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Derek slid open Stiles's window and rolled into the room. He expected the yelp of surprise that greeted his entrance, but not the yelp of pain that immediately followed.
"Ow! Fuck, fuck, fuck, ow!"
Derek immediately straightened. "Stiles? What happened? Are you hurt?"
Stiles sprang away from his desk, clutching his ass, face twisted in pain. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm—"
"—a terrible liar," Derek cut in. "Let me see how bad it is."
"No!" Stiles backed awkwardly away. "No, it's fine, I swear, it's—ouch!"
This was ridiculous. Derek crossed the room and grabbed Stiles's arm, turning him around perhaps a little more roughly than necessary.
A small metal rod was sticking out of his ass.
Derek blinked. "Is that a scalpel?"
"No, it's a knife! I was cutting some stuff out and you—" Stiles's mouth clacked shut.
Derek could see where this was going. "You were startled and stabbed yourself in the ass."
Stiles slapped at him, but Derek easily avoided the hits. "I wasn't startled," Stiles grumbled. "I was briefly surprised. Briefly surprised long enough to back into my knife."
Derek rolled his eyes. Only Stiles.
He started to crouch.
Stiles squawked and backed away. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm going to pull the knife out and make sure you don't need stitches," Derek said. "Because you stabbed yourself. In the ass."
Stiles's cheeks turned pink, and he once again held his hands protectively over his ass. "You don't need to do that. You don't need to look at my butt."
Derek raised his eyebrows. "Okay. Do you want me to call Scott? Or someone else? Melissa, maybe?"
"No!" Stiles shouted. "Oh my God, do you hear yourself? I don't want my best friend's mom looking at my ass!"
"Your best friend's mom is a nurse," Derek pointed out. "I think she's seen worse."
"Not on me."
Derek was moments away from beating his own head against the desk. "Will you please let me make sure you're okay?"
Stiles glared at him, but Derek just crossed his arms and met it evenly. Stiles was stubborn, yes, but Derek knew how and when to pick his battles.
Sure enough, after another minute, Stiles sighed and dropped his hands. "Fine. But you'd better not laugh."
Derek caught his arm and led him into the bathroom. "Don't worry, I've gotten all the laughing out of my system."
He pulled out the first aid kit and set it on the bathroom counter, then turned on the hot water and grabbed a washcloth. Derek didn't think there would be much bleeding, but it would be better to be safe than sorry.
Stiles shifted from one bare foot to the other, the hems of his pajama pants pooling at his ankles. "You don't have to do this."
Derek sighed. "I know. I just want to make sure you're okay."
Stiles nodded and turned around. "Okay, just make it quick."
Derek knelt on the bathroom floor and put his hand on Stiles's ass to hold him still, and that was when he realized the fatal flaw in this particular plan: He would be getting up close and very, very personal with Stiles's ass.
Make it quick, he told himself, echoing Stiles's words, and pulled out the knife. It was small and sharp, so hopefully the wound wouldn't be too bad. A little rubbing alcohol and a bandage, and it should be good as new.
He pulled down Stiles's pajama pants and boxers, careful not to reveal more of Stiles's skin than he absolutely needed to.
Now that the knife was out, blood welled up in the thin cut, barely half an inch long and probably not much deeper. Derek grabbed the warm washcloth off the counter and wiped it clean, and then got a cotton ball and rubbing alcohol.
Stiles hissed as soon as the rubbing alcohol touched his skin, and Derek immediately started drawing the pain away.
"Are you doing your wolfy pain drain?" Stiles asked.
"You're hurt," Derek muttered.
"I got stabbed in the butt by an exacto knife," Stiles said. "I don't think that's an injury worthy of a pain drain."
The back of Derek's neck heated, and he focused on cleaning the cut. "You're hurt," he said again.
"Huh," was all Stiles said in response.
Derek knew what that huh meant. It meant Stiles had heard something that sent the gears of his brain turning, and he wouldn't let go of it until he figured it out. And he always figured it out.
Nothing Derek could do about it now. He put some antibiotic ointment on a larger bandage and set it over the cut, smoothing it out so that it would adhere properly. Once he was satisfied, he tugged Stiles's boxers and pajama pants back into place. "It's a near thing, but I think you'll live."
Stiles didn't laugh. Instead, Stiles turned around, looking at him shrewdly. "You fixed my butt."
Derek closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. This. This was the person he'd chosen. Hundreds of people in Beacon Hills and he'd gone stupid over the one who said things like "You fixed my butt."
"Someone had to," Derek said.
"But you did." Stiles took a step closer. "Because I was hurt. You were worried about me."
Derek dropped his gaze to the floor and nodded.
"You care about me."
Derek nodded again.
Stiles was standing close enough now that Derek could feel the warmth from his body, inhale the familiar scent that had started to smell like home so long ago that Derek really didn't want to think about it.
"You like me," Stiles said.
Derek couldn't bring himself to look up, because Stiles would know the truth as soon as he looked at his eyes. Because yes, he said things like "You fixed my butt," but he also said things like "It wasn't your fault," and "I'm not leaving you," and "You're stuck with me."
In the past few years, Derek had had precious few people in his life he could trust, but he could always trust Stiles.
"I don't just like you," Derek admitted. "I...I trust you. I need you to survive, which is why I'm not letting you go."
He'd rarely ever seen Stiles go utterly speechless, but now he stood in front of Derek with his jaw flapping and no words coming out.
This wasn't exactly the time or the place Derek had pictured making this kind of confession. Well, if he was honest with himself, he'd never pictured making this kind of confession. He'd assumed he would just stay quiet and let Stiles find someone less broken, someone happier, someone who could give him all the things Derek couldn't. Yes, it would hurt, but Derek would rather have his friendship and know Stiles was happy than try for something more and make him miserable.
Derek cleared his throat. "It's okay if you don't feel the same way. I'm always going to be your friend, and I'm always going to be here for you."
Stiles was still gaping at him, eyes wide and mouth open, and the awkward silence crept up Derek's spine like a vine. He should leave.
He took half a step toward the door.
Stiles grabbed his arm. "Wait! Wait, I..."
He trailed off and looked down at the bathroom floor, worrying his lower lip. Derek might have left, but Stiles was gripping his jacket like a lifeline, and no matter how much Derek wanted to leave, he wouldn't leave Stiles when he looked like this.
Finally, Stiles lifted his gaze, amber eyes wet. "Me? I mean," he waved his free hand over his body, "me?"
Derek wanted to shake him, or maybe slap every person who'd ever made Stiles doubt himself. "Yes, you."
Stiles shook his head, grip tightening even more. "I've been trying to get over you for the past year, or two years, or who knows how long, because I didn't think you'd ever want someone like me when you could have absolutely anyone that you want, and now you're telling me that you actually like me? And maybe more than like me? You ass—"
"I want you," Derek said quickly. His heartbeat thrummed; he could feel it in his fingertips. "I..."
He couldn't find the words, but he could find the action.
Derek leaned forward, brushing his lips across Stiles's, a quick, chaste kiss that would nevertheless make his feelings known. He started to draw back, but Stiles made a noise and tangled his hand in Derek's hair, pulling him back in for a deeper kiss. Derek closed his eyes and let himself fall into it, let Stiles set the pace, lost himself in the taste and the scent and the soft noises Stiles made.
He had no idea how much time had passed when they finally had to stop to breathe. Derek rested his forehead against Stiles's, not willing to move any farther away, just in case this turned out to be a particularly vivid dream.
He could feel Stiles trembling, hear it in each shaky exhale, and Derek grabbed his hips and held him close. He didn't ever want to let go.
"So. Um. I like you, too," Stiles whispered. "In case you hadn't noticed."
Derek huffed a quiet laugh into the space between them. "I gathered."
"Do you want to," Stiles scratched his fingers along Derek's scalp, "um, do you want to stay for a while? Maybe, like, watch a movie or something? Because there's still a chance that my butt will get infected and I'll need someone to take a look at it and make sure that I'm not going to die of gangrene or anything like that."
Derek kissed him again, still not quite believing that he could. That Stiles wanted him as well. "Well, we can't have that."
"And, you know, my dad's working the overnight shift tonight, so—"
"I'll stay as long as you want me to," Derek said.
Stiles bit his lips. "What if I wanted you to stay forever?"
Derek closed his eyes, not even bothering to fight the smile spreading over his face. "I think that could be arranged."
(Three years later, when Derek actually proposed, Stiles argued that he'd done so first and that Derek had already said yes, so really they'd been engaged for three years already. Derek laughed for five minutes, and then kissed him until neither of them could remember their names.)