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Stiles tossed his muddy bag down onto his bed and flicked on the lamp. He crossed his room and pulled open his closet, grabbing the increasingly substantial first aid kit from the top shelf, tossing it onto the bed before looking at himself in the full length mirror that stood next to the window.
He was muddy and roughed up and there was an already impressive looking bruise blooming on his right cheek.
“Could be worse,” he said to his reflection.
Turning his left arm towards the mirror, he looked down at the real problem area.
The jacket was a write-off. The slash in the sleeve was mendable, but that much blood wasn’t going to come out anytime soon. Stiles eased it back off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor, hissing as it tugged on the long gash across the top of his arm. He kicked it away and glared at his t-shirt. The blood was drying a dark, rusty brown colour, standing out starkly against the pale blue cotton.
Getting the t-shirt off was going to be more trouble and pain than it was worth so Stiles sighed and accepted the inevitable, flipping the lid open on the first aid box and pulling out a pair of scissors. The movement jostled the bag and the little idol statue rolled out and grinned up at him, sharp polished stone teeth glinting in the lamplight.
“I don’t know what you’re smiling about,” Stiles said, waving the scissors at it. “No virgin sacrifices for you tonight.”
Taking a last longing look at his shirt, he sighed and set the scissors to the bottom edge, slicing up through the material carefully until it fell away at the neck and hung open. He shrugged his right shoulder out of its sleeve and began to slowly peel the stiffening material off his left.
“And I resent that, by the way.” He told the statue through gritted teeth. “The way your priests went straight for me. There were other people out there too. Like Isaac.”
The material clung to the edges of the cut, stuck where it was drying, and Stiles sucked in a breath before tugging it up and away.
“Jesus Christ, god damned werewolves and their supernatural bullshit.” He cursed loudly breathing through the vicious tear of pain that ran down his arm.
“Isaac’s prime virgin sacrifice material.” Stiles continued once he had himself under control again. “Or Boyd. Boyd could be a virgin. I know he’s with Erica now but that doesn’t mean anything and on their behalf I resent that implication.”
He jabbed a reprimanding finger at the idol for a second before he turned away to look at the mirror again.
The cut arced up gently towards the crest of his shoulder, falling away as it ran over the back of his arm and back down onto his shoulder blade. Twisting to follow the length of the cut, he pressed gingerly along the edge as it oozed sluggishly. The knife had been so sharp it had honestly taken Stiles a while to feel it. It was only when he’d gone to pick up the fallen statue and saw the blood trickling down his fingers from inside his sleeve that he even registered the cut at all.
At least it was clean and neat.
He pulled out the iodine and one of the suture kits he and Scott had stolen from the hospital and glared hard at it.
“Well this is going to suck.” He told the idol as he poured the iodine onto the gauze from the kit. “I should smash you to pieces for this on it’s own without all the summoning-an-ancient-Mesopotamian-blood-god stuff.”
Somehow Stiles expected the sting of the iodine to have lessened with familiarity, but the sting of it when he pressed the cloth across the wound still shocked the breath out of him. He grit his teeth as he wiped the wound as clean as he could before looking down at the needles in the kit glinting at him, curved and sharp.
“It’s distressing that I know exactly which needle to use for this.” He pulled out one of the longer needles, showing it to the idol. “I’m pretty sure no one that isn’t a trained medical professional should know that. But I do and that should tell you pretty much everything about my life.” His voice cracked into a bitter laugh, stifled when the movement sent a tear of pain through his shoulder, making his eyes prickle and his lips thin.
A part of him - a young part that seemed to be slipping away more and more each day - wanted to just stop. He wanted to call for his dad and ask him to come home, to do this for him or to at least tell him he didn’t have to do this on his own.
But calling his dad meant telling him the truth or telling him more lies, and Stiles thought if he were forced to tell another outright lie while watching disappointment etch lines deeper and deeper into his dad’s face....no. No, he was not doing that.
Stiles looked back at himself in the mirror and blew out a long breath.
So he was on his own and he had to get the wound stitched up.
The press of the needle into his skin was never the worst part. It was painful but it was a short sharp shock of pain that he could breathe deep and grit his teeth through. The worst part was the pulling sensation - the sick drag of thread through and out that didn’t seem to stop even when the needle had. It made his stomach roll but at least it didn’t make him have to stop and run to the bathroom anymore. He couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or not.
It took longer than expected. The angle was awkward and he was down a hand so he had to go much more slowly than normal, pulling the thread through half an inch at a time so as not to tear anything, until he could clamp it between his lips and use his right hand to hold the wound closed as he tugged the stitch into place.
There were eight tidy stitches before he realised he was never going to be able to reach the end.
No matter how he twisted his body or stretched his good arm around himself, there was just no way he could get to the last two inches.
There was blood on his lips, the metallic taste laying heavy on his tongue. It was crusted down the length of his arm, in the crook of his elbow, between his fingers. Blood was all he could smell and taste and he knew it would stop if only he could close the damn wound.
He stood, the needle pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he stared at the half-stitched cut.
And then the needle was gone from his hand, thread tugged gently from between his lips. A dark shape moved in his line of sight and the scent of leather and pine cut through the fog of blood smothering his senses.
He looked up, eyes focusing.
Derek was standing in front of him with the bloody needle between his fingers, looking at Stiles. It took Stiles another minute to translate the look on Derek’s face and realise that Derek was offering to help. Derek was waiting for his permission.
Stiles wanted to question it, of course he did because that’s what he always did, but the cut on his arm tugged again, last stitch giving way a little and he winced. He needed help and Derek was offering.
His expression must have granted the permission Derek was looking for because now he was moving. He stepped forward slowly; reaching for Stiles like he was something breakable and Stiles might have been offended if he hadn’t been so fucking grateful. Derek turned him, stepping slowly behind him, watching Stiles’s face in the mirror from over his shoulder as he took up the slack in the thread. Then his eyes dropped to his work.
The needle was still as sharp when Derek pressed it into Stiles skin, the pull of the thread still as drawn out and stiles couldn’t hold back the quiet hiss that escaped. In the mirror Derek frowned, his eyes flicking up to meet Stiles’s. The pain dialled down to something bearable and Stiles knew if he could see it, Derek’s free hand would be covered in black lines as he smoothed it up and down Stiles’s spine in what felt like an apology.
Any other day Stiles would have laughed and made a joke about being petted like a spooked animal by the big scary werewolf, but the impulse died away as Derek’s large hand came back to rest against his shoulder blade, holding the skin in place as his Derek pressed the needle carefully through Stiles’s flesh again and again. Derek was a fierce wall of heat at his back and the steady flow of his breath drifted over Stiles shoulder as he worked. Stiles’ felt his own breathing slow to match, everything dwindling down to that joint rhythm until he could barely feel the tug of the thread.
Lost in that rhythm, Stiles didn’t immediately notice that Derek had finished. His eyes lifted slowly up to the mirror when Derek moved, a glint of something shiny in Derek’s fingers forcing Stiles to focus. Derek was standing still behind him, waiting for Stiles to watch him as he threw the needle in the trash, for Stiles to see that it was over.
It was over.
The relief that washed through him almost sent him to his knees but Derek was there, wrapping his arm around Stiles’s waist and drawing him back against his chest carefully to avoid pulling the new stitches.
“Thanks.” Stiles said quietly.
Derek didn’t move away even when Stiles got his feet back under him. He remained standing there pressed up against Stiles, one arm loose and warm around his middle, just looking at Stiles in the mirror like he’d never seen him before.
In all fairness, he hadn’t. At least not like this. Stiles made a point of not being shirtless in front of the pack. They thought it was because he was body-shy and he happily played along, letting them rib him gently when they went for pack runs in all their half naked glory, pretending to be embarrassed in the locker room at school. It was far easier to explain that away than the alternative.
The alternative that Derek was examining in detail as his gaze locked onto the three long, thin scars that ran the length of Stiles collar bone.
Derek’s free hand came up to brush his fingertips lightly over the silvery skin of the scars.
“Banshee.” Stiles said when Derek met his eyes in the mirror, the clench in his jaw evidence that Derek remembered that particular incident well.
Stiles watched as Derek's eyes moved across his chest to the ragged star shaped brand that started above Stiles right nipple and finished under his arm. Derek’s fingers moved again, dragging through the dusting of dark hair to trace the edges of the still pink mark.
“Witch.” Stiles said, not bothering to elaborate on the specifics. They’d taken on three in the last eighteen months and none of the experiences had been pleasant. Witches had a habit of going for soft targets.
The sudden stillness behind him was all Stiles needed to know what Derek was focused on now.
He let Derek slide his arm off his waist, let him grip his hips gently and turn him slightly so that the scar was completely exposed to the mirror.
This one was his worst - the result of a Fae spell that had hit him before he’d managed to wrap the demented creature in iron. The chains had cut off the creature’s magic before it had the chance to eat right through him, but the damage had been done.
He’d managed to stagger back to his jeep, climbing in and racing home, clear of the pack as they set about the thrashing Fairie. The spell hadn’t taken long to kick in and he’d been lucky that Deaton was sitting in his kitchen waiting for him to report back when Stiles had fallen in through the front door, clutching his side as the spell crawled over and through him, trying to core him out.
Deaton told him later that the spell had missed its intended target, his heart, and that he’d been lucky. Stiles had laughed hysterically before passing out on his bed.
Stiles had let his dad think the wound had been from falling off Scott’s motocross bike. The pack thought the week he’d spent in bed was due to bruised ribs. Both were good covers while he lay still and tried not to dislodge the iron sulphate and mountain ash poultice Deaton had made to completely eradicate any leftover magic.
He’d lied and they’d believed.
It hadn’t been the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. It kept the status quo and for Stiles that was worth deceiving his friends for.
Except that now Derek was staring right at the evidence of his deception.
Stiles didn’t look at it too much anymore. He was used to the ragged lines that crept like a living thing down his ribs and around his waist. The thickest parts just under his ribs were still red despite being healed over for months, shading to pink as they dipped low onto his belly and towards his groin before they finally faded out.
Stiles sometimes thought it would never fade completely. It would always be angry and glaring.
“You weren’t supposed to find out.” He said quietly watching Derek as he looked over the scar, turning Stiles gently to follow the spidery trails.
Derek stopped and raised his gaze to meet Stiles’s, anger tensing his jaw, confusion and affront warring across his brow.
Stiles sighed. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d try to stop me helping.” In the mirror Derek opened his mouth to argue, but Stiles continued, cutting Derek off. “The pack needs me.” It wasn’t arrogance. Everything they’d been through in the last couple of years had proved that the Hale pack was stronger for its human members. Derek had long since stopped protesting that. “But if you guys knew about this kind of thing, you’d start treating me differently and you’d stop telling me the things I need to know to keep the people I care about safe.”
Derek’s eyes dropped guiltily for a second and Stiles nodded and sighed. “I just need to keep them safe, Derek, and to do that I have to be there with them when shit like tonight goes down. I can’t sit around and do nothing just because I might get a few cuts and bruises.”
Derek’s eyebrows lifted but Stiles shook his head, raising his chin. “I can handle it. I’ve been handling it and that’s the point. You don’t have to worry about me.”
Stiles watched as his words sank in. He’d known this would happen eventually. The pack wasn’t stupid and if he was honest with himself he was surprised he’d gotten away with it for as long as he had.
And now he’d been caught.
He expected Derek to back away, for him to cross his arms and tell him he’d been stupid for keeping this from them, that this was evidence that Stiles was a better resource safe and warm, wrapped in cotton wool at home.
What he wasn’t expecting was for Derek to nod slowly like he understood, soft eyes holding Stiles gaze for a second before they fell to the scar again.
Stiles blinked rapidly, momentarily unable to process what he’d just seen. But he had seen it. Derek understood.
The sudden wave of relief that washed over him left Stiles a little giddy. A shaky smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He had someone he could tell, someone to call if he needed more than his own hands. And it was Derek, of all people.
He sobered a little because, yes, Derek was trusting him on this, but that meant Stiles had to return the favour. Derek was an all or nothing guy. He wouldn’t accept Stiles fobbing him off. He’d want to know everything and after so much time keeping all of this to himself, Stiles realised that was going to be hard.
Stiles frowned, trying to figure out the last time he’d told anyone in the pack the whole truth about himself.
The gentle brush of fingers along his scar chased away his introspection.
The scar was still sensitive, always just on the wrong side of painful and Stiles avoided touching it more than he had to. But this was different. The slow trailing of Derek’s fingers made Stiles breath catch in his throat as they made their way across and down, tripping from one jagged line to the next.
Derek began to stroke gently over the thicker, darker area, smoothing the flat of his hand across the worst of it, covering it from sight.
The pressure and warmth pushed a slow shiver through Stiles, spreading out over his ribs, settling low in his stomach and the breath he’d been holding left him in a rush.
Derek’s attention was completely fixed on where his fingers had fit themselves over the longer tendrils of scar tissue that radiated out over his ribs and stomach.
“It’s alright.” Stiles murmured, the words laying thick on his tongue, stilted on the way out. “’m alright.”
A huff of breath drifted over Stiles shoulder and he was pulled tighter back against Derek, a pained expression furrowing Derek’s brow and making his jaw clench.
“I‘m fine, Derek.” Stiles tried again, wanting to soothe the tension in Derek’s face, but Derek didn’t seem to be listening anymore.
Derek’s fingers flexed over the scars, tightening on his waist and stretching out to cover as much as they could reach.
Stiles swallowed and closed his eyes against the sight. It felt intimate in a way Stiles hadn’t ever experienced before. Derek was seeing more of Stiles than he’d let anyone see since he’d gotten involved in this supernatural mess.
The soft scrape of Derek’s stubble had Stiles eyes opening again. Derek’s lips were pressed into the bare curve of his shoulder, not moving, just resting there as Derek looked down Stiles body rather than at its reflection.
Stiles felt his breathing pick up.
Stiles’s attraction to Derek was something he’d harboured quietly for a while. He hadn’t said anything about it out loud to any of the pack and his lifelong crush, even though it was all but over, on Lydia provided him with cover just in case any suspicious werewolf noses came poking around. It wasn’t really necessary. He was good at compartmentalising and these days even better at hiding his physical responses.
Unlike his crush on Lydia which had always been theoretical, Stiles attraction to Derek was based on solid evidence and experience. It’d started slowly. Time went on and they’d fought and bled together, saved eachother more than enough times to make it a habit. It didn’t hurt that Derek looked the way he did but Stiles had seen Derek changing in other ways, growing less cold, smiling a little more, thinking things through before he ran headfirst into danger, listening to his betas and to Deaton. Listening to Stiles.
Anyone would fall a little in love with that, Stiles reasoned. Not that he was in love but it was more than just basic biology.
If nothing else, though, Stiles was a realist. He knew it wasn’t likely his feelings would be returned and he’d made peace with that. All he wanted was for Derek to see him as useful. Necessary. As part of the pack.
That didn’t mean he stopped thinking about it. About the possibility that one day Derek might look at him differently. That Derek might genuinely care about Stiles the person, not just Stiles the resource. That Derek might want to touch Stiles the way he does when Stiles lets his imagination out to play.
Now here he was with Derek’s hands on his skin, so close to that fantasy, and Stiles found himself frowning.
Over time Derek had become tactile with his betas. It developed slowly as they all got used to their places in the pack, but his impenetrable bubble of personal space had practically disappeared and now it was nothing for him to reach out to his beta’s, reaffirming bonds with touches and roughhousing. He was especially hands-on when they’d been hurt, pulling them close and taking their pain until they healed.
The touching had never included Stiles though, and Stiles hadn’t taken it personally. It had actually suited him. Made it easier to hide his scars. But now that Derek knew what Stiles had been hiding, he couldn’t help wondering if that was what this was. Stiles couldn’t see Derek’s face properly at this angle, but he suspected he knew the look he’d see there. Protectiveness. Responsibility. Concern. A hint of fear. It was the way he always looked at his beta’s when they were hurt. Maybe Derek was trying to treat Stiles like the rest of the pack. Maybe that was why Derek had his hands on Stiles.
So yes, Stiles was honest enough with himself to know that he wanted Derek, wanted Derek’s hands on him, but if this was just about pack, then Stiles needed to keep his distance for his own sanity. Eventually, when Stiles had gotten over his attraction, he could probably handle the physical side, but right now he was hurt and Derek being so close was confusing him.
He wrapped his blood-stained fingers around Derek’s wrist. “I’m okay, Derek, really. You don’t have to… with the hands. Trust me, I’ve ha-…” Stiles trailed off because in the mirror Derek was looking at him.
Derek's eyes were bleeding to red at the edges, a faint matching flush colouring his cheeks. He looked controlled and calm, with hints of the face Derek wore when he comforted his betas, but underneath there was a kind of hunger Stiles hadn’t seen in Derek before.
Stiles swallowed hard. Derek wanted Stiles and he wasn’t hiding it.
“That’s...yeah. Unexpected.” Stiles breathed, his grip going tight on Derek’s arm.
A tiny hint of embarrassment crossed Derek's face, quickly replaced by a determined look, chin lifting because he wasn’t ashamed. He wanted Stiles and he wasn’t going to apologise for it.
“O-...okay.” Stiles nodded and blinked a few times.
In the mirror Derek frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Stiles interrupted him, smiling because of course Derek wanted his consent.
“Yes, Derek.” Stiles said quietly. “I’m saying yes.”
It was obviously what Derek needed to hear because he nodded once, eyes flashing red for a second before he dropped his head back down to rest against the juncture of Stiles neck and shoulder, hands moving again, still gentle but determined now.
A throb of arousal tensed the muscles under the flats of Derek’s fingers. Derek’s free hand started moving, sliding low across Stiles belly, brushing through the line of hair below Stiles navel and down to dip just under the waistband of Stiles jeans, resting there for a moment before Derek twisted his fingers around, working the top button free, pushing the fly open and then slipping them further down under the elastic of Stiles’s underwear to brush gently through the coarse hair there.
The hand covering Stiles scar slipped across his ribs, pulling Stiles tighter against Derek while the other dipped down lower beneath the cotton of Stiles boxers, sliding slowly around the base of Stiles cock.
The smile fell away from Stiles lips, his mouth falling open on a gasp instead.
Derek kept his movements slow and soft, fingers running over Stiles hardening length making Stiles stomach tighten and release with every pass. It was maddening but Stiles couldn’t look away, watching Derek's hand moving under the fabric of his jeans.
A frustrated breath burned hot on his shoulder for a second before Derek's hand was withdrawing, trailing over Stiles hip, hooking one side of his pants and underwear and pushing them gently down. Biting his lip, Stiles ran his free hand under the waistband of his boxers shoved the other side down, hissing as the waistband snagged on the head of his cock before slipping it past and down to mid-thigh.
Stiles felt exposed and raw and when he looked at his reflection he looked debauched, bottom lip bitten and bee-stung, a rash of red blooming across his pale chest, clashing with the dark stains of the dried blood on down his arm.
He risked a glance at Derek and caught the trailing edge of his hot gaze as it slid over Stiles body. The hungry look was back, eyes blown dark, ringed red, nostrils flaring as he took Stiles in with his heightened senses.
The first gentle curl of Derek’s fingers closing around his hard cock punched a breath out of Stiles, sharp and loud in the quiet. Derek made an answering noise, stubble scratching as his lips parted gently over the curve of Stiles shoulder.
A shudder rolled through Stiles, raising goose-bumps in its wake and making his cock pulse hard in Derek's hand as it started to move over him, slow and steady. Derek thumbed the head, spreading pre-come around and dragging it back down.
He couldn’t watch. The sensations were already too much, pleasure rolling through him as Derek stroked him smoothly. Stiles let his head drop back onto Derek's shoulder, eyes falling shut and mouth falling open on a moan. He could feel Derek everywhere, surrounding him, his hands like brands on his skin, warming him from the outside in, but still being gentler than Stiles ever really thought Derek capable of.
“Derek...” He murmured, suddenly desperate to know that he wasn’t alone, that Derek was affected as badly as he was. “Is this... are you...?” Stiles let the words die on his tongue in favour of rocking his hips back experimentally. The hard line of Derek's cock pressed against his tailbone and Derek let out a shaky, stunned noise, his hand tightening on Stiles’s ribs like he hadn’t been expecting the sensation, too focused on Stiles to pay attention to his own arousal.
It was a heady feeling and Stiles let out a breathy laugh, reaching behind him with his free hand, ignoring the warning tug of the stitches in his shoulder in favour of pulling clumsily at Derek’s jeans, trying to drag another gutted sound from him. Derek was ready for him though, twisting his hips away, tightening his grip on Stiles cock and dragging his thumb across a spot under the head that had Stiles seeing stars.
Stiles groaned, squeezing Derek’s wrist tightly, trying to ground himself. But the adrenaline was still buzzing under his skin, amplifying every move of Derek’s hands, conspiring to bring him to the edge and throw him off.
“Derek.” Stiles gasped out. “God...I’m...I can’t-...please, Derek.”
Derek made a desperate noise. “Stiles...” he whispered, voice soft and pleading like he needed this too, like he wanted to hold Stiles up while he shook apart.
It was too much for Stiles. The sweet ache that had been building in his gut sank low and pulled taught for a delicious second before snapping free, spreading out in waves and stealing his breath as pleasure rolled through him.
He opened his eyes just in time to watch himself come messily over Derek’s fingers where they worked him through it. Derek's eyes flashed red in the mirror for a second before he closed them and buried his face in Stiles neck, breathing hard.
The aftershocks died away slowly and Stiles was left suddenly exhausted in their wake, swaying a little as Derek laid a kiss on Stiles shoulder, dropping his hands to tug Stiles clothes back into place before wrapping his arms around Stiles’s middle.
Stiles took a minute just to soak in the feeling of Derek around him, holding him up.
His shoulder throbbed and his skin was tight and dry under the blood and grime. He needed to shower. He needed to sleep. He needed to talk to Derek too, but he didn’t have the energy and he especially didn’t want to break this private, peaceful thing that had grown up around them.
Eventually Derek shifted. He stepped back, taking his heat and support with him and Stiles sagged a little before he caught himself, turning to face Derek.
“So I’m going to shower because I’m totally disgusting.” Stiles said, scratching at the flaking blood on his shoulder.
Derek nodded and his lips thinned, shoulders hunching. He took a step towards the window but Stiles wasn’t about let that happen. After everything that had happened tonight Stiles wasn’t about to let him just leave.
He winced as the sudden movement pulled the stitches in his shoulder but he caught Derek’s hand and tugged gently until Derek turned back.
“You should stay.” Stiles said, smiling. “I mean it. I want you to stay, okay?”
Derek’s shoulders dropped, tension bleeding out of them. “Okay.” He said quietly, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
Stiles grabbed a pair of sweats from an open drawer and made for the door. “Just…make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back.”
Stiles didn’t waste time in the shower; just enough to get the worst of the night off before climbing out, towelling off and getting into his sweats.
Derek had settled on the edge of Stiles’s bed, boots lined up neatly next to the bedside cabinet, jacket laid over them. He looked up; smiling when Stiles came in and Stiles felt something in his chest loosen.
He climbed onto the bed and stretched out on his right side as Derek watched until he was settled, sliding an arm under Stiles neck and pressing close.
Stiles didn’t know what this thing with Derek was, but when Derek was wrapped around him, fingers rubbing gently up and down his injured arm, nose pressed into the hair behind Stiles’s ear, breathing deep and slow Stiles didn’t much care.
He’d worry about it in the morning.