The worst part is that he wasn’t even there. He heard Scott shout in alarm, the sudden kick in Stiles’ heartbeat, and his cry of pain. Derek had abandoned his own fight to race through the woods, panic flooding his senses. He’s been afraid before, but the idea that Stiles could have been dying chilled his bones more than anything else has in the longest time. He’d found them in a clearing, Scott bleeding profusely and hovering over Stiles’ limp form. For one awful, heart wrenching second, Derek had thought he was already dead. But he could hear his heartbeat, faint but there, and as his eyes adjusted he could see the shaky rise and fall of Stiles’ chest.
“Der’k,” Stiles had choked out.
Derek had flown over, fallen to his knees, hands sliding up Stiles’ arms to cup his face. “Stiles. Stiles, can you hear me?”
“Derek, there’s two of you,” Stiles had said thickly, choking a little on blood. “Double the fun for me, I guess,” he’d added with a weak smile. Derek would have rolled his eyes if he’d been able to think properly, to breathe properly, to focus on anything but the blood all over his hands, and Stiles’ pulse growing weaker and weaker.