By the time Scott McCall is six years old, he loves hospitals.
Or, rather, he loves Beacon Hills Hospital.
Part of this is because he's still just a naive little kid; he doesn't really know any better, doesn't yet understand why people don't typically associate the word "hospital" with happy thoughts—he's only six, after all.
A bigger part, however, is due to the fact that the hospital has become something of a refuge to him— an escape.
Because being at the hospital means being with his mom, who's always at the hospital these days, pulling shifts until all hours of the night and working herself to the bone to keep the electricity from being turned off in their house, to put food on the table, to pay for Scott's inhaler and ever-growing list of allergy medications, to keep them on their feet.
And, by extension, being with his mom at the hospital means not having to be with his father.
His dad was recently laid off, and he sure as hell doesn't seem to be making any effort to get a new job or to help pay the bills, leaving Scott's mother to shoulder the burden of sustaining their entire family on the less-than-generous salary she receives as nurse.
This also means that his dad is in the house all the time, and that his mom usually isn't, and even at six years old Scott can't stand the thought of one-on-one time with his father, who only ever yells and hurls insults (and, if he's in a particularly bad mood, other things as well) at him—or worse, at his mother—and it makes Scott miserable.
And although Melissa knows that by policy she's really not supposed to, although she knows the hospital is not meant to be a hang-out place for a six-year old boy, she just can't turn her son down when he latches onto her leg as she's walking out the door, looking up at her with those big, brown, puppy-dog eyes and with his lip quivering.
It starts on a day like any other, as she's on her way out the door when suddenly Scott is standing there. She feels her heart melt as she takes in his appearance, hair all disheveled from sleep and his favorite stuffed animal clutched tightly in the free hand that's not currently tugging at her pant-leg, and she notices that he has even gotten changed and put his shoes on (laces still untied).
When he says "Mommy, can I come to work with you? Pretty, pretty please? I don't want to spend the day with dad again," she sighs and it takes all her will-power not to start cursing out her good-for-nothing husband right there in front of her son, but she restrains herself for his sake.
She sighs and gently pries Scott's fingers from her leg and takes his tiny hand in her own and responds "Of course you can, sweetie. But we have to hurry, okay? Let's get to the car," quickly bending down to tie his shoelaces, planting a small kiss on his forehead before straightening back up.
"And yes, you can take Puppy with you," she adds in reference to the small wolf stuffed animal he still holds tightly in his hand, the one she swears he takes with him wherever he goes.
Scott's face lights up as he beams up at her, practically bouncing up and down in excitement, and says "Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!" without even stopping to take a breath, before sprinting to the car and furiously jiggling the handle to the car door until she unlocks it.
After that, it becomes something of a common routine between the two of them, something that they've sort of just settled into.
It's a good thing that Melissa is well liked around the hospital, admired by both her patients and her co-workers for her hard work and compassion, because no one gives her any trouble on the days that she comes into work, Scott trailing along behind her, with some excuse about not being able to find a baby-sitter and her husband not being home (even though he is, of course he is, and he's probably still passed out drunk on the same couch he fell asleep on the night before).
And for the most part, as far as hyperactive six-year-old boys go, Scott is actually reasonably well behaved. He hates feeling like a burden (a word that his father seems to throw at him every other day), so he's usually content to sit and wait in the waiting room, with the bag of toys his mom packs him to keep him occupied, like his Gameboy and his favorite stuffed animal, and some snacks so that he doesn't get hungry.
Sometimes, however, his curiosity gets the best of him, and he'll wander around until they find him in some random patient's room, sitting by their hospital bed and chatting animatedly with that infectious dimpled smile plastered across his face (Melissa swears that she's seen him make certain people smile that she's never seen smile before).
And when they ask him what he's doing, his answer is always "making friends." Which is another reason why Scott loves hospitals, because he loves making friends here (even though sometimes his friends disappear or leave before he gets to say goodbye and he doesn't know why, doesn't yet understand that they're not coming back, and that makes him sad).
But most importantly, perhaps the biggest reason of them all that Scott loves the hospital, is that it's where he meets Stiles.
He's sitting in the waiting room, trying and failing to distract himself from being bored and clutching his stuffed animal tight to his chest as he surveys the people sitting around him, observing their expressions and wondering why so many of them seem so upset or worried, when he sees him.
This pale, gangly boy who looks to be about his age, who's hasn't quite grown into his limbs yet and who's all freckles and moles, wearing a batman shirt that Scott can't help but admire (although he's partial to Wonder Woman himself, mostly because she reminds him of his mom).
The boy is tapping his foot—which can barely even touch the ground yet— anxiously, and worrying at his bottom lip; he seems fidgety and distracted, his eyes darting around the room and never resting on the same thing for more than a few seconds.
That is, until they meet Scott's curious gaze.
There must be something about Scott that catches this boy's attention, because he stares right back and this time doesn't look away, instead holding Scott's gaze and looking back at him warily, with a hint of curiosity flickering in his eyes.
And when Scott grins at him, his signature Scott McCall crooked-jaw grin, the boy can't help but grin back. That's all it takes for Scott to hop out of his chair and make his way across the room to sit in the empty chair next to this boy and introduce himself.
"Hi! I'm Scott. I like your shirt. Want to be my friend?"
If the boy is surprised by this sudden intriduction, he doesn't look it, and responds with equal enthusiasm, introducing himself as 'Stiles' (it's not until a couple of days later, when Scott is over Stiles' house for the first time, that Stiles whispers his real name in his ear, expecting to be laughed at but instead getting a beaming smile and an "I like it!" in return).
Scott is thrilled, he's absolutely ecstatic, because as much as he loves his friends here, it's nice to meet someone his own age for once. Because, to be honest, he really doesn't have many friends like that. Actually, he doesn't have any freiends his age at all. He supposes it must be because no kid wants to be friends with the dorky little asthmatic boy (or at least that's what his father tells him).
He and Stiles just hit it off, bonding instantly over comic books and superheroes and video-games and genuinely enjoying each other's company. and it isn't long before Stiles tells Scott that the reason he's there in the first place is that his mom is getting some tests done, although they won't tell him what, and his dad told him he had to be a good boy and wait here until they were done because that was Adult Stuff.
And when Stiles, who has been animated and chatty this entire time gets all quiet all of a sudden and starts to look upset and worried, Scott holds his hand and tells him that everything is going to be okay, and even gives Stiles his stuffed animal, Puppy, to hold.
"He always makes me feel better when I'm sad. I think you should have him for now."
Because even though they've just met, he hates seeing his new friend sad. He likes Stiles a lot already, and he knows that he wants to keep him around.
Later, when Melissa is done with her shift, she finds Scott and some strange little boy that she's never seen before spread out on the ground together, laughing and sharing Scott's toys and acting as if they've known each other forever, and when Scott sees her and runs up to her, bright eyes dancing with excitement, and asks if 'Stiles' can come over tomorrow, she can tell that she's in for a long haul.
By the time Scott McCall is eight years old, he is starting to realize that maybe hospitals aren't as great as he thought, after all.
Because he's sitting with Stiles in a quiet little hospital room, clutching his friend's hand tight and keeping him company while the Sheriff is at work, when Mrs. Stilinksi's heart stops beating.
By the time doctors come rushing into the room, she's already dead, she's finally lost the battle against this disease she's been fighting, and there is no bringing her back.
Scott is shocked, he's horrified, because he's always known that death was something that happened to people, but it has always seen like something so far away, so off in the distant future—something he's never really had to think about before.
And, if he's being honest, for as long as he can remember, he's always kind of had this idea in his mind that hospitals are kind of magical, that they can heal anything, make anyone better.
Clearly, he was mistaken.
This was his best friend's mom, the woman with kind eyes and a warm smile who always baked him his favorite cookies whenever he came over and who would tuck him in and kiss his forehead as if he were a part of the family on nights when he would sleepover the Stilinski's house, nights when his dad was the only one home and his mom would have had to keep him at the hospital with her until all hours of the night.
And now, she's…dead.
The word feels strange, as it tumbles around in his mind and rests bitterly on his tongue.
Dead. Death. He decides he doesn't like it; not at all, not one bit.
Stiles knees give out, and his eyes are wide and terrified, his body stiff with shock. It's as if he doesn't even see him, doesn't see anything at all when Scott catches him and sits him down on the floor, hugging him tight.
Stiles isn't even crying yet—it's as if he hasn't truly accepted what's happened, hasn't really processed it yet, because she can't be dead. She just can't.
But she is, and when this finally sinks in, when his body goes limp and he kind of crumples into Scott's arms and buries his head in his shoulder and squeezes back so tightly it's as if he's holding onto his friend for dear life, that's when the tears come, these heart-wrenching sobs that cause his entire body to heave and that leave him gasping for air.
Scott is crying too, because he can't stand seeing his friend like this, and with every sob that wracks Stiles' body as he holds him close he feels his heart break. He wishes he could do more, he wishes he could do something, anything, to help his friend, to bring Mrs. Stilinski back.
But all he can do right now is be there for Stiles, hold him close— hold him together— as Stiles clutches him tighter and tighter and struggles to keep himself from falling apart.
So that's what he does.
He sits there with Stiles, and he does his best to be his friend's rock, his anchor, to keep him from losing it completely, to keep his feet on the ground.
Scott's not really sure how long they stay like that—maybe seconds, maybe minutes, maybe hours. But he knows he's not going anywhere.
By the time Scott McCall is ten years old, he decides that he really doesn't like hospitals much at all anymore.
Because this time it's him in a hospital gown, laying on an uncomfortable hospital bed with his eyes squeezed shut and his chest still burning, trying and failing to block out the yelling going on right outside the door of the hospital room, the raised voices of his mother and father that are getting increasingly angrier with each passing second.
This is all his fault. If he hadn't been such a baby, if he wasn't so weak, this never would have happened. He wouldn't be lying in this hospital bed and his parents wouldn't be arguing— arguing over him, over what happened.
Stiles had been over; Scott's mom was working again, so Stiles had come over to keep him company. They had been chasing each other around the house, Scott trying to tackle Stiles to the ground to get back the controller to his videogame that Stiles had stolen after Scott had beaten him in Mario Kart (for the third time in a row).
Everything had been fine, they had been laughing and teasing each other as always, when Scott's laughter suddenly seemed to get stuck in his throat as his airways closed and he collapsed to his knees, struggling to breathe.
Stiles had almost panicked at first, but had been sensible enough to recognize that this wasn't just a normal asthma attack and that Scott needed help right away. So he had sprinted up the stairs and woken Scott's father up (because adults were supposed to be able to fix everything, right?) and led him down the stairs to where Scott was still doubled over on the ground, coughing and wheezing and unable to breathe.
And instead of taking out Scott's inhaler like Stiles had expected, instead of immediately taking Scott to the hospital, Scott's dad had snorted derisively.
"Oh, please. He needs to get over this. He'll be fine, he's just over exaggerating. I swear to God, Melissa coddles him too much. That's why he's like this. That's why he's so goddamn weak. This is all in his head. Get up, Scott. Grow up, for god's sake."
And he had cast a disdainful look at his son, crying and gasping for breath, his face beginning to turn red, finally only conceding to listen to Stiles' pleas to take him to the hospital when he threatened to call his own father, the Sheriff, if he refused to help.
Once at the hospital, the doctors had managed to get Scott's breathing back to normal, and he ended up being fine; fine besides the persistent burning in his chest and the coughing fits that kept coming over him from his lungs being deprived of oxygen for so long, but fine.
Physically, at least.
So here he is, in this lousy bed in this claustrophobic little hospital room with walls that feel like they're closing in on him as a furious Melissa McCall yells at her worthless husband just outside the door.
And he can tell that there is something different about this fight, he knows what it means, what has been a long time coming, and it's all his fault.
He wants out, out of this bed and out of this room and out of this hospital. He can't stop the tears that come rolling down his cheeks, and he knows that the burning in his chest isn't just from the after-effects of the asthma attack anymore.
But Stiles is there next to him, and Scott knows that Stiles hears what's happening too, and he knows that his friend can see him crying, and just as the burning sensation in his chest intensifies and works its way up his throat and he feels as though he might scream, Stiles grabs his hand and holds it tight and lays down next to him (they're still small enough to fit on the same hospital bed, after all).
And this time it's his world that's falling apart, and this time it's Stiles holding him together, and even though it still hurts and even though he feels like he's drowning, Scott thinks that as long as they always have that, as long as they always have each other, then maybe, at the end of the day, they'll always be okay.
His dad leaves the next day— his bags are packed and he's out the door before Scott even wakes up; he leaves and he doesn't come back.
By the time Scott McCall is seventeen years old, he hates hospitals. He really, really hates them.
Especially Beacon Hills Hospital.
In just the past year or so, he's seen so much of this place, and there have been so many things that have happened here that he'd like to erase from his memory, and he's tired of it. He's sick of it.
He hates it.
Because every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is people hurt. People dying. And not just strangers—his friends, his family, the people he loves. Things that have actually happened, and things that have not yet happened but that very well could.
There are endless images of people he knows and loves on hospital beds, sick or injured or dying burned at the back of his mind, images that won't go away, images that torment him every time he closes his eyes, and every time he blinks it's someone else:
Lydia, pale as death and with teeth-marks in her side after almost bleeding to death on a lacrosse field, /blink/ Cora looking sickly and unconscious and throwing up black blood /blink/ Danny struggling to breathe and throwing up mistletoe /blink/ Isaac with burns covering an entire half of his body and not healing fast enough /blink/ Deaton /blink/ Kira /blink/ Derek /blink/ /blink/ his mom…
Some that actually happened, some that hadn't, but all equally as disturbing. Even worse, however, were the images of those who hadn't recovered, those who, by the time their bodies were being wheeled in on those god-awful hospital beds, had already been dead, who weren't coming back.
Erica, once lively and confident and proud, who turned heads into every room she walked into and who fought till the very end, reduced to a corpse on a bed, arm hanging off the side, stiff and unmoving.
Boyd, who only ever wanted to be accepted, to be a part of something, to not eat lunch alone anymore, covered in blood and dead, dead, dead.
Allison…
Just thinking her name is like being stabbed in the chest, and he feels sick to his stomach and hollow and defeated and angry— angry at himself for not being quick enough, for not taking her place, for not being able to save her, and angry at the Oni and the nogitsune that killed her. Angry at everything. Because it's all so fucking unfair. and oh God, why did it have to be Allison?
She deserved better, she deserved so much more, and life took that away from her, took her away from him, away from them all.
And now instead of seeing her smile every time he thinks of her, the smile he fell in love with, he sees her dead. Bleeding out into his arms as she breathed her last breath.
And he knows that's not how she'd want to be remembered, and he wants more than anything for her to do as she would have wished, but it's like he can't even think of anything happy anymore. And maybe someday he will, but right now all he can think of is death and hospitals, because that's what his life is now.
All of these images, images of his friends and family hurt or dying or dead, haunt his nightmares and plague his mind whenever he so much as closes his eyes. And yet, staying awake, keeping his eyes open and doing his best to remain in the present, isn't much better. In fact, it might even be worse.
Because right now, his life is a waking nightmare.
Because when he opens his eyes, it's not a memory or his imagination causing him to see what he's seeing—that's really Stiles lying on the hospital bed in front of him, that's really his best friend pale and sick and dying.
After they had destroyed the nogitsune, Stiles had collapsed. And they had all anxiously stood around his body—he and Kira and Lydia and Isaac—waiting for him to get up.
But he hadn't.
He hadn't gotten back up and he's been unconscious ever since— still alive, but barely.
So Scott has been here with him, sitting by his bedside from the moment he burst through the hospital doors with Stiles in his arms and Lydia and the others trailing behind him.
Everyone, including his mom and Stiles' dad, who of course is there too, keeps telling him to go home, to get some sleep, but he refuses to move from this spot—and besides, how could he even possibly think of sleeping right now? When Stiles might be dying?
And how would he even be able sleep in the first place, how will he ever really be able to get a good night's sleep again, when he would end up reliving Allison's death in his nightmares, and witnessing everyone he cares about being hurt or killed over and over and over again?
He's holding Stiles' hand, squeezing it tight, and it's almost as if he's not even aware of the fact that he's been taking his friend's pain this entire time, wouldn't even realize it if it weren't for the black lines running up his arms and through his veins, because yeah, it hurts, but he's used to this now; it's practically second nature to him at this point.
Besides, he's been taking Stiles' pain for a long time now, as long as he can remember— long before any supernatural creature stepped foot in their lives— just as Stiles has always taken his. Just as they've always been each other's support, and each other's strength.
And now he's losing that. On top of everything, he's losing Stiles.
If all else fails, if Stiles doesn't wake up on his own and if he continues to get worse, if there's nothing in the natural world that can save him, Scott will give him the bite, will allow himself to be selfish just this once.
But still.
He doesn't want to condemn Stiles to that, to put him through what he's had to go through. He wouldn't wish it on anyone, least of all his best friend.
And then there's the fact that it might not even work, that Stiles' body will reject the bite and that he'll die anyway, except that it will have been Scott who caused it, Scott whose teeth would deal the killing blow.
He doesn't know how he'd be able to go on living with himself if that were the case.
Still, if all else fails, if it comes down to it and it's the only choice they have left, if there's even the slightest possibility that he can save Stiles, he'll do it.
Because he doesn't want to live in a world without Stiles Stilinski— doesn't even want to imagine it. Especially this world.
So he's going to continue to sit here, for minutes or hours or maybe even days, holding his friend's hand and watching his face in the vain hope that maybe, just maybe, he'll wake up on his own, all the while preparing himself to do what needs to be done if he doesn't.
He doesn't know what's going to happen and he doesn't know if Stiles is going to recover or if he's going to die, he doesn't know how he's going to keep going and stay strong without him, and most of all he doesn't know if he'll ever really be okay again.
There is one thing he is sure of, however, as he's sitting by Stiles' hospital bed and burying his face in his friend's chest, sobbing into his shirt even though he knows he'll get no response—he's not going anywhere.
By the time he is seventeen and has had to watch countless friends and family wheeled in and out of this place, hurt or injured or bleeding or unconscious or dying or even dead, by the time he's been through and seen more than any teenage boy—hell, any person in general—ever should, Scott McCall has had enough of hospitals for a lifetime.
Side Note: This will be probably be the last fic I write where I acknowledge Allison's death; from now on she's still alive and well and vacationing in France in my mind (still angry about it)