Chapter Text
Okay, so Stiles might a little distractible. Maybe even a lot, if you ask his dad, but Stiles is absolutely, positively, not stupid. Even in the chaos, he knows what he saw.
And there’s nowhere else that bullet could have gone but into Derek Hale.
“Okay, so maybe you’re just in shock,” Stiles forces his hands to still, his voice not to shake. He’s a professional, dammit. And sure, armed robberies might not be his everyday response in Beacon Hills. This might, in fact, be the first one he’s ever responded to before. But Stiles is the best at his job, okay, and Scowls– um, Derek, need him.
His help. Whatever.
“I’m not in shock. Because I didn’t get hit,” Derek won’t look straight at him, shoulder tense enough they’re hiked nearly up to his ears. His eyes dart around like he’s still expecting an attack from any corner, he’s practically quivering, and he’s definitely in shock.
“Look, how ‘bout you just sit down for me,” Stiles uses his most soothing voice, ghosts a hand over Derek’s bicep to try and guide him away from the door. “The police have got it from here.”
Derek’s muscles flex against his hand and Stiles manfully resists the urge to grope at them. Honestly, does the man lift cars for fun as well as repair them?
“If I sit down, will you leave me alone?” Derek huffs, turns and stomps towards the edge of the curb, and hey.
Rude.
“No can do, my grumpy friend,” Stiles says brightly. “See my fancy little badge here?”
He pokes at his chest. “It means it’s my job to not leave you alone until I make sure you’re not, I dunno, bleeding out of a hole in your body.”
And even if Stiles hadn’t seen what he thought he had, crouched down and half hidden by the shelves as the practically foaming-at-the-mouth robber had pulled the trigger – one of Derek’s arms hasn’t moved, from where he has it clenched to his side. His face too, is a shade or two paler than normal, and Stiles is pretty sure it’s not just the washed out twilight lighting.
Derek practically collapses on the pavement, still not looking at Stiles. Dammit. That was way less graceful than Stiles has seen him be.
“C’mon, man,” Stiles crouches, spreads his hands. “Lemme just check you over. Peace of mind for me, okay?”
From this close, he can feel the heat coming off Derek, heat, and the smell of whatever fancy cologne he’s wearing that really, really makes Stiles want to bury his face in Derek’s neck. Or his chest. Or…
Stiles shakes himself. No, bad, this is focusing on making sure the man who saved his life is not dying time, not indulge in his guilty fantasies time.
Derek’s looking at him now, eyebrows all bunched up, like Stiles is the most frustrating puzzle anyone’s ever put in front of him.
Stiles can practically taste victory.
He lets his voice soften, leans forward until his knuckles are just brushing Derek’s knees.
“You saved everybody in there, taking down that guy like you did,” he says. “So, y’know, thank you. For that.”
Derek’s lips part and his face is scrunching up, and then he jerks, hisses in pain. Before Stiles can stop him he staggers to his feet.
“Wait, what did I–“ No no no, that’s not what Stiles had meant to do, he doesn’t understand, he’d been so close. But Derek doesn’t stop, keeps staggering away determinedly, focused on his bike.
Stiles doesn’t even bother to try and chase him this time, just stares as Derek rides shakily away. At least he’s got a name, for when the police finish securing the scene and the perp and get to interviewing the witnesses
Something’s going on here. Something more than just a dude getting lucky. One or two near brushes with death in a week might be coincidence, but three is a pattern, and he’s gonna get to the bottom of this.
And if Derek happens to look at him afterwards with gratitude instead of grump, maybe ask what he can do to thank Stiles… well. A man can dream, after all.
“Stiles, dammit Stiles!”
Shit. His dad.
“Hey dearest father of mine,” Stiles pushes himself to his feet, only to be grabbed firmly by both shoulders and yanked forward into a hug. Aw, yeah. Nothing quite like his dad’s full body hugs. After a beat, John pushes back, scanning up and down Stiles’ body like he’s afraid there’s some terrible wound Stiles is bravely hiding.
Ha. Joke’s on him. Stiles has never bravely hidden a thing in his life.
“I’m fine, Derek football-tackled the guy before he could do more than shout a bunch,” Stiles grins, scrubs a hand across the back of his neck.
“Derek? Derek Hale?” John tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Wait, no, tell me exactly how you managed to end up in the middle of convenience store robbery.”
Stiles mouth drops open. “Hey, I didn’t do it on purpose.”
John shakes his head, finally letting go of Stiles to put his hands on his hips.
“You’re not even on shift where your job actually is being there at emergencies. Oh no, you had to go find one on your off time.”
Well, that’s just mean.
“I just got off shift, and anyways these things just happen around me, it’s not my fault,” Stiles huffs. “And besides there’s a more important question here.”
John’s skeptical expression clearly says he can’t think of any question more important right now than the question of Stiles’ wellbeing. Really, he needs to move on because what Stiles really needs to know is “– that question being what do they know about the guy who did this?”
“Oh no,” John says firmly. “You’re an EMT not a police officer, and I’m not talking to you about an open investigation.”
Clearly he needs more persuasion.
“C’moooon,” Stiles wheedles,”Just a little talking. I know they gave you the lowdown on your drive here.”
He widens his eyes. “And I was just shot at, maybe I need to know if I’m,” he lowers his voice dramatically, “in danger.”
John knows him too well to fall for his antics, but he purses his lips, seems to weigh the odds in his head.
“Fine,” he says. “He definitely isn’t local. And whatever he’s shooting, and the ammo he used, aren’t exactly standard grade.”
Ooo. Curiouser and curiouser.
“It’s strange for a run of the mill robbery, so until we figure out if there was another motive I want you to keep your guard up.”
Well then. Stiles is intrigued. But before he can wheedle out any more answers, John holds up a hand.
“That’s it. I wasn’t kidding,” he says. “We’re gonna get some food, and then I’m taking you home.”
“Fries?” Stiles says hopefully. If there’s any day he deserves fries on, it’s definitely this one.
“Fine, fries,” John loops an arm gently around his shoulder. “Now c’mon son, let’s go.”