To: stilinskwiz95
From: actual_wolfman
Subject: Are you busy?
Message: Meet me at the old Hale house at 9 Friday night?
To: actual_wolfman
From: stilinskwiz95
Subject: Re: Are you busy?
Message: Oddly enough, that wasn't my first choice for having this conversation. But sure, I'll be there.
To: stinlinskwiz95
From: actual_wolfman
Subject: Re: Re: Are you busy?
Message: One more thing – bring a lantern, if you have one.
Stiles has a lantern; of that he's certain. Of why, exactly, Derek had to pick the creepiest spot in Beacon Hills – well, he has no idea. But he's there, parked in his old blue Jeep, wondering where on earth Derek could be. He checks his watch – 9:30. Frustrated and sighing, he slumps further down into the seat, ignoring the part of his brain that's noticing all of the scary noises coming from the surrounding woods. He wants to be full of fury when Derek shows up, not quivering like a frightened child.
Suddenly there's a loud, screeching noise that causes Stiles to nearly jump out of his seat, and then Derek's running out of the woods, shirtless. Derek's shouting – more like screaming – at Stiles to turn on the Jeep, though, which he scrambles to accomplish. He can barely grip the key enough to turn it, his hands are shaking so badly, and by the time Derek's clambering in, shouting at him to go, he snaps.
"What the hell is this?" he yells, turning to the panting, sweaty mass next to him with a hard look on his face. "Care to explain? What the fuck, Derek? You initiate a dirty phone call and then you have the audacity to completely –"
"Stiles, I really am sorry, but now is not the time!" Derek's reaching across, trying to turn the key himself. Stiles tries to smack his hand away, but a threatening look instantly quells any violence on his part. "I need you to drive." Stiles can tell he's doing his best to keep his anger in check, but frankly, he doesn't care.
"No," he says. "I want to know why you tell me to meet you here, of all places, and leave me here for thirty minutes until you show up –"
"That's it." Stiles shrieks when Derek places his hands on his waist, lifting him out of his seat and holding him up as he switches spots. "I'll drive."
Stiles is already protesting when something flies past the front of the Jeep, hitting a tree with a blinding flash of white light. "Oh, my God!"
Derek's taking off, then, and they're hurtling down the unpaved road leading to the highway at speeds Stiles didn't even know his Jeep was capable of reaching. He finds himself gripping something, anything, to keep himself from being thrown onto the ceiling with every bump in the road. "Where are we going?" he yells, and he feels like he's about to vomit out his heart.
Derek doesn't say anything, just tightens his jaw and keeps his eyes focused on driving like a maniac. "Okay," Stiles says. "You're not going to talk? Fine. Fine! I don't care! I don't –"
But suddenly there are headlights in the mirrors, and then there's a pack of SUVs in hot pursuit with guns literally blazing. Stiles screams as the gunshots get closer and shrieks when the back window explodes into a cloud of sharp shards of glass. "WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?"
"I'll explain in a minute!" Derek shouts as he swerves onto the highway, throwing Stiles into the door.
What's next is an intense half hour of weaving through some of Beacon Hills' less savory streets that leaves Stiles shivering and about to cry because his baby has just been violated. When Derek brings the Jeep to a skidding halt in the loading zone of a bulk retail store, Stiles flies out of his seat, circling the vehicle with his hands clutching his head. "No, no, no! This isn't happening!" He keels over as the image of his Jeep all bruised and bloody becomes too much. His eyes are stinging, and he can feel his stomach rioting in his gut.
"What did you do?" he shrieks. "What kind of sick joke was that? Are you trying to scare me? Threaten me? Because it fucking worked!" He moans nauseously. "How am I going to explain this to my dad?"
Derek's not coming out of the Jeep, though, and the lack of response is, despite Stiles' rage, disconcerting. He stops, takes a deep breath. "Derek?"
"Stiles…"
Stiles is up, the damage to his Jeep momentarily forgotten as Derek actually keels over. "Oh, my God!"
He's groaning, rolling over, and that's when Stiles sees the arrow sticking out of his thigh. "Oh, my God, that's an arrow! What – what were you doing to those people?" He kneels by Derek's side, examining the wound. "Shit." He takes a closer look at Derek, noticing for the first time how pale and sweaty he looks. He looks, well… he looks sick. "Derek, are… are you okay?"
"I – I need – you – to take me – "
"Take you? Take you where?" Stiles is fluttering hopelessly around Derek's collapsed form, his heart in his throat as the adrenaline wracks his body.
"Your – dad?"
"My dad? What about him?" Realization dawns. "Oh, oh, he's not home, he's working late – why do you – Oh!" He grabs Derek by his upper arms and tries – really, he does try – to drag him back into the Jeep. He's just so heavy. "Derek, a little help here would be nice," he grunts.
All he gets in response is incoherent groaning. "Okay, fine. That works, too." After a few minutes of what's really an embarrassing display of what 147 pounds of sass and sarcasm can't do, he somehow manages to get Derek into the Jeep. He climbs in, gingerly perching on the edge of the seat so as to leave Derek's legs undisturbed. He puts the car into drive.
"Stiles, is your dad home? No, Derek, he isn't. Why are you asking? Oh, well, instead of taking me to a hospital, like most rational people might do if there was an arrow sticking out of their leg and they looked like they were missing three pints of blood, can't you take me to your house so you can operate on me? Because every kid in high school knows how to remove an arrow from a leg, right? Oh, of course, Derek, that sounds like a great plan! Let me get right to it despite the fact that I'd much rather throw you into a ditch and forget you ever bothered me with anything!" Stiles is muttering angrily to himself, something he hasn't done since some jerk at school had said something rude about his mother not long after her death and Stiles got sent to the principal's office for punching him. "I'm having such a lovely time, too, thanks for inviting me out tonight!"
Suddenly, there's a groaning noise behind him that sounds like a gurgled, hacked-up version of Derek saying, "I can explain."
"Oh, my God!" Stiles jerks the wheel as he jumps out of his seat, almost throwing the Jeep into the trees lining the road. "Don't scare me like that, I'm driving!"
"How much farther?"
"Like, five minutes, so just hold on."
He can't make any sense out of the groan he gets in response.
By the time he's pulling into the driveway (sheriff's car blessedly absent), Derek's able to hobble out of the Jeep and into the house, but once they're in, he decides he can't go any further, dragging Stiles to the ground as he collapses in the foyer. "Oof!" Stiles picks himself back up, studying the pale, sweating mess that's currently bleeding out on the rug in front of the door. How am I going to explain that?
"Stiles – the arrow –"
"How am I supposed to get that out of you?" Stiles is pacing, trying not to panic as Derek loses more blood – blood that's getting on the carpet.
"You have to – pull it all the way through my leg."
"What?"
"Just do it, Stiles!" Derek glares, his face taut as he props himself up on his elbows. "Do it, or I'll die!"
"Okay!" Stiles looks around; then, without preamble, drags Derek into the kitchen.
"AAAHHRRWOOOOHHHH!" Derek actually howls as Stiles moves him, even though he's trying to be as gentle as he can.
"Sorry! I'm sorry! You're dying, I get that, sorry!" He winces as Derek thrashes about, howling louder when he accidentally hits the arrow on a chair. "STOP – MOVING – ME!"
"I SAID I WAS SORRY!" He's panting now, and he's pretty sure he's going to have a panic attack any moment now because when he checks the clock on the microwave he realizes he has two hours before his dad's supposed to get home. Okay, Stiles, you can do this, it's just like Assassin's Creed except it's happening in your kitchen and it's real. You can do this. He takes a deep breath before kneeling beside Derek. "Are you ready?"
He nods. Stiles grips his thigh with one hand, and he's about to push the arrow through when he stops and leans back. "Do you want something to dull the pain? Because I know where my dad keeps the hard stuff."
Derek shakes his head. "Not enough time."
"O-kay." He kneels again, this time going through with the whole pushing-a-sharp-point-through-actual-human-flesh thing that made him want to vomit and then pass out.
"GARRRRRROOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAHHHH !"
Stiles isn't sure if it's the panic, adrenaline, exhaustion, or a combination of all three – but he's pretty sure Derek's face just grew a lot more hair and underwent some instantaneous plastic surgery that left him looking more like a Neanderthal than anything else. When he opens his eyes, Stiles lets out a yelp because they're glowing and they look really, really pissed.
But as quickly as it happens, it goes away, leaving Stiles hopelessly confused. He's snapped out of his shock when Derek snarls, "Finish the job!"
By the time Derek's leg has been de-arrowed, sterilized, and wrapped with almost two full rolls of gauze, Stiles has one hour left to clean up the mess they've made before he has to start explaining. He helps Derek up the stairs and into his room, helping him get settled – and hidden. He couldn't have his dad discovering half-naked grown men in his underage son's room, now could he?
The first thing Stiles does is park his Jeep in the garage – he doesn't know how his dad is going to find out, but it won't be as he's pulling in after a long night of over-working. After that, it only takes him thirty minutes to mop up the kitchen and put the first aid kit back in the bathroom. Then he's left staring at the rug in the foyer, which is covered in now-crusty patches of brown, dried-up blood. He checks his watch. Fifteen minutes left. Great.
Ten minutes pass until he's hit with a sudden burst of inspiration. He works quickly, and he finishes with less than a minute to spare before the sound of keys jangling signals the arrival of the sheriff.
"Stiles?"
"In here, Dad." He's sitting on the couch, watching an infomercial for something to do with bras.
"Why is the door mat missing in the entry way?" Stiles peeks over the couch to see his dad standing in the hall. He's still wearing his boots and gun belt. Better get that off of him, he thinks.
"Yeah, see, about that." He gets up, walking past his dad and into the kitchen. "There was a bit of an accident."
He hears the sigh deflate his dad, but he could hardly care because no matter what happens, nothing could be worse than your dad, the sheriff, coming home to a door mat covered in someone else's blood.
He leads his dad to the sink. "See, I was going to clean the faucet head because really, it's disgusting to have so much crap built up on it, don't you think?" He gestures to the faucet, where a whole mess of black goo is clinging to the area surrounding the water spout. "And so, I was carrying the bleach from the laundry room when I tripped, and the lid kind of came off and bleach kind of spilled all over the mat." Now, he gestures to the tortured door mat lying pathetically in the sink. He grimaces. "I'm really sorry about it, Dad."
Sheriff Stilinski sighs, but he doesn't seem too angry. Stiles mentally pats himself on the back. "It's fine. Just… be more careful next time, okay?"
"No problem." Stiles says goodnight, then, and darts up to his room, where he finds Derek nestled comfortably in his closet. He tries not to think of the jokes about when he has to come out, but he finds himself laughing anyway, he's so giddy with relief at having so narrowly avoided what could have been a huge disaster.
"Bleach? Really?" is all Derek says as Stiles starts getting ready for bed.
"You were welcome to suggest something else, but you were too busy rolling around in agony."
"Ha, ha."
Stiles rolls his eyes as he climbs into bed, ignoring Derek's staring as he gets comfortable. "Don't think I'm not planning on getting an explanation," he warns. "Because after all of the shit you've put me through tonight, you owe me at least that." He's speaking into the dark, but he hears Derek as he adjusts his position in the closet.
Stiles sits up, feeling a little more charitable than usual. "Do you want to have the bed? I'll be fine on the floor, I promise." He did just have an arrow sticking out of his leg.
Derek tries to protest, but Stiles is already padding across the room, gingerly lifting him by the shoulder once he gets there. "You really don't –" He stops protesting once he's actually laying down on something more comfortable than a pile of old pillows and blankets. "See?" Stiles says, tucking him in, ignoring the way his pulse starts to race when his hand brushes the bare skin of Derek's torso. "Much better." He turns away before Derek can say anything, pulling the pillows and blankets out of the closet. Once he's fashioned a bed for himself, they're quiet.
"Stiles?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. You saved my life."
"Whatever. It's not like I had much of a choice."
"That's the thing – you did."
"Yeah, well, whatever. Go to sleep."
"Thank you, Stiles."
"Shut up, Derek. I'm tired."