Work Text:
“Stiles!”
There’s no response.
“Stiles! Come on !”
Still nothing. Not a movement, not a sound, not a sign of anything.
Please. Come on.
“Stiles!”
Shaking does nothing either, only shows the lack of consciousness more, as Stiles’ hands flop by his side, and his head lolls to the side.
Wake up .
There are more words running through Derek’s mind. Words he can’t say, even when no one is listening. Words and thoughts he’s afraid of, that terrify him almost as much as the fact that Stiles isn’t moving .
It’s a last resort kind of situation, and he has a minor, almost hysterical, moment of remembering Snow White and that one method of waking Stiles up that he’s not going to try. Instead, he swings his arm to the side and then back, his palm connecting with Stiles’ cheek with a loud slap! sound, the burn causing instant guilt.
He’s berating himself for even trying, but then -- and he almost misses it -- there’s a slight flutter of eyelids on the face he’s been staring at since he barged in on Stiles and the witch that caused his unconsciousness.
“Stiles?”
There’s nothing at first, and then a mumbled “wazzup?”, confused but alive .
Moments pass, and Derek can’t do anything but watch Stiles slowly come back, open his eyes and squint as the light hits them, move his fingers carefully. Then he reaches up to the cheek that’s coloring a few shades darker than his usually pale skin.
“Did you slap me?” Stiles asks with shock in his tone, and Derek immediately winces. “Wow. Guess we’re even. ‘S only fair.”
Later, Derek will ask what Stiles means. Later, they’ll talk about going to meet unknown witches alone. Later, Derek will maybe say more.
Later.
For now, Derek will watch Stiles slowly start moving, and he’ll try to ignore the stinging in the hand that may have caused the red mark on Stiles’ cheek but also brought him back.