Derek lifted his body off Stiles carefully, tried not to wake him. It'd taken a long time for Stiles to fall asleep. The outburst he'd gone through had been ugly and painful, but necessary. He needed the rest. Derek tilted his head to look at the wet mess Stiles had made of his shoulder. He didn't really care; Stiles had needed to let all that pain out.
He'd been surprised when Stiles finally opened up, he'd had no idea what the teenager had kept bottled inside. Derek knew what it felt like to be alone. He wondered how Stiles could go through each day with a smile on his face, laughing and joking about everything when he had such pain locked inside. Derek wasn't capable of doing something like that; he respected the kid's strength.
He wrinkled his nose at the coppery scent of blood in the air, it wasn't very pleasant, but it was something he was used to. There were other scents flooding the room, above them all was Stiles, that personal mixture of his body chemistry with his deodorant and soap. Just below that was Scott. He'd lingered in the hall all night, he still sat against the wall by their door. The young beta's heart beat anxiously.
Scott had followed at a discreet distance as Derek had carried a flailing Stiles up to their room. He'd only attempted to enter once, when Stiles stopped screaming, when he'd started crying in earnest. He'd poked his head just inside the door, met Derek's scowl with defiance.
Scott didn't seem to understand that he'd been intruding, seeing something that Stiles wouldn't want him to, something he wasn't ready to share with his friend. Scott had almost risked challenging him to get to Stiles's side.
Derek had stared into glowing amber eyes, met them with furious crimson. Concern had clouded Scott's judgment but hadn't pushed him into doing something he'd regret. Derek would have had difficultly restraining himself from breaking both of the beta's arms and throwing him off the terrace.
He closed his eyes at the memory. He wanted to protect Stiles, to take care of a vulnerable member of his pack, but being tempted to meet another pack member's concern with violence wasn't the right reaction. His mood swings were getting worse, the Alpha wolf seeped into every corner of his mind, picked at the edges of his control.
"Go to bed." Derek whispered the command knowing Scott would hear it.
"No." Scott's reply was quiet, but infuriatingly obstinate. "I want to make sure he's alright."
"You're the reason he's not alright. He needs time." It was harsh, but true. Stiles needed to face what happened on his own, needed to come to terms with what he'd done before he faced anyone else.
There was a soft rustle of clothes and light footsteps on the carpets as Scott retreated down the hallway, eventually Scott's scent faded too. Derek heard the others milling about downstairs, talking amongst themselves, worrying, thrown into a flurry of emotion as they asked Scott what happened, asked him if Stiles was alright.
Derek tuned them out, took another deep breath. He needed to do something about the blood scent in the air before it drove him into an instinctive frenzy. He was still adjusting to his new more potent urges. First he would need to bandage Stiles's hands so they wouldn't keep bleeding. It was possible the teen might wake up when he tried, but Derek was willing to bet that between the alcohol he'd smelled on Stiles's breath, and the emotional fatigue of his outburst, he wasn't likely to awaken any time soon.
He watched the boy sleep for a few minutes. His breathing was even, face slack. Stiles's heartbeat was steady. Derek went into the bathroom and pulled a first aid kit out from under the sink. He couldn't clean the wounds in Stiles's hands as stringently as he should, but he'd at least apply some antiseptic to the bandages before wrapping them. That would be enough to get him through the rest of the night.
After pausing a moment, he took a washcloth from the rack, glanced at the shower. He tried to ignore the overwhelming scent that lingered there. He shook his head, ran the washcloth through warm water; he'd need to get the sand off of the teen's hands at least. The scent of soap helped hide what still lingered in the shower.
Derek partially doubted Stiles would ever be completely free of sand; it looked like he'd burrowed his way back to the house. He cast a final glance in the direction of the shower, tried to breathe shallowly through his mouth until he made it back into the room carrying the first aid supplies and the damp wash cloth. The blood scent was suddenly comforting in comparison to the other smell, it didn't affect him on the same level, wasn't as confusing.
Quietly he padded back towards the bed Stiles was in, the teen hadn't moved. His breathing was deep and his scent was even, wasn't tinged with any lingering emotion. Derek kept breathing through his mouth, didn't want to get the blood scent into his nose. He leaned over and gently took Stiles's left arm in his hand, carefully watched for any reaction that would signal oncoming awareness. Stiles kept taking deep soft breaths. Gently, with great care, Derek cleaned the sand out of the cuts. They weren't that bad on the left one, the right though, that could be problematic, he hoped they were shallow as well.
After the sand had been cleared away he took his time in wrapping the teen's palm in crisp linen bandages with a generous portion of medication soaked into them. Occasionally Stiles's fingers would flex or twitch slightly. When they did Derek froze in place, waited for the pattern of rest to resume before continuing. Once the first hand was complete Derek laid it back down, watched Stiles's face for a minute. He looked peaceful.
Derek walked back to the bathroom. He paused outside the door, held his breath before entering. He rinsed the washcloth out as quickly and quietly as he could, made his way back into the bedroom. He'd be clinical, professional, and swift with the other hand. He intended to minimize the amount of time where he was in danger of waking Stiles up.
He didn't linger as he stroked the warm cloth against the normally infuriating teen's palm. He was careful when he applied the second set of bandages to the right hand. It was hurt worse, that's why he was gentler, not because he wasn't sure when he'd be so close without Stiles babbling away at him, diverting his attention and splitting his concentration like a sledge hammer coming down on an overly ripe watermelon.
Derek took the bloody sand covered washcloth back into the bathroom, endured the scents within and grabbed a new one. He dampened it with warm water before making his way back to the bed. With the new cloth he slowly cleaned the grime and streaked dirt from Stiles's face, wiped away the sand and the remnants of tears. As the Alpha, it was his duty to protect and care for his pack. He would do what was required of him.
His fingers didn't linger against the teenager's cheeks, didn't shake slightly when the eyelids they were so close to fluttered momentarily. Once Stiles's face was clean Derek returned to the bathroom, threw the second cloth into the sink without actually entering the room. He closed the door and leaned against it, nostrils flared. He covered his face with his arm, breathed in the scent of his own clothing to distract him.
Derek walked towards the empty bed. He was ready for sleep. He took a deep breath, frowned. The blood in the air wasn't gone. He'd forgotten the sheets and the clothes that Stiles wore. He grimaced at the thought of trying to undress the kid and get him out of the bed without waking him up. That seemed impossible. Worst case scenario Stiles would wake up and start talking. The thought stopped Derek from moving towards the bed Stiles was on.
It was silly; he scowled at the boy in the bed as though it were his fault. There was no way he could let a pack member sleep in a bed and clothes covered in blood. He was not afraid of Stiles waking up and chattering about god only knew what for god only knew how long.
Stiles didn't know it because he was asleep, but he had scored another point. The Alpha was indeed worried. Stiles vertigo inducing babbling: three, Derek's scowl powers: one.
Derek shook his head, took a calm breath. He slowly approached the sleeping form on the bed. He placed his hands gently on Stiles's body, tried to push him into rolling over onto his back. Stiles didn't budge at first, a hand feebly smacked at Derek's arms. The Alpha rolled his eyes. He gripped the flailing appendage, pinned it to the bed.
"G'way," Stiles mumbled. He curled his body around the hand Derek was using to hold his arm to the bed.
Stiles's skin was warm. Derek tried to pull free, gasped when Stiles's teeth closed over his wrist. He shook his hand. Stiles clung to him, bit harder. Derek growled. Stiles made noises like he was trying to rebuke Derek for touching him, but with his mouth around Derek's wrist there was no telling what the words were supposed to be.
Derek seized Stiles by the back of the neck, pried his arm free. Stiles kicked out one leg, almost caught Derek in the groin. Derek growled again, gripped Stiles's shirt, and yanked it off. Stiles flopped onto his back, scratched at his belly and let out a soft sigh. Derek looked at his wrist, felt like he should be able to see teeth marks.
He reached out, undid the button and ties on Stiles's cargo shorts. Stiles got his feet on Derek's thighs, pushed at him. Derek almost lost balance, barely caught himself from falling on Stiles's prone body. He stepped away from Stiles's legs, got a hold on his shorts and tried to yank them free.
"G'way... s'cold," Stiles said. He tried to curl in on himself.
Derek growled again. He figured it was just like taking off a bandage, better to just yank it off and deal with the pain. He tightened his grip on the shorts, pulled with enough force that Stiles slid across the sheets. The teenager kicked his feet, Derek caught one of them, managed to free it from the shorts. The other landed a grazing blow to his groin. He grunted at the impact, snarled at the ornery teenager. He took a few calming breaths, resisted the urge to pick Stiles up by the scruff of the neck and hurl him into the clean bed on the other side of the room.
The shorts finally came free; a shower of tiny shells fell from the pockets. Derek sighed, dropped the shorts to the floor. He was being punished. He wasn't sure what he'd done that was so bad, but it was clear that some higher power had it out for him. He hooked his hands underneath Stiles's arms, pulled him up.
"Yer a bully," Stiles mumbled. He latched his teeth onto Derek's shoulder, pushed feebly with his arms and legs.
Derek ignored the slight sting of Stiles's mouth. He walked quickly across the room, dropped Stiles to the other mattress. He leaned down, pulled the covers out from under Stiles's body, got a hand pushing against his face for his troubles. Fingernails scratched lightly at his cheek, a finger hooked into his mouth for a moment as the hand tried to push him away. He resisted the urge to bite the offending digit off. After getting the blankets free he dropped them over the teenager.
Stiles let out a satisfied sigh, turned over onto his stomach. By the time the arduous process of getting Stiles out of his blood, dirt, and tear stained clothes and into the other bed was complete, Derek thought he might have been more afraid of a sleeping Stiles than he was of his enraged uncle. He'd been thrown around a hospital by an angry Alpha werewolf, but no one had ever kicked him in the dick for trying to help them.
He didn't even know if Stiles had woken up during the ordeal or just instinctually defended himself. He'd clutched at his cloths and the covers he'd been on with more ferocity than the most territorial den mother used to protect her pups. How Stiles went from having a small secretive smile on his face, to a rabid enraged wolverine and back again was mysterious and terrifying. Stiles buried his face into the pillows Derek had used the night before, murmured contentedly into the soft material.
The Alpha walked back to the warzone that had been Stiles's bed. Clothes and blankets were strewn about, little seashells were scattered all over the carpet. Carefully Derek picked up each and every one of them and set them on the dresser Stiles had been using. That done he rolled up all of Stiles's discarded clothes from the last two days into the blankets that had been on the teenager's bed. He paused before heading out of the room, set the bundle down. He glanced over at Stiles in the other bed.
Derek leaned over and picked up the picture of Stiles's mother, grabbed a handful of the sea shells from the dresser and walked over to the nightstand by the bed Stiles occupied. He arranged the objects there, tilting the picture so that it appeared the woman was staring at the boy sleeping a few feet from her, the shells circling the base of the frame. He walked quietly back to the other bed, resisted the urge to look at the door to the bathroom again.
He picked up the bundle of sheets and clothes, walked out of the room. He closed the door behind him softly, stood on the other side to listen to the teenager's breathing. He didn't detect anything abnormal. He listened for sounds from the rest of the house, confirmed that the pack was all finally, and in some cases fitfully asleep. He walked down the stairs and began to sort out Stiles's clothes and blankets; he knew how hard it could be to get blood out of clothes if you let it soak in.