"Fuckin bullshit ugly fuckers," Stiles sniffed through his numb nose, stubbornly wiping at the tears dripping down his cheekbone with his free hand. He was hunched over, legs bent at the knee tucked loosely up near his chin, right arm out and resting on one of them. A large, store bought sunflower hung unceremoniously between his slender, slightly spindly fingers. His hoodie hooked over his buzz cut and shielded him haphazardly from the astringent hyperborean of the Californian night. His jeans were an old pair, torn around the hems near his tatty sneakers, and muddy where he'd trekked through fifty acres of reserve before taking the path to the graveyard.
The journey on foot in the biting air, the way the muscles in his abdomen had cramped and the panting of laboured breaths escaping from his chapped, split lips - they were all things that had driven him on. It was cathartic. After watching Lydia falling yet again into Jackson's arms on top of all the bullshit before that, he desperately needed to feel the blood pumping in his veins through his own will. He wanted to feel physically worn out with exertion and self-enforced activity, not fear or heartbreak.
"'Dunno why you ever liked 'em," he sniffed again, his voice slightly broken and croaky with both emotion and lack of use. The most he'd talked in the past seven hours had been futile when he'd been trying to convince Lydia to stop being a life-risking idiot.
He was aware of the fact that he probably looked fuckin awful with red rimmed eyelids and patchy, blotchy, ghostly pale skin, but fuck it. If he looked as though he should be immediately sedated and sent to rehab, or hospitalised for mild hypothermia and catatonia, then so be it. His currently unstable mental state was only about 5% his own fault anyways. Well, maybe 10%. No more than 30% though. His slightly self-destructive tendency to disregard all medical suggestions made to him in the last twelve hours definitely had a part in it, since he'd arrived in the doorway of his bedroom bloodied and bruised and having to comfort and reassure his father. However, his apparent eternally unlucky choice in peers also largely contributed in his misfortune. Fuckin werewolves.
But the majority of it all was down to Allison's psychotic grandfather.
He winced at the thought of Gerard, his heartbeat picking up momentarily as the three broken ribs he was sporting twanged horribly, and a sharp, fresh stinging shot across the injured half of his face. He swallowed tightly and hissed a little as the intense burning of pain and fear resurfaced in his gut. Predominantly however, it was met with a large helping of fury.
"I don't get it, most mums like roses or lilies. But you loved sunflowers," he spoke in a cracked, breath half laugh of sadness and irritation "who the fuck loves sunflowers?"
But he knew the answer to his own question. His mother had always been unapologetically quirky. She'd had a fondness for ugly, wilted things. She'd always told him that's why she loved his dad so much, because he was so broken despite his enormous capacity for compassion. Being a father had always suited Sheriff John Stilinski. To be fair, Claudia, Stiles' mum, had always been excellently suited to motherhood as well. The two were unintentionally, undoubtedly fantastic parents.
Which was why it had been so incredibly ruining to watch her waste away so brutally. Whilst she had always been stubborn and slightly strange, and always overflowing with ideas, Claudia had been gentle and soothing and beautiful and everyone who had come into contact with her had automatically enjoyed her company by default. She'd been so full of life, and to be a nine year old watching the life drain from his mother slowly, excruciatingly, and relentlessly – god, it just angered Stiles so very much. It simply was not fair.
A lot of things angered Stiles of late. It felt as though sometimes it was quaking in his bones like a low twisting hurricane and sitting barely contained beneath his splintered rib cage. But he always made sure his touches remained gentle, his words sarcastic and comedic. It was one thing to be bursting with anger, but another to allow it to taint the ones he loved. His mother had always taught him a basic level of kindness. Whilst he was a generally impatient and hyperactive little shit, he did have some semblance of tact.
"I don't-" he had to take a second to pull in a quivering breath before he tried again "I don't know what I'm supposed to do mom," he admitted in a pitiful half-sob, the emotion clinging to his skin finally bleeding through "I'm terrified all the time, I'm having panic attacks again – Scott is juggling a shit tonne more bullshit than I am, but I still feel like I'm gonna explode from all this pain…" he trailed off, his breath uneven in the air, shaky, visible wisps tufting from his mouth in the inky blue darkness of the autumn night "but I'm talking to a fuckin gravestone again, and expecting a corpse six feet in the ground to answer me," he sighed in a slightly strangled voice as he attempted to gather himself, although he didn't bother to banish tears from his face this time, letting them fall hot and fast.
"You'd know what to say," he spoke with a tragic smile gracing the corner of his mouth "you'd tut at me and be all touchy feely with my face and you'd make me a sandwich and get me to make a statement to dad or the deputy," he just hurt so much with the impossible need for her soft palm against his skin and her gentle kiss to his forehead. He longer for a warmth that would envelope him wholly, just for a few moments, a strong safety that was absolute and would guarantee that he was immune to the danger of hunters and werewolves and all the supernatural bullshit that a seventeen year old should not even believe in, let alone fight against.
"It's cold," a low, yet soft voice said behind him, but Stiles didn't even need to turn his head to know who it was.
"Well done sourwolf," he sniffed once more in a defeated voice, accepting the inevitability of his further loss of dignity "you've once again mastered the art of stating the obvious," he added absinthally.
"You're in pain," the voice said again.
"Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding," Stiles tipped his head back, the bite of sarcasm rolling off of his tongue in a higher pitched, mocking tone "sourpuss scores correct again"
Instead of a snappy, one worded retort or a half-hearted death threat, Derek simply moved to sit on the ice cold grass beside him, legs crossed, hands firmly in the pockets of his ever present leather jacket.
"Scott's been looking for you," he informed "everyone's been trying to get hold of you but your phone is off. You've been AWOL for over five hours Stiles," Derek says bluntly as though he knows Stiles is probably unaware of how long he's been otherwise engaged (AKA having a mental breakdown without letting anybody know of his whereabouts). For a moment, Stiles' eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Who knew I was so important?" Stile remarked "surely everyone should be fussing over newly wolfified Jackson, making funeral arrangements for psycho gramps, figuring out what the creepy, spiky triskellion on your front door means-"
"You know about that?"
"'Saw it earlier when I was wondering dazedly through the reserve all fragile and beaten, but I figured I could have a day off worrying about everyone else's problems before I have to put my mad research and investigation skills into action again"
"Stiles," Derek said frankly "you can have a month off, more than that even. You're in pain, you need rest, and I am perfectly capable of using google"
"My fingers are fine, I can type," Stiles retorted firmly, staring straight ahead at his mother's name etched in stone "and actually, as clever as you are sourwolf, you're fuckin useless at google. But I gotta assume you already have a few theories," Stiles' expression softened ever so slightly and he smirked sideways, transparently directing the conversation away from the state of his physical health.
"Alpha pack," Derek spoke in short sentences and Stiles' head snapped sideways properly.
"The fuck?" he demanded "that's not a thing! That can't be a thing"
"It's definitely a thing," Derek replied with distaste "that sign on my door was a power play. They're letting me know that they're here and that they've got Erica and Boyd-"
"They've got Erica and Boyd?" Stiles half-shouted in alarm "what the fuck dude? You could have mentioned that before you started interrupted my brooding time, I could already be in my room bringing up search engines and insensitively bugging Alli for bestiaries," Stiles really was angry now.
Erica and Boyd had started off as sort of niggly annoyances – newly turned teen werewolves tended to be a particular source of irritation in his life of late, no thanks to Derek. But now Stiles… well, he was weirdly attached to the two ridiculously attractive young betas and their frustrating attitudes. He – shit, Stiles realised with a panic in his chest now, that he sort of considered Erica and Boyd (also Isaac, but he wasn't being held hostage by a potentially psychopathic pack of alphas) as his pups.
As Derek explained about what the situation was with the two missing betas, Stiles caught onto the fact that despite his human status and lack of particularly close association to the, he felt as though he'd failed in some kind of fucked up duty to protect them. 'No one does anything like that again, okay?' his own words seemed to echo through his brain and the images of them nodding obediently in response flashed to the forefront.
"We need – fuck Der, we gotta find them , we don't know anything about this pack or what they want or how strong they are-"
"Shut up," Derek snapped as Stiles started to babble and lose control of his breathing "I know. I know we have to find them, and we will, I promise. But you're injured and you haven't slept or eaten in over twenty four hours. You look like you're in serious need of some pain meds," Derek was already taking the sunflower from Stiles' hand and placing it on Claudia's grave. Ignoring Stiles' outraged stuttering of protests and curse words, Derek stood up, bending over and taking one of Stiles' limp arms, throwing it over his leather clad shoulders. He then slipped his own strong arm around Stiles' waist with surprisingly gentle force, pulling him up to full height.
"Fuuuuuu…" Stiles hissed as his entire body struggled and argued painfully with gravity. Derek's body was ridiculously warm – almost weakeningly so in contrast to the severe and worrying cold of Stiles', and he had a sudden urge to burrow himself against it and lynch all the heat he could get. Of course, their relationship was undefined at the moment, and whilst they'd had a couple of spare of the moment make out fests over the past few months, Derek was no closer to outwardly talking about what it was that was going on between them, than Stiles was to telling his own father about the town's infestation of dangerous and whiny werewolves.
"Shit. Stiles you fucking idiot," he growled, taking some more of his weight "you're freezing"
"Awh, you're being pack mom getting all maternal-"
"Call me that again and I'll put my hand through your chest cavity and rip out your lungs"
"Jesus," Stiles said feebly, irritably shaking Derek off, his less injured arm wrapping around his own diaphragm. His whole body felt heavy and lethargic, every muscle crying out and aching with soreness. His stomach gave a loud grumble of hunger and fuck he hadn't even realised how completely exhausted he was. The effects of his Adderall overdose earlier on in the day were wearing off and he could feel himself crashing, whilst his overactive brain buzzed in argument with the fatigue.
"Give me strength," Derek muttered with a hint of defeat "at least let me drive you home?" he huffed in addition. Stiles gritted his teeth, letting out a frustrated breath through his nose, looking away for a moment, weighing up his options. He really was ill. He couldn't particularly see straight, and along with the building agony of all the bruises and breaks, the parts of his body that had been left untouched by Gerard were numbed and stiff. His heart was beating too slow in his chest now and his eyes were sore and droopy. He was torn between defiantly making things worse for himself out of principle, the itching at his finger tips to get on his laptop and start researching alpha packs, and the longing to pass out horizontally for a good twenty four hours.
Eventually, his body's borderline dangerous physiological state won out, and he pushed past Derek's shoulder in the direction of the cemetery's parking lot, ignoring Derek's triumphant smirk as he lowered himself carefully into the plush leather of the Camero.
Twenty minutes later, Stiles was being marched into the hospital muttering about betrayal and the breaking of the 'almost-boyfriend code' with Derek practically dragging him along by the collar of his hoodie.
"…turn your furry ass into a fucking throw rug," Stiles growled.
"Stiles?" Melissa said, immediately standing up from her seat behind the reception desk, moving around it and taking his face in her hands, searching him for injuries, mentally cataloguing and diagnosing in the same way that his father dealt with crime scenes.
"I'm fine," he lied in a decidedly gentler voice, catching Derek's stern eyes "I'm fine!" he repeated in a harsher tone, pointedly glaring at his infuriating companion.
"You are not fine young man," Melissa rebuked, pressing her soft, warm hand against his forehead "you're freezing!" she exclaimed "call his father" she said to Derek.
"I already did," he replied in a regal voice "he was colder, he warmed up slightly on the ride here," he added, managing to sound both stoically detached and concerned at the same time. Melissa nodded at him, ignoring Stiles grunting about how they were talking about him as though her wasn't stood right in front of them both.
"Have you taken your meds today?" she asked, looking at Stiles directly again in a respectfully quitter voice that he appreciated somewhat more than her previous one.
"Yeah," he sighed "too much of it actually, it's… it's kinda been a stressful day. You'll hear about it when you get home to Scott. The last dosage I took was about six hours ago when I went home," he attempted. Melissa seemed to recognise the meaning behind it and pulled him aside slightly with Derek following them.
"Did he do this?" she asked Stiles, eyeing Derek with clear dislike.
"No," Stiles replied quickly "no, are you kidding me? This dude is just a grumpy puppy. This was-" he broke off as his world spun around him for a moment and he was forced to grab Melissa's arm on reflex. Derek shifted so that he could catch him if needed and Mel looked scared for him again, her pupils scanning the gash on his cheek.
"That's it, you're coming with me," she demanded, guiding them down the corridor, getting another nurse to cover her station whilst she helped Stiles into a bed, disregarding his feeble protests once more.
About ten minutes later, a doctor he vaguely recognised came in and prodded at him, muttering a few things, scolding Stiles for his self-destructive behaviour and making some notes on his clipboard. Again, no one was fucking listening to him, and he was changed into a hospital gown, hooked up to an IV and some morphine, and informed that the Sheriff was on his way and would soon be present.
The entire time Derek stood nearby, hands in his pockets, stance stony and tense. Stiles would have felt guilty for being such a worry if he wasn't busy still being traumatised from his earlier beating, and angry with the quiet alpha for not taking him directly home.
"I'm not apologising to you," Stiles spoke bitterly "I've got work to do and betas to save, but you fucking put me in here. They won't let me out for days because I'm the Sheriff's son, and I'll have to give a statement now and everything. The food in here is fucking vile, and there's no way Mama Mccall is letting me have my laptop in here," he ranted.
"You were on the verge of collapse you stupid little shit," Derek snapped in return when the final nurse left the room and the temperature of his blood was returning to normal "I'm not a total bastard, I wasn't about to let you just wonder off back into the forest-"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Stiles cut across him "140 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone and all that. I'm a weak, vulnerable human. I get it," his voice was slightly slurred now, and he suspected that the Doctor had somehow given him a sneaky sedative to knock him out for the night. Stiles felt a rush of dread wash over him when his eyelids began to droop and it dawned on him that he was about to be at the mercy of his own subconscious, and that meant extremely unpleasant night terrors that he didn't particularly want to deal with in a hospital full of people.
"You were a person about to collapse, you needed professional medical assistance. This has nothing to do with your resilience levels as a normal human dammit," Derek growled, taking a step forward and crossing his arms over his chest "do you honestly think that I'd have just left you out there?"
"Can we skip the part where you pretend like you give a shit about me to make yourself feel like a better person please?"
That seemed to hit a nerve with Derek because he strode the last few paced to Stiles' bedside and got in his personal space, looking him dead in the eye with an unidentifiable look full of emotion and anger. Stiles swallowed abruptly, although still blurry and drowsy.
"Don't," Derek spoke in a quiet voice lined with both desperation and frustration "don't even suggest that I'm indifferent to you Stiles," he said with conviction "because you full well fucking know that isn't the case"
There was a further moment of silence in which Stiles' fluttering eyes searched Derek's glistening hazel green ones. Eventually, Stiles swallowed again, blinking and looking down at where his grazed, bruised hands were rested in his lap. He felt the sudden urge to burst into uncontrollable tears; as though it was all way too much for him to process all at once.
Then Derek was stepping back and pulling a chair up, shrugging off his jacket. He drew in an audibly shaky breath and reached out quickly, taking Stiles' hands in his own before he could pull away. His veins turned black as Stiles felt the remaining throb of pain ebb out of him through the strong touch and up Derek's creamy forearm.
His last thought before he blacked out was how much his dad was going to want to kill him when he arrived.