Stiles considers himself smart, sometimes. He thinks a lot, and he knows that people who think are usually smart, but he knows that some people just keep thinking stupid things and that can't make them any smarter. He also knows that his internal monologue makes zero sense, even to him. But what does anyone expect him to do now that he's sitting in his bed, a cast over his right wrist and a werewolf beside his window?

Actually, how did he even get here?

His brain tries to kick start any memory to explain the situation, but nothing comes back to him. He looks down at the cast on his arm, remembers being in the hospital, but can't recall exactly why. He pulls his eyes away from the cast to stare at the werewolf, and yup, he's still standing there, arms crossed over his chest. Stiles can't see his face, but he's pretty sure that there is a pair of eyebrows pulled together in a scowl. Ninety percent sure, at least. There's a ten percent chance that it's not a scowl at all, but guilt, and Stiles can't bring himself to think about that right now.

So Stiles does what Stiles does best. He talks. "Derek."

Derek doesn't move, or maybe he does, but it's too dark in the room for the eyes of a mere mortal. He's sure that Derek can see him perfectly fine, unless his eyes actually need to be red to see in the dark. At any rate, he can't see Derek's eyes at all. Or his face. Which suddenly becomes alarming because he doesn't actually know that it's Derek in his room, and it could be Scott, and why did he think it was Derek in the first place?

His heart rate must be too fast because Derek steps out of the shadows. That helps calm Stiles because it's familiar. What isn't familiar but completely unsurprising is that Stiles was wrong. Derek definitely has ten percent written all over his face, even though he probably thinks his expression gives nothing away. Stiles can read him so well now, after all the times they've been stuck together. He doesn't think too much about it though.

Stuck isn't the right word, either. Out of everyone in this mess, Stiles knows he's here because he chooses to be. Perhaps not in bed with his wrist broken, although that was probably some kind of last minute decision that resulted in him getting hurt like always. It happens.

Derek is staring at him, knowing that the silence will prompt Stiles to speak again, and Stiles happens to be a creature of habit. "What are you doing here?" He asks, and flinches at his own tone. It's not the question he wanted to ask at all. He should be asking why there's a cast on his arm, or where his Dad is.

Derek shrugs. Helpful.

"Really helpful, Derek." Stiles tells him as much with more fondness than exasperation, and that's something he should probably look into. No one should be fond of Derek's unwillingness to talk.

"Okay, well, I guess the better question is," he raises his arm for emphasis, "What the hell happened to my wrist?"

"You don't remember?" Confusion flashes across Derek's face before he replaces it with a glare.

"Nooo, I was hoping you could fill me in since you obviously know what happened."

Derek doesn't respond, but he doesn't jump out the window either, so Stiles can't be too disappointed.

"You do know what happened, right?" Stiles prompts and watches Derek's jaw clench, which would be a dead ringer for Yes if it also didn't mean I'm not talking.

"Go back to sleep, Stiles," Is all he says, and one would think that Stiles should be used to Derek shutting down.

He isn't.

"You can't just tell me to go back to sleep, Derek," Stiles grumbles, "My wrist is broken-"

"Are you in pain?"

"-and I still don't even know the full extent of my injuries-"

"Stiles."

"-which I would know if you just told me what the hell happened. It's not like I forgot everything on purpose, jeez—CHRIST!"

Derek's hand flattens against his arm suddenly, causing Stiles to jump. His sides pull with the movement, and Stiles would bet anything that he has stitches decorating his stomach. Before he can even complain about the pain, he feels it drain from his body. It feels unnatural. He wants to ask, but Derek is staring at him with an intensity he has not been the target of, well, ever.

Stiles is used to Derek staring at him. Hell, he actually kind of likes the attention (another thing to ignore until it goes away), but most of the time it's because he has once again pissed Derek off. Or because he's let his mouth run off into the well-known territory of I probably shouldn't have said that. Of course, there are those moments when Derek stares at Stiles in interest as he rambles on about what he read online about some supernatural being. And there are the rare times when he receives an amused look from Derek. Not that Derek ever openly smiles at him, but he could swear there was a playful glint in his eyes. Usually when Stiles is ripping Scott a new one over whatever. His love for Scott did not excuse the stupid shit the werewolf pulled on a weekly basis.

But the look Derek is giving Stiles now? He doesn't know how to categorize it. The guilt is still there, in the way his eyebrows are drawn together, but there's also traces of annoyance. And fondness, but Stiles is once again going to ignore that last tidbit. Derek Hale is not fond of Stiles. In fact, Derek Hale probably wants to rip Stiles' throat out. With his teeth.

Derek pulls his arm back to stare at it, and Stiles lets out a breath that he didn't realize he was holding. He wants to make a joke, but his body feels drugged. Werewolf drugged. His eyes are heavy suddenly, and he glares at Derek because that was obviously his plan. The challenging look that is returned only proves it.

"We're still going to talk about this. When I wake up," Stiles says in his most threatening tone. Which is not threatening in the least, of course. He gets brownie points for trying.

"If you remember." Derek retorts, but there isn't any heat behind it, and Stiles almost chokes on his own spit. Derek made a joke. Derek Hale made a joke at Stiles' expense. And that should be way more annoying than it is.

"Not cool," Stiles says, but his eyes are already closing, and there isn't any fight left in him. He sees Derek take a seat at his desk but falls asleep before he can really think about that properly.

Stiles wakes up to the sound of tapping and pages turning. He opens a single eye to stare into his room, ready to reprimand Derek for being so noisy. Thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut because it's actually Scott sitting in his chair now, a textbook in his lap with loose leaf laid over one of the pages. It occurs to Stiles that school is still a thing that happens, and he's missing homework now. Awesome.

Scott must notice Stiles is awake because his head snaps up and his eyes land on his friend. He has his puppy eyes turned up to an unlawful level, and Stiles can't even muster up any jokes. Scott looks relieved and his shoulders relax visibly. Stiles doesn't know how long he's been asleep, or how long Scott has been in his room waiting, but he's grateful.

So of course the only thing Stiles can offer him is a lazy wave with his good hand. Scott closes the textbook and bounds over to his bed, carefully sitting down at the edge. They share a moment—a totally manly moment between bros that they will never, ever, talk about. Ever.

"Dude! How are you feeling?" Scott gives him a goofy grin, patting Stiles leg.

"Actually in a lot of pain right now. I guess my meds wore off while I was asleep." He shrugs with his good side. And then winces. So much for a good side. Scott looks around the room until he spots the bottle of medication on Stiles' dresser.

"Your Dad told me to give you two of these when you woke up." He offers Stiles the bottle so he can inspect it and act like he understands half of the ingredients. Scott leaves to get him a glass of water, and Stiles takes the time to pull himself into a seated position. It's painful and he probably curses more in those few seconds than he has his entire life.

His phone is on his nightstand, thankfully. He picks it up and checks through his messages first. There are a few he remembers from Scott, Lydia, Allison, and Derek. The rest are unread and range from pissed off to worried. He opens a few from Lydia and winces at the threats she's managed to pair with Are you still alive? There are four from Allison promising back up and We'll be there soon, Stiles. Even Jackson managed to shoot him a text. The rest are from his Dad up until Sunday morning. He guesses that is when he was brought into the hospital.

Scott still hasn't returned so Stiles decides to send Derek a text or eight letting him know that he has not forgotten about their conversation.

-we are still talking about this!

-you werewolf drugged me and left

-not cool derek not cool

He's in the middle of typing a fourth text when Scott comes back in the room, a glass of water held in his hand. His shirt is wet, and Stiles knows he shouldn't ask, but he is known for doing exactly the opposite of what he's supposed to.

"Was there a selkie in the sink? Enchanted hose?"

"Your Dad came through the door when I was leaving the kitchen and surprised me." Scott scowls, but he sounds grateful for Stiles' jokes. He totally missed him.

"You didn't hear him?" Stiles decides to say instead of something gross like, I missed you too, buddy.

"I wasn't really paying attention," Scott says, completely unapologetic. Stiles should have guessed. He pulls his other hand from behind his back and Stiles nearly squeals.

"Food!"

"Your Dad figured you'd like to eat something greasy. I think you're supposed to take pain meds with food anyway," Scott says, pulling a burger out of the bag and unwrapping half of it before handing it to Stiles. He sits the bag next him, and Stiles can smell that there is an order of fries with his name written on them in it.

Stiles takes his pills after eating half of his burger and drinks the entire glass of water. He didn't notice how dry his mouth was until he took his first sip. Scott takes his seat at Stiles' desk again and continues to work on his homework while Stiles starts texting the rest of the pack. He thinks about sending a group message, but figures they'd all get a kick out of their own personalized messages.

To Allison, letting u know i'm awake. ur boyfriend managed to fail at getting a glass of water

Lydia, i'm alive. please don't actually come through with ur threat. i like my legs

Jackson, i'm p sure lydia texted me from ur phone to make me feel like u care

Erica, don't take lessons from derek in worrying about ur friends dude

Isaac, no more tv for u

Boyd, idk how to imitate manly head nodding on the phone but yeah manly head nod to let u know i'm alive

He doesn't bother sending Peter one because he actually doesn't have Peter's number. He wouldn't send Peter one even if he had Peter's number. Initiating conversation with him is like an invitation, and Stiles would rather not. Just not.

He plays on his phone while he eats; holding the half-eaten burger in his mouth as he half-heartedly spells words on Scrabble. He makes a few good words, and then one that he's sure isn't a word at all. Scrabble words are not necessarily in real world dictionaries.

Scott finishes his homework and packs his bag before placing a small stack of work on Stiles' desk. It looks like a lot of stuff for one day and Stiles groans at the sight of it all.

"Did all my teachers decide Monday was a good day to assign a boatload of work?" he asks.

"Monday?" Scott asks dumbly.

"Yeah, dude. I was in the hospital yesterday. Sunday."

"Yeah, dude. You got brought to the hospital on Sunday. It's Thursday already." Okay, so maybe not dumbly. Stiles takes that back.

"Thursday! How long was I asleep?" Stiles has a feeling that his memory loss is a lot worse than he originally thought.

"You didn't wake up in the hospital until Tuesday, man. We were all scared you went into a coma or something," Scott says, and Stiles frowns.

"What the hell actually happened to me? Why was I in the hospital?"

"Wait, you don't know why? Derek said he talked to you."

"Was Derek here when you got here?

"No. Was he supposed to be?" Scott tilts his head like the puppy he is, and Stiles can't help the smile that spreads on his face.

"Uh, forget it. When did Derek talk to me?"

Scott begins to explain how everyone missed school on Monday to stay at the hospital with Stiles. His Dad didn't even complain because he was too nervous, and Stiles instantly feels guilty over the whole ordeal. The nurses couldn't let anyone stay during the night, even his Dad. Ms. McCall couldn't get them to let the Sheriff in after visiting hours. Of course that meant that Derek got to sneak in at night to watch over Stiles.

"Yeah, stalker wolf strikes again." Stiles snorts. Scott shoots him a look for interrupting his grand tale of Stiles and the Hospital.

At around 2 a.m. on Tuesday, Derek sent out a group message to let everyone know that Stiles was awake but couldn't remember why he was injured. Stiles knew that bit at least. He still couldn't remember. Derek apparently explained most of it to Stiles, but couldn't really get much in since Stiles was still high on medication. He faded back to sleep mid conversation, and didn't wake up again until midday. He was allowed to go home Wednesday afternoon, but was prescribed some pretty heavy medication.

Stiles tries to search his memory for anything even vaguely similar, but nothing comes up. He can't even remember anything before his Dad came to the hospital when Stiles was discharged. He was still pretty tired and weak, and he slept in his Dad's cruiser on the way home. He remembers his Dad asking him questions which he gave very vague answers to. He doesn't even know what lie they told his Dad, or who brought him to the hospital in the first place. Scott isn't saying any more, either.

"So who brought me to the hospital?" He asks first because that seems like the easiest question to ask.

"Derek," Scott says, "My Mom had to cover for him, though. Your Dad thinks it was me." Stiles mentally thanks Ms. McCall for being awesome like always. He is glad that they have an in with the hospital to cover wolf-related injuries. Ms. McCall even donated a very well stocked first-aid kit to Derek for the humans in his pack. It had everything from Band-Aids to sutures. As long as it isn't Allison that needs stitching, they'll be all right. She was the only one that knew what to do with those.

"So what exactly happened to me before the hospital?" Stiles tries, hoping Scott won't dodge the question like another certain werewolf.

"I wasn't there when it happened," Scott replies thoughtfully, "but Derek said something about the Omega grabbing your wrist and breaking it."

Stiles' eyes immediately snap to his cast. Now that Scott mentions it, he does vaguely remember Derek yelling at him. They were in the woods and waiting for the rest of the pack to join them when Derek said he caught the scent of another werewolf. He doesn't remember much after that though. He does have some guesses, and all of them involve him doing something stupidly heroic. It wouldn't be the first time, and it definitely won't be the last time. After that time in the pool, it became normal for Stiles to save Derek. He'd done a pretty good job of saving the rest of the pack too, on numerous occasions.

"The Omega?" Stiles asks absently. He doesn't really care what happened to it, and he's pretty sure that Derek finished it off. That's how things work between them, after all. Stiles saves Derek from whichever new threat that decides to descend upon Beacon Hills, and then Derek eliminates said threat.

"Derek slashed her throat, man. When he got to the hospital with you, he had blood all over him," Scott says with enthusiasm. Stiles can even hear the bit of pride that comes with it. It's pretty shocking, seeing as Scott doesn't always get along with Derek. He respects him on good days, but they're still at each other's throats on bad days. Stiles knows that he's the main reason why Scott even joined Derek's pack.

"I figured." Stiles grins.

"You had some other injuries though. He didn't get a chance to tell us about those."

"Other injuries?" Stiles looks vaguely at his body. There's some bruising on his arm, but he figured that came with the broken wrist.

"You haven't been to the bathroom yet, huh?" Scott smirks, lifting his hand and pointing to his cheek. Stiles knows what that means.

"Ugh, again? Why is it always my face?" Stiles groans, slumping further into his pillows. A month ago, he had a scratch across his cheek that he feared would turn into a scar. Deaton gave him some magical cream to rub on the cut every night, and thankfully his face healed perfectly. He wasn't allowed at the next few pack meetings though. Apparently Derek was mad at him. Nothing new.

"You also have a gash on your side. So be careful." Scott gestures to the side that has been sore all day, and Stiles knows that his previous suspicion was correct even before Scott can finish, "You have stitches there."

Stiles nods. "Think Derek will be mad at me for a while?"

"Mad at you?" Scott asks with the most confused expression Stiles has ever seen.

"Yeah, you know. Angry eyebrows and scowling at me for a week at the very least. Taking Sourwolf to levels unknown!" Stiles finishes with a small flourish that he ultimately regrets.

"I don't think Derek's mad at you, Stiles." Scott offers with a shrug.

"Sure. Derek being anything other than angry at my antics? Miracle," Stiles says with a wave of his hand.

"You didn't see him, Stiles." Scott starts and his face is completely serious, "Derek was wrecked when my Mom intercepted him at the hospital. She said he looked horrible, and not angry-horrible."

"You're kidding," Stiles says lamely. Derek being worried for Stiles wasn't really all that foreign. Stiles knew that Derek cared for his pack more than anything. But worried enough that Ms. McCall could tell? That sounded like an exaggeration.

"Whatever. You should talk to him though," Scott says and stands up, obviously ending the conversation. He points to the desk. "I think the teachers will give you time to make it up, man. Harris'll probably give you a hard time though."

"What's new?" Stiles laughs. Scott gives him a small smile and squeezes his shoulder lightly before leaving. Stiles can hear the faint murmur of voices before the house falls silent again. He remembers belatedly that his Dad is already home, and knows that they'll probably have to talk about what happened to him eventually. At least he won't really have to lie to his Dad. He doesn't really know what happened, and that's exactly what he's going to tell him.

Stiles decides that getting out of bed would be a good thing, and pushes himself upright with no less amount of cursing than before. The pills have dulled his pain somewhat, but the stitches still pull when he moves. He manages though, and after a few failed attempts, stands. He feels a little dizzy and his legs are weak under him. He wants to crawl right back into his bed and sleep for a few days, but his bladder won't take kindly to that plan. A shower wouldn't hurt either, if he could manage it. At the very least, he'd like to wipe himself down a bit and get into clean clothes. The burger kind of attacked his shirt. He's not at fault. Not at all.

With the speed of a crippled turtle, Stiles makes it to his dresser and pulls out clothes at random. He knows it'd be easier to put on a button up shirt, so he skips the draw with all of his t-shirts and just grabs a flannel instead. He's already wearing one, so he knows it's the best bet. He has a pair of pajama pants that sort of match the plaid flannel that he's picked so of course he picks the pair next to those. They don't match at all. Stiles likes to be spontaneous.

He finally makes it out of his room and across the hall into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him and locks it before dumping his clean clothes onto the counter. He wants to get a good look at his face and side, but his bladder takes top priority. After taking care of his business, he goes to wash his hands. While he's rubbing soap in between his fingers, he stares into the mirror. It's not a pretty sight.

His right cheek is bruised pretty badly, across the cheekbone. It looks like he was thrown onto the ground, which isn't too hard to believe. It would mean that he landed on his broken wrist, furthering the damage. With that in mind, he carefully unbuttons his shirt. Before he even gets to the last button, he's pulling at it to get a glimpse of the stitches. His left side looks red and irritated under the shirt, stitches sewed in a neat fashion across his skin. He grimaces at the sight before finally undoing the last few buttons.

Getting his shirt all the way off is a challenge, and he tries to keep stretching to a minimum. It's not easy to do when one hand is useless, but Stiles is nothing if not a trooper, so he gets the shirt off. There is more bruising on his right side, but it's dull in color and looks mostly healed. It's a small miracle that they don't hurt too badly. Stiles knows because he pokes them a few times. He hopes that means he can lie on that side instead of his back. He's never really liked lying on his back; it makes him feel like he's falling.

Stiles decides to just wipe himself down with a wash cloth. He isn't sure if the cast can get wet or not, and he doesn't really want to stand for much longer. He takes his red washcloth from the towel rack and wets it in the sink. It's a slow process; running it along his body while being careful not to irritate his bruised skin. He's careful of the cast and stitches, but bending down to get at his legs nearly sends him off his feet. Cursing lightly, he catches himself on his good arm, just barely resisting the urge to do so with his cast. Once he's freshened up to his liking, Stiles begins the painful process of getting dressed again. His pants get caught on his feet awkwardly because the world is against him, and he misses a button on his shirt.

The trek back to his room is faster now that he's been on his feet for a while. He no longer resembles a turtle at least. The cast feels heavy and Stiles hopes that there's a sling somewhere so he can better cradle his arm. He knows that it's possible to tie a scarf as a makeshift sling, but he doesn't think he'd be able to pull it off with one hand. He makes a mental note to complain to his Dad, or maybe Scott.

Stiles enters his room, kicking his door closed behind him. His hamper is pretty full, but he tosses his clothing on top of it anyway. The shirt falls to the floor, and he takes a moment to stare at it angrily. He turns around to sit at his desk and take a look at all of the homework he's got only to have a mini-heart attack.

"Wha—Jesus, Derek!" Stiles screeches, patting his chest in time with his rapid heart beat. Derek just stares at him with an evil grin on his face.

"Your father is downstairs." Is what he chooses to reply with.

"Yeah, no kidding. Maybe I should scream louder," Stiles says as he moves to sit on his bed. He glares at Derek over his shoulder before settling on top of the mattress.

"How is your arm?" Derek says quietly, as if he doesn't really want to talk about it. Stiles can even see his guilty expression returning.

"It's fine. Broken, but fine. I'll be back in no time, man." He smiles, trying to lighten the mood, and at least get Derek to stop looking like he kicked his own puppy.

Derek's expression doesn't improve. "No."

"No?"

"You will not be back."

Stiles opens his mouth and closes it a couple of times, trying to find the words to reply with. He knows exactly what Derek is implying with those words, and he doesn't like it at all. Stiles knows that he can be difficult, and that he's the pack's weakness. He's not an expert with a crossbow or a chemistry set, but he does his best. He knows these things, but it doesn't make hearing it from Derek any easier. Because while Derek doesn't say those exact words, Stiles can still hear them.

"Derek, come on. Don't joke like that," Stiles says in a strained voice.

"It's not a joke, Stiles." Derek isn't even looking at him anymore. Stiles can feel the anger and hurt seeping through his veins. He knows that under it all, there's fear. He's not scared of Derek. He hasn't been afraid of Derek in a long time. But getting kicked out of the pack and losing everything that he's been fighting for? Fighting with? That scares the crap out of him.

"You… you can't just kick me out of the pack, Derek." Stiles hates the way his voice breaks and he tries desperately not to sound too pathetic. Derek still won't look at him, but he can see the way his eyebrows are drawn together, as if the entire conversation is painful for him. Which can't be true because Derek started the damned thing.

"Stiles."

"No. No, don't do that. Just. Don't," Stiles says furiously. There's the burn of bile in his throat as he rises to his feet, adrenaline not enough to stop him from wincing from the abrupt movement. "Don't try to give me some shitty excuse for why this could ever be a good idea. You can't do this." The to me is left unsaid.

"I'm doing this for you, Stiles," Derek says as if he heard it anyway. He finally raises his head to stare at Stiles and his expression is cold. Everything feels incredibly wrong and the room is too small. Stiles knows his pulse is quickening, but he pushes the panic aside in favor of arguing.

"Shut up! If you were doing this for me, you'd know how wrong this all is!" He spits out, feeling weak on his feet once more.

"Sit down." Derek commands.

"I will not. You can't tell me what to do, Derek. If you're kicking me out of the pack, you can't tell me anything." Stiles knows how childish he sounds, but Derek looks wounded briefly before looking back at the floor. The pained expression is back and Stiles know he shouldn't be picking at Derek's moment of weakness, but he can't stop himself. "You're not my Alpha."

That gets Derek's attention. "Enough." He stands up and moves for the window. Stiles tries to catch his wrist to stop him, but the effort results in pain. He must have made some sound because Derek's at his side in an instant, easing him back into the bed.

"This is what I mean, Stiles," He says angrily, but it doesn't seem as if he's angry at Stiles anymore.

"I'm always going to get hurt, Derek." Stiles sighs, letting Derek prop him against his pillows. He hovers awkwardly over Stiles, his arms ghosting over his shoulders.

"Yes. That's why there can't be a next time." Derek closes his eyes as he speaks, looking away. Stiles knows instantly that this isn't easy for Derek.

"Whether I'm out there running with wolves or not, I'm going to get hurt." Stiles amends.

"This is my fault," Derek says, and he sounds utterly defeated, finally standing up and looking down at Stiles. His eyes drift over the cast before settling back on his bruised face.

"No. This is my fault. I'm the one that got myself hurt, Derek. That doesn't mean it's okay to kick me out. If you're so worried you can, I don't know, tie me to a tree during the big fights?"

Stiles thinks he can see the corners of Derek's mouth quirk, and that makes the entire conversation a little better.

"And you killed the Omega in the end, so we're good." Stiles adds.

"You remember, then?" Derek asks suddenly, eyes snapping to Stiles'.

"Uh. Somewhat… Okay, okay, you totally heard that. No, I don't. Scott told me."

"Jesus, Stiles." Derek scowls. His shoulders sag and his voice is hard again.

"Well, maybe if you told me what happened, I wouldn't be so angry about you trying to kick me out!" Stiles says incredulously. He knows Derek can hear the lie, but it's worth a shot.

Derek sighs. "Fine. You're right about the Omega. I called the pack out into the preserve for training."

"Yeah, I remember that. I still have the text." Stiles adds helpfully.

"You showed up first. And so did the Omega. I thought it was just an Omega, but she turned out to be an Alpha without a pack."

"Alphas can exist without a pack?" Stiles asks because he's been writing his own comprehensive guide to werewolves in his spare time, and getting information out of Derek has been difficult.

"Yes. I did, before I bit Isaac and the others."

"Right. I forgot. So, this Alpha?"

"She took me by surprise. I wasn't expecting her to be so strong. Then you came running into the fight like an idiot."

"Harsh."

"For whatever reason, you threw yourself in front of me and got clawed before she grabbed you by the wrist and flung you across the clearing, into a tree," Derek says through clenched teeth. He looks like he's reliving the entire fight.

"And then you killed her."

"Yes."

"And then you brought me to the hospital? Before the others even made it to us?" Stiles asks. He can't understand what took the others so long.

"You texted them about the Omega, but we chased her down first."

"Oh. So they had to find our new position." Derek nods. "You didn't carry me bridal-style the entire way there, did you?"

"I took the Jeep." Derek shrugs, but he doesn't deny the carrying part.

"Oh. Well, look, can we just ban me from a few meetings? It'll take a few months for this to be healed perfectly, anyway. I'll stay out of trouble until then." Stiles tries, hoping that Derek will meet him halfway. In all honesty, it's Derek that really needs him anyway. He hopes that Derek can see that.

"No."

"Come on, Derek. I'll be good, I promise." He tries his best to imitate Scott's puppy expression, but the scowl that Derek's giving him tells him he isn't doing too well.

"Stiles, no." Derek growls.

"Derek-"

"I can't, Stiles!" Derek says finally, but immediately closes his mouth audibly. He looks horrified at his own words. His fists shake at his sides as he drops his head to stare at the floor.

"Can't what?" Stiles asks softly, all sarcasm gone from his voice. He bends his head to try and get Derek to look at him, or just to see his expression. Derek doesn't look at him, though. He raises his hand, as if to say something before dropping it down. His entire body looks tense as he continues to look at the floor. Stiles would normally drop it, used to Derek avoiding feelings, but he desperately needs to know the answer.

The thing is that Stiles thinks he already knows what Derek is not saying. He thinks about all the times he's gotten hurt so far, and the ways Derek always responds. He remembers the way he wasn't allowed at pack meetings the entire time his face was scratched. Stiles always figured that Derek was angry with him for once again putting himself in unnecessary danger, but he was completely wrong. All this time, Derek's been blaming himself and that makes Derek hate himself. Stiles finally understands why Scott never thought of it as anger. There's plenty of guilt, but most off all, Stiles thinks there's fear. Derek's scared of losing him.

And if that makes him smile, who can blame him?

It's a good feeling, knowing that Derek cares about him more than Stiles ever thought. It's mutual, which makes everything better. Stiles is always saving Derek's ass, and throwing his self into the fray because he's scared. He'll always be afraid of losing his place in the pack, but he's never admitted to himself how scared he feels when he thinks about losing Derek.

Actually, a lot of things make sense now that he has.

"Hey," Stiles says softly, reaching his hand over to grab Derek's wrist. He feels it go tense under his fingertips and knows that the only reason Derek doesn't pull away is because he might hurt Stiles if he does. It makes him smile even more. "It's okay. I'm okay."

Derek doesn't say anything and he doesn't look any less tense, so Stiles knows he isn't saying enough.

"I'm alive, Derek. I'm not going anywhere." He tries again. That seems to get Derek to look at him, and he looks more vulnerable than Stiles ever thought he could.

"You don't know that," Derek says, voice quiet and raw. "You have to stop. Stop saving me. I don't-"

"If you say you don't deserve it, I'm going to hit you. With wolfsbane bronze knuckles or something, man, don't tempt me." Stiles grips Derek's wrist tightly as if to strengthen his threat. "I save you because I want to, Derek."

"You don't have to! I can heal, Stiles."

"Yeah, I guess. But sometimes I forget that in favor of, I don't know, not wanting you to get hurt? Did you ever think that it hurts me just as much? I don't want to lose you either, Derek!" Stiles realizes too late that he's said too much, but he should really be used to it by now. He breaks eye contact and stares down at his lap, silently berating himself for the ridiculous admission.

"Why?" Derek whispers, and Stiles almost misses it. He glances up at Derek and is shocked to see the scared expression on his face.

"Really, Derek? I save you on a weekly basis, do research for you at 2 in the morning, and lie to my Dad constantly for what? My health?" Stiles laughs. "Okay, obviously not my health. Wrong joke at the wrong time, I know. But come on. No one else in the pack deals with you as much as I do, man. Why the hell do you think I put up with you so much?"

"Scott," Derek says matter-of-factly.

"No." Stiles stretches the word for added benefit, "Scott put up with you because of me. In the beginning. You guys are way better now, but that's not the point. Did it ever occur to you that I might actually like you?"

Derek doesn't respond, but his eyebrows draw up in surprise. His body seems to open up a little, and Stiles smiles at his reaction. He'll blame the medication for his courage (or stupidity), but at least he's got that off his chest. Hell, it was even hard for him to admit to himself at first so he can't really blame Derek for not noticing. But Stiles sits next to him at every pack meeting. Totally a big hint.

"I'll take your silence as a no. Either way, that's it. I've laid myself bare—not literally, maybe later on, after you take me out to dinner or something—so yeah. I like you. Like, more than you're probably comfortable with, dude."

"Stiles," Derek says quietly, his eyes softer than before.

"Yeah?" Stiles looks away from Derek, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. He doesn't pull his hand back, though.

"Shut up." Derek's voice is full of amusement, and yeah, the fondness is back. Stiles can't help but look back at him. Derek's not smiling, not really, but the hardness of his jaw is gone and he looks more relaxed than he did before. Stiles thinks that if his confession could do that, he wouldn't mind saying it a hundred times more.

"You can't tell me what to do until you say you're not kicking me out of the pack." Stiles grins because he knows he's won already.

Derek moves closer to the bed before leaning over so his face is only inches from Stiles'. He smirks as Stiles' breath catches, his heart beating faster against his will. It's not fear, and Derek can obviously tell.

"Shut up," Derek says again, his eyes flashing red briefly. Stiles is ready to retort before a wonderful idea hits him, and he's suddenly okay with letting Derek have his moment. He releases Derek wrist, and quickly wraps his arm around Derek's neck instead, pulling him closer. Derek quirks an eyebrow at him and Stiles figures that's as good of an invitation as anything, so he pulls him down further until he can press their lips together. It's awkward, but Stiles hasn't kissed anyone before, so he doesn't feel too bad about it. Derek quickly fixes it though, pressing into the kiss almost immediately. Stiles silently thanks the Gods because he doesn't want his first kiss to suck.

Derek tilts his face to deepen the kiss, his hand coming up to cup Stiles' cheek. His thumb rubs against his chin lightly and Stiles can feel Derek's tongue against his lips. It's faster than he thought it would be, but he opens up anyway. Derek takes the invitation greedily, making a noise at the back of his throat. It's not human at all, and if Stiles' mouth weren't otherwise occupied, he'd happily make a dog joke. But Stiles isn't stupid and nothing in the world could convince him to break the kiss. Well, anything except oxygen. That he's currently running low on.

Derek pulls away, letting Stiles breathe against his lips. His eyes are closed, and he presses their foreheads together. Stiles stares at him happily, bringing his arm back so he can run his fingers against Derek's face. The stubble is rough under his fingertips and he absolutely loves it.

"Are you seriously petting me?" Derek huffs, amused. Stiles stares in wonder as Derek actually smiles at him. It's a small one, but it's there and Stiles is trying to take a mental picture of it because he put it there.

"Maybe," He says absentmindedly, fingers still moving against Derek's cheeks. Derek just shakes his head slightly before kissing him again. Stiles ruins it by laughing.

"Thank God I didn't do that first, huh?" Stiles can't stop smiling. He stares up at Derek, eyes bright.

"You're ridiculous," Derek says, meeting Stiles' eyes. Stiles wishes he could find a word to describe Derek's eye color, but it's absolutely impossible and he'll send Crayola a picture of them one day so that they can.

"Am I still out of the pack?" Stiles asks seriously. Derek frowns at him.

"You said I'm not your Alpha."

Stiles can't help the laugh that escapes him. "Are you actually upset about that? I'm the only one allowed to be mad here, Sourwolf."

Derek just continues to stare at him, frown plastered onto his face.

"Alpha Sourwolf." Stiles rolls his eyes. "I take it back, jeez."

"Good." Derek smirks, rewarding Stiles with a quick kiss. "You're banned from pack meetings, though."

"For how long?"

"Until that's off," Derek says, eyeing Stiles' cast angrily.

"You really hate looking at that, huh? Is that why I was banned when I had that cut on my face?"

"Yes." Derek growls.

"Okay, okay. I can live with that. But you're not banning yourself from my room, are you?" Stiles asks with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.

"Stiles." Derek glares at him, but that does nothing to distract Stile from the groan.

"Shut up?" Stiles laughs.

"Yes," Derek says and distracts him with another kiss. Stiles could get used to that.