Fingers were grabbing at him, tearing at his clothes and clawing at his skin. Forceful hands were gripping at his limbs, pulling them apart, restraining him, holding him down. Laughs and whispers echoed around him. They were taunting him, threatening him, daring him to do something.
Stiles yelled, he yelled 'til his voice was hoarse. He yelled for Scott, yelled for Allison, yelled for anybody. He whispered for his father, please, please help him.
But nobody came.
His yells devolved into choked off pleas for mercy, and the laughing grew louder.
He felt someone tugging at his pants, trying to lift his shirt, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back. So he yelled again, this time louder. He yelled for anyone, desperate for someone to just hear him and help him.
Then, everything was quiet.
The hands had left his body, the slurs had gone silent, his throat had given out.
A hand shook his shoulder, cupped his cheek, pushed hair off his sweaty forehead. He tried to look at whoever it was, but couldn't see anything but murky, swirling darkness.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the quiet.
"Stiles."
That was his name, wasn't it?
"Stiles, wake up, it's okay, just open your eyes."
He hadn't realized they were closed; he thought everything else was just dark.
"Wake up, Stiles."
He didn't want to, though. It was nice, wherever he was. The darkness was peaceful and the quiet calmed him.
"C'mon, open your eyes."
But that voice… It was familiar, and he felt oddly compelled to follow it.
"Open your eyes, Stiles."
Maybe he could just see who it was.
"Stiles…."
Just a quick peek.
Stiles' eyes snapped open as he woke with a quiet gasp. He immediately started coughing, and it felt like his throat was made of sandpaper, dry and rough.
A large, warm hand worked its way under his body and planted itself against his back, helping to push him into a sitting position. Then a glass of water was shoved into his face. Stiles took it and gulped down mouthful after mouthful until there was no more. Normally, he definitely would never have taken a drink from a stranger, especially with the whole not knowing where the fuck he was thing he had going on, but he figured whatever could possibly be in the glass was better than almost certainly hacking up his lungs.
Once the spasms in his throat had finally stopped, Stiles took in the state he was in.
The first thing he noticed was the pain. And while it certainly wasn't the worst he had ever felt, it was pretty damn bad. The stabbing ache in his torso hurt the worst, but Stiles could instantly determine that whatever was wrong with his foot was bound to cause him the most trouble.
Stiles lifted a hand to his stomach and felt the fabric of an ace bandage under his fingertips. The hand on his back stroked up and down in a soothing motion and Stiles snapped his gaze up to the body squatting down next to him. The room was dim and it was hard to make out the person's face, but he could see the glint in their eyes.
Their seemingly kaleidoscope eyes that were staring down at him with worry. He knew those eyes; he had certainly dreamed about them enough to be etched into his memory.
"...Derek?"
And now that he had identified the man, he could recognize the familiar stubble, muscular frame, and strong hands.
But… Why was he with Derek?
Before his brain could start firing out worst case scenarios, Derek spoke.
"Yeah, it's me. How're you feeling?"
"Like a tube of toothpaste that's been steamrolled. What the fuck happened to me?"
"You don't remember?" Derek was sounding increasingly concerned.
Stiles' brow furrowed as he tried to recall. What had he been doing last night?
"I found you in an alley. You were getting… mugged by some guys. I had to bring you back here, and your stuff is here, too."
Stiles remembered making a killing that day. He had been heading back to Scott's for the night, planning on staying there while they were gone. When they had told him they were going to go back to Beacon Hills for a few days to visit Melissa, he had adamantly declined their offer to take him with them. He had rationalized that he was going down in a few months for the wedding anyway. They thankfully hadn't pushed, but had insisted that he stay at their place while they were gone.
So he was walking back and… Right! He took a shortcut through some alleys, ran into the drunk group of guys, and then proceeded to get his ass beat. Great.
"Did they take anything? They didn't get my key, did they?"
"No, they didn't take your key. But…"
"What?" Stiles asked. "What did they take?"
Derek sighed. "They took a bunch of money. I don't know how much, but one of them got away with a wad of it."
Stiles felt his words like a punch in the gut. Of fucking course. Because why should he ever have a really good day? Why should he get to keep what was rightfully his? Oh yeah, 'cause he was apparently the universe's punching bag.
"Two hundred fucking bucks, probably gonna be wasted on booze and drugs and chicks.." Stiles muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He was so done with life treating him like shit; it was seriously getting old.
"Two hundred dollars? Was that just from selling your paintings yesterday?"
"Yeah. God, it had been such a good day, too. Not too freezing, nice big crowd, going over to Scott's… Oh shit." Stiles suddenly remembered his promise to call Scott as soon as he was safe back in their apartment. "Where's my phone? Fuck, he's gonna be pissed."
Stiles tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed and stand up, but the second he put pressure on his hurt foot he hissed and pulled it back up off the ground.
Hands were on him again and Stiles started to jerk away, but then Derek's voice came through and he remembered he wasn't in danger anymore.
"I'd take it easy; your foot's pretty swollen. And Scott called earlier. He asked us to keep an eye on you until they get back. Are 'they' your roommates?"
"Uh, sure, yeah. They're my roommates." Stiles maybe didn't want Derek to know he was some homeless freak, so what was a little white lie? "They went out west to visit some family and should be back in less than a week. And it's okay, I'll be fine on my own. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm so thankful for everything you've done to help. Seriously, you literally saved my ass, and that's more than most people 'round here would've done. But I don't wanna invade your life, man. It's not fair that after all you did you're stuck with me for a week, like, what kind of thanks is that? Trust me, I wouldn't ever force anyone else to have to live with me 'cause I've been told many times it's practically unbearable, and I'd probably just annoy you 'cause I wouldn't have anything to do, and you'd want me gone pretty quick, and I really don't need anyone to watch me; Scott was just being overprotective, and I think they have groceries and stuff. I mean we! I'm pretty sure we have groceries and stuff, so I should be fine on my own, really."
Nailed it.
Derek obviously didn't think so, if his raised eyebrow was any indication.
"Stiles, you're not annoying. And Scott sounded pretty adamant about you staying here. If not for yourself, stay at least for his peace of mind. And… I wouldn't mind you staying either, you know."
That was sort of a shock to Stiles' system. Hot, muscular, savior guy wanted to spend time with black 'n blue, scrawny, asshole guy? That wasn't something that happened everyday.
Stiles sighed out, "Okay," and ran a hand through his hair. Or, he tried to.
"Gah, the fuck?" He pulled it back down in front of his face and blanched when he didn't see his usual pasty skin. Instead, he saw what first appeared to be blood, until he noticed the color peeling off his skin in places. So paint. Which meant…
"Oh, fuck no! The fuckers took my paint, too?! That shit may not cost a ton, but it adds up pretty damn quickly when you have to buy it every other day!"
"Um, actually, they didn't take it. They sprayed you all over with it, but there's still a decent amount left. It'll be a bitch to get out of your hair, though, and we barely managed to get any off of you earlier." Derek still had a hand steadily running up and down his back, releasing the tension in his frame bit by bit.
Then Stiles realized, "You said 'we'. Someone else here?"
"Not right now," he replied. "Isaac helped out by bringing all your stuff over here, and then he wrapped you up, 'cause he's better at that kind of thing. He might drop in sometime while you're here, though, and you can meet him then."
Feeling a weird nervousness that he couldn't explain, Stiles said nonchalantly, "Oh, cool. He your boyfriend?"
"No, definitely not," Derek rushed to get out.
Stiles was willing to admit to himself- not to Derek, god no- that he was just fishing for information now. Not that he was going to do anything with it, but he felt like he had to know.
"Of course, you're obviously straight, right?"
Derek shook his head, looking equal parts uncomfortable, confused, and embarrassed. Good going, Stiles. "No, um, I'm pan, actually. I do tend to like guys more, though," he stuttered out.
"Good," Stiles blurted without thinking, then backtracked. "I mean, not like good. Well, good for you, and for the male and non-binary population, but that's objectively speaking, obviously. It's great that you know who you are, 'cause a lot of people don't, you know? And that's not a bad thing I guess, just stressful and confusing, but it's fine if you're still finding yourself. That's not to say sexuality crises are fun, 'cause they're not, especially in high school. Really, who wants to find out they're gay in high school: land of the human vultures? Not that anything's wrong with being gay! I mean, I'm gay, but it's cool that you're not gay, you know? Well, I hope you're gay, like happy, but uh, not necessarily in the sexuality way. Not that that really matters anyway, 'cause what about sexuality should actually set us apart, and, you know what, can I just use your shower, please?"
Ears red, brow furrowed, and eyes dazed like his brain had just been steamrolled, which, okay, close enough, Derek nodded and stood up. He showed Stiles to the bathroom (which he also had to help him limp his way to) and got him a towel and a clean pair of clothes, which Stiles protested at first, insisting that he had his own, but reluctantly accepted when Derek didn't budge.
If Stiles hadn't been years beyond caring about what people thought of his appearance, he might've been super self-conscious of his scars. Luckily, he wasn't. No, instead he was self-conscious about his gangliness, especially next to a built guy like Derek.
Alone in the bathroom, he made quick work of stripping out of his boxers and bandages before very carefully stepping into the shower once it was warm enough (not that he had very high standards). The water felt amazing as it beat down onto his back, but not so great on his front side. Stiles hissed in pain when the little bullets of water pummeled his extremely tender (and extremely ugly) bruises. But he dealt with it, because the pain was worth it and nothing compared to how they had gotten there in the first place. It was completely worth it to get the grime off his skin.
Now the paint… That was a different story. He was honestly considering just leaving it there.
Stiles' face felt like it had been scrubbed raw by the time he gave up on it. And his hair, God. He honestly might just have to temporarily revisit his high school buzzcut days, and hadn't those been fabulous.
After getting as much out as he could, Stiles very cautiously stepped out of the shower, holding onto the toilet and curtain rod for support. One look in the mirror showed Stiles just how utterly horrifying he appeared. For one, the paint hadn't come out nearly as much as he had been hoping. Secondly, his stomach was just mottled with dark purple and blue. Thirdly, said bruising drew more attention to Stiles' torso, which was currently thinner than it had probably ever been.
Shaking his head of those thoughts, Stiles ran the towel across his head, drying his colorful hair as much as he could. Then, with a plentitude of hisses and curses and all around pain, he managed to tug on the borrowed boxers and baggy sweatpants. Once he had, Stiles let out a sigh of relief and reached for the ace bandage that had been discarded by the sink.
It had only gotten wrapped around his belly once when a knock came at the door, followed by, "Hey, I've got something for your bruises if you're ready."
"Uh, yeah, come on in," he replied.
Derek opened the door and entered the bathroom, carrying a tube of something in one hand.
"What's that?" Stiles inquired.
Holding the label up so Stiles could see it, Derek said, "It's Arnica gel. I've never had to use it, but my sister left this here a few months ago after she sprained her wrist. She said it worked wonders on the pain. You can use it."
Stiles reached out and took the tube, looking it over with a critical eye. "This looks expensive. Are you sure you wanna waste it on some guy you barely know?"
"It was only ten or so dollars. And giving it to you wouldn't be a waste. I don't really get hurt often, so it'd be a real waste if I left it sitting in my first aid kit for the next few years. Don't take it if you don't want it, but you should at least try some."
Shrugging lightly, Stiles uncapped the tube and squeezed a bit onto his finger. It didn't smell bad, but looked sort of gross. The yellowish gel was cool to the touch and felt good on his skin, even as his bruises twinged under his fingertips.
Derek stood somewhat awkwardly in the doorway the whole time Stiles was slathering the medicine onto his bruises, not saying anything. It was sort of putting Stiles off, but he refused to let that show. Once he was finished with his torso, he looked down to his almost black foot in despair. How the hell was he supposed to bend down long enough to rub in the gel without screaming, crying, or passing out first?
After contemplating his only option of just enduring the pain, he decided to just leave it and deal with it later when his torso didn't hurt so much.
The cap was halfway back on the tube when Derek noticed and said, "You didn't put it on your foot."
"Oh, yeah. Well, since I can't really bend down right now, I was just gonna… not. At least until I could without bawling like a baby," Stiles said with a self-deprecating chuckle.
Derek's ears turned curiously pink as he offered, "Well, I could do it for you, if you want…?"
Eyes wide, Stiles asked, "You'd seriously do that? I don't know, man, my feet are probably pretty gnarly; I don't know if you wanna risk it."
Derek raised an eyebrow. "Gnarly? I wasn't aware people still even used that word. Also, you just took a shower, so they can't be that bad."
In all honesty, Stiles' feet were pretty gross. Not normally in a dirty way, but more in a general appearance way. For one, they were long and thin, sort of like the rest of him. They also had a few tiny scars on the bottom, near his toes, from all those years ago on the night he first met the stranger. The shards of glass that his feet had been dragged through left little marks that would be there for the rest of his life. And his heels and the balls of his feet were very calloused from a lot of running outdoors without shoes in his lifetime.
Plus… Feet. They were gross on principle, right?
But Derek didn't mind, or at least didn't seem to as he dropped to his knees.
Stiles held back a choke and almost gagged on his own tongue. Derek either didn't notice it was benevolently ignoring his reaction and grabbed the tube from Stiles' lowered hand. He applied a generous amount to his fingers, rubbing it a little between his thumb and forefinger, and Stiles had to look away. The position was too incriminating, and damn, did Stiles have some weird, previously undiscovered foot fetish? Because the sensation of Derek massaging the gel into his skin, despite it smarting a bit, was giving him some weird feelings.
Well, maybe it was more just Derek in general that was giving him the weird feelings. Was this some sort of reverse Stockholm Syndrome? Because Derek had saved him or some shit like that?
Well, Stiles had to admit that he had been thinking of Derek before this happened, ever since they met.
Either way, the way Derek's eyes just flicked up to meet Stiles' through his eyelashes definitely wasn't helping anything.
The process itself was quite innocent. Just one guy rubbing gel into the foot of another guy. Nothing weird- typical bro bonding time.
At least, that's was Stiles told himself.
Derek finished up and got back to his feet, quickly taking a step back after realizing how close they were standing.
Clearing his throat, Derek gestured to Stiles' head. "Looks like you didn't fair much better than us."
"Right, about that. You wouldn't happen to have an mayonnaise, would you?"
"This is probably one of the weirdest things I've ever witnessed," Derek commented as he watched Stiles lather his hair in mayo. "Also one of the grossest."
"Really?" Stiles' voice was muffled from where his head was bent upside down over some paper towels on Derek's kitchen table. "This is totally vanilla for me. You shoulda seen the kind of weird shit I got up to back in high school."
"Yeah?" Derek asked, looking warily intrigued. "Like what?"
"For our senior prank, our class released three chickens loose in the school. They were labeled 1, 2, and 4. The staff caught all three of them, but kept looking for days for chicken #3. It was pretty good, but a bit tame in my opinion. So I decided to go with something a bit more… up my alley. I got help from one of my best friends, Lydia, who is genius smart. What we did was actually super basic. One of the easiest experiments in the science world, if you ask me- but fun and effective." Stiles lifted his head from where it had been hanging and wiped his hands off on some paper towel that Derek handed to him. Then, leaving the mayo in his hair, he continued, "We broke into the chemistry lab and got a bunch of huge flasks, which we then filled part way with a pretty highly concentrated hydrogen peroxide. Then we added some dish soap and a crap ton of black and green food coloring. We covered up the vents on the floor of my coach's office and put one of the flasks there. Then another in the chemistry classroom, a few in the cafeteria, and one in the Dean's office. Of course, we did this stealthily and with the help of our partners in crime. Then, all at once during lunch, we each put a catalyst that Lyds provided in each of the flasks. Of course, they all exploded in a burst of gross looking foam that went everywhere, but we made sure it was far enough away from people so that it wouldn't touch them. When Coach, Mr. Douchenozzle, and the Dean got back into their offices, I swear you could hear their yelling from everywhere in the building. Well, mostly Coach. He was screaming about 'poisonous bubble mold sent by the government through the vents to take him out.' It was hilarious, and people in the cafeteria were freaking out, and then laughing and taking pictures." Stiles smiled, remembering the chaos they had stirred up with just a little science experiment. "It took almost an hour to convince Coach that the government wasn't trying to kill him and that it had just been us. He had seriously worked himself into a frenzy; I felt sorta bad for it, actually. I think he even cried a bit."
Stiles looked over at Derek, who was watching him and listening attentively with an amused crinkle to his eyes. "I bet that went down really well with your teachers and parents," he commented.
"Oh, we got so much shit. It was absolute hell for freaking months after. We had to clean it all up, and then the rest of the whole freaking school. Detention until the end of the year, which was thankfully only about two weeks. Coach tried to get us to pay a huge fee, stating that it would cover his therapy costs. And my dad was beyond pissed. It was pretty rough for a while after between us, but then I moved out here and things went back to normal, so. No real harm."
Derek had a strange look on his face, like he was thinking, before it was gone with a quick shake of his head. "For some reason, nothing you just told me surprises me in the slightest. Although, it's hard to really listen to you tell a story when you have a head covered in mayonnaise, I have to admit."
Being the mature adult he was, Stiles stuck his tongue out at Derek.
"Speaking of, I can probably take this out now. Umm… you wouldn't happen to have a fine-tooth comb, would you? I swear I'll wash it really well after I'm done with it."
He did have a fine-tooth comb. He had about six, in fact, which delighted Stiles to no end. He didn't know why Derek had so many combs, but looking at his perfectly shaped hair, Stiles figured he put them to good use.
Finally, the paint would come out. Stiles ran one of the combs Derek lent him through his dark locks and watched with relief as the colors slowly came out with the mayo.
Derek shook his head in wonder. "How does that even work?"
Shrugging, Stiles answered, "Something in the mayo just gets between the paint and the strand of hair, which lets it slide off easily. I don't remember when I found it out, but it's been a serious lifesaver for years now."
It was past noon by that point, and Stiles was starting to get hungry. Like, really hungry. But he wasn't planning on saying anything about it to Derek. Derek, who had done so much for him already without any judgment, annoyance, regret, or anything other than kindness and generosity. He didn't want to push his luck and ask for much more, partly because Stiles just didn't like depending on people too much in general, but also because he didn't want to annoy Derek, or make Derek resent him in someway.
This was new, whatever it was that was going on. This… camaraderie with Derek. The talking, the joking, the helping. It was new, and it was nice. And Stiles really found himself wanting it to last longer than the five days he had been given.
