all you have is your fire

seven

"Bullshit!" Stiles slammed the palm of his hand on Deaton's desk. "I can understand why you'd want to suspend Derek, but why me? I didn't do anything wrong!"

Deaton tipped his chin down, glaring over the top of his glasses. "First of all, Stiles, you need to calm down, unless you want an even longer suspension. And as for the reason, I think you know why."

"So what, I was supposed to just leave Derek here at the station and go to Sunnyside alone?" Stiles crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"No," Deaton sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "But you could have told me what was going on. If you had, I would have sent Derek with Scott and Lydia, to the chemical fire, and sent you with Liam."

"It wouldn't have changed anything." Stiles grumbled under his breath.

"It might have." Deaton replied. "Without the delay from Derek's hesitation, you both would have gotten inside sooner, and Ms. Smith might have survived." He stood, then walked around his desk and stopped in front of Stiles' chair. "Stiles, we both know this isn't the first time that hesitation has affected a call you've been on."

Shame burned through his veins as he looked up at Deaton. Of course he'd have to bring that up. That one day, that moment of stubborn stupidity that almost cost him his license. It was only because of Deaton's intervention - his insistence that Stiles be given another chance, that Stiles should receive a small suspension instead of being fired.

A sense of irony weaved itself through the situation before him. The parallel between Derek's hesitation today, and that one moment two years ago. But something nagged at the back of his mind - something Derek said in the ambulance that he'd tossed from his mind the moment the air between them shifted, when Derek had reached to brush the damp curl from his forehead, soft, cool fingers lingering against his skin.

But before that - before desire had all but overwhelmed him, Derek had said something. Something about a football injury, about how the paramedics took too long to arrive. Stiles couldn't help but wonder...

"Deaton?" Stiles lifted his head and looked his dispatcher in the eye. "I know it was a while ago. Two years, right?"

"Yes." Deaton nodded.

"The football player that was injured." Panic surged through Stiles' veins, hot like the fire he'd almost allowed to consume him earlier. "It wasn't..."

"Derek?"

"Yeah." Stiles swallowed back the bile climbing up his throat, "Please tell me it wasn't–"

"It was."

"Shit." Stiles slumped over in his seat, cradling his head in his hands. "Shit, shit, shit." He looked up briefly, hoping more than anything that this was just another one of his dispatcher's little jokes.

The serious look on Deaton's face spoke otherwise.

"But why didn't you tell me right away?" Stiles asked. "Why assign me to him? God, he's going to hate me when he finds out."

"Maybe." Deaton walked back around his desk and settled in the chair across from him. "But I feel like he'll understand, especially after what happened today."

"You knew about what happened with Derek's grandma, didn't you?"

Deaton nodded, his face somber. "Not initially, but when the orderly at Sunnyside told me what happened, I connected the dots. I was actually there when Derek's grandmother passed. The look on his face is one I won't ever forget. I don't know if he remembers me - he was understandably distraught that night - but I definitely remember him. Kind of hard to forget a six foot football player falling apart before your eyes. I guess it was meant to be, that I'd assign you to him. It might have been a rough start, but this will be good, for both of you. To get some closure on your pasts."