Enough

gfdisterek:

I’d briefly posted this as an addition to a fanartist’s post, as this little scene was inspired by that art. Being anxiety-prone, I panicked and deleted it.

The picture was of Stiles getting up in Derek’s face, obviously angry. I think I remember the words “self-sacrificial bullshit” being involved. I can’t find it at the moment.

Derek is still bleeding when Stiles stomps across the clearing to stand over him, one foot landing with a squelch in monster entrails, not that his other sneaker fared much better.

“Of all the reckless-”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts, holding his hands up as he stands up to show he’s not hurt, everything’s fine.

Raising his voice, Stiles continues, “–moronic, needlessly fucking heroic things I have ever seen you do–” Derek can tell he’s just warming up, but he’s a little caught on the h-word; he doesn’t think Stiles has used it before, not for him. “That was-”

“Stiles, it’s okay,” he tries to head him off, but Stiles won’t be deterred.

“Derek, if you ever–”

“I’m okay,” Derek says.

Stiles twists his fist in Derek’s Henley, heedless of the way it rips under his fingertips, which, right, there was already a hole there from when the creature got him in the chest.

“Stiles, I’m-”

“No!” He points, practically touching Derek’s lips, hunches up further in Derek’s space. “You don’t get to interrupt me. Do you know how terrified I was? Do you have any idea how scared I was that this was it? He slit your throat, Derek! That was a lot of blood! Oh my god, so much blood.” Stiles’s voice cracks. He’s shaking violently, his knuckles knocking against Derek’s chest. “I’ve seen you come back from a lot, but I’m pretty sure even you can’t come back from decapitation.”

He isn’t wrong, but. Derek wraps his hand around Stiles’s fist, trying to steady him. “He was going to hurt you. I have a better chance of survival, Stiles, I-”

“You know what? I’ve had more than enough of your self-sacrificial bullshit, buddy!” Stiles interrupts, free hand waving around. “Enough for lifetimes. I don’t want you to throw yourself on a grenade for me, okay? In fact, I’m explicitly telling you not to.”

“Grenade?” Derek repeats, momentarily thrown.

“Grenade, giant slime monster, rodents of unusual size–”

“I don’t think those exist,” Derek says. There it is; a hint of a smile.

“It still freaks me out when you throw out pop culture references,” Stiles says, but he sags a little, loosens his fingers. There’s red marks from how tight he’d wound them in Derek’s shirt. “I don’t want you to die for me. I don’t want you to die at all. I mean, I know eventually, logically, even werewolves aren’t immortal, but.”

Derek feels warm. “Stiles.”

“Stop trying to distract me by saying my name.” Stiles shoves Derek back. He turns too fast and trips over the monster’s corpse. “Gah! Gross.”

“You should head home,” Derek says. He nudges the creature with his foot. Still dead; that’s a plus.

“You mean we,” Stiles says.

“I’ve got to cover this up,” Derek says.

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “I have a shovel in the Jeep. Come on, I’ll help you and we’ll go back to yours. My landlord put in security cameras and I can’t go back there covered in blood again. He’s going to report me.”

Derek nods. “Sounds good. Want to order a pizza when we get back?”

“Do I,” Stiles says, starting off toward the Jeep. “I’m starving.”