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There was something strangely eerie in the silence. Generally speaking, wherever Stiles, there was bound to be noise. But this – this was the silence that seems impenetrable and bears on your ear drums, suffocating, and tickling your ears.
It could have been the fact that he had heightened senses due to a furry little problem (or, that’s what Stiles called it) or he was thrumming with worry and his heart was going to burst from how fast it was beating. It smelled lightly of blood, somewhere far, far off and cool Earth.
He fucking hated warehouses.
Scott and Boyd had swept through, but something seemed entirely off. Like he wasn’t seeing the whole picture. He wasn’t probably, since he was making a beeline for the exit sign that was leading to a more familiar scent.
Fucking Stiles.
Why he was even doing this was a mystery for the most part because this stupid teenager was always getting into trouble. Not even little trouble, like parking tickets – that’s too normal – no, he’s getting into lie threatening danger at least once a week. Of course, he has to get saved or save himself and half the time he’s passed out with some type of injury when they find him, moments from death.
He really hopes it isn’t one of those times, but with the ever increasingly smell of blood and Stiles, it makes him the slightest bit apprehensive. Despite Stiles being single-handedly the most annoying person he’s ever met, he’s got a soft spot for him.
It isn’t until he’s halfway through the exit that he registers the blood isn’t Stiles – trust him, he can tell by now. Stiles being 18 and having been quite literally running with the wolves for 2 years now has gotten them all very well acquainted with the smell of blood, specifically Stiles.
He pauses, and continues despite the anxious, gnawing feeling of wrongwrongwrong in his gut.
Stiles is, to no surprise, unconscious on the ground, hand in a puddle of sticky looking blood. On his back, he’s still breathing and Derek can hear the thumping in his chest. It’s a welcome reminder that this – putting himself in danger all the time – doesn’t go in vain.
He surveys the room and is surprised to not see another person even though Stiles was deliberately kidnapped and taken from them for a reason. He’s been gone for multiple days, actually. Surely, he would at least smell a familiar angry scent of Stiles captors, right?
He carries Stiles, the unstirring shrub, most of the way out until Stiles rouses slightly and looks up at him with frosty amber eyes. He’s angry.
“God, damn it – Derek.” He sounds so angry he can barely form words, the warm smell of dark passion (read: anger, rage, pissed-offness amplified by about a thousand) melting off him.
“What did I do?” He’s still carrying him close to his chest, head resting on his bicep even as he walks. Stiles manages to look like a very angry princess from a storybook who didn’t want to be saved, and almost sad, in the same motion. Jesus, what the fuck – he was saving him.
“I was doing a ritual.” He says, like Derek should have known. Faintly, he recalls a slight glimmer of magic and warmth and StilesStilesStiles, but it didn’t seem any different than normal.
“Excuse me.” Derek grumbles, done talking because he cannot even begin to want to argue about saving his life for the – what? – 12th time. It’s starting to become a habit.
Scott and Boyd are there looking ghastly, staring at Stiles who’s slowly calming down. Boyd, ever the conversationalist, simply snickers and shakes his head before going to Scotts car and getting in the passenger’s seat. Scott seems a little wary, even after Derek deposits him on two feet a little roughly. Stiles, with a harsh glare, has to use his shoulder to balance himself.
“What happened?” He asks, searching or bruises, then to Derek with a darker glint. He resists to roll his eyes.
“Those fuckers kidnapped me and I um, disposed of their bodies. I was resting up and just about to walk out when Mr. Knight and Shining Asshole over here decided to pick me up and carry me like a damsel in distress. Which I am not. I’m like, the Wicked Witch in this situation because I literally just killed an entire team of fuckheads.” He seems angrier, if possible, now that he’s relaying it out to the two of them. Derek resists the urge to laugh.
“I’m glad you’re okay, dude.” Scott puts a hand to his shoulder and Stiles and he have a strange moment where they lock eyes and Stiles grips his forearm, before letting go and nodding at each other.
“Thanks, Derek.”
Derek stays quiet, raises and eyebrow and moves. Or, at least he tries to but the subtle hand on his shoulder keeps him in place while Stiles raised a slightly bloodied eyebrow. Come to think of it, he looked worse for wear. His shirts – flannel and shirt underneath – were torn is certain places exposing long expanses of skin underneath, freckles dotting along his stomach and ribs. His arms and hands looked dirty – caked with mud, dust and blood that wasn’t his own. His face though, save for the bloodied eyebrow, looked relatively clean other than a bit of sweat.
Leave it to Stiles to look like this after a kidnapping.
He rolls his eyes but nods to the car like an invitation.
The car is quiet, save for a bit of fumbling as he sets himself gently in the passenger side. He smells of dirt and warmth, more calm than before and Stiles – intoxicating warmth like a humidity-free day in the sun, cinnamon and clean Earth. It fills up the car and suddenly it feels like they’ve surpassed something, gotten over a hurdle he didn’t know was there.
It’s strangely intimate, when Stiles shuts the door with a soft click and looks at him with tired, shining eyes. He won’t say it, but Derek knows he’s grateful. He can feel it without having to look for it.
Just as he’s about to start the car he coughs, awkwardly. “Is your seatbelt on?”
It breaks the moment, or at least a little, and he says a little, “Oh!” and fastens it. It snaps to his chest, right over his heart. He can hear the softer, more reserved thump-thump-thump now. An unending current, no real start or end. Constant.