The only reason Derek doesn't growl and flash his eyes at Scott is because he's honestly too damn tired. And too damn focused on Stiles. Derek doesn't like the scent of him, or the weary droop of his shoulders even as he steels himself to deal with Scott. He starts to reach out to help him as he nears, then pulls his hand back as blood audibly drops from his fingertips to splash into a spreading puddle on the concrete floor at his feet. Scott's not exactly pristine either, after the fight in the woods, but he doesn't look anything like he just took a bath in a tub full of blood either. And he's Stiles' friend. His best friend. He's better equipped to help Stiles, and Derek... he's better equipped to deal with the death and destruction that seems to follow in his wake no matter where he goes.
He takes a half step back, just enough to let Stiles ease past him without smearing himself in blood. He freezes for just a moment at the hand on his shoulder, startled at the contact and even more by the gentle squeeze. By the clear gratitude in the touch and in Stiles' scent, even over the almost overwhelming reek of blood. And he's not thinking about when or how Stiles' scent became so familiar to him that he can pick it out even in the middle of this charnel house.
"Get Argent. They're good at figuring out how to clean up this kind of mess," he calls after them, not as gruff as he would have been if it had been only Scott he was speaking to. Or Stiles as little as a month or two ago. The bitterness is clear in his voice, though. The implication that the Argents have plenty of experience of disposing of bodies. Wolves' bodies. "And get Deaton to check you out," he adds, unmistakable command in his voice. A command he doesn't even bother wasting on Scott, but doesn't think twice of delivering to Stiles... and expecting to be obeyed.
no subject
He takes a half step back, just enough to let Stiles ease past him without smearing himself in blood. He freezes for just a moment at the hand on his shoulder, startled at the contact and even more by the gentle squeeze. By the clear gratitude in the touch and in Stiles' scent, even over the almost overwhelming reek of blood. And he's not thinking about when or how Stiles' scent became so familiar to him that he can pick it out even in the middle of this charnel house.
"Get Argent. They're good at figuring out how to clean up this kind of mess," he calls after them, not as gruff as he would have been if it had been only Scott he was speaking to. Or Stiles as little as a month or two ago. The bitterness is clear in his voice, though. The implication that the Argents have plenty of experience of disposing of bodies. Wolves' bodies. "And get Deaton to check you out," he adds, unmistakable command in his voice. A command he doesn't even bother wasting on Scott, but doesn't think twice of delivering to Stiles... and expecting to be obeyed.