#sterek feels

"What the fuck, Derek?" he snaps, voice sharper than he intended. It echoes through the loft, bouncing off the high ceilings and hitting Derek square in the back. His voice trembles —not with fear, but with frustration, with anger, with something so raw it burns in his throat.

Derek stiffens but doesn’t turn around. Of course he doesn’t. The guy has mastered the art of being emotionally unavailable, like it’s an Olympic sport and he’s in it for the gold. He stays exactly as he is, staring out at nothing, like he didn’t just nearly die for Stiles a few hours ago. Like he didn’t bleed out black in the dirt while Stiles begged him to stay awake, fingers slipping through too much blood.

He was too pale, too still. For a terrifying moment, Stiles thought he was really gone.

He takes a step forward, fists clenched at his sides. He’s been holding this in for too long, letting Derek get away with his usual brand of self-sacrificial brooding. But not this time.

"You threw yourself in front of me," Stiles continues, voice shaking, goading. "Like I was some helpless little human who needed saving."

Derek finally turns. His face is as closed off as ever, but his eyes —God, his eyes. There’s something there, something unreadable and infuriating and so DerekDerekDerek.

"You are human, Stiles," he says, like that explains everything. Like it fucking justifies what he did.

"Yeah, thanks, Captain Obvious,” Stiles rolls his eyes. “But newsflash, Derek, I’m not helpless. And even if I was, that doesn’t mean you get to put yourself in the line of fire for me. That’s not how this works."

Derek's jaw tightens. "It was the right call."

“I had a bulletproof vest!” Stiles yells. “You knew it!”

“I didn’t,” Derek says casually.

Years ago, when Stiles was still a little scared and got hot and bothered by Derek, he would’ve believed it. But now, Stiles knows when he lies. He knows what that eyebrow twitch means. He knows when that tone is used. 

“You knew,” he puts his foot down. “You knew and don’t lie to my fucking face, Derek.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t deny it again, doesn’t argue, just holds Stiles’ gaze like he’s waiting for him to run out of steam. Like this is just another one of their fights, like Stiles isn’t standing here trying to shake some goddamn sense into him.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most. The way Derek looks at him like he expects Stiles to give up. Like he’s already made peace with whatever reckless, self-sacrificing fate he’s doomed himself to.

"Jesus Christ," Stiles breathes out, raking both hands through his hair. "You knew I had a vest. You knew, and you still—" He cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before forcing himself to look at Derek again. "Why?"

Derek shifts, barely perceptible, but Stiles catches it. The way his fingers flex against his biceps, the way his throat moves like he's swallowing back words.

"It was instinct," Derek finally mutters.

"Bullshit!" Stiles snaps again. "Absolute, grade-A, werewolf martyr bullshit. That’s not instinct, Derek. That’s a goddamn death wish."

Derek flinches, and Stiles immediately feels sick.

Because he knows. He knows exactly what Derek thinks of himself, what he’s spent years believing. He knows the weight Derek carries, the guilt that wraps around him like chains, the conviction that his life is worth less than everyone else’s.

Stiles exhales sharply, shaking his head. "No. Instinct is dodging a punch or ducking for cover. Instinct is survival," he glares, stepping closer. "That wasn’t survival, Derek. That was you deciding I was worth more than you."

Derek’s jaw tightens. His shoulders go rigid, like he’s bracing for a blow. But he still doesn’t argue.

And that —that makes Stiles’ chest ache.

"Why do you do this?" His voice wavers, but he doesn’t care. "Why do you act like your life is disposable? Like you don’t—" he swallows hard, trying to get the words out. "Like you don’t fucking matter."

Derek exhales, slow and measured, but his fingers twitch against his arms, and Stiles knows him well enough to see the cracks.

"It’s different with you," Derek says, finally.

The words knock the breath from Stiles’ lungs.

Derek swallows, like he regrets saying it, but he doesn’t take it back. He just shifts on his feet and looks away, jaw clenching.

"You’re not—" his voice falters, then steadies again. "I don’t think about it. When it’s you, I just— move. It’s not a choice."

Stiles stares at him, heart hammering. "Derek."

Derek shakes his head, letting out a breath that sounds like defeat. "It’s instinct", he repeats.

There’s a whole new meaning to it. A whole new value that Stiles only came to know now.

It’s not about self-worth, not really. It’s not some calculated decision where Derek weighs his life against Stiles’ and finds himself lacking. It’s deeper than that. It’s his body, his blood, his bones —everything in him telling him to move, to take the hit, to protect Stiles no matter what it costs.

And Stiles— God, Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that.

"You can’t—" his throat tightens, panic and hope rising in his chest. "You can’t just—"

Derek looks back at him then, eyes dark and steady. "I can’t stop it, Stiles." His voice is quiet. "I don’t want to."

And that— that’s what makes Stiles’ stomach swoop and heart skip a beat.

Because Derek isn’t saying this like some tragic martyr. He isn’t throwing himself on the sword just to make a point.

He’s saying this is who he is.

This is how he loves.

Stiles breathes in, breathes out, and suddenly he’s moving. His fingers curl around Derek’s wrist, dragging his hand away from where he’s gripping his own arms, lacing their fingers together like it’s the only thing keeping him steady.

"I don’t care if you think this is your job," Stiles whispers, raw with emotion. "I don’t care if you think you’re supposed to protect me, or the pack, or the whole damn world. Because at the end of the day, Derek, I need you more than I need to be safe. So stop acting like your life is worth less than mine. Stop acting like —like losing you would be anything less than a goddamn tragedy of my life."

Derek’s eyes meet his eyes again, so vulnerable that Stiles just wants to wrap him in a blanket and hide him away from this world of pain.

"You think I’d be okay if you died?" His voice shakes, and his eyes water and he hates it, but he doesn’t stop. There are no walls between them anymore. "You think I’d just —what? Walk away? Go back to my life like losing you wouldn’t wreck me? Do you even realize what you mean to me?"

“Stiles”, Derek says, pleading and praying. 

“Derek,” Stiles replies, just as imploringly. “Derek, please.”

Silence stretched over them for a long moment. Then, finally, barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to do this any other way."

"How to do what?" Stiles asks, already knowing the answer.

Derek clenches his jaw. "I don’t know how to not protect you."

"Then learn," he says, voice softer now. "Learn to protect yourself too. Learn to fight for you the way you fight for me. Not just as the guy who saves my ass when things go sideways. I need you, Derek. Alive. Here. With me. Because I swear to God, Derek, if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll—" His breath catches. "I can’t lose you."

Derek’s fingers twitch in Stiles’ grasp, and for a second, Stiles thinks he might pull away.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he grips Stiles’ hand tighter, like he’s grounding himself, like maybe —for the first time —he’s listening.

"Okay," Derek murmurs, voice rough. "I’ll try."

Stiles exhales, shaky, and lets his forehead drop against Derek’s shoulder. He’ll take it. Derek doesn’t make empty promises, not to him at least. So, he’ll take it. They can start with trying.

"Good,” he presses his nose against his shoulder. “Because if you ever scare me like that again, I swear to God, I’ll find a way to haunt your ghost and make your afterlife miserable."

Derek actually huffs out a small, reluctant laugh, a hand coming up to pull him closer. 

It’s enough.

For now. 

🐺.✨

He sat down next to Stiles, leaning back against the Jeep.

Stiles balled his hands into fists and unfurled them, feeling the tension in his arms as his hands trembled. He tried again and again, trying to stop them from shaking, but nothing worked.

“I can’t get my hands to stop shaking,” he muttered, his voice strained and quivering.

“Here,” Derek said softly, reaching across to take Stiles’ hands in his.

His hands were warm and surprisingly soft as he cupped Stiles’.

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat, his stomach fluttering and his blood pulsing in his ears. His hands were still shaking in Derek’s hold. A soft blush warmed his cheeks. He bowed his head, hoping the shadows cast by the street lamps would hide his reddening cheeks.

His lips quivered around unspoken words, a sarcastic comment resting on the tip of his tongue. But no matter what, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything he didn’t want that moment to end.

Derek shifted his hand, lacing his fingers through Stiles’ and giving his hand a gentle squeeze. He rested his other hand atop Stiles’, letting his hands warm Stiles’ cold fingers.

Stiles’ hands stopped trembling, the warmth of Derek’s touch seeping into his veins.

He looked up, meeting Derek’s gaze.

His pale aventurine eyes caught the light, full of worry and shimmering in the moonlight as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles swallowed hard, a forced smile lifting the corners of his lips. It fell away as he dropped his gaze. His unfocused eyes settled on the asphalt of the car park.

The two of them sat there in silence, letting each other’s presence comfort them.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh, letting his body sag to the side as he laid against Derek’s shoulder.

Derek tilted his head, resting his cheek atop Stiles’ cheek.

“It’s going to be okay,” Derek whispered reassuringly, gently squeezing Stiles’ hand. “We’re going to be okay.”