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Derek is exhausted.
Well, that's not entirely true.
He'd gotten a full night of sleep, to be fair. He's not physically exhausted, but as he opens the door to Noah's hospital room to the sight of Stiles slumped over in one chair and Melissa passed out in the other and Scott trying to make Stiles keep up his proper hygiene, he feels a deep sort of fatigue settle in his bones. Derek sighs, setting his bag down, and he makes his way to the food court. The two of them need sleep more than he needs to go interrupting it, and if he comes back with coffee, Stiles will probably be much more agreeable.
Derek would never admit it, but he'd been looking forward to this for an entire year. Shopping for Christmas presents with Stiles is ridiculously fun, and Derek's not about to let the whole Deucalion-putting-his-second-father-in-a-coma situation get in the way of their annual tradition. Well, it won't be their actual tradition without Melissa, Noah, Lydia, and Scott, but Derek is perfectly content with that.
As much as he knows that Melissa and Scott need support, he knows that Stiles probably needs it more. At least for now. At least with what little support Derek can provide.
He watches the pot brew and nods at one of the nurses that passes by. By now, they must be used to at least one Stilinski present in the hospital at all times—namely Stiles, considering that he's been really obsessed with making sure he knows everything about what's going on with his dad. Derek can't blame him, of course. It's not as if Derek isn't worried about Noah, but it's a lot easier to trust in someone getting necessary medical care when you can see that care being provided, see those steps being taken right in front of you.
Derek's pretty sure Stiles hasn't gone to therapy since the day Noah had gotten hurt. That's worrying in and of itself—Stiles had even started to get excited about going to therapy, if Derek's recollection is to be trusted—but what's even more worrying is the fact that just as Stiles had started to get better, eating full meals and getting full nights of sleep at home in a comfortable bed, he'd started to drift back to staying at Noah's bedside and remaining there.
He knows it's not necessarily his responsibility to make sure that Stiles' alright, but...he's Stiles' boyfriend. Of course he's gonna try to cheer him up somewhat. From what Scott had briefly told Derek over text, Stiles hasn't been receptive to any offers to hang out or spend time beyond keeping Scott on comms for patrols. Stiles' clearly in desperate need of a break. I've already taken a long break, though, Stiles' voice parrots in his head, I don't need to stay on my ass any more than I already have. I've responsibilities to the city, Der.
If you ask Derek, he'd say that that's a load of garbage.
Screw this city. Screw them for electing the one guy that hates Spider-Man, screw them for getting so used to having a kid with superpowers solving their problems for them that they've forgotten to be thankful. Screw them for recording Stiles' breakdowns whenever they can and uploading them for everyone to see, for feigning support with empty hashtags while retweeting conspiracy theories about the one break he's taken since this had all begun. Derek hates Beacon Hills and everyone in it. Well, not everyone, of course, but he's pretty sure the people that are exempt from that generalization know it doesn't apply to them.
The coffee is done brewing. Derek pours three cups and grabs one of those cupholder trays, tucking the cups in, grabbing a few creams and sugars, and heading back down the hall. As he opens the door, Stiles stirs, and Derek stifles a laugh. Of course the enhanced senses would make him awaken at the smell of coffee. He sets the tray down on the rolling table and gently shakes Stiles' shoulder.
"Mmh, wh'time's it?" Stiles mumbles, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Derek just rolls his eyes and moves to wake Melissa. Stiles sniffs the air. "You brought food."
Granted, yeah, Derek had brought the food that people began leaving on the Stilinski doorstep, but he hadn't thought Stiles would be able to smell it through both the tupperware and his bag. Melissa sits up and checks her phone, sighing. "I can't stay for breakfast. Sorry. Are you spending the day here?" she asks, and Derek nods.
"Yeah, I was gonna get some Christmas shopping done," he says, shooing Stiles away from his bag. Derek's brows furrow as Melissa nods tiredly; she seems like she could use some more sleep, but it's fairly obvious that she's not going to be able to get any more. "Are you headin' off to work?"
Melissa groans. "Yeah, we've got a million things due, and they're moving some other patients into our floor indefinitely, something about them not having a base of operations anymore," she tells them, and Derek hums, noting that Stiles looks slightly concerned. She gives Derek's arm a quick squeeze as a 'thank you' and walks over to Noah to briefly press a kiss to his forehead before she grabs her coffee and leaves.
"You're going shopping?" Stiles asks, and Derek nods, unpacking some of the food and handing it, along with some utensils, to Stiles. Derek wonders if Stiles' eating anything other than the food they all bring for him—maybe something on patrol, God only knows every food truck owner in the city feeds the kid like he's starving. Stiles stuffs his face with the bacon, egg, cheese, and ham sandwich that Derek had packed. "When are you leaving?"
"A more accurate question would be 'when are we leaving,'" Derek tells him, and Stiles blinks, still devouring that sandwich. "Y'know, I'm not gonna let you skip out on Christmas shopping. We do it every year, and we're doing it this year, too."
Stiles smiles sadly at him and nods. "Yeah, alright," he says, quiet, far too quiet. Stiles isn't quiet, he's a firecracker, he's a spitfire. When he is more soft-spoken, it's not like this, it's not a somber kind of quiet, it's a gentle glow of embers, it's an easy warmth. This kind of quiet feels as chilling and sterile as the hospital room they're in. Like he's trying not to upset Derek.
"I thought it'd be harder to convince you to come with me," Derek adds, trying to wheedle his way to an actual answer. Stiles just shrugs and keeps eating. Well, Derek doesn't want to interrupt that, the kid needs to eat. But their conversation from the other day has really been bothering him. "Are you—"
"I'm fine, Der," Stiles assures him, though he remains oddly focused on Noah's heart rate monitor. Derek passes him one of the two remaining coffee cups and starts to down the other.
He has no idea what to do here. On one hand, he feels like he should leave it alone; the more he pushes Stiles to talk about how he feels, the more likely it is that Stiles will only withdraw further. Derek's not as stoic as he likes to make people think he is—partially because it's funny, partially because dealing with other people's emotions is uncomfortable, and he'd prefer to do that strictly with the people he trusts and cares about. He knows that he should get Stiles to confide in someone, even if it's not him.
Scott hasn't gotten him to talk, nor has Isaac, nor has Lydia, and while Derek is fairly confident that Stiles feels somewhat comfortable confiding in him now, if those three haven't had any luck, Derek's definitely not going to. There's still too much distance there, too much residual tension left. They'd talked about it, sure, but just talking about it doesn't erase the fact that, for whatever reason, Derek had liked Stiles for years.
He still doesn't fully understand why he'd done it, but it's done, and all he can do now is work to make up for it.
"Stiles, if you're not...if you don't want to talk, that's okay. But I'm here for you. It's gonna be rough," Derek says, and Stiles hums, sipping on his coffee and still looking at Phil, still tidying the sheets, "especially with Noah and the McCalls being here for Christmas—"
"He'll be up before then," Stiles says, "surely."
Derek resists the urge to sigh. "Yeah. He might wake up before then," Derek grants, and Stiles nods, seemingly satisfied. Derek sits down in the chair next to him. "But...love, you gotta be prepared for the possibility that he won't be."
"Don't be silly, Der, of course he's gonna be awake," Stiles says, and his hands start to shake a little. It's minute, but it's noticeable. Ah, damn, what was that thing that Melissa had told them all about? Those breathing exercises that Stiles' therapist had recommended. Derek can't remember the exact counts. "He's gonna be awake, and we're gonna have Christmas at home, like we always do."
"I just don't want you to get your hopes up," Derek tells him gently, "the doctors still aren't sure when he'll be awake."
"I know," Stiles says, sounding like he's been choked. Derek takes his hand. He's not the best with physical affection, much preferring words and little gestures that show that he does care, that he means it when he says he does. But Stiles is a very tactile person, always has been, and what Derek prefers doesn't really matter right now. Stiles laughs quietly. "It's...it's stupid, isn't it? To hope he'll be up."
"It's not stupid," Derek says, and he means it, "it's optimistic. You're hopeful. That's a good thing, especially considering everything you're going through. It's, uh...it's something I really admire about you, actually."
Stiles huffs out a laugh. "Really? You don't think I'm delusional or in denial or some shit?" he asks, and Derek knocks his knuckles against Stiles' shoulder.
"Well, a little of that, too, but..." he trails off, and Stiles laughs again. There's that warmth, that easy glow Derek's come to associate with his boyfriend. "Noah's gonna be fine while we're gone, y'know. He's got his doctors and his nurses. I can even call Isaac to come stay with him if you want."
Stiles shakes his head. "No, no, I know. It's fine, I just—I need a minute, that's all," he says, and Derek nods, giving Stiles' hand a light squeeze. He wishes he knew what goes on in Stiles' mind, wishes he could just peek into his boyfriend's psyche and understand what he's thinking. He wants to know why, wants to know how Stiles had decided on becoming Spider-Man. There's got to be something to it, something that Derek had missed, something that he hadn't known about Stiles because he'd missed out on being with Stiles growing up.
If that were the case, though, he supposes Stiles would've figured it out ages ago.
Derek honestly has no idea why Stiles is still acting as Spider-Man. Obviously, to some degree, he recognizes that Stiles feels a sort of responsibility for the city, for the actions of the supervillains terrorizing it, but...Derek just can't wrap his mind around why. Especially not now that he knows who half of them are. Frankly, Derek's never particularly liked or disliked Deaton, so the news didn't exactly shatter his worldview, but for Stiles...
Stiles had looked up to Deaton. Derek knows that. Stiles had seen Deaton as someone to be admired, someone to appreciate and listen to and take advice him. In a way, Derek supposes that Stiles had started to see Deaton the same way Deaton sees Stiles—as a friend. It stings a little to know that, if Derek's being honest with himself. But it hurts even more to see Stiles hurting, makes Derek infuriated to know that the man Stiles had put his faith and trust into had taken that and thrown it away, and for what? For money? Power?
Nothing is worth betraying Stiles. Nothing.
That's why he left his old life behind.
Not that Deaton knows that Stiles is Spider-Man, of course, but Derek can't understand it either way. Having the responsibility of students looking up to you, counting on you—had that not been enough of a deterrent for Deaton? Is that not enough to keep him from committing crime after crime? What on earth could be worth potentially hurting everyone you care about?
Derek doesn't understand it.
He's constantly trying to hold it together, too. If Stiles sees him break down, even just a little, Derek has no doubts that Stiles would blame himself, would think that he's the reason Derek is stressed beyond belief. Derek can't do that to Stiles. He can talk through things with Isaac and Scott, cry quietly with them and cope with them, but he can't do it in front of Stiles. They've all reached a silent agreement about that.
Isaac and Lydia don't know why Stiles' beating himself up about it, but they don't have to know. Derek gets why Stiles wants to keep his identity a secret from the people he cares about; after all, look at what had happened to Noah, and nobody even knew that Noah's related to Spider-Man. After all the other horrible things that have happened to Stiles, Derek wouldn't put it past the villains to find the people he cares about and use them against him.
It makes sense, but it doesn't make things any less painful. It doesn't make it any easier to have to cover for Stiles, to have to watch him get hurt over and over without being able to talk to anyone other than Scott or Stiles himself about it. Derek's just relieved he doesn't also have to think about his classes on top of everything else until January.
Stiles shifts, and Derek pulls himself out of his thoughts, humming. "You ready to go?" he asks, and Stiles nods as he rolls his shoulders. Derek stands and reaches over to give Noah's arm a gentle pat. "See you later, Noah."
Stiles looks up at that, eyes curious. Derek's glad for that; it's better than when his eyes are empty and tired. "You talk to him too?" he asks, sounding hopeful, and Derek nods. He's rambled idly to Noah every so often. It's better than the suffocating silence of the room. Stiles beams, and Derek pushes another one of the home-cooked snacks into his hands as he leads the way out of the room. "I knew I couldn't be the only one! Because, like, what if he can hear us? I don't want him to feel lonely."
Smiling, Derek grabs Stiles' hand in his. "You get me," he says, and Stiles positively glows, scarfing down the food as they make their way to the car park. The glow dims, though, when they get to Derek's car. Ah, right. Derek rubs little circles into Stiles' back—he's seen Melissa do it a few times, maybe this'll help him somewhat—and his brows furrow. "It's alright, love, it's just a car. It's clean, I promise. Like nothing even happened."
Stiles blinks in surprise. "I-I didn't even—how'd you know I was...?" he trails off, and Derek just gives him what he hopes is a supportive smile. It's hard enough for Derek to get back in his car after what had happened. He can't imagine it's any easier for Stiles. Stiles takes a deep breath and jumps up and down just slightly, like he's psyching himself up. He starts to mumble little affirmations to himself. "Right, right, I've got this, this is easy. It's just Derek's car, it's just a car, it's not a fucking supervillain..."
Derek chuckles quietly and moves to get into the driver's seat, patiently waiting for Stiles to approach the passenger door. Eventually, Stiles does talk himself up enough to get in, and Derek gives him an encouraging smile. "The shops aren't too far," he assures him, and Stiles nods, oddly stiff as he buckles himself in. Derek pulls out of the car park, and Stiles takes a few more deep breaths, eyes closed. What was that thing that Stiles' therapist had told them to say when he's close to a panic attack? "You're safe here, it's gonna be okay. Take as much time as you need, I'm right here."
Swallowing, Stiles nods. "Yeah, I know," he whispers, hands gripping the knees of his jeans so hard that Derek can see his knuckles going white. Stiles opens his eyes for a moment and closes them again, shaking his head. Derek pulls over. "I-I don't think I can do this, I can't, Der, i-it's—it's like I'm there, it's like I'm back—!"
He dissolves into a sob, and Derek starts to reach over, only to stop himself. He's not sure if this is one of those times that touch will make it worse. "Is it...Stiles, what changed? I was able to drive you back and forth from the hospital just a few days ago," he says, confused, and Stiles whimpers, hands clamped over his ears. "W-We're not back there, love, Noah's okay, there's no blood."
"It's—I was running on autopilot, I-I didn't have the space to think about it, now I'm thinking about it," Stiles gasps, hands moving to scrub at his eyes. Derek gently takes his wrists and moves them down. The skin around his wrists looks irritated; Stiles had explained once that when he's stressed or feels like he's in danger, his body starts producing more web fluid. "I can't, Der, I-I can't do it, I'm sorry, I—! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get him hurt!"
"It's okay! There's nothing to apologize for," Derek tells him, and Stiles takes a shuddering breath, eyes wild. Right, that thing with reminding Stiles of where he is, that's probably the best idea right now. "You're not in your suit. You're clean, your clothes are clean, they're comfortable. You're in the car with me, we're going Christmas shopping. There's no blood. The car is clean. Noah is okay. You're healing from your fight with Kate and Gerard, not the fight with Deucalion. You're not in danger, I'm not in danger, Noah's not in danger. No one's in danger, everyone is safe. You're safe, Stiles."
Stiles eyes unfocus, then focus again, hands shaking as he nods. "Right, I'm safe, I'm in the car with you, there's no blood," he mumbles, and Derek nods. "I don't have to fight anyone, I'm okay."
"You're safe," Derek repeats, and Stiles nods.
"You can start driving again, I think," he says in a very small voice, and Derek's brows furrow. As much as he would like to, he doesn't want Stiles to have another panic attack. Stiles shakes his head. "I'm gonna be fine, maybe just...just keep reminding me of where we are...? If that's okay?"
"Yeah, love, no problem," Derek tells him, and he carefully pulls back onto the road, glancing over at Stiles every so often to make sure he really is okay with this, and he's not just trying to pull it together for Derek's sake. "We're on the road, we're going to the shops. We need to buy presents for everybody, because we're having Christmas this year or so help me God. I'm right here, I'm with you, the car is clean. The car is clean, and we're almost at the shops. The car is clean, and you're safe. There's no villains out. You don't have to fight anyone. There's not even an iota of red anywhere, unless you count the band of your bracelet thingy. The car is clean."
"Thank you, thanks," Stiles murmurs as they pull into a spot close to the pavement, and Derek passes him a bottle of water. Stiles chugs half of it. "I'm...I'm good. Let's go in."
Derek gives him a wary look, because he's not entirely confident that pale and shaky counts as being 'good,' but he doesn't want to push it. They head into the store, and Stiles grabs the cart, eyes determined. Derek doesn't argue. "Right, so I'm thinkin' since we have to shop for Isaac now, we could probably get away with buying him a gift card or something," he says, and Stiles looks offended on Isaac's behalf.
"Uh, excuse you, we're not getting gift card for anyone, gift cards are a quitter's gift, Der," he says, voice still shaky, but jovial, and Derek feels some of the tension leave his shoulders. This is good—Stiles is actually somewhat okay. Stiles leads them down an aisle filled with novelty gifts, picks up a rather atrocious-looking elf hat, and grins. "We should get this for Isaac."
Derek snorts and puts it in the cart. "Seriously, we gotta find some decent presents. We could get Melissa some of that really nice wine she likes," he suggests, and Stiles nods enthusiastically, picking out a couple of the fancy chocolate boxes and adding them to the cart. "Who are those for?"
"For the nurses," Stiles says quietly, and Derek doesn't question him further. They head down the aisles, Stiles suggesting more and more outlandish things as they go, and Derek rolls his eyes. At least he's already gotten his present for Stiles. Well, technically it's two presents. One to give Stiles that he can use as Spider-Man, and the other to give him in front of their family. "Der! Derek, look at this!"
It's a drawing kit, complete with pencils and erasers and all sorts of things that Lydia would probably go nuts over. "That's...actually really perfect," Derek says, "add it."
Stiles does, and they turn to go into the next aisle, only to almost crash their cart into the person in front of them. "Oh, hey, boys!" Ms. Yukimura says, and Kira gives them a wave from beside her. "You doing your Christmas shopping too?"
Derek nods, and Stiles immediately goes to snoop in Ms. Yukimura's cart, only to be stopped by Kira, who promptly picks him up like a cat and places him next to Stiles. "Don't spoil it for yourself," Kira tells him, grinning, and Stiles flips her off, eyes narrowed. Kira nods at Derek. "Hey, Derek."
"Hey," Derek says, and Ms. Yukimura glances down at her phone, frowning. Derek's brows furrow. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, there's just a big commotion going on a little ways away," she explains, and Stiles perks up. Derek looks over at him. He knows, deep down, that there's no stopping Stiles from jumping right into whatever supervillain antics are happening, but that doesn't mean he can't hope that the unspoken social contract of not abandoning a conversation while it's still happening will keep Stiles in place for now. Ms. Yukimura hums. "How are you guys? You holding up okay?"
"We're doing alright. Is Scott back at home?" Stiles asks, and Derek subtly grabs his arm, trying to convey that if Stiles leaves his side, Derek's going to have an aneurysm.
"He's staying back because someone forgot to get him a birthday present," Ms. Yukimura chides lightly, and Kira goes a bit red at that. Derek had honestly forgotten that Scott's birthday is just a few days away. Ms. Yukimura smiles an easy kind of smile. "How's Melissa doing?"
"Melissa's kinda stressed about work, but she's alright," Stiles says quickly. "It was great seeing you! We've really gotta get back to it, gotta get all those presents and get back to the hospital, y'know?"
Damn him. "Oh, of course! If you boys need anything, don't hesitate to let us know," Ms. Yukimura says, and Kira ruffles Stiles' hair.
Stiles nods and waves, abandoning the cart and immediately hurrying off, and Derek struggles to catch up to him. "Stiles, you're not seriously gonna go see what that is, right?" he grumbles, because while it might be a little selfish to admit, Derek really doesn't want to watch Stiles get hurt yet again.
"I have too," Stiles tells him fiercely, and Derek sighs. "Just—get the rest of the stuff, check out without me, I'll go check it out. I won't let anyone get hurt, I promise."
"It's not everyone else I'm worried about," Derek says, but Stiles takes that as permission, scurrying off and leaving Derek stranded in the shop. Well, he supposes it can't hurt to finish up here and meet Stiles at the scene of whatever fight is going on so that he doesn't have to swing back if he does get hurt.
Derek quickly grabs the first things that stand out to him as appropriate gifts and beats out a family of six and an elderly lady to be first in line for a newly opening checkout. He can barely remember to exchange pleasantries with the clerk, mind too preoccupied with worries of Stiles getting thrown around or shot or, hell, blown up again. He, out of anybody, would know what Deucalion would do to Stiles.
He loads the presents into his trunk and opens up his phone, grimacing when he sees that Deucalion and Kate are all causing problems a few blocks away. Hell, Derek could probably walk there.
So he does.
He locks his car and books it to the scene of the fight, only to be stopped by a police officer that steps in front of him, arm outstretched. "No civilians beyond this point," he says, and Derek has half a mind to ask him if he really thinks he can stop him.
But he doesn't want to cause a scene, not when Stiles' already got enough to worry about.
So Derek steps back into the steadily-growing crowd, hands clenched into anxious fists as he watches a red and white blur dash around debris and bombs and clouds of spores. The people next to him—pressed up against the barrier like this is some spectacle, like this isn't his boyfriend's life on the line—are filming. Go figure.
Derek tries his hardest to keep to the front of the crowd, watching with horrified yet apt attention as Deucalion throws a car at Stiles. Thankfully, Stiles catches it and throws it into the grouped-up drones that have been firing at him, and he flips backwards onto the awning of a shop. Deucalion fires another blast of bullets, and Stiles deftly dodges. Derek can only hope that he'd remembered to fasten his mask properly.
Craning his neck, Derek watches as Stiles is blasted back through the wall of a building, and he winces. That's gonna need some ice packs for sure; he'll have to remember to buy some more the next time he's out. To Derek's dismay, Stiles jumps right back into the fight, barely giving the villains any time to recuperate as he dodges and punches and kicks his way to them.
He's actually getting the upper hand! The little drone that Scott's always updating, it unfolds from Stiles' chest and starts firing rubber bullets and web bombs at the villains, always dancing out of reach. Kate falls first, Stiles kicking her into the side of a stationary bus, and Deucalion yells something out in frustration.
More of Deucalion's drones start to appear, and Derek pushes past the crowd as far as he can, until he's right up against the police barricade. It's surreal to watch Stiles fighting these wackjobs in real time. Stiles' a hell of a fighter, slinging webs and doing acrobatics to kick their asses, and Derek doesn't know whether to feel pride or worry as Stiles slams Kate into the side of a building. Kate slumps to the ground, unconscious, and Derek allows himself a pre-emptive cheer. Just one to go. Stiles can do this.
The crowd around him cheers too, the cops looking rather unamused, and Derek tries to make out what's going on as Stiles and Deucalion circle each other. The little drone folds back into Stiles' hoodie. Deucalion is clearly rambling on, given his hand gestures, and Stiles keeps looking around, shoulders tensed. Derek watches as they continue to circle each other, and Stiles suddenly freezes, looking directly up.
Derek follows his line of sight, and his heart drops to his stomach.
He's too shocked to even scream when Deucalion drops an enormous chunk of a nearby skyscraper directly onto Stiles.
The crowd immediately dissolves into screams, and Derek's body moves without his permission. He tries desperately to climb over the barricade, only to be pulled back by a couple of officers. Evidently, other people are trying to get over the barricade as well, but they're all being pushed back.
Nobody can get too Stiles.
***
Stiles opens his eyes.
It's painful.
Everything hurts.
His entire body feels like it's been pummeled to a pulp.
He can barely move, lungs struggling to inflate as he takes shaky, short breaths. Stiles cries out in pain as he tries to lift his head; his brain feels like it's too big for his fucking skull. Stiles coughs, and something warm spatters across his lips. That can't be good. He tries to flex his fingers, only to find that it's really hard to move his hands. His body is durable, but it's definitely not that durable.
Deucalion having dropped a building on him is, without a doubt, enough to have broken him.
Stiles looks out into the haze of dust and sees Deucalion picking up Kate's limp form with bent metal sheets. Shaking, almost uncontrollably, Stiles fires off a web in his direction. He can't even hope to aim right now. Deucalion's silhouette stiffens, and the crushing weight atop Stiles gets even heavier.
A choked scream escaping his throat, Stiles tries to move his arms, to no avail. Everything hurts. Stiles struggles to grasp at the asphalt. He can't feel his legs. He can't fucking feel his legs. Stiles chokes on a sob. He can't even move his shoulders. He presses his forehead to the ground and tries to catch his breath.
This is his own fault.
He'd been taunting and teasing, playing games and showing off. He'd taken out Kate, fucking finally, and Deucalion had been outraged. Deucalion had visibly started to panic, which Stiles had taken as his opening.
And then Deucalion had mentioned he'd gotten an upgrade.
"Just for emergencies," he'd said.
Stiles hears static under the ringing in his ears, and he whimpers, coughing more as he tries desperately to get his legs to move. His foot's moving, that's good, that means at least one of his bones isn't broken, but it still fucking aches, like nothing Stiles' ever felt before. His heart pounds, and Stiles can feel it everywhere, a terrified sort of instinctual thing.
He grunts, trying to free up at least one arm from the debris, and his comms crackle. "—es?! Stiles?! Stiles, talk to me!" Scott shouts, panicked, and Stiles' bottom lip starts to tremble. His body feels as though it's being ripped apart atom by atom. "Stiles, say something, please, j-just tell me you're alive!"
Stiles' throat feels raw. He must've been screaming at some point. "I'm alive," he croaks, and Scott's relieved cry makes his ears ring even more. Stiles manages to get his elbow out from under the debris, and he chokes on another sob. "I-Is D-Derek ok-ay..?" Stiles gasps out. There's a pause on Scott's end. "Derek? He's there?" Scott eventually asks. Stiles feels tears forming in his eyes. "I-It hurts...!" Stiles gasps out again, quickly changing the topic against his will.
"I'm calling ambulances, they say they're not being allowed through the police barriers, I-I don't know—what do you want me to tell them?" Scott asks, frantic, and Stiles' skull aches as he tries to move his other arm. "What's broken? What hurts?"
"Everything," Stiles says, voice breaking, and Scott makes a sound like a wounded animal. It isn't as though Stiles hadn't seen the building coming down. He'd stood there, paralyzed with fear, as Deucalion had dropped it on him.
"Okay, I-I'm telling them th—" Scott is cut off as Stiles shifts his shoulder, and debris comes crumbling down from above him, some of it hitting his head. The crackling goes quiet; his comms are broken.
There's no more Scott to guide him out of this. No ever-present brother to comfort him. No more Derek to tease him that he'll get kisses.
Stiles is alone.
No one is even being allowed within a hundred meters of him.
He's hurt and alone, and no one's going to get him out of here.
Stiles feels his chest tighten, the lump in his throat starting to hurt just as much as the rest of him as he swallows around it. "Please, s-somebody...! Anybody...! Help me!" he cries, ignoring the way it makes his throat feel even more scratchy. No one can hear him. They're too far away. He's going to die here. "Please, I need h-help! I-I can't breathe!"
Nobody comes to his aid.
Stiles sobs. Derek had been right; he never should've left the fucking store. Now he's here, trapped underneath a metric ton of concrete and steel, and he's going to be crushed to death. No heroic saves, no goodbyes, no one to hold his hand while he feels the energy seep from his bones, the fight give from his muscles.
"Come on, Spider-Man!" someone shouts.
"You fuckers! He needs help! Fucking help him!" another screams.
Stiles looks up at the mass of silhouettes that forms the crowd. The police are having difficulty holding them back. He tries again to shift some of the weight off of himself, only for his hand to slip in a puddle of his own blood. It's fucking nauseating. His regeneration is struggling to keep up with what had happened; he can feel his muscle fibers weaving back together, bones desperately trying to fix hairline fractures, blood flowing to his organs and multiplying rapidly.
He wonders why his body is still trying to keep him alive when his mind has already given up.
The dust has settled. Stiles can see the people in the crowd now. Mothers with children—Melissa is at work, she's expecting him to be there when she gets back to the house with Noah—teenagers with their phones dangling limply in their hands as they cry out—Scott doesn't know whether or not Stiles is alive—and a familiar head of black hair struggling against the cops and yelling something in outrage.
Derek.
Derek had come to watch him fight.
Derek had come to watch him die.
Stiles can't let that happen. He can't let Derek see him die, can't let Derek watch as the life leaves his eyes, can't let Derek be in that same place Stiles had been in—a loved one limp in his arms, bleeding steadily, sluggishly, agonizingly. Stiles can't do that to him. He can't make Derek feel helpless, feel like he could've done more.
Shifting his arms again, Stiles manages to get them both free, and he takes a minute to catch his breath, wincing as his ribs push against his lungs. It's fine, he's gonna be fine. He has to be fine, he has to be okay so that Derek and Scott won't worry. So that his dad, Melissa, Lydia aren't left wondering. His palms scratch against the ground as he tries to crawl out from under the debris; that isn't going to work, not with the way his arms keep quivering.
He just needs a minute to think. He can feel his legs again, which is good, because he kind of needs them if he's going to get out of here. Stiles groans as the concrete above him shifts, and he cries out when a brick comes down on his hand. Flexing it—at least it's not broken even more—he tries to bring his legs closer to his body.
"You're Spider-Man," he whispers to himself, "y-you can do this."
The pain is white-hot and blinding as Stiles slowly pushes enough out of the way that his legs can move freely if he really tries, and he chokes on a scream as he lifts an arm to grasp at the concrete above him, keeping one hand on the ground. God, he's incredibly broken in so many places. Taking a few deep breaths, Stiles makes a strangled noise as he lifts his other hand to brace against the concrete.
Shaking, every muscle in his body screaming in protest, Stiles pushes upwards. He tries his hardest to drag his feet underneath him, and he nearly stumbles. Debris and rubble fall to the asphalt, and Stiles cries out again as he shoves the concrete further upwards. The groaning and screeching of steel against stone grates against his ears.
His foot skids a bit, but he's able to crouch. Stiles adjusts his grip on the concrete and breathes heavily, chest heaving and lungs straining against his ribs. His legs are shaking as he tries to push the concrete up more. If he doesn't stand, it's likely he'll get trapped again. The crowd has gone silent save for the occasional gasp, and Stiles' probably making all sorts of strangled cries and groans as he slowly but surely moves the mass of concrete further up, but he can't hear any of it; the ringing in his ears has returned.
The entirety of his body is shaking, every fiber of his being screaming in protest as he strains against the weight of the concrete. Everything fucking hurts, but he's almost out, he can almost make it out. Screaming out in agony—his pulse rushes in his ears, and he swallows bile as it rises to his throat—Stiles stands up fully, struggling to keep the concrete up. If he uses one last push of strength to throw it upwards, as much as he possibly can, he can dive out of the way.
So that's what he does.
The second the concrete leaves his grasp, Stiles flings himself out from under it and rolls into the street, coughing and sputtering. The crowd goes fucking insane, and Stiles sobs, exhaustion seeping through every pore in his body, and he struggles to stand, legs shaking and hands limp by his sides.
He staggers forward.
One step.
Ba-dum.
His heart pounds.
Two steps.
Ba-dum.
His jaw goes slack.
Three steps.
Ba-dum.
His eyes roll back into his head.
He collapses on the ground. Everything fades too black.
***
Derek fights against the crowd's relentless surge, struggling to reach Stiles, who has just collapsed. His heart pounds in his chest, urging him to reach his fallen friend.
Amidst the rubble and chaos, Derek finally reaches Stiles' lifeless body. Gently, he turns him onto his back. The sight is heart-wrenching; Stiles is bleeding profusely, his suit torn, and broken ribs among his injuries.
With trembling hands, Derek removes his jacket and uses it to staunch the worst of Stiles' wounds. He has minimal knowledge of first aid, but he knows he can't stand idly by. There's a particularly nasty cut on Stiles' hand, and Derek tears a strip from his already-torn sleeve to fashion a makeshift bandage. Panic sets in as blood oozes sluggishly through the fabric.
"Okay, okay, just hang on," Derek whispers to himself, tears streaming down his face as he shifts his jacket to inspect the wounds on Stiles' torso. "You're going to be fine. I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm going to do something."
Derek applies pressure to the gash on Stiles' side, and Stiles flinches in pain. The blood under Derek's hands bubbles ominously, sending a chill down his spine. He fights the urge to panic, focusing on maintaining pressure.
Stiles stirs, and his mask's eyes open slightly, revealing a mere sliver of white. Derek gasps as blood bubbles again, but Stiles stirs once more, coughing weakly. "Thank God," Derek murmurs in relief, cupping Stiles' face. "Stay with me. Don't leave me. I need you here."
Stiles' condition is dire, and Derek's mind races, trying to recall any fragment of medical knowledge he's ever picked up. He moves his bloody hand away from the wound, averting his eyes from the gruesome sight. Derek debates whether to check for a pulse in Stiles' jaw or hand and opts for the former, his own heart racing with anxiety.
Ba-dum.
Relief washes over him; Stiles is still alive. Derek is determined to do everything he can to keep him that way. He returns his attention to the wound, pressing down firmly despite the queasy feeling in his stomach.
Stiles' injuries are severe, and Derek struggles to keep his emotions in check. Blood continues to flow from Stiles' wounds, and Derek wonders why the hell the ambulances haven't arrived yet. Perhaps they can't move through the crowd, but it doesn't make sense. The police should have cleared a path for the ambulance.
Derek keeps applying pressure, despite his uncertainty about the effectiveness of his efforts. He slips his finger into the wound, causing Stiles to cough violently.
"D-damn it," Stiles groans, and Derek agrees wholeheartedly. Stiles's condition worsens, and Derek watches in helpless horror as his life force slips away.
Derek whispers apologies as he trades his hands for his jacket. His hands keep slipping, but he can't afford to let them falter. Stiles tries to speak through his pain, and Derek listens attentively.
"Y-you have to promise me something," Stiles manages to say, gripping Derek's arm weakly. Derek nods, his eyes filled with tears.
"Anything," Derek promises, his voice shaking.
"You can't let... anyone take my mask off," Stiles pleads urgently. Derek nods again, understanding the gravity of the request.
"And?" Stiles continues, fighting through his agony. "Take care of my dad. Tell Scott, too."
Derek nods once more, blinking away tears. Stiles's blood continues to flow, and he forces himself to speak. "And, Der... I love you."
Derek is stunned by the confession, unable to respond. He refuses to accept it as a farewell. Instead, he insists, "Don't say that like it's goodbye. Say it to me when you show up at my house with flowers and you're wearing Scott's stupid lacrosse varsity jacket because you think it looks better on you."
Stiles tries to laugh but shivers uncontrollably. Derek drapes his jacket over him, apologizing for the cold. "I know you're cold, but it's going to be okay," Derek assures him.
Derek's bottom lip starts to tremble, and he turns back to Stiles, slipping his fingers back under the mask to feel for a pulse.
Ba-dum.
It's still there. Good.
Stiles paws at his hand clumsily, and Derek withdraws it. The sirens are still loud, the lights are still flashing, but no one is letting the ambulance in. "C-Can you...can you hold my hand?" Stiles asks, almost inaudible, terrified and innocent, like a child that's just had a nightmare.
Derek swallows, going against the words he had just previously told his lover, and he takes Stiles' hand, lightly squeezing it. "You're gonna be okay, they're right here, they're almost here," he says, and Stiles shivers.
Stiles's condition continues to deteriorate, and Derek can see the life draining from him. The world around them blurs as Derek's entire focus narrows down to the fragile form in his arms.
"Derek," Stiles breathes, his voice weak and filled with resignation. He knows he's slipping away, and there's a heartbreaking acceptance in his eyes.
Derek leans closer, tears streaming down his face as he clings to Stiles's fading presence. "Stiles, please, just hold on a little longer. They're almost here," he pleads, his voice quivering with desperation.
Stiles offers a faint smile, his eyes never leaving Derek's. "I wish... I wish we had more time," he says, his words barely a whisper.
Derek's heart shatters into a million pieces as he realizes the inevitable. He tightens his grip on Stiles's hand, his voice cracking with grief. "I love you, Stiles. More than anything."
Stiles's gaze softens, and he manages to squeeze Derek's hand one last time before his eyelids flutter closed, his breathing slowing until it ceases altogether.
Derek's world collapses as he holds the lifeless body of the man he loves. He presses his forehead against Stiles's, his tears mingling with the mask that hides the face he'll never see again.
In the distance, the sirens wail, the lights flashing with cruel irony, arriving only to bear witness to the devastating end.