#can we agree that its the first son stiles stilinski’s bodyguard? (via hales-emissary)
AH YES, FIRST SON STILES STILINSKI.
“Stiles,” Derek says, “oh God, Stiles.”
He’s shirtless, and Stiles would wonder why, except he’s too exhausted, too dehydrated, too terrified to speak. What matters is that Derek is here, he’s here, it’s over, it’s over, Derek is–
“I’m here,” Derek says, “Stiles, I’m here, it’s okay, I’m here,” and he sinks to his knees, takes Stiles’ cuffed wrists between his warm hands, then reaches for Stiles’ shoulder, the cut on his cheek, the bruise on his forehead, quick investigative touches that are too reassuring, too comforting to bear, and Stiles can’t help it– he presses his face to Derek’s naked chest and sobs.
“Derek?” Stiles whispers, voice rough. “What are you– what is it? What’s going on?”
“Ssh,” Derek says. “Go back to sleep.” He checks the window again, checks the door, checks his earpiece. His movements are fluid, efficient, and when he finally lowers his gun and says, “Don’t worry, everything’s fine. False alarm,” Stiles doesn’t doubt him for a second.
“Come back to bed,” he says sleepily, patting the mattress. “It’s lonely in here without you.”
(Not sure whether this is a dream or not; if so, Stiles wakes up with a jolt, half-flustered by and half-impressed with the amount of detail his subconscious provided, the dark swirls of the tattoo on Derek’s back, the way he’d almost been able to smell Derek, feel the combined heat of their bodies as they moved together. The next morning when Stiles passes Derek in the hallway, he feels his face heat up. “Morning,” he says, ducking his head, and Derek - straight-backed, immaculately suited up, not a tattoo in sight - says, “Morning.”)
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