When Everyone Else is Gone
Title: When Everyone Else is Gone
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: R
Spoilers: 1x04
Warnings: Graphic amputation, blood
Word Count: 2150
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Scott doesn't get there in time, Derek loses an arm.
AN: Written for the 'Sacrifice' square, for hc_bingo.
Stiles has to wonder if he's had any choice at all about the direction his life has taken. Or if no matter what he'd said or done, he still would have ended up here. In the cold, bright, oppressive back room of a veterinary clinic, with an angry werewolf that smelled like death, demanding that he actually cut off his arm.
The problem is that he can't, he can't do this. This is insane.
"Look, honestly, I don't think I can."
"Just do it."
Stiles raises the saw again like it's a command, presses it against Derek's arm, and he can feel the shift of muscle - reminding him that what he's supposed to saw his way through is a living thing. But Derek looks bloodless and awful and Stiles tells himself, forcefully, that if it was a choice between this or death he'd pick this too, he would. He would.
Which doesn't help at all.
"Oh God, alright, here we go."
His thumb is slip-sliding over the switch, a horrible, jittery hysteria jamming his throat up tight, and he has a moment to realise that there's no backing out of this. Which is a problem because he really cannot do this, how is he possibly supposed to do this? People don't do this, they don't saw off other people's arms in the back of a veterinary clinic. Shit like that just doesn't happen.
Derek snarls at him, honest to God snarls and Stiles forces himself to stop thinking, to press down, it'll be quick, he can do it quickly. It can't possibly be as bad as he's imagining.
It's worse, it's so much fucking worse.
The serrated blade is moving fast enough that blood spatters the saw, and his hand, Derek's arm, the side of Derek's face, the table. Stiles makes a high, whining noise in his throat, swallows, and swallows again watching the thing cut through Derek's skin and bite into the muscle beneath, and there's a steady, grating roar which he knows is Derek growling through his teeth.
When he reaches the bone it makes a noise like hell itself, red-white, grinding through, and Stiles is pretty sure he's going to see that every time he closes his eyes. Derek isn't even pretending to be stoic any more, table denting under the clench of his other hand, head turned away now, pressed into the hard curve of the table's edge. He's making horrible noises, cracked, strangled bursts of air and pain.
Stiles wants to stop, God, he wants to stop but he doesn't, he keeps going. He's pressing down now, because it's not smooth, it's not easy, and Derek is moving, twitching and shaking like he wants to tear away from the vibration. Which - please let that not happen, because this is already too much. Stiles can see the inside of Derek's arm bone, the thick, dark interior. Which is the most awful thing he's seen in his life, and he hopes to God it will always be the most awful thing he sees in his life, because there shouldn't be anything worse than this.
The arm jerks when he gets through the bone, goes loose and horrible and Stiles is swallowing frantically while the saw powers through tendons and muscle and then the loose, bloody skin underneath.
Man and arm separate, are separated, separate things, and it's horrible and final and Jesus. Stiles wants to be sick, he really, really wants to be sick.
Derek slides sideways, crashes to the floor and Stiles is still holding the saw, still listening to it run, the roar of blood in his own ears a hundred times louder. He drops it onto the metal surface of the table, now dark with gore, and then drops to his knees next to Derek.
His arms are trembling, no strength in them at all, but he manages to get Derek onto his back.
"Derek?"
Derek's out cold, clammy with sweat, and he's bleeding, he's bleeding a lot. Stiles doesn't know what to do because they never covered fucking amputation in any of his classes and is it supposed to grow back, or what? He has no information for this situation, he has no idea about the real healing ability of werewolves and the only one available isn't exactly up to answers right now. This was supposed to help, this was supposed to fix things. Stiles is on his knees on the floor, untangling the messy spool of rubber tubing from where it had come away, and he's wrapping it round what's left of Derek's arm, twining it as tight as he can. He's only looking at it because he has to, and it's exactly as awful as it should be. Stiles's fingers are slippery with blood, and he can feel it soaking into the knees of his jeans, warm and horrible and that's it, Stiles checks out, body rolling with cold sweat and he's really, really going to throw up, he's never been so certain of anything in his life.
He does, but he makes it two feet, which he's going to count as some sort of win, under the circumstances. He doesn't feel any better. He feels cold and damp and horrible, and he doesn't know how he manages to stand up again without crashing all over the place, but the next thing he knows he's bent over the table, and everything smells like blood.
Stiles really isn't prepared for the sight of a chopped off arm. He wasn't joking.
He can't, he absolutely can't touch it. Until he decides that he can, and he will, because he's the one that did it, and he owes Derek that much. Not waking up and seeing his fucking arm on the table is the least Stiles can do for him. He touches the wrist, and it's still warm. He drops it immediately, clenches his hands into fists. He finally pushes it into one of the black bags, ties it tight and shoves it with a sneaker towards the other side of the room. He wants to text Scott, to ask him 'where the hell are you?' But his fingers are dripping blood and his phone is still in his pocket. Not to mention that he thinks if he texts him once he won't be able to stop. He'll just start sending 'do you have any idea what I did,' over and over again.
He goes back to Derek. The guy's heavy, but Stiles does his best to at least get him upright. He's cold, and the one thing Stiles has learned about werewolves is they're not supposed to be cold. Can werewolves go into shock? Is that something he has to worry about? He gets an arm round him, until he can attempt to transfer some of his body heat, pathetic though it probably is. He really, really wants Derek to live. Which is a pretty quick turnaround from the mixture of fear, suspicion and ambivalence he viewed Derek with an hour ago. So maybe you can't help but be friends with someone after you've sawn off one of their limbs, and that makes him laugh, breathy and a little hysterical. It really shouldn't. He's an awful person.
Derek twitches.
Stiles inhales and tightens the arm he has looped awkwardly round Derek's chest. His other hand ends up in Derek's hair, which is damp with sweat and he's not stroking it, he's just sort of holding it. You're supposed to reassure people after traumatic injuries, or something.
"You with me?" Stiles asks quietly.
There's a confused second where Derek moves, head turning to the left, before it stops, turns back. As if he doesn't want to look.
"Yeah," Derek says at last. His hand is curled round Stiles's arm, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt, but Stiles isn't going to tell him to let go any time soon. The guy deserves a moment.
"God, I'm sorry," Stiles says, and there isn't enough air for all the words. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to do that, I didn't want to, and you said there was no other option. I would have been all over other options, if there had been any."
"Shut up," Derek says, low and flat, but not angry at all. "I told you to do it, just shut up."
Derek's just breathing, slow and quiet, and Stiles figures that this means he's ok now.
"Tell me you're ok now?" It's a stupid question, of course he's not ok, Stiles just cut his arm off. Who could possibly be ok with that?
"I'm ok," Derek says stiffly, even though he's not. "Thanks."
Stiles shakes his head, ends up with his forehead somewhere in Derek's ridiculous, gravity-defying hair. Which he's still mindlessly pulling his fingers through, like he's gone mad. He forces himself to stop, to let his hand fall away.
"Absolutely do not thank me, seriously, because that's the most horrible thing I've ever done to anyone."
"You saved my life," Derek says roughly, like that excuses it, the especially horrible parts of it. Which, for the record, was all of it.
"Doesn't feel like it," Stiles admits. "Feels pretty shitty and awful right now."
Derek does look over at what's left of his arm then, and Stiles doesn't miss the inhale, the tension, and he doesn't even realise how tight he's holding on to Derek until he feels the ache of it, fingers going numb. It's not a mess any more, it's red and raw and quickly healing over in a way that tells Stiles that Derek's arm is absolutely not going to grow back. It seems like some things are too much even for werewolves. He doesn't realise until then that part of him was kind of hoping that it would.
Derek lifts a hand, he pulls at the rubber tubing, but his fingers don't work, or don't want to. Stiles lifts a hand and unpicks the rubber himself, before dragging it free with a snap and letting it fall. Derek's still not really looking at it, and it occurs to Stiles that maybe it hasn't really sunk in yet. That maybe when it does Stiles will be a really convenient focus for his anger. And, really, he's thinking about having a panic attack now, when all the sawing and screaming is out of the way?
"Stop it," Derek says simply. "You're fine, I'm fine." Which is clearly not true. Stiles doesn't know if it's his heartbeat, or that invasion of privacy werewolf smelling thing. Either way Derek knows he's freaking out. Which, he thinks he's allowed, really. But being the only person in the room with all his limbs attached, yeah, now he feels like a dick. He knows that at some point, probably soon, he's going to crash, at least without caffeine, or food (and really he doesn't want to think about food, possibly ever again) but he also knows they're not finished.
Derek's heavy and Stiles's leg has gone to sleep, there's blood and worse everywhere. Stiles is pretty sure he's the last person Derek should want to be around right now. But he still has a hand wrapped round Stiles's forearm, still too tight to be comfortable. There are going to be bruises there.
"We should get you somewhere else, somewhere safe," Stiles says and he thinks he's a little in shock himself, because he sounds like he really means it. "I don't know where that is for you." He doesn't make it a question but Derek shakes his head anyway. He straightens though, moves away, and Stiles only notices how warm he'd been until he's cold again.
Stiles gets his feet under him, skidding on a patch of blood and kicking a sack of dog biscuits. Then he puts a hand on Derek's waist, which Derek immediately looks annoyed about, and Stiles almost pulls away, but then Derek's leaning into him, hand against the table, slowly pulling himself to his feet. He's unsteady and Stiles doesn't know if that's the blood loss or the fact that he's not symmetrical any more. He doesn't really want to think about it. He finds Derek's shirt on the floor and he doesn't know whether to hand it over or stuff it in the bag with the - with the rest of the stuff they're not taking with them.
He leaves it on a clean part of the table, doesn't miss the way Derek stares at it, as if he's just realised how hard everything is going to be. Stiles feels awful about needing to get outside as badly as he does. He's wiped his hands on his jeans so many times, but they're still sticky when he pulls out his phone.
"I'm gonna text Scott and tell him to clean up here and then get his ass to my house."
Stiles stumbles out before Derek can answer him, has to give himself a minute, has to breathe air that doesn't smell like gore. He leans against the outer door and tries to stop shaking like he fell out of a plane and survived.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: R
Spoilers: 1x04
Warnings: Graphic amputation, blood
Word Count: 2150
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Scott doesn't get there in time, Derek loses an arm.
AN: Written for the 'Sacrifice' square, for hc_bingo.
Stiles has to wonder if he's had any choice at all about the direction his life has taken. Or if no matter what he'd said or done, he still would have ended up here. In the cold, bright, oppressive back room of a veterinary clinic, with an angry werewolf that smelled like death, demanding that he actually cut off his arm.
The problem is that he can't, he can't do this. This is insane.
"Look, honestly, I don't think I can."
"Just do it."
Stiles raises the saw again like it's a command, presses it against Derek's arm, and he can feel the shift of muscle - reminding him that what he's supposed to saw his way through is a living thing. But Derek looks bloodless and awful and Stiles tells himself, forcefully, that if it was a choice between this or death he'd pick this too, he would. He would.
Which doesn't help at all.
"Oh God, alright, here we go."
His thumb is slip-sliding over the switch, a horrible, jittery hysteria jamming his throat up tight, and he has a moment to realise that there's no backing out of this. Which is a problem because he really cannot do this, how is he possibly supposed to do this? People don't do this, they don't saw off other people's arms in the back of a veterinary clinic. Shit like that just doesn't happen.
Derek snarls at him, honest to God snarls and Stiles forces himself to stop thinking, to press down, it'll be quick, he can do it quickly. It can't possibly be as bad as he's imagining.
It's worse, it's so much fucking worse.
The serrated blade is moving fast enough that blood spatters the saw, and his hand, Derek's arm, the side of Derek's face, the table. Stiles makes a high, whining noise in his throat, swallows, and swallows again watching the thing cut through Derek's skin and bite into the muscle beneath, and there's a steady, grating roar which he knows is Derek growling through his teeth.
When he reaches the bone it makes a noise like hell itself, red-white, grinding through, and Stiles is pretty sure he's going to see that every time he closes his eyes. Derek isn't even pretending to be stoic any more, table denting under the clench of his other hand, head turned away now, pressed into the hard curve of the table's edge. He's making horrible noises, cracked, strangled bursts of air and pain.
Stiles wants to stop, God, he wants to stop but he doesn't, he keeps going. He's pressing down now, because it's not smooth, it's not easy, and Derek is moving, twitching and shaking like he wants to tear away from the vibration. Which - please let that not happen, because this is already too much. Stiles can see the inside of Derek's arm bone, the thick, dark interior. Which is the most awful thing he's seen in his life, and he hopes to God it will always be the most awful thing he sees in his life, because there shouldn't be anything worse than this.
The arm jerks when he gets through the bone, goes loose and horrible and Stiles is swallowing frantically while the saw powers through tendons and muscle and then the loose, bloody skin underneath.
Man and arm separate, are separated, separate things, and it's horrible and final and Jesus. Stiles wants to be sick, he really, really wants to be sick.
Derek slides sideways, crashes to the floor and Stiles is still holding the saw, still listening to it run, the roar of blood in his own ears a hundred times louder. He drops it onto the metal surface of the table, now dark with gore, and then drops to his knees next to Derek.
His arms are trembling, no strength in them at all, but he manages to get Derek onto his back.
"Derek?"
Derek's out cold, clammy with sweat, and he's bleeding, he's bleeding a lot. Stiles doesn't know what to do because they never covered fucking amputation in any of his classes and is it supposed to grow back, or what? He has no information for this situation, he has no idea about the real healing ability of werewolves and the only one available isn't exactly up to answers right now. This was supposed to help, this was supposed to fix things. Stiles is on his knees on the floor, untangling the messy spool of rubber tubing from where it had come away, and he's wrapping it round what's left of Derek's arm, twining it as tight as he can. He's only looking at it because he has to, and it's exactly as awful as it should be. Stiles's fingers are slippery with blood, and he can feel it soaking into the knees of his jeans, warm and horrible and that's it, Stiles checks out, body rolling with cold sweat and he's really, really going to throw up, he's never been so certain of anything in his life.
He does, but he makes it two feet, which he's going to count as some sort of win, under the circumstances. He doesn't feel any better. He feels cold and damp and horrible, and he doesn't know how he manages to stand up again without crashing all over the place, but the next thing he knows he's bent over the table, and everything smells like blood.
Stiles really isn't prepared for the sight of a chopped off arm. He wasn't joking.
He can't, he absolutely can't touch it. Until he decides that he can, and he will, because he's the one that did it, and he owes Derek that much. Not waking up and seeing his fucking arm on the table is the least Stiles can do for him. He touches the wrist, and it's still warm. He drops it immediately, clenches his hands into fists. He finally pushes it into one of the black bags, ties it tight and shoves it with a sneaker towards the other side of the room. He wants to text Scott, to ask him 'where the hell are you?' But his fingers are dripping blood and his phone is still in his pocket. Not to mention that he thinks if he texts him once he won't be able to stop. He'll just start sending 'do you have any idea what I did,' over and over again.
He goes back to Derek. The guy's heavy, but Stiles does his best to at least get him upright. He's cold, and the one thing Stiles has learned about werewolves is they're not supposed to be cold. Can werewolves go into shock? Is that something he has to worry about? He gets an arm round him, until he can attempt to transfer some of his body heat, pathetic though it probably is. He really, really wants Derek to live. Which is a pretty quick turnaround from the mixture of fear, suspicion and ambivalence he viewed Derek with an hour ago. So maybe you can't help but be friends with someone after you've sawn off one of their limbs, and that makes him laugh, breathy and a little hysterical. It really shouldn't. He's an awful person.
Derek twitches.
Stiles inhales and tightens the arm he has looped awkwardly round Derek's chest. His other hand ends up in Derek's hair, which is damp with sweat and he's not stroking it, he's just sort of holding it. You're supposed to reassure people after traumatic injuries, or something.
"You with me?" Stiles asks quietly.
There's a confused second where Derek moves, head turning to the left, before it stops, turns back. As if he doesn't want to look.
"Yeah," Derek says at last. His hand is curled round Stiles's arm, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt, but Stiles isn't going to tell him to let go any time soon. The guy deserves a moment.
"God, I'm sorry," Stiles says, and there isn't enough air for all the words. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to do that, I didn't want to, and you said there was no other option. I would have been all over other options, if there had been any."
"Shut up," Derek says, low and flat, but not angry at all. "I told you to do it, just shut up."
Derek's just breathing, slow and quiet, and Stiles figures that this means he's ok now.
"Tell me you're ok now?" It's a stupid question, of course he's not ok, Stiles just cut his arm off. Who could possibly be ok with that?
"I'm ok," Derek says stiffly, even though he's not. "Thanks."
Stiles shakes his head, ends up with his forehead somewhere in Derek's ridiculous, gravity-defying hair. Which he's still mindlessly pulling his fingers through, like he's gone mad. He forces himself to stop, to let his hand fall away.
"Absolutely do not thank me, seriously, because that's the most horrible thing I've ever done to anyone."
"You saved my life," Derek says roughly, like that excuses it, the especially horrible parts of it. Which, for the record, was all of it.
"Doesn't feel like it," Stiles admits. "Feels pretty shitty and awful right now."
Derek does look over at what's left of his arm then, and Stiles doesn't miss the inhale, the tension, and he doesn't even realise how tight he's holding on to Derek until he feels the ache of it, fingers going numb. It's not a mess any more, it's red and raw and quickly healing over in a way that tells Stiles that Derek's arm is absolutely not going to grow back. It seems like some things are too much even for werewolves. He doesn't realise until then that part of him was kind of hoping that it would.
Derek lifts a hand, he pulls at the rubber tubing, but his fingers don't work, or don't want to. Stiles lifts a hand and unpicks the rubber himself, before dragging it free with a snap and letting it fall. Derek's still not really looking at it, and it occurs to Stiles that maybe it hasn't really sunk in yet. That maybe when it does Stiles will be a really convenient focus for his anger. And, really, he's thinking about having a panic attack now, when all the sawing and screaming is out of the way?
"Stop it," Derek says simply. "You're fine, I'm fine." Which is clearly not true. Stiles doesn't know if it's his heartbeat, or that invasion of privacy werewolf smelling thing. Either way Derek knows he's freaking out. Which, he thinks he's allowed, really. But being the only person in the room with all his limbs attached, yeah, now he feels like a dick. He knows that at some point, probably soon, he's going to crash, at least without caffeine, or food (and really he doesn't want to think about food, possibly ever again) but he also knows they're not finished.
Derek's heavy and Stiles's leg has gone to sleep, there's blood and worse everywhere. Stiles is pretty sure he's the last person Derek should want to be around right now. But he still has a hand wrapped round Stiles's forearm, still too tight to be comfortable. There are going to be bruises there.
"We should get you somewhere else, somewhere safe," Stiles says and he thinks he's a little in shock himself, because he sounds like he really means it. "I don't know where that is for you." He doesn't make it a question but Derek shakes his head anyway. He straightens though, moves away, and Stiles only notices how warm he'd been until he's cold again.
Stiles gets his feet under him, skidding on a patch of blood and kicking a sack of dog biscuits. Then he puts a hand on Derek's waist, which Derek immediately looks annoyed about, and Stiles almost pulls away, but then Derek's leaning into him, hand against the table, slowly pulling himself to his feet. He's unsteady and Stiles doesn't know if that's the blood loss or the fact that he's not symmetrical any more. He doesn't really want to think about it. He finds Derek's shirt on the floor and he doesn't know whether to hand it over or stuff it in the bag with the - with the rest of the stuff they're not taking with them.
He leaves it on a clean part of the table, doesn't miss the way Derek stares at it, as if he's just realised how hard everything is going to be. Stiles feels awful about needing to get outside as badly as he does. He's wiped his hands on his jeans so many times, but they're still sticky when he pulls out his phone.
"I'm gonna text Scott and tell him to clean up here and then get his ass to my house."
Stiles stumbles out before Derek can answer him, has to give himself a minute, has to breathe air that doesn't smell like gore. He leans against the outer door and tries to stop shaking like he fell out of a plane and survived.