
"Seriously?" Well, there's a silver lining. He'd wanted to do a good, gritty sci-fi piece for a while now, but former child actors, even ones with Oscars, are almost never at the top of the list for those beloved Justice League parts. "Did you bring what I asked for? Don't make that face at me, I know it's cheesy. Derek loves cheesy. He'll never admit it out loud, but he does."
"It's not that cheesy," Erica says. Stiles gives her a look. "Okay, yes, it is. But it's kind of cute, in a sickening way."
"That's exactly what I'm going for," Stiles deadpans. "So, did you?"
"Here," she says. "I've even got pictures of Derek's fireman's carry from the tarmac."
"Seriously? Who was even around to take that?"
"Paparazzi probably stalk you." Erica shrugged. "You're hot stuff now that your life's in danger."
"Please," Stiles preens. "I was always hot stuff."
They go to Katsuya for dinner, because Duke's constant presence is stifling both of them at this point, and Stiles really doesn't like the way he makes exactly the right comments to turn Derek to stone. He wants a bodyguard, not a heckler. Anyway, Derek's due for a confidence boost, so they ditch Duke and go get some belated birthday sushi. Derek is a pro with the paparazzi, as always; even the really aggressive guys fall back. Stiles knows that he's going to have to deal with the underlying issue of Derek feeling that unemployment = incompetency eventually, but he's stalling, because he really doesn't know the answer to that one.
The date is exactly what they both needed to feel human again, and by the time they leave, Stiles is tipsy and the whole world is glowing slightly and the flashbulbs are shooting stars and fireworks, pretty things to make wishes on and Derek is so gorgeous in front of them, all lit up and smiling shyly, and Stiles kisses him and doesn't care who's watching.
And then Stiles sees him.
He freezes up; Derek is immediately alert and on it, scanning the crowd for the person that pinged Stiles' radar.
"Stiles!" "Jessica" yells. "How are you feeling after your near-death experience?"
"It's him," Stiles tells Derek's neck and shoulder, burrowing into his t-shirt. "Jessica. Whatever his name is." All at once, he's startlingly sober, and the flashbulbs are just flashbulbs, and a thousand people are shouting at him, trying to get a piece of him, a quote, a pose, and he's just done.
Derek studies the man's face, locks it away in his memory, eyes blazing. He'd go after that fucker right now, but Stiles heads him off at the pass by saying, "Maybe I'm wrong. I don't know, man, it's been a while. I'm just tired, okay? C'mon, let's go home."
He's lying, Derek knows he's lying. There's a spooked look in his eyes that Derek can't unsee. That makes Derek- very calmly and professionally, of course- want to rip that son of a bitch's spine out. With his teeth.
But he can do that later. Right now, Stiles needs him as more than muscle, so he wraps his arms around Stiles and shields him from the blinding lights and crowd screaming his name.
They go home.
Neither of them can sleep with so much pent up anxious energy, and while Stiles tries his cocoa+blanket+Doctor Who routine, Derek paces, full of angry adrenaline and a need to do something.
He goes for a walk.
"Sorry," he says, when Stiles catches him by his arm halfway out the door. "It's just- We haven't been out of each others' sights forever. I'll be safe, don't worry. The ex-bodyguard can still protect himself."
Stiles sees the raw edge under the quip, and he doesn't want to have this fight, not now. He lets Derek go, turns off the DVD player, and works on his proposal scrapbook. There's a lot of stuff to go through. Thirteen years of candids, about six years of interviews, appearances where Derek was not just his bodyguard but his date. Fan stories; fans have the greatest stories. Of course, a good 40% are bullshit, but he can pick out the true ones, and so he sifts, grinning ridiculously, through fact and fiction, candid and manip. Here Derek's supposedly hooking up with Patrick Adley; there Derek punched him in the face for "making a pass at Stiles in front of him. He was leaning close and being really aggresive about it," according to "a source close to the superstar couple."
Time flies, and suddenly it's been three hours, and Derek isn't back yet. When Stiles follows up on a bad feeling, he finds that the gun is missing from Derek's safe.
That's when the panic really sets in.
"Danny. Danny-O, my knight in shining knowledge of how to find people's private personal information through wizardry and the interwebs. I need your help, man. I really, really-" Deep breaths, he needs to keep taking deep breaths. Derek is fine. Derek is probably just fine and not dead at all. Oh god.
Danny's amused expression quickly turns concerned. "What's going on?"
"Derek," Stiles says, a little hysterically. "Derek is going on. Derek is going on a little visit to the guy who stuck a gun to the back of my neck and shoved me into his trunk. And his gun is missing from the safe-"
"That was a guy?" Danny says. "Didn't you say-"
"Yeah, like you haven't given me like three talks about the fluidity of gender this month," Stiles says. Danny looks skeptical. "Listen, Dan-the-man, I swear I will explain all just as soon as I know Derek isn't dying or getting put away forever for murder. Okay? Please say yes before the paparazzi dude shoots Derek. Or Derek shoots the paparazzi guy. There's a joke in there somewhere, with the two kinds of shootings. I would definitely have a witty one-liner if I wasn't busy being freakin' terrified. So. Please? Buddy? Pal? Former lover? Any of this pulling at your heartstrings?"
"I said I'm in, Stiles," Danny says, Xanax-level calm. He's always calm; that's one of the big reasons why it didn't work between them. His constant calm made Stiles feel positively insane. "Calm down. And stop bouncing your foot, you're shaking the screen. Are you on something?"
"Only the natural high of piss-your-pants terror, my friend. Please tell me you have something."
"Stiles," Danny says patiently. "Breathe. You haven't told me what I'm looking for yet."
"Oh god," Stiles says. "I'm wasting time, I'm-" He shoves Erica in front of the computer, backs away, hands in the air. "You tell him, I'm useless."
"Hey, Danny," Erica waves, flashing him a slow grin. Stiles rolls his eyes violently. "He's gay. You're in love with my costar. Please get the fucking address before I spontaneously combust."
"I know that," Erica says defensively. "We're friends. I was being friendly."
"Erica." Stiles sinks his hand into his hands. "You can be as friendly as you want when Derek's life is not in danger. You can take him out for milkshakes, okay? You can buy as many milkshakes as you want. I will buy you a lifetime supply of milkshakes. Just find him. Please."
He's thisclose to sinking to the floor and sobbing. Never mind that he is a twenty-seven year old man with a successful multi-million dollar career, a house, a car, and an Oscar. He's ready to get picked up by his mom, now.
"Stiles," Erica says. "It'll be okay. Derek'll be okay."
"You don't know that," Stiles snaps. He lets out a long breath, slumps. "I'm sorry," he says. "I just- it's been a long few days."
"Aaand I've got it," Danny announces. "Matt Daehler, amateur paparazzo. You sure this is your stalker? He's a guy. And kind of adorable."
He holds up a picture; Stiles has to repress a shiver.
"He is not adorable," Stiles growls. "Puppies are adorable. Baby seals are adorable. Derek's face when he smiles? Adorable. He's fucking insane," Stiles says, indicating the guy in Danny's photo. "And Derek's gone after him. Do you have an address or not?"
"As a lawyer I can't advise any course of action besides calling the police," Lydia says once she's filled in, "but as your friend, don't be stupid, the last thing you want is a bunch of LAPD getting this guy trigger happy. If he's as dangerous as you say he is- and we are talking about that day in great detail once this is all over, you lied to me for years, Stiles- Allison's father might hypothetically have some ammunition that his daughter might hypothetically misplace for a night. For self-defense only, obviously."
"Hypothetically," Stiles says.
"Go fuck him up," Lydia says. She clears her throat. "I never said that."
Allison offers one taser and a fuckload of hesitation. They could get super, super arrested, she warns. Their mug shots could be on the cover of People magazine by tomorrow morning.
Stiles really does not give a fuck. Jessica has Derek. Nothing else matters.
"I really don't give a fuck," he tells Allison candidly. It's honesty hour at the Stilinski-Hale house, and Stiles is the only one home. "If Derek isn't okay, if it's his name on the cover of People because I couldn't help him-"
"You really love him, don't you," Allison says. Stiles lets out an exasperated huff.
"Are you kidding me?" he says. "I'm fucking over the moon for him, how is this a question? Can you help me or not?"
"Of course," she says. He gets the taser and a handgun. "If you don't want someone dead, use the taser," she says. He also gets a hug. Her hair fans out across his shirt. Allison has amazing hair. It's totally okay for Stiles to notice that; she's like a sister to him, and he's like, hmm, maybe a... cousin? to her. There's no funny business, is the point. "Stiles?"
"Yeah?" he says, maybe leaning down to smell it slightly. Girl hair smells like fruit. Guy hair just smells like hair. Why is that? Stiles would totally sniff Derek's hair if it smelled like strawberries, that wouldn't be weird at all.
"Are you smelling my hair?" she says.
"Yes," says Stiles. "Yes I am."
"Just as long as you noticed, then," she says, unwrapping her arms from his ribcage. "Stay safe."
"No promises," says Stiles.
Derek wakes up with a killer headache and a gun pointed at his face.
"Oh fuck you."
Not his finest comeback, but he's not exactly feeling his best. Also, probably more importantly, he's been shot.
Derek is really starting to agree with Stiles' decision to fire him as bodyguard.
Shit, Stiles.
"You're awake," Daehler says. He wasn't hard to find. Actually, now that Derek thinks about it, it was suspiciously easy to track him down to this piece-of-shit motel room. Where Daehler was waiting for him with a gun and whatever he used to knock Derek out before he dragged him inside and tied him to a chair.
Damn it.
"Took you long enough," Daehler says, positively strutting. He's an accent, a scar, or a Siamese cat from being a Bond villain, but he's got the swagger down. "I thought you might bleed out in your sleep."
"Yeah, well, no such luck," Derek says, subtly testing the ropes. Fuck that hurts.
"Actually, I was looking forward to this part," Daehler says.
"Of course you were," Derek says. "Go for it, then. It's been a while since I got kicked in the balls by a psychopath."
"Don't get your hopes up," Daehler drawls. "I've got a different plan for you than just torture." Derek levels him his best unimpressed bitchface. "Ever see one of these before?"
Daehler unfolds a tripod, mounts a video camera on top of it.
"What's that." Derek says flatly. "Oh god no. You're going to steal my soul." Fuck, these ropes hurt. And his bullet wound really fucking hurts.
Other than that, he can do this all day.
"Good," Daehler says, ignoring Derek's sarcasm. "Then this should be easy."
"Any day now," Derek taunts.
"Here's how it's gonna work," Daehler says pleasantly. "I'll keep you up there for as long as it takes. You're gonna look into this camera, and you're gonna think about your sweet little boyfriend, and you're gonna tell the world what an impotent little cocksucker he really is."
"Actually," Derek says, smirking, "that's never been a problem for us."
"Funny," Daehler says, sounding bored. "Here's what happens next: At some point, your adoring boyfriend is going to realize that, oh no, you're not where he put you. And he's going to get worried, and go for the gun. But he's not going to find it, is he," Daehler says. "No, he isn't. Because I've got that gun right here." He waves it mockingly."And you know what he's going to do then? He's gonna come for you anyway. Just like he came back and pulled you out of his father's burning house. He's going to completely disregard the fact that I have two guns and he has none, and he's gonna prance right in without a plan, hoping he'll come up with something in time. You like those odds, Derek?"
Shit. Shit, fuck, and goddamnit.
Derek can definitely see Stiles doing all of that.
And getting shot in the head.
"What do you want," he bites out.
NOW
"It didn't have to be this way," Daehler says, filling up the tub. "All I wanted was to give Stiles a little scare..."
All he wanted, Daehler explains, was to traumatize the teen actor and wait for him self destruct just a little bit quicker than his peers. And Daehler, a struggling paparazzo who couldn't pay his bills, would be there the entire time, documenting all of it, and selling everything he had to every paper in town.
But Stiles didn't talk about it. Didn't turn to drugs. Didn't go into a tailspin. He got an obnoxious fucking bodyguard who kept Daehler out of his face for too long. So Daehler's career stagnated. For ten years. For ten years, Daehler had waited for Derek to go back to Scott. He wasn't supposed to be Stiles' bodyguard. He wasn't supposed to start dating the actor. But Daehler figured they'd break up soon enough. When they didn't, an exasperated Daehler tried to run Stiles off the road.
But the brat will not go down. Will not say "Fuck it" and become a raging alcoholic for Daehler's cameras. Even after his father was found dead, Stiles fucking Stilinski insisted on keeping it together. He and that fucking bodyguard think they're such hot shit, taunting Daehler with enough disgusting displays to make any sensible person turn murderous.
When Daehler reads the Sterek4EVA message boards one day, he finds a thread started by someone claiming to be Stiles's assistant. Stiles is planning a valentines day gift for Derek, and YOU can help! By sharing your favorite Sterek pictures, videos, articles, and stories. But Valentine's Day came and went. The assistant kept looking. Daehler figured marriage, thinks about that son of a bitch Derek decimating his potential career.
He was furious. His life gets ruined, his career nonexistent, ten years wasted trying to get some fucking child to lose his mind. It's the stupidest thing Daehler's ever done, but he's devoted too much time to stalking the little bitch to give up now.
That's when he decided to kill Stiles for ruining his life.
The shot was stupid, sure. Just a warning, really. Just a test of Derek's reflexes.
The fire, though... that was interesting. Because Stiles saved Derek.
Derek didn't save Stiles. The actor saved the bodyguard.
And Daehler suddenly has a new game plan.
Kill Derek. Sad, slow. Tape his last words to the actor. Then sell the tape to the highest bidder, and be there to report on Stiles' nervous breakdown. The punk punished, the son-of-a-bitch bodyguard dead, money in the bank, and a scoop?
It's brilliant.
"The funny part is," Daehler says, "I only noticed your boyfriend because my little sister was his biggest fan. And she doesn't even like him anymore. Ironic, right?"
"You gonna kill me, or are you just going to talk me to death?" Derek challenges, but he's lightheaded, dizzy from the blood loss, and too quickly, Daehler shoves Derek's head under the water. It's too cold; gasping is a reflex, and Derek is shivering almost immediately. He fights the instinct, fights to get Daehler off him, but he's lost too much blood to think straight, much less fight. His body goes numb, and he stops struggling.
That's when Stiles and Boyd kick down Daehler's door.
"Derek!" Stiles pretty much gives up the element of surprise from minute one. He's got a horrible feeling he doesn't have a lot of time. "Derek!"
Daehler is out in seconds. Boyd hisses, "I've got this. Find him," and grabs Daehler's wrist as Stiles runs past him, through the door Daehler just came from. By the grunts, thumps, and crashes behind him, Stiles guesses that Boyd is at least making Bobby proud. And Stiles is ready to join him just as soon as he knows Derek's all right. Six years of teamwork, coordination, fight training, and synchronized door slamming are definitely coming in handy tonight.
Plus, Stiles has a taser.
He finds Derek floating face-down in an overflowing bath. The water is tinted a bloody pink, and Derek isn't moving.
A sudden, terrifying crack rings out behind Stiles, and his heart stops.
"Boyd!"
"I'm fine!" Boyd calls back, a little winded but not completely out of breath. "Can't say the same for Daehler. Did you find Derek?"
Derek isn't moving. Okay, okay. Stiles pulls Derek carefully from the water and puts him in what he hopes desperately he's remembering correctly as the rescue position. It's been a while since he took first aid, and he wasn't freaking out then. Right, right, check for a pulse.
Stiles's thumbs brush Derek's wrists and throat. There should be something there, a pulse, a sign of life.
There's nothing.
"He's not breathing!" Stiles shouts. But by the sounds behind him, he guesses Daehler's fighting back again.
What next? Open the airway. Okay, Stiles can do that. He tips Derek's head back carefully, makes sure his tongue isn't in the way.
"I don't care if this breaks your ribs," Stiles lies when he starts compressions. The truth is it'll freak him the fuck out, of course, but you can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs. If Stiles can get Derek breathing again without breaking any part of him, that would be wonderful, but he's not gonna let his queasiness be the reason Derek dies. "C'mon, man. Wake up. Come on, Derek, god. Wake up! Breathe, damn it!" Stiles keeps going, keeps urging Derek to snap out of it, still doing breathing, compressions, breathing, compressions. He runs over his proposal speech in his head. It keeps him alert, keeps him focused, keeps him going. He checks Derek's airway again. Nothing, nothing. It's been too long. He's out of breath himself. He rocks back on his heels, takes long drags of air, and covers his eyes.
He gives himself ten seconds. Then he swipes at his eyes, catches his breath in his hands, and forces himself to breathe long and even. He leans over Derek again, starts again. "If you die I'll kill you," he swears. "If you die, I will fucking murder you, you asshole." He stops talking, then, breathes two breaths into Derek's lungs, does compressions, checks again, watches Derek for any sign of independent movement.
Nothing.
And then Derek lets out a gasp, chokes, and spits a mouthful of bloody water all over Stiles' shoes.
Stiles lets out a long held breath, rocks back again, and nearly passes out. "Holy god, I've never been so terrified in my whole life." He runs his hands over Derek's chest, monitors its shallow rise and fall. "Oh my god, don't ever scare me like that again."
His hands come back sticky with watery blood.
"He shot you." His horror is quickly building into panic. He pulls off his shirt to apply pressure to Derek's wound. Now that Derek's heart is pumping properly, the wound is starting to bleed thickly, staining through Derek's shirt. Stiles puts the cleanest towel he can find over it, hoping his shirt keeps anything on the towel from infecting Derek's wound. Wouldn't that be peachy, Derek breathing again, just to bleed out or need to get an arm amputated or something.
The t-shirt is rust-red, but the towel is holding up. God, he thinks, where is Boyd? Derek needs a hospital, not an actor with cursory first-aid training and a slightly obsessive devotion to him. Too late, Stiles realizes Boyd's being too quiet. His heart sinks low. Crap, crap, crap.
"Stiles," Derek tries. He's too pale, veins stark blue against his skin. He's too cold, still damp and shivering. Stiles pulls another towel from the rack and drapes it over him. There are deep sunken shadows under Derek's eyes, and his blood is all over Stiles hands, and he won't calm down.
"Shhh, don't try to talk." Stiles shushes him, pressing a kiss to his hair. "Just keep breathing. I've got you. I've got you, just stay with me, man. Please."
But Derek won't rest. "Stiles-!" He points at something over Stiles' shoulder. Stiles whips his head around.
"There you are," Daehler drawls, following Boyd in, gun aimed clear at his temple.
"Y'know," Stiles says, half-standing to shield Derek's body with his own, "I really don't think this is what they mean when they say 'money shot'."
No one is impressed.
"Nope," Stiles says. "Still clunky. We'll get back to it."
He's terrified out of his mind, half because every time he sees that smirking face, he's seventeen and Lydia's on the ground, unmoving, and he's in the trunk, cradling his arm, trying not to cry or piss himself. Half because Derek almost died on him, and he's still bleeding heavily from his fucking bullet wound, and Stiles can't apply pressure if he's dead.
But Derek is breathing again, so he focuses on that.
Focuses on Derek's breathing, matches the slow, even breaths with his own.
Doesn't panic.
Much.
And then he catches Boyd's eye. and his fingers twitch.
Hard Truths may be a serious crime procedural, but people apparently get a kick out of the Doublemint Twins act. Slamming the doors of their squad car at the same time, craning their necks to look at something, pulling their weapons. All perfectly timed to mirror each other. Over six years, he and Boyd have developed signals, too small for the camera to catch. This one is- tackle scene. On three.
Stiles signals back.
They count down silently.
One.
Two.
Three.
As one, Boyd and Stiles rush Daehler and knock him to the tile. The gun spins from his hands. Boyd grabs him in a bear hug, heaves him up, and throws him down.
Daehler lands face-first in the water. His head smacks the porcelain, and the pink-hued water goes pinker.
But he's not giving up yet.
He reaches behind him for something, anything. His left hand find a bottle of spray cleaner from beside the nearby cabinet, snatches it, and sprays for his life, catching Stiles right in the eyes. Stiles staggers sideways, not wanting to accidentally injure Derek or Boyd. Eyes on fire, he reaches for his taser. There's no way he can use it in the state he's in, so he holds it out, hopes desperately that he's aiming in the right direction.
"I've got it," In one smooth move, Boyd takes it from him and fires. Daehler gives a great, full-body shudder, and goes still under the water.
"Where's his gun?" Stiles asks, groping blindly.
"Stiles," Derek says. He's breathing short, uneven gasps. Stiles reaches out, finds his hair, and drops to his side to apply pressure to his wound again. He's still blind, eyes stinging, tears streaming down his face, but he sucks it up, because Derek was shot and drowned, so. While Boyd goes to finds a phone and calls the police and EMS, Stiles clings to Derek, adds another layer, says, "I'm here. I've got you. You're gonna be fine," and breathes against the soft rise and fall of his chest.
And breathes, and breathes, and breathes.
a.n.: Next time: The (incredibly fluffy) epilogue, featuring so much cheese you will become retroactively lactose intolerant. Also, Kate Argent.