Having the upper hand with Stiles is always debatable. Kid's got a mind like lightning, a mouth that's even faster, and enough sarcastic quips and bad jokes to put Burt-Ward-Robin to shame. Derek's smart, pressing the advantage while he has it. Might as well get the words in while Stiles is too busy adjusting to life without pain to argue. And the words manage what he intended with them; Stiles quiets, the seriousness, the intensity of Derek's voice pushing past the walls he's carefully constructed and nesting somewhere deep in him. Warm, and right.

"What are you, my mechanic?" he grumbles, but there's actually a marked amount of...maybe affection, or something nearly like it, in his voice, and his other hand automatically lifts from between his legs to lay on Derek's wrist. Now that the pain is gone, it's so much harder to ignore the rest, the exhaustion and fear and doubt. After a moment, he sighs, and his always-moving fingers settle over the pulse in Derek's wrist. "I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is quiet and so markedly different from the Stiles Derek is used to. Older. Sadder. "You shouldn't have had to do what you did. I should have come up with a better plan. I'm sorry." If there's anything he regrets, it's Derek having to kill. His life has been hard enough. He's got enough nightmares. Who is Stiles to add to that?