Archive of Our Own ^beta

Stiles was pacing the length of the sterile exam room inside Deaton's Veterinary Clinic. The fluorescent lighting was casting shadows over the room. It was the only room with lights on in the otherwise dark and desolate clinic.

His thoughts were racing, and he kept biting the nail of his thumb as if it would somehow allow him to find a way out of this frankly disturbing situation.

Derek Hale, mysterious, broody, elusive werewolf, was standing in front of him, and he looked rough. He was pale, his breath was coming in ragged, and there were violet-black lines under his skin that were reaching like tentacles up his left arm and shoulder.

They had one destination—his heart. 

“You don’t understand, Stiles, without another wolfsbane bullet from the gun that inflicted the gunshot, I won't be able to burn out the poison, and the wolfsbane will go directly to my heart, and I will die. This is the only option. Maybe I deserve this. I’ve caused enough pain. It’s kind of poetic, really, to die by the same thing that kept my family trapped in that burning inferno and killed them all.”

It took Stiles a moment to process everything Derek had said. Not just because it was fucking insane, but also because it was probably the most words Derek had ever spoken to him in one go. He usually communicated with glares, grunts, and growls.

This was wild, he couldn’t seriously be implying that Stiles fucking CUT OFF HIS ARM?!?!

“So, basically, you carry the blame and weight of your family dying and feel like this is a fitting punishment for it? All this guilt that lives in your head rent-free—it’s not worth your life! I REFUSE to let you die, Derek. That’s not happening. Not on my watch, man.”

Derek shuddered as a full-body spasm took hold, his eyes shut tightly, and Stiles could have sworn he heard Derek's teeth grinding from how hard he was clenching his jaw. Stiles rushed forward and held onto Derek. His hand was resting on Derek’s chest, right above his heart. 

He felt something then. It was bittersweet and powerful, clawing in his own chest like a trapped animal looking for a way out. For an escape from the clutches of certain death. Stiles knew then what he had to do, and he hated it. He would throw up about it later, or, you know, go cuddle a badger. 

Fuck.

Stiles looked up at Derek just as his body had released him from the spasm, and saw in them something he didn’t expect to see in someone who had just exclaimed that perhaps they deserved this; there was determination in them. The look was not one of a man who was ready to die. 

“You’re not fucking dying tonight, Derek Hale. Come on, lie on the table. How much time do we have?”

Derek struggled to speak but took a deep breath and shook his head to clear it as he got onto the exam table.

“If I’m right about this, less than thirty minutes. If Scott isn’t here by then, I’m either dead or down one limb, as long as you don’t throw up and pass out.”

Stiles flipped him off unconsciously and nodded while he tried to keep himself from vomiting. Of all of the times for this cunt Kate to show up and wreck everything, it just had to be now.

Deaton was out of town at a Veterinarian conference he was presenting at for the next four days. That left Melissa, who was in surgery for the next eight hours, which meant that Stiles was on his own, again, as fucking usual. 

He took a steadying breath and decided then and there that he would be the human tourniquet to hold Derek together. It seemed like the man had never had that in his life, and it was time that changed.

“Okay, okay, we can do this, and if Scott flakes again, then you’ve got me. I’ll do what has to be done. But you can’t punch me if I throw up on you while I’m saving your life, SourWolf.”

Derek nodded with a grimace on his face. Stiles knew he was in pain, but he was still attempting to be stoic.

“Can you do this, or are you the type to faint at the sight of a little blood?”

Stiles scoffed and flailed his arms at the dig.

“Rude! No, I don’t faint at the sight of ‘a little blood’, thank you very much, but I might faint at the sight of a cut-off arm!”

Stiles held his hand up, stopping whatever quip Derek was planning, and it worked. He took advantage of the silence and called Scott again, and like the bad friend he had become over the past few months, the fucker didn’t answer. So, like any sane person, Stiles called twenty more times in a row and sent fifty frantic text messages. 

Stiles stared at his cell phone as if he could will a response by glaring at the screen. That's not how life worked, though. He got nothing. Zero response. As usual, Scott ignored him. He had become exceedingly good at that.

He decided to take a moment to look up a video on canine castration. Why? Well, he was going to castrate Scott after this nightmare was behind him. If Stiles could muster up the courage to amputate an arm from a werewolf, he could snip one who clearly never deserved to be blessed by the moon in the first place.

He also looked up how to amputate an arm with a bonesaw, and YouTube really did come through for him. There were several very detailed medical videos as well, and it made Stiles wonder how none of these had been flagged.

Stiles was deep into a video of an arm amputation in the middle of a war when Derek’s weak voice filled the air. It was low, but he felt it boom throughout the empty space like a gavel sealing someone's fate.

“Stiles, it’s time I can feel it. My heartbeats feel sluggish, and I’m starting to have trouble staying alert. I can’t guide you through this, but I trust you. My wolf trusts you. I think—I’m gonna pass out.”

The second Derek finished saying the words ‘pass out,’ he did just that. Stiles was grateful Derek was on the exam table in the unbelievably cold room. Seriously, was Deaton secretly a reanimated corpse that needed to keep the temperature so fucking frigid?! It would check out, seeing how cryptic the fucker was.

The entire place felt more like a morgue than a veterinary office. That thought was definitely not one Stiles was going to delve into right now. Nope. NOPE!

Stiles was pulled from his near spiral by the impending doom that was developing in real time. He watched in horror as the violet-black lines full of wolfsbane seemed to speed towards the center of Derek’s chest. The tourniquet around Derek’s arm that rested above the entry wound was doing little to stop the progression of the poisoning. 

This was it. He had no choice. Stiles grabbed the bonesaw along with the syringe Derek had filled with a combination of anesthetics. Stiles accepted there was no other option; if he chose to drive to the Argents' house and find one of the bullets himself, Derek would be dead by the time he got back.

Stiles had reluctantly prepared himself to do the worst thing he had ever done in his life. Well, to date, that is because after this, who knows what he would be willing to do. Stiles was about to permanently alter a person's entire life. He was purposely going to mutilate a perfect body. 

He hated Scott so fucking much.

Stiles jabbed the anesthetic into Derek’s other arm and put a mask on as he sent a prayer to any deity that decided to pick up desperate pleas from a teen who didn’t know shit about surgery or, you know, maiming someone via bonesaw. Tears were streaming down his face. 

He cried for Derek, for all the sorrow that would follow him like a second skin now more than ever because of Kate fucking Argent—again. He shed tears for himself, for the new trauma he was adding to his collection like Pokémon. More than anything, he cried for the damage he was about to inflict on a tortured man who didn’t deserve this fate.

The sound of the bonesaw whirred to life, sounding like the final nail in a coffin. Stiles wiped the tears away and lowered the bonesaw until metal met flesh, and that was the most harrowing sound Stiles had ever heard in his life. Unlike the videos of surgeons on YouTube, he didn’t have the time to be delicate and proper.

This was literally life or death, and he couldn’t take the time to use a scalpel to cut away at the flesh slowly. There was no opportunity to stitch muscle to bone or surgically seal off major blood vessels and arteries.

Blood fucking sprayed everywhere. It was a garish sight and process. Stiles’ hands shook, but he kept going. Each centimeter he cut felt like he was slicing into his own soul. Derek would never forgive him for this. There was no way. 

Stiles re-focused and cut until the saw removed the poison-laden appendage. He threw up then, and the room began spinning, but he couldn’t leave Derek like this. Alone and vulnerable. Stiles muttered to himself, “Get it together, asshole!”

There was so much blood! The wolfsbane was laced through the blood, and it made it shimmer in a violet-black hue. Stiles found a blowtorch nearby and knew in his heart that he had to seal off the injury to trigger the werewolf healing. 

Too bad werewolf healing didn’t have starfish properties. That would at least give Derek the option of growing back his arm. Stiles sighed. 

He realized he was going to need therapy for the rest of his life now. Perhaps he and Derek could do a two-for-one special, since clearly he would also need intensive therapy.

The blowtorch turned on, and it felt like Stiles was handling hellfire. He brought it up to the stub that was left of the left arm, which was once attached to Derek and now lay immovable on the floor. 

The stench of burning flesh was making Stiles’ stomach turn, but he couldn’t stop. Once the wound was cauterized, Stiles set the blowtorch down. He ran to the trash can and threw up everything that was sitting in his stomach.

It was mainly bile, but everything came up viciously, and Stiles felt like he was emptying every single thing he had ever ingested. He was sure he saw the partially digested form of a Flintstone vitamin he had taken in second grade. 

This was officially the worst day of his life. Even worse than the day his own Mom tried to kill him. Perhaps even more damaging than the day he lost her. 

He moved the now severed arm to the counter and started to clean up the pools of blood while he monitored Derek. His breathing was less labored, and the violet-black lines that had been close to his heart had receded completely. Stiles wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. He felt numb and like an exposed live wire at the same time.

Once the blood was cleaned, and the smell of chemicals burned his lungs, Stiles sat on the ground. He looked at the arm and back to Derek. He still couldn't believe that his day would end up like this. Stiles shook himself to stop himself from shutting down.

He grabbed an antiseptic and a medicated gel intended for dogs, but Derek said it would be fine, and he began to wipe down the inflamed wound. He slathered the exposed area with the gel before carefully wrapping it.

All he could think was that Derek had to survive this. Stiles couldn't go through this shit to have any other outcome. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he had mutilated him and still ended up dying. He needed Derek to live. 

Stiles pulled up a stool and sat across from Derek. He took his right hand and held it in his own. Derek was warmer now, and that broke him. He let the tears flow freely. His body shook from the sobs that racked through him. He knew Derek was unconscious, but he couldn't stop the words from spilling out.

“I’m so sorry, Derek. Please forgive me for mutilating your body. Just wake up and live, okay? After that, you can, I don't know, hit me, shove me into a wall, smash my head into a steering wheel, or something as payback. Just—just don’t die. Please, fucking live.”

His voice was strained; it sounded wrecked to his own ears. Stiles held Derek’s hand like a lifeline. It felt like the only thing tethering him to this realm. If he let go, Stiles was sure he would float away and get lost in the ether. 

Hours went by, and Derek’s color slowly returned. Stiles put his head on Derek’s chest, right hand still clasped within his, and begged for forgiveness again as he listened to Derek’s steady heartbeat. He repeated the words, "Please forgive me," over and over again like a supplication. 

“There’s nothing to forgive, Stiles.”

Derek’s voice was soft, but his words still made Stiles flinch. He moved so he was sitting up again and looked into the wolf’s eyes. His tears made their way down his cheeks, cascading like a waterfall. He couldn’t stop them.

“How can you bear to look at me? To—to forgive me?! I damaged you—permanently.”

Derek squeezed Stiles’ hand, which was still holding onto his right hand, and gave him a small smile.

“No, Stiles. You saved me—permanently.”

Stiles let out a sob and threw himself against Derek’s chest. He held onto him as he shook through his breakdown. Derek wrapped his right arm around Stiles and placed a kiss on the top of his head. He inhaled Stiles' scent and found comfort in it.

Derek hadn't allowed himself to be close to anyone in years, and this moment felt like a life-altering moment. Yes, he was down an arm, but he was still alive. His wolf recognized something within Stiles that he himself feared naming. At least not yet.

Derek knew his life was permanently altered by one singular gunshot. Stiles was right, though; it wasn’t worth losing his life over. Life would be different now, but as long as Stiles was nearby, Derek felt like he could endure anything that came his way.

“Can you take me home, Stiles?”

“Where’s home?”

Derek was quiet for a moment. He was trying to find the right words that matched the pull in his chest.

“Wherever you’re at, Stiles. That’s home.”

Stiles sucked in a breath and realized that this man, this wolf, who had endured loss that would send most people six feet under, was willing to open his heart and trust once again. He wouldn’t let him down.

“You got it. You and me, big guy.”

Stiles helped Derek into his Jeep and drove home. He knew his Dad would understand after he explained everything. You know, werewolves, bites, amputations, and the fact that he was planning to castrate Scott. Yeah, his Dad would totally be on board.

It took two days before he heard what happened to Scott. Allison had been aware of werewolves and the supernatural all along. Kate had taught her how to use her looks to reel the “monsters” in.

Scott, who had been at the Argents' house with Allison, looking for the bullet, was killed that night when Kate found the bullet on him. They found his body bisected, a signature Argent method of killing, on the steps of the old, burnt-out shell of the Hale house.

Stiles was hurt, even though their friendship had already been frayed. Still, it didn’t stop the feelings of anger and grief from taking root. Derek knew he could no longer stay in Beacon Hills with the Argents there. He knew there was a war coming, one he couldn’t fight in his state.

He was learning how to navigate life as a one-armed werewolf, and it would take years to figure out how to exist within this new normal. After a discussion with Noah, the Sheriff was on board with the plans and gave them his blessing for what was to come.

Derek reached out to Alpha Satomi Ito, who vowed to keep watch over the territory and keep it safe from hunters and rogue supernaturals that posed a threat. Which included the rogue Alpha, Peter Hale, his uncle. Alpha Ito would also maintain a watchful eye over the Sheriff. They sealed the oath in blood under a full moon.

Derek decided to leave the next day, and Stiles, naturally, went with him. As if that was even a question. Trauma-bonded individuals tended to travel in packs after all, and they had become a pack of two.

A lone wolf and a lonely human who had both been permanently altered by the evils of the world, but now they were no longer alone.

~ Fin ~