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Arms and legs and flailing. That’s the first thing that comes to Derek’s mind when Stiles is brought up in any sort of way in a conversation. It’s usually followed up by the memory of Stiles’ voice, the incessant rambling and stream-of-consciousness rants about everything.
He can’t help but tense whenever Stiles gets close -- Derek’s idea of close, which is usually about a mile away. He can’t stop the anxiousness and worry. The one human in his pack -- yes, Stiles is pack, has been from the beginning, sometimes more than any of the other wolves -- who has a tendency to run into things head-first, to not think of himself and just how breakable he is. So when there’s any sign of danger, any tiniest hint of an injury or pain, Derek panics.
Scott knows. So does Isaac. Really, they all know, because the wolves can sense Derek’s nervousness, and Lydia and Kira have intuition that almost reaches the one that Laura used to have around her brother. They mostly don’t say anything, but Derek feels their stares even when they all think they’re being subtle.
So when Scott and Stiles pull up at the apartment, the first thing that Derek focuses on is the way Scott radiates worry, which immediately puts Derek on alert. It’s not until they walk through the door though, that he smells the faint trace of blood, not fresh enough to make him panic but strong enough to move towards Stiles without thinking about it. He tries to pinpoint where the smell is coming from, but the scent is muddled with something else, something that Derek thinks he should recognize but doesn’t.
“...I’m fine,” he hears Stiles say, his tone exasperated and not at all amused like usually. “I’m not hurt, Derek,” reaches Derek’s ears but doesn’t do much to ease the anxiety.
What does, though, is the recognition of the other smell, the one underlying the scent of blood that triggered Derek’s reaction. It’s then that he realizes just how close he is to Stiles, and he pulls away slowly, with more reluctance than he’d be willing to admit.
“What did you do?” Derek growls as the familiar -- now that he has managed to figure it out -- scent of fresh ink takes over.
Of course, Stiles doesn’t miss the chance to sass Derek, he never does. Derek can hear and feel Scott’s amusement from across the room and he doesn’t have to look around to know that Scott is smirking.
Tattoo. Derek thinks and his mind swims with the images of ink on Stiles’ pale skin. He moves away and heads back towards his couch, mutters something about a warning that he isn’t sure makes sense, and he tries hard to not consider what the tattoo might be.
The rest of the pack have some sort of ink on their skin to mark their allegiance to the pack, to the Hales, to Scott, to Derek -- even if he’s not their Alpha anymore. Scott is, but Scott made the decision before that they keep the triskellion as a connection, even if it’s not the mark. But Stiles, to the best of Derek’s knowledge, was not willing -- or allowed to -- mark his skin.
“Aw, I didn’t know you cared,” Stiles says with a light tone and Derek almost trips over his own feet.
If you only knew just how much I do, Derek thinks and slumps into the couch. His heart skips, and he refuses to look in Scott’s direction, fully aware that Scott knows. Instead, Derek focuses on Stiles’ and Scott’s banter and stubbornly pushes away his curiosity about Stiles’ tattoo. He’s not going to imagine how the triskele would look in between the freckles and on the milky-white skin. He’s not.