Author's note: Right. The title is taken from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, because it felt fitting and the line always mesmerized me.
It's short, and it's a jumbled mess, and I haven't written anything coherent for months now. Bits and pieces of this "story" have been sitting on my computer since last year, and the night before last seemed like a night to finish it. I may do a rewrite later on, depends on if I wake up one of these days and realize it's a bad, bad thing.
I've always felt a bit of unwarranted anger at Scott and Stiles leaving Derek, even if it was to save their own lives, so I wanted to bash them a little and maybe write some guilt into the two hardheads.
Instead, I ended up with this, so, enjoy, if it's possible. ;)
Edit: I've just realized, I forgot to mention this is a tag to season one, episode 7, "Night School", and picks up after the alpha attacks Derek and Stiles and Scott run off into the school. Yay me.
…
Hearing is the first sense to go, and Derek is kind of grateful. He doesn't need to listen to them scream if the alpha catches up to them. Doesn't need an audio recording of their deaths in his head. The only sounds that can still reach him are the ones of his body failing; the blood flowing away from him, less and less of it rushing in his ears.
Hearing is the first sense to go, and Derek is isolated, in a world that is his alone. It's a place that doesn't stretch beyond a body-shaped patch of grass stained red.
It's dark, but not dark enough. He can still make out the glow of streetlamps in the distance, if barely. How uselessly hopeful. Derek bares his perfectly human teeth in a mockery of a smile, thinks, a fucking candle in the wind. How fitting, and…
The pain ends an inch or two above the line of his waistband. And Derek, Derek would be grateful for the reprieve, because he'd heard his leg break when he fell, if not for the abrupt realization that everything ended there.
He can't move his legs.
If it weren't for the blood pooling in his throat and agony slithering through his midsection like a rabid snake, he'd laugh. Or cry, scream, something-
It's getting too cold for this time of year.
Derek thinks of the fire, the fire, and can't quite decide which type of helplessness is worse.
The air is too thick. Maybe it's just him. Maybe his airways are too clogged. He forces his body to cough, shredded muscles to contort and pull and what comes out of his mouth is a mixture of screaming and blood.
Derek thinks, there is a thing down in the earth, a gaping void, and it's waiting for his blood to reach it. When it does, the thing will laugh. And it'll sound like Kate.
He thinks, how funny would it be if he died here, in a schoolyard? He never even finished high school.
Vision is the second to fail and Derek's plunged into darkness. Fear surges through his veins, leaks into the ground. But there's a limitless supply of fear.
It's not the fear of death. It's a desperate hysteria, helpless, making his heart thunder in his chest. A flailing effort. He thinks of being buried six feet under a layer of concrete, blind and deaf to the world.
Insanity licks at his consciousness, and Derek sees tomorrow morning, police packing up his corpse and his hair is white. Death by fear, next to a hole in the guts. An old man of twenty something. Fitting.
There was a time, after his first shift and learning about pray and learning about off-limits, when Derek was more human than wolf, but dreaming big and thinking wild, that he followed after Laura like a kid he was, begging her to take him hunting. Wolves were big and strong and fearless, and feared. And he was small, little fists clenching and swinging at anyone who even suggested it. So Laura did.
There was a rabbit in the woods behind their home, a little thing that ran and hid and smelled of fear as the wolves approached. And Derek had chased, body light and quick and confident. Thoughts of pray and hunter had his blood rushing, his ego propelled years ahead by presumed power. So he played.
He'd chase, catch up and leap in front of the ball of fur and fear and panic, making his pray franticly change direction and flee. The thrill had his skin on fire, teeth ready to tear and taste victory.
And then the rabbit was too late to stop and turn and it crashed head on into the wolf that was suddenly in front of it. Derek barely felt the thump on his leg, but even blood rushing in his ears couldn't drone out the crack that followed.
It was a time when Derek was more human than wolf, more a child than anything. Excitement was quick to drain away once there was no going back and the moment was over, and there were no claws and no teeth and no predator when he bent down to gather the rabbit in hands that shook slightly. Wide, dark eyes looked at his, panic and silent, deafening terror bleeding through the species barrier. No movement, no sound, just those eyes that that ran over his face while Derek held still, frozen, unable to look away, breath forgotten somewhere in his throat. Then, they stilled.
Derek never forgot the tiny rabbit with the broken spine, those few moments between life and death, the first time he'd seen pure, undiluted horror in the eyes of a living thing.
Blind and deaf, immobile, for all purposes dead except for what he thinks must be the same kind of debilitating terror, he imagines the broken rabbit waiting for him just over the edge. Derek thinks, maybe that's the monster beneath him, waiting for the last drop of blood that will flow.
Thoughts spill and slip from his grasp, mind working like a clock that's lost its minute hand but refuses to shut down. Everything fragments into jagged pieces, intersecting at odd angles that shouldn't exist, incomplete and equal parts thought and feeling. Insanity lick at his consciousness and Derek hopes Death carries a scythe, quick and sharp. Maybe Death is as cruel as life, though, in which case he just hopes for oblivion. It doesn't come. Neither of them.
The blood on his tongue tastes like bitterness and resentment, and hot hatred for the Alpha that had not enough humanity to finish him off. It's hard to come by any concern for Stiles and Scott in his private pit of blackness and horrors and pain. Useless ears can just about hear the rabbit below breathe, and his breath sounds like fire, devouring.
Tendrils of hope reach out, selfish hope that's completely human and appeases that dark, sadistic corner of his mind that he tries not to touch. Hope that the Alpha will meet his end in a worse way, although his mind can't supply one.
Rational thought seems so far out of reach, like something that was taken from him and then tossed aside.
The bile in his throat tastes like despair and helpless anger, and in the weakest moment he allows himself to hate Stiles and Scott for leaving him alone. Stripped of basic functions, he can't remember the last time he'd felt a willing touch, unintended to hurt.
All strength gone, Derek feels a sick sort of gratitude for not having the energy to move even if his body wasn't broken. It pushes back the fear just enough so he can take his last shallow breaths with a (unearned, Kate's voice supplies) semblance of misguided bravery.
Void, when it bites down and swallows him, smells like home.
.
.
.
When the healing finally kicks in, it's liquid fire coursing through him, washing over every nerve and pulling him to awareness. Derek bites down on the ground, dirt and grass filing his mouth.
…
Author's note: Quick note, I'm not a native English speaker, so feel free to point out any mistakes I may have made, it's always welcome. And so are comments, if you'd spare the time to indulge me. :)