Derek is irrationally satisfied by the fact Stiles actually shuts the hell up long enough for him to get that out. Maybe he'll actually listen for once, rather than discarding anything that doesn't fit with whatever world view he's already decided to adopt--mostly the one where anyone trying to protect him is trying to belittle and demean his strength and accomplishments.
"No, I'm your Alpha, if you get broken enough someone needs to fix you I haven't done my job," he answers, with the kind of automatic ease that clearly marks it as what he considers the absolute truth, and he's tired and distracted enough by Stiles' hand settling on his wrist, warm fingers sure against the steady thud of his pulse, that he doesn't think to backtrack on the statement. And, well... it's true to him, even if it isn't to Stiles. And he's not going to think, right in this moment, about just how badly broken Erica and Boyd are, and how he failed them.
He should probably take his hand off Stiles' face, he's drained away everything he can, and the touch is probably inappropriately intimate, but with Stiles' hand at his wrist, the bitter twist of sadness to his scent, he can't make himself. "No." He doesn't growl or snap, it's just steady and solid and true. "You came up with a plan that worked. You saved them. And-" He frowns and looks down, voice going slower and thicker. "That had to happen. Someone had to... had to kill them, or they'd have just kept on the same. With us, or with the next pack down the road. I couldn't let them just... leave. Not knowing that. It was my call, my responsibility." No one else's. He'd kept Scott from having to be a killer, kept the Argents from spilling his peoples' blood, even if they were murderers and monsters. It had been his burden, no one else's.
no subject
"No, I'm your Alpha, if you get broken enough someone needs to fix you I haven't done my job," he answers, with the kind of automatic ease that clearly marks it as what he considers the absolute truth, and he's tired and distracted enough by Stiles' hand settling on his wrist, warm fingers sure against the steady thud of his pulse, that he doesn't think to backtrack on the statement. And, well... it's true to him, even if it isn't to Stiles. And he's not going to think, right in this moment, about just how badly broken Erica and Boyd are, and how he failed them.
He should probably take his hand off Stiles' face, he's drained away everything he can, and the touch is probably inappropriately intimate, but with Stiles' hand at his wrist, the bitter twist of sadness to his scent, he can't make himself. "No." He doesn't growl or snap, it's just steady and solid and true. "You came up with a plan that worked. You saved them. And-" He frowns and looks down, voice going slower and thicker. "That had to happen. Someone had to... had to kill them, or they'd have just kept on the same. With us, or with the next pack down the road. I couldn't let them just... leave. Not knowing that. It was my call, my responsibility." No one else's. He'd kept Scott from having to be a killer, kept the Argents from spilling his peoples' blood, even if they were murderers and monsters. It had been his burden, no one else's.