Stiles heals over the next few weeks. Derek comes by three more times, once showing his face the moment the Sheriff is out the door. Stiles doesn't even jump, just goes back to typing his paper.
They don't speak for a few hours, and by the time Derek does, Stiles is printing his finished paper. "How'd you break your ankle?"
"Why? It happened, like, a week ago," Stiles asks, sitting next to his printer.
Derek shrugs. "I'm curious."
"Strange curiosity." Stiles sighs. "I tripped while the Alpha was chasing us. That's all."
"That's all?" Derek repeats, raising an eyebrow.
Stiles throws his hands in the air. "What else is there?"
"You tell me."
Stiles turns away from him, and watches as his five pages slowly print out. He closes his eyes as he taps his fingers against his knee, refraining from turning around and kicking Derek in the face with his cast.
But when he looks, the window's open and Derek's gone.
The next time, Stiles finally gets his cast off, replaced with a less bulky brace, and he almost nails Derek with his car leaving the school parking lot. "Oh my God."
He gets out, and Scott appears at his side, helping Derek stand up. "What are you doing here?"
"I was shot," Derek says, looking very pale now that Stiles can really see him.
To Scott, Stiles says, "He's not looking so good, dude."
"Why aren't you healing?" Scott whispers, hoping the crowd forming wouldn't get too close.
"I can't. It was- it was a different kind of bullet." They kneel down next to him. Well, Scott does anyway. Stiles would rather stand and not get his throat torn out by an angry werewolf.
"A silver bullet?" Stiles asks, wondering if those stories were real or not.
"No, you idiot." Well, that's that.
Scott says, "Wait, wait. That's what she meant when she said you had 48 hours."
Derek looks up, alarmed. "What? Who- who said 48 hours?"
"The one who shot you." Stiles takes a step back as Derek curls in on himself, groaning. His eyes turn blue. "What are you doing? Stop that!" Scott says.
"I'm trying to tell you, I can't!" Derek's eyes keep flashing.
Scott looks around at the people beginning to walk over to the hold-up. "Derek, get up!" He looks at Stiles. "Help me put him in your car."
Stiles does, holding open the door for them, willing the curious teenagers to keep their distance. Derek gets in the car, and slams the door. Stiles goes around to the other side and jumps in. Derek leans out of the window and says, "I need you to find out what kind of bullet they used."
"How the hell am I supposed to do that?" Scott asks.
Derek nods his head over at Allison, staring at Stiles' Jeep. "'Cause she's an Argent. She's with them."
Scott, still facing Allison, says, "Why should I help you?" He turns back.
"Because you need me," Derek says, as if it's that simple.
"Fine," Scott says. "I'll try." He looks at Stiles, pleading. "Hey, get him out of here."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "I hate you so much," he says without much fire behind it. He shifts, and peels out of the lot. He resists glancing over at Derek much, who's white as a sheet and close to passing out if the way his head keeps lolling forward is any indication.
He winces when he gets another cut, this time on his knuckle. Stiles stares at it for a second, mesmerized by the fact that two seconds ago, someone out there got the same mark. His "soul mate". All he knows is that there's a bleeding spot on his own pale skin. He just wishes he had some band-aids.
"I smell blood," Derek says, disturbing the silence.
Stiles scoffs. "You kinda got shot."
"Not mine." Derek glares at him, and Stiles is tempted to hide his left hand. "What'd you do?"
Stiles shakes his head. "Nothing. Dry skin. Cracks sometimes."
"I don't believe you," Derek says.
"And why not?"
"Because you sound tired. Like you hate that it happens, but are helpless to stop it."
Stiles is frozen, sort of. He's biting his cheek from screaming, "Yes! Yes! I hate it and I wish it would stop! Having a soul mate sucks and I just want my own goddamn life back!" He exhales, and says, instead, "Yeah. My dad doesn't buy any lotion."
Derek rests his head against the headrest, and groans, grabbing his arm. Stiles may have threatened to beat him up and leave him on the side of the road a few minutes later, but he knows it wouldn't have happened. Not because Derek threatened him or whatever (that wouldn't have happened either), but because Stiles has never come so close to telling someone how much he hated having a soul mate.
Stiles is, thankfully, spared from having to saw someone's arm off, but he isn't spared from his father's wrath when he gets home. It wasn't Stiles' fault. He had no idea his dad would be home tonight.
"Is this what you do when I'm gone? Hmm? Go out all hours of the night?"
"No, dad," Stiles says, but he has a feeling he's just wasting his breath. He's said this multiple times since his dad started the lecture.
His dad sighs, runs a hand over his face, red with anger. "I just can't believe this."
"I didn't do anything illegal." Good phrasing. Because he was definitely doing something bad, close to the line of illegal. Then again, werewolves supposedly didn't exist, so any activities involving them didn't apply to the realm of the real world.
"I don't care. You weren't here when I got home, weren't picking up your phone, and didn't leave a note." Ah, makes more sense. Stiles gets it. His dad already lost his wife. If he lost his son too, Stiles doesn't even know what he would do.
Stiles stands up. "I'm sorry, dad."
He gets pulled into a hug immediately, and his dad's shaky breath scares Stiles. His dad is supposed to be a cop, worry about other people then his own delinquent son. He has an entire town resting (and depending) on his shoulders. Stiles decides to cut him some slack.
Some.
"This doesn't mean you're getting anything other than a salad and water for dinner tonight," Stiles says.
His dad laughs, shaking Stiles' frame. "We're getting pizza tonight," he pulls back, "with soda and fries."
"No fries," Stiles scold with a smile.
"Then mozzarella sticks. Try to stop me, son." Stiles wants to hear his dad laugh every day. He realizes his new mission. And then he clenches his hand as his left palm begins to bleed with a new cut. Much deeper than just a paper cut. Stiles runs into the kitchen, grabs a knife, and lets the knife clatter to the ground. "Goddamn soul mate".
"Ow!" He yelps, his hand under running water. The slice is straight across his palm, and Stiles can see the pink tissue underneath.
His dad rushes in, phone in hand, and curses. He hangs up, and grabs Stiles' hand. "Hospital, now."
Melissa's the one to receive them, and in half an hour, Stiles' (seven) stitches are done, wrapped and ready to go.
"Be careful next time," Melissa warns. Stiles smiles at her, the mother he wishes he had. Wants to have. (Might have.)
"Promise," he says as if it won't be broken in a few days, weeks, months. It's inevitable, unavoidable. But Stiles promises nonetheless.
Stiles walks out, flexing his fingers experimentally, and his dad taps his shoulder. "Ah." He wiggles a finger in Stiles' face. "Melissa told me that you have to minimize the amount of strain you put on your hand. Let it heal."
Stiles wants to tell him it wasn't his fault; it's some asshole somewhere in the goddamn world's fault. Either way, Stiles knows it's not the last time he's going to get hurt (might get hurt worse in the future) and allows his dad the momentary relaxation.
"So," Stiles says, "pizza?"
His dad laughs the entire time he drives to the pizza place. Stiles smiles and looks at his watch. Reads 1:34 am. Quota reached for the day.
Scott fusses over him for a few days. "Was it you?" is a new and popular phrase of his, and Stiles likes it better than "What happened?"
"No," he replies, his hand a claw of uselessness. Scott has to carry any books that won't fit in Stiles' backpack (not that he minds), and Stiles wants to press against his palm to distract himself from Harris' boring class.
He doesn't, survives, and the day passes like any other. Stiles gets home (driving sucks) and his dad is absent. Although, he can hear someone in his room.
Suspecting a certain werewolf who was supposed to be gone, Stiles goes into the kitchen and makes himself a snack, something to do while working on homework so he doesn't pick at his stitches.
He makes a bagel. He stands around until it's toasted to perfection, slathers cream cheese on it, then brings it up to his room, backpack slung over his shoulder. Derek's at his desk, unsurprising. Stiles just wasn't expecting him to be writing. He has to stand in the doorway, head tilted to the left, wondering what Derek could be writing, fixing, editing.
"Close your mouth," Derek demands. Stiles snaps it shut, unaware he had it open. He sets up on his bed (his desk is occupied), and sits with his back against the frame.
Stiles gets most of his homework done in the three hours Derek's sitting there. Still. "Don't you, you know, have a house you can squat in?"
"Argents," is the only response, goes back to reading, highlighting, note-taking.
"Apartment."
"Fugitive."
A game. This'll be fun.
"Scott."
A pause. "Melissa."
Stiles suppresses a grin. "She doesn't have a very consistent schedule, does she?"
Derek flips the page, eyes darting back and forth. "Short hours. Very aware of her house."
Stiles wants to say, "Allison," but he feels he may get thrown out of the window. (Wouldn't happen. Sure of it. Well, 75% sure.) "Deaton."
Derek looks up, confused. "Am I causing you problems?"
"No," Stiles says, a tad quickly, but what can you do. "Curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat."
"But satisfaction brought it back," Stiles shoots back.
"Are you purposely interrupting me or are you always like this?"
Stiles shrugs. "Depends on the day. Today is filled with purpose, though."
"Why?"
"Because Scott has his own problems. He cares about everything and anything. Sometimes too intensively. He needs help with his own problem right now. I seem to distract him than help him."
"You're distracting me." Derek still hasn't looked up at Stiles.
Another shrug. Derek doesn't see. Maybe he can hear it. "I want to rip my stitches out. Talking endlessly is easier and less painful."
"Not to me."
"Ha ha. Really funny." Stiles rubs the gauze on his hand gently. Not causing pain yet. No matter what Derek says. He sighs, exhaling all of the air from his lungs before filling them back up. He winces when he accidentally presses too hard.
Derek looks up, first time since Stiles entered the room hours ago, eyes fixed on Stiles' hands. Stiles notices, but he's out of the room and in the bathroom before Derek says or does anything.
"Dammit," Stiles mutters as he peels off the gauze, revealing the blood slowly pooling in his palm. He turns on the water, light flow, and rinses off his wound. He dries it quickly with a paper towel, wraps it lightly, then goes downstairs to find the extra gauze Melissa gave them. (Keep dry, clean with antibiotics, change gauze when needed.)
He finds it on the table, and carefully wraps it around his hand, taping it when he's done. He sighs, and takes a pain pill, swallowing it down with water. His hand's throbbing now. Should be. Might fall asleep soon. Should be careful.
Stiles figures out what happened when Derek's gently tugging on his arms. He fell asleep while walking up the stairs. Wow. Stiles sometimes forgets how quickly pain pills effect him, but he was sure he was just at the table, not two seconds ago.
He must've said as much, because Derek says, "You were down here for ten minutes. Found you sleeping on the stairs. Again."
Right. Stiles also broke his ankle a few weeks ago. Same thing happened, but instead of pills, he almost passed out on pain. He can't talk, his tongue's too heavy, and tries to help Derek walk him to his room.
The plus? His hand doesn't hurt anymore.
Stiles manages a slurred "Thanks," gets to watch Derek's fuzzy shadow return to Stiles' desk, and Stiles smiles and falls asleep.
He wakes up, sun in his eyes, and yawns. Right away, he knows something's wrong. His desk is clean, free of clutter. Laptop's directly in front of his chair, pens and pencils (sharpened) in the cup, sticky-notes neatly stacked on the left, and any books stacked on the right.
Stiles doesn't see Derek for a bit, so he can't say thanks. He forgets (but not really).