Derek gets angry at Stiles for getting hurt.
never draws not ten wofl ever again 8(
WRITE ME A FIC??????????????????????? Or give me some angsty/fluff Sterek fics or imma cry?//
Derek was pretty sure Stiles wasn’t this stupid. He was at least 50% sure that Stiles knew, at least subconsciously, there was no way Derek wouldn’t be able to make the connection. It was a glaringly obvious thread between his split lip and bashed in cheek with the fact that Stiles was standing in his apartment, flippantly asking if Derek had any alcohol because that’s what you did when you broke up with someone, right?
The bruises on Stiles’ knuckles and the broken thumb were like icing on the cake.
“Where is he?” Derek barked, forcefully uncurling his hands from fists to keep from letting his anger get the best of him. Stiles paused, halfway in Derek’s cabinets in an attempt to raid them for liquor, and stared Derek down like the guy was questing to slay a dragon in the middle of Beacon Hills with only a box of toothpicks and some MacGyver ingenuity.
“Uh,” Stiles began, tonguing the cut on his lip and breaking the skin open again so it bled fresh. His eyes darted to the half-empty bottle of whiskey that his hands were curling around the neck of, and then back to Derek. “I broke his nose, so, you don’t actually have to do anything. Contrary to popular belief,” Stiles tugged the whiskey down, setting it on the counter and searching for one of the cups that he knew wasn’t designated as Derek or Isaac’s, “I can actually take care of myself. You don’t have to do anything.”
Derek forced himself to keep his breathing calm, to ignore the pang of hurt that ricocheted through his core. It wasn’t hard to get the underlying message, the silent sentence of, ‘you aren’t needed’ that was hidden somewhere in there. He stepped into the kitchen, pressing his hand down over the lid of the whiskey and forcing it back down on the counter before Stiles could pour any for himself.
“Why did you come here, then?”
Stiles looked up, and Derek plowed on as his frustration grew.
“Why would you let me see you like this? Jesus, Stiles,” Derek reached out, palming Stiles’ neck and forcing him to turn his head, “You’re still bleeding, and you don’t expect me to do anything about it?”
Stiles’ face went surprisingly expressionless, gaze focused somewhere blankly beyond Derek’s shoulder. Slowly, he dragged his eyes up to stare into Derek’s eyes with such an intensity that Derek’s hand fell from his neck. “Maybe I just came to the first place I felt safe at.” Stiles said quietly, voice thick with emotions Derek couldn’t understand.
There wasn’t enough time for Derek to really think over that single statement before Stiles was brushing past him and heading for the door. Derek didn’t let him even reach the living room, dragging Stiles back by the wrist and forcing the human to face him. The fragile, mortal, yet impossibly strong human who was constantly leaving everyone scrambling to keep up.
“You don’t get to walk away, Stiles.” Derek proclaimed angrily, tugging Stiles’ arm just once when Stiles tried to pull free. “You can’t walk away from something like that.”
“Really?” Stiles asked incredulously, gesturing to the door and adding dryly, “because that’s what I’m trying to do right now, since you obviously feel so burdened when I come to you with a problem that you assume I just want you to fix it so you can go on about your werewolf business of making coffee and angrily flipping channels trough reruns of college baseball games!”
Taken aback, Derek only let himself struggle for a few second to reply. Stiles was running circles around him, acting like he wanted something from Derek one second, and then turning around and vehemently reminding Derek that Stiles didn’t need him at all. “What do you want from me, Stiles? I’m not exactly much use to you, otherwise. In case it escaped your notice.”
“Maybe I just want you to be there!” Stiles cried, wrenching his hand from Derek’s grasp to throw his arms out. “Maybe I just want—”
“What did you think I would do when I found out he was hurting you?” Derek interrupted, angrily grabbing at Stiles’ chin to force the injured half of his cheek into Derek’s line of sight, like he could prove something with it. “Did you think I’d just sit back and let it happen?”
Stiles tensed, throat bobbing as he swallowed back all of the words he’d been ready to say. Instead of a litany of ranting accusations and explanations, Stiles’ eyes shuttered in an almost-blink before flicking up to Derek’s. “That’s not what I meant—”
“What else could it mean? What would you do if you found out someone had hurt Lydia? Would you let them get away with it? What about Scott? Or Isaac?”
“Then what?” Derek had crowded into Stiles’ space by now, able to hear Stiles’ heartbeat thundering. A single inhale told him that Stiles was scared, confused, and a whole other mix of emotions that Derek may have been able to decipher if he wasn’t so angry.
“I don’t want you to fight for me, man!” Stiles cried, chest heaving like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. Derek took a step back, trying to give him enough space to keep his panic at bay. Watching Stiles panic and rage, being helpless to stop it, was like digging a silver knife into his gut and twisting. If Stiles noticed, he said nothing about it, only shaking his head, “I don’t want to be the weak one, I just - “
“Stiles, you’re not weak.”
“Really?” The laugh that escaped Stiles was nothing but bitter before he pursed his lips for just a split second and then opened them to sigh quietly and look away. “I feel pretty weak.”
Derek held back the urge to snort, already recalling the countless amount of times that Stiles had willingly put his life in danger for each and every one of them. I anything, he may have been the strongest of them all. However, Derek had a feeling that’s not what Stiles wanted to hear. He desperately hoped that what he said, however, was. “You’re not weak to me.”
Stiles’ head turned, staring at Derek for such a long time that Derek was starting to feel unease. Stiles’ heartbeat was uneven, his body beaded with the scent of perspiration, blood, anxiety, and suffocating bitterness and frustration.
“I think it’s kind of weak of me to find a replacement for what I can’t have.”
The words struck Derek blind, his mind stuttering to a complete and utter halt. “You—what.”
“Only… you wouldn’t hurt me. Not like he did. I guess you’re only big and bad on the outside.” Stiles shifted backwards as he spoke, pulled away from Derek and towards the door. Derek felt gobsmacked, because Stiles couldn’t possibly mean what he was implying. Only, there really was no other way for Derek to interpret that.
”Stiles,” This time, it’s a growl, because Stiles is running away again. Running away and trying to ignore what’s happening, like it will go away eventually.
Derek lurched forward, snagging Stiles’ arm and ignoring the flinch that resulted. Instead, he pulled Stiles in close, brought his hand up to cradle Stiles’ jaw, to try and coax Stiles into looking at him. His thumb shifted, brushing over the bruising on Stiles’ bottom lip and smearing at the dried blood there.
“I’d never hurt you.”
Even though they both already knew this, Derek made sure to say it in a way that he hopes Stiles realized was agreement. In just those few words, Derek wasn’t saying only that, he was trying to tell Stiles, ‘yes. if we’re together, I won’t ever hurt you, I’d never want anything to happen to you.’
Stiles only hesitated for a split second, hand coming up and his long fingers curling over Derek’s wrist, holding it like a lifeline. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, but as determined as the slight tilt of his chin.
Derek kissed him.