Chapter Text
The rescue, when it happens, is honestly kind of rude.
Scott hits the door first and it's not graceful — nothing about Scott is graceful when someone he loves is in trouble — and the sound the wood makes coming off the hinges is genuinely embarrassing for the door.
Stiles doesn't see it so much as hear it — the yelling, the boots on concrete, then the specific sound of Derek being Derek at someone. The hunters stop being the main problem in the room almost immediately.
The younger hunter makes it about three steps before Derek slams him into the wall hard enough to crack drywall.
Another hunter goes down under a blur of claws and fury that’s probably Erica unless Boyd finally snapped and honestly either option feels fair at this point.
Someone is yelling his name.
Actually multiple people are yelling his name.
That feels excessive.
“Stiles!”
“Don’t move!”
“Like I can!” Stiles shouts back annoyed and weary in a way that feels bone deep.
The thing is, he means that.
He’d actually been planning on sitting here for at least another minute because the adrenaline currently holding his body together feels deeply conditional and he does not trust it even a little.
Scott reaches him first.
Of course Scott reaches him first.
He drops to his knees in front of the chair so fast he almost slides on the concrete, hands hovering uselessly for one panicked second like he can’t decide what part of Stiles to grab first.
“Are you hurt?”
“Define hurt.”
“Stiles.”
“I can still feel most of my fingers which honestly feels medically optimistic.”
Behind him, Derek appears abruptly at Stiles’s shoulder and reaches to slice the zip-ties loose from Stiles’ wrists.
“Wait,” Stiles says.
Nobody listens to him.
Which, rude.
The zip-tie snaps and everything goes wrong at once.
The tension vanishes from his shoulders so suddenly it feels like a structural collapse. His arms snap forward automatically and uselessly, pain flashing white-hot as something shifts violently out of place on the left side. His entire upper body folds instinctively over itself before he can stop it, breath punching out of him hard enough to make his vision spark.
“Oh,” Stiles gasps.
That was significantly worse than anticipated.
Scott catches him before he can pitch sideways out of the chair completely. “Stiles?”
“I changed my mind,” Stiles says faintly into Scott’s shoulder. “I’m hurt.”
Derek’s hand clamps down hard on the back of the chair before Scott can try to haul Stiles upright.
“Don’t.”
Everyone freezes.
Derek is staring at Stiles’ shoulders with an expression Stiles absolutely does not enjoy.
Because one of Stiles’ arms is sitting lower than the other now and Stiles remembers it was the one that kept slipping out earlier.
“Can you move your fingers?” Derek asks.
Stiles wiggles them experimentally.
“Well. Statistically some of them are thriving.”
“Stiles.”
“Sorry. Yes. Mostly.”
Derek crouches slightly, eyes tracking the way Stiles is folded forward around his own ribcage, the protective hunch his body defaulted to the second the restraints stopped holding everything in place.
Derek's jaw does something as his gaze roves over Stiles’ body taking in possible damage.
"Okay," Derek says, mostly to himself. Then, he turns to Scott. "We're not moving him fast. Get the car as close as you can."
Stiles blinks to see Scott is already gone.
The room has gone quiet in the way rooms go quiet after something loud — the particular ringing absence of it. Stiles can hear his own breathing, which is shallower than he'd like and doing something complicated around the left side. He's aware of Derek still crouched at his level, not touching, just present, and he's aware that the column of things he's been moving to tomorrow has gotten very full and tomorrow is now approximately twenty minutes away.
"I told you to wait," Stiles says.
"I know," Derek says.
"The tension was the only thing holding everything in place."
"I know that—now."
Stiles laughs, short and involuntary, and immediately regrets it. "Add it to the list of things that are funny about tonight."
Derek doesn't laugh. He looks at Stiles with that expression again, the one from when the door came in, the one Stiles still doesn't have a name for.
"We're going to talk about the list," Derek says. "Later."
"Looking forward to it," Stiles says, and means approximately none of it, and they both know that, and Derek lets it go for now.
Headlights from Derek’s SUV sweep through the broken door.
Derek helps ease him into a standing position and gives him all the time he needs. He starts limping towards the door because apparently his knee has decided it deserved participation points and groans. “Tomorrow is really going to suck.”
“We’ll come over and ply you with food and movies,” Derek promises as Stiles gingerly shifts into the back seat.
“Thai food?” Stiles asks, interest piqued.
Derek snorts, “From that Thai place you like, not Thailand.”
Stiles rolls his eyes, “Weak, but acceptable.”