fixing things (shouldn't be this complicated) [Teen Wolf]

Fifth Step, Or, Into the Woods [2]

From one moment to the next, he is on his feet, claws out, fangs bared.

"Whoa!"

He whirls, snarls at the intruder.

"Easy!" The other wolf drops to his haunches, curls his arms around his legs. "Stiles, it's me!"

Stiles? He cocks his head. Stiles. Stiles. What the hell is a Stiles?

"Stiles?"

The intruder is peeking up, hope in his posture and scent. He snarls to get the wolf to duck his head again, but it's less hostile and more absent a gesture. He's still preoccupied over that word, that "Stiles," and now that he's looking, over the wolf before him.

The wolf isn't pack - that much is clear. But there's still something...niggling at him about this wolf, an echo of a thing he can't quite grasp, like the edge of a steep fall and its endpoint hidden in shadow.

Before he knows it, he's on his own haunches, fangs and claws gone, the mysterious wolf still as a rock. There was...an injury. Heart flooding his throat, he pats at the wolf all over - wolfsbane, there'd been wolfsbane - it takes many yelps of protest and finally hands on his wrists before he snaps out of his worry.

"Stiles," the wolf says, meeting his gaze. Those eyes slide to the side a second later, as is right, but he is caught by the color of them, the way blue is green is brown.

"...Derek?"

The wolf looks at him again, but Stiles - yes, that's him, he's the hell a Stiles is - is scrambling back, falling on his butt and crab-walking backwards. He has to get away, it's too much, he can't breathe, oh God his heart is pounding, it can't keep that speed and intensity for long, he's going to die, he's going to die -

He scrabbles for anything to get him out of his. Dad, he wishes Dad were here. Or Scott. Scott! Scott would know what to say, how to make that joke so bad Stiles would have to point out how bad it is, and then have to come up with a worse one, and then it'd go smooth sailing from there.

Okay. Okay. Just need to think of one of Scott's jokes. A joke so bad he makes himself groan. Easy. Except, shit, he can't think of anything. Nothing's coming to mind. He can picture Scott and his pained face at some of Stiles's rebuttals, but he can't think. Come on, Stiles, what's the joke? What's....

"Stiles?"

Derek. Derek is crouched in front of him. Stiles hurriedly sits upright; the guy can't loom as well as he will in the future, but it still itches at him to have him hovering over him like that. As if reading his mind, Derek sinks down and cross his legs tailor-style - ah, that's better.

"You okay?" Derek asks cautiously.

"Hah!" Stiles doesn't mean to bark, ha, bark, but it comes out without his permission anyway. As usual. "I can't breathe, Derek. I think I'm going to die - I can't -"

"What, no, you, you're not - "

Derek is obviously at a loss what to do. Stiles shuts his eyes against the fresh wave of panic - not helping, not helping - and tries to focus, but of course his stupid ADHD, plus Derek, means any concentration he might have had is gone now.

If possible, his heart thunders in his head even more. Then Derek is speaking, his voice rushed and helpless, and this is it, he knows he's a goner. If Derek is helpless, then Stiles has no chance. They're all screwed and nothing - there's nothing Stiles can do.

He has no plan. He's the man with the plan, and the plan man, he's always got a plan, but this time there's no plan, no nothing and he's terrified, okay, this is worse than he's had in a long time, it's so bad, it's...