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“Shit, shit, they got my foot, fuck—”
Derek set Stiles on the nearest flat surface the moment they were out of the warehouse and away from the firefight. “Hold still, hold still, let me see—”
“Oh God, is my toe gone? Did they get my toe? How bad am I bleeding?”
He untied Stiles’s shoe with shaking hands. “Calm down and let me check.”
Stiles threw his arm over his eyes. “Oh my God. I can’t look. My first FBI mission, and I got shot. I’m the one supposed to be rescuing you!”
The words startled a short laugh out of Derek. Of course Stiles would come out here to rescue him. Of fucking course. He always did, he always had, ever since he’d been a scrawny 16-year-old jumping into the world of the supernatural with both feet, and damn the consequences to himself.
Really, this was just a return to form for them, and Derek didn’t know whether to laugh or cry about it. He was dangerously close to doing both.
He peeled off Stiles’s scorched sock and ran his hands over his foot, and then did it again, just to make sure he knew what he was feeling. “You’re fine.”
“I’m—what?” Stiles jerked his arm off his face. “I’m fine?!”
“Bullet just grazed you,” Derek said. “You still have all of your toes. You still—”
He lowered his head to Stiles’s knee, shaking even harder with relief than he’d been with fear. It was just a graze, Stiles hadn’t been really shot, he hadn’t—
Fingers carded through his hair and scratched along the back of his neck. “Hey, big guy, not that I don’t appreciate the concern, but we kind of need to get the hell out of here.”
“You came for me,” Derek said.
“Uh, yes?” Stiles said. “Since you apparently can’t keep yourself out of trouble for five seconds—”
He finally lifted his head off of Stiles’s knee. “I left, and you still came for me.”
Stiles’s face did something complicated, mouth twitching like he was about to make a joke before it settled back into something serious, the line of his mouth thin and maybe a little bitter. “You left because you had to. Beacon Hills was shit for you, I get it. I never blamed you for leaving.”
Derek had no idea what to say, because Stiles still wasn’t getting it. The only people who came back for Derek were people who wanted to hurt him.
Except for Stiles.
Since words weren’t working, he went for action, and did precisely what he’d spent years keeping himself from doing.
He cupped the back of Stiles’s head and kissed him.
Stiles flailed, and Derek started to pull away, because the last thing he wanted was to force something like that on Stiles, but then Stiles grabbed him by his jacket and yanked him back in.
“Oh no, you don’t get to do that,” Stiles said. “If you’re going to kiss me the first time we’ve seen each other in fuck knows how long, you’re going to do it right.”
His heart swooped, and Derek rubbed his thumb along Stiles’s cheekbone. “I thought we had to get the hell out of here.”
“Fuck that noise, kisses now.” Stiles actually pouted. “My toe was obliterated for you!”
Derek rolled his eyes. “Your toe was grazed.”
“I was shot and it hurt.”
“My hero,” Derek deadpanned.
“Damn right.” Stiles’s grip on his jacket tightened. “I mean, you meant it, right? That kiss? Like that wasn’t just an ‘I’m happy to see you’ thing, that was a ‘I actually maybe kind of like—’”
“It was ‘I trust you,’” Derek said. “And ‘I missed you.’ And ‘thank you for always coming back for me.’”
Stiles gaped at him for a moment, and then smiled, small and genuine. “I missed you, too, big guy. A lot.”
Derek’s heart flipped. “Sounds like we’re on the same page, then.”
“Definitely,” Stiles said, and Derek let himself get pulled in for another kiss.
They’d get the hell out of here eventually, but for now…
For now, Derek was just happy to have this.