Chapter Eleven
Stiles gave a stifled cry as he was slammed into the locker room floor, the rough tile skinning his elbows. Isaac's snarling face was only inches away from his own and Stiles fought to keep the gym bag between them. It wasn't much of a shield, but Isaac had caught one of his hands—well, claws—in the straps and Stiles was pretty sure that was the only reason he wasn't dead yet. Isaac reared back and sliced at the straps of the bag with his free hand and Stiles wriggled out from beneath him before scrambling to his feet and darting around another bank of lockers that was further into the locker room. He wanted to keep Isaac as far away from the door as possible. The only problem with that, of course, was that it also kept Stiles away from the door.
He could hear Isaac throw the gym bag against a locker and knew that the werewolf was free. Stiles grabbed a lacrosse stick from an equipment locker and gripped it tightly in both hands. He wished he hadn't left his phone in his locker. He wished he hadn't left the ketamine in his locker. He wished that someone hadn't left GHB-laced water in Isaac's locker. He really wished wishes worked.
He knew his thoughts were bordering on hysteria and made himself take a couple deep breaths. He was stuck in a room with a rampaging werewolf—he did not have the luxury of panicking. Isaac came around the corner towards him, his fangs bared. Stiles swallowed and tightened his grip on the lacrosse stick, inching backwards until his heel hit a wall. Isaac lunged and Stiles flipped the stick so that the bottom end pointed straight at Isaac's midsection, the top braced against the wall at his back. Isaac flung himself at Stiles full force, heedless of Stiles's makeshift weapon, and the lacrosse stick was suddenly buried several inches deep in Isaac's stomach.
Stiles paled as Isaac came to an abrupt halt. He could feel Isaac's blood slick on his hands and bile rose in his throat. Part of him hadn't actually expected that to work. Isaac growled and swiped at Stiles with his claws outstretched. Stiles jerked back, his head slamming against the concrete of the wall hard enough that black spots danced in front of his eyes. Isaac swung again and his claws dug bloody furrows into the bare skin of Stiles's collarbone, only just missing the vulnerable flesh of Stiles's neck. The sharp, agonizing pain as one of Isaac's claws grated over his collarbone cleared Stiles's head, and with it came a blinding rage. With his own blood running hot and wet down his skin something dark and primal erupted in his chest and Stiles used all of his strength to drive the stick deeper into the soft flesh of Isaac's stomach. He knew he'd hit something important because Isaac buckled and Stiles grinned with a fierce sense of triumph. He wasn't helpless this time. Wasn't weak and sluggish with veins full of a drug someone had slipped to him. He could fight back.
He yanked the stick out of Isaac's body, gritting his teeth as the movement pulled at his torn skin. Isaac curled in on himself and Stiles drove the stick down again, feeling it skid off one of Isaac's ribs and slip from Stiles's bloody hands to clatter against the tile. Isaac roared in pain and fury and lashed out at Stiles's knees, claws extended. Stiles darted to the side and Isaac rose to all fours, blood pouring out of his side and stomach. Stiles realized he was now weaponless and swore violently under his breath, his eyes darting frantically around the room as he tried to find something he could use to hurt the werewolf. Isaac gave a low, menacing growl as Stiles's gaze landed on the maintenance door beside the showers and he ran for it.
His bare feet skidded over a patch of water on the tile in front of the showers and Stiles went down. His lip split against the tile and the right side of his face was engulfed in a bright, burning pain. His left wrist had twisted underneath him as he tried to break his fall and he cried out in frustration as he tried to push himself back onto his feet. His breath came ragged as he struggled to pull himself the last few feet to the door but Isaac's hands came down on either side of his ribcage. Teeth snapped a hairsbreadth away from the bare skin of his shoulder and then suddenly Isaac was flying through the air.
"Hurry," Scott wrenched open the door to the maintenance room. He reached down and pulled Stiles to his feet as Isaac snarled and charged at them. Scott shoved Stiles into the tiny room and Stiles got the quickest glimpse of Scott's eyes, blazing red, before Scott slammed the door shut behind him and Stiles was left in the dark as the two werewolves hurtled at each other.
Stiles reached blindly for a light switch but his hands encountered nothing but rough concrete wall on either side of the door. The sounds of Isaac and Scott tearing into each other seemed to fill the room and he stumbled back from the steel door as a body crashed into it. He took a couple steps deeper into the room, hands that were tacky with Isaac's blood outstretched as he groped for something to use to fight so that he could get back out and help Scott.
The room smelled strongly of cleaning products and, with the only light coming from under the door, Stiles couldn't see anything other than the vague suggestion of shelves to either side of him. He turned to his right and ran his hand carefully over one of the shelves. His fingers encountered several plastic bottles, a handful of damp rags, something that felt like a scrub brush, and finally a smooth wooden handle. He trailed his fingers up the length of it to find the cool metal of a hammerhead. He grinned and gripped the hammer in his good hand as outside either Scott or Isaac gave a high pitched yelp of pain and crashed again into the door of the maintenance room. Stiles whirled back around and went to open the door, hammer raised claws-out and more than willing to drive them into Isaac's skull. But whoever had been thrown into the door had been tossed against it with enough force that the metal was buckled and no matter how hard Stiles wrenched on the door handle it wouldn't open. He was panting with exertion and had dropped the hammer to use both hands, heedless of the pain in his left wrist, to pull at the door when suddenly he became aware of the dead silence on the other side. His own rapid breathing and the pounding of his own blood in his ears was all he could hear.
"Scott?" He called, crouching down to grope with his good hand for the handle of the hammer. "Scott?"
Nothing. His fingers found the handle and dragged it towards him as he rose unsteadily to his feet.
"Isaac?" He tried. Silence was all that answered him.
Stiles's fingers flexed around the wooden handle and he wondered if he could use the hammer to pry the door open. He moved forward to try and do just that when he heard a quiet growl from just outside the door and froze.
"Stiles, are you okay?" Scott's voice was gravelly and Stiles knew it meant his best friend was still in werewolf form.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. What's going on?" Stiles pressed closer to the door and tried to see through the crack.
"I have to get Isaac out of here before I lose control of him again. Will you be alright?"
"I can help you. Get me out of here and I'll help you." He tugged again at the doorknob.
"Are you crazy? Do you want to get yourself killed?" He could hear the disbelief in Scott's voice and it made Stiles's hackles rise.
"I don't need you to protect me, I'm more than capable of—"
There was the sound of a quick struggle from outside the door and he heard Scott's low growl of warning again and an answering one from Isaac. "Don't be stupid, Stiles. I'll let someone know where you are and they'll come and get you," Scott gritted out, his hands obviously full with Isaac.
"Scott, don't—" But it was too late, he could hear the sound of their footsteps retreating and Stiles gave a wordless cry of frustration as he swung the hammer at the door. Metal on metal screeched and there was the quick flash of sparks in the dark room. He jumped back in surprise and his eyes went down to where his hand was clenched around the hammer. His hand that was still covered in Isaac's blood.
Stiles swallowed, his eyes growing larger as he realized what he'd done, and what he'd been prepared to do. The hammer dropped from his nerveless fingers and he kicked it frantically away. His breath was beginning to come in rapid, shallow heaves and he held his hands out from his body in horror. He'd been ready to kill Isaac. He'd wanted to kill Isaac.
He hadn't just been ready to defend himself; he'd been prepared to attack. He remembered the feeling of shoving the lacrosse stick into Isaac and the rush of pleasure he'd felt as Isaac had fallen to the floor. Stiles began to shake, fine tremors running over his body as he backed away from the door and the image of himself driving the stick into Isaac's body. He'd liked it, he'd felt strong and frightening and he'd wanted to take the hammer and slam it over and over again into Isaac until the werewolf stopped moving. Isaac. Who had been drugged like Stiles had been drugged, just as helpless to control his body as Stiles had been. And Stiles had been more than ready to kill him for it.
Stiles was gulping frantically at the air now, his lungs burning as he tried to breathe through the panic that was a vice grip on his throat. He hit the back wall of the room and slid down it, leaning forward on his hands and knees as violent shudders wracked his body.
Between being completely unable to remember the events of Friday night, knowing someone had deliberately targeted him and Scott with the hope that they would wolf out at the carnival and kill innocent people, the fact that whoever had done that had managed to get into the locker rooms at some point today and drug Isaac's water, and, on top of that, Isaac trying to kill him—Stiles felt like his world was spinning out of control. He always had a plan. He always had some idea of what was going on and some idea of how to stop it, but right now Stiles couldn't even control his own breathing. He knew what was happening. He knew he was having a panic attack. The iron band around his chest was a feeling he was all too familiar with and he knew he needed to slow down, needed to take deep, calm breaths and try to ground himself. But he couldn't. He couldn't even do that. Because he'd been ready to kill Isaac. He'd been ready to kill his friend and he'd been ready to enjoy it and he couldn't hear anything but the frantic pounding of his heart and his hands were pressed flat against the concrete floor but he couldn't stop the trembling and he couldn't catch his breath and he needed something to hold on to. Something real. And there was nothing.
The erratic thundering of Stiles's heart reached Derek the second he set foot in the school and he raced towards the locker room with superhuman speed. As he pushed open the doors, the scent of Stiles's blood had his jaw hardening and his hands fisting at his sides. This was the second time in a handful of days that Stiles had nearly been killed because of his association with werewolves. If—no, when—Derek caught the person behind this he would tear them limb from limb.
He moved quickly through the destruction of the locker room towards the buckled maintenance door that Stiles was trapped behind. Stiles's heart was racing out of control and it sounded like he was gasping for breath. Derek felt his own heart skip a beat, picturing opening the door to find Stiles's broken and bloodied body. But the scent of blood wasn't strong enough for Stiles to have been mortally wounded, which meant that something else was very wrong, because the smell of Stiles's fear was rank in the air.
"Stiles?" He pressed a hand against the door and heard Stiles move in the room behind it. "Stiles I'm going to come in." Derek yanked the door off its hinges and sent it crashing to the floor behind him. He stepped into the room and saw Stiles cringing back against the far wall, his hands wrapped around his knees and his skin, where it wasn't covered in blood, pale. Derek had to stop himself from racing to Stiles's side. Everything about him screamed panic and Derek didn't want to do anything to make that worse.
He reached up to pull a string that hung down from a light bulb in the centre of the room and pulled it to turn on the light. He hoped being able to see might calm Stiles down, but, if anything, the boy seemed to curl closer into himself, his wide eyes darting frantically around the room.
"Stiles," Derek raised his voice, trying to get Stiles to focus on him. He took a couple cautious steps forward, his hands spread out at his side to try and convince Stiles that he wasn't a threat. "It's me, it's Derek. Isaac's gone. Scott took him into the woods and he's not going to hurt anyone. He's not going to hurt you."
"Don't come any closer." Stiles met Derek's gaze for the briefest second before looking away and pressing himself back into the wall. He'd already been close enough to begin with that Derek was sure the rough concrete had to be digging into his skin, and he winced in sympathy. Now that he was closer to Stiles he could see the ragged claw marks running down the left side of Stiles's collarbone. They looked deep enough that they might need stitches.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Derek crouched down so that he was eye level with Stiles, his chest constricting at the thought that Stiles was scared of him. "See?" He bared his teeth. "No fangs. I'm in control."
"I'm not," Stiles's fingers shook and he clenched them tighter around his legs, his breath hitching in his chest in something that was almost a sob. "I'm not, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not—"
"Hey," Derek reached out but abruptly withdrew his hand as Stiles jerked away from it. "Slow down. It's okay, you're okay."
"I'm not okay, Derek." Stiles's voice rose hysterically. "I was gonna kill Isaac. Kill him. Dead."
Derek's eyebrows creased in a frown. "I don't think—"
"I was. I would have. He was coming after me and I stabbed him and then I found the hammer and I-I-I would have—I wanted to—I—" Stiles was shaking even harder and he pressed his forehead to his knees as he began to rock back and forth.
Derek was beginning to worry that Stiles would hyperventilate. Despite the sharp noise of protest Stiles made, he moved closer and wrapped his arms around Stiles, gathering him close. Stiles's skin was cold and clammy and Derek wondered how long he'd been sitting in the dark room, pressed up against the cool cement wall wearing nothing but his underwear. His hand moved in soothing circles over Stiles's back, trying to get Stiles's blood circulating again.
Stiles struggled to break free of Derek's hold but Derek's arms were tight around him, and since moving only made everything in his body hurt, eventually he began to relax into the touch. His heart still raced and his breath shook, but both had slowed from their initial near-hysteric speeds.
After several minutes Derek spoke. "Are you okay to get up now? We should get you dressed and then I want Melissa to take a look at those—"
"No!" Stiles stiffened. "No, I'm not going back to the hospital."
"Okay," Derek's hand kept rubbing gently over Stiles's back. "We'll meet her at Scott's house then."
"No."
"Stiles, you might need stitches."
"Then you do it."
Jesus. Derek shook his head. "I'm not a doctor." Not to mention that if either of the McCalls or, god forbid, Stiles's dad found out that Derek had patched Stiles together with a needle and thread without taking him to a medical professional, well, he'd probably be better off if he'd just let Gerard kill him. Still, Derek thought that having to physically force Stiles to go somewhere right now might be detrimental to the kid's mental health, so he sighed. "Will you come back to my place?"
Stiles nodded against Derek's chest. Derek stood slowly, one arm around Stiles's waist as he helped him to his feet. Stiles's right cheek was a dark purple bruise and he could see how Stiles was favouring his left wrist. Derek banked the swift tide of fury that rose in him. Getting angry would do him no good when he didn't know who to vent that anger at. Until they figured out who was doing this, he needed to focus on getting Stiles somewhere safe and trying to put him back together.
Derek got Stiles into his pants and shoes before taking the first aid kit out of the coach's office and carefully placing a bandage over the claw marks. Stiles let out a sharp hiss of pain as the gauze touched the torn flesh, but otherwise was silent and malleable. He took his button up flannel from Derek when it was handed to him, ignoring the t-shirt that would be too difficult to pull over his head, and allowed Derek to button it up when it was obvious that Stiles's wrist wouldn't cooperate. He made no comment when Derek picked up the battered remnants of Stiles's gym bag in one hand and took Stiles's hand in the other before leading him out to the car that was parked haphazardly in front of the school steps.
Now he sat and stared blankly out the window of Derek's car as they drove. Derek couldn't help glancing over every couple of seconds to check on him. Stiles's heart rate was still well above normal and his breath was shallow.
"Are you sure you don't want to see Melissa?" Derek asked as they stopped at a red light. Stiles didn't even look over, just nodded. Derek drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and wondered how much shit he'd be in later if he called Scott's mom anyway.
"I'm fine, Derek." Stiles seemed to know what he was thinking because for the first time since they got into the car he turned his face to Derek. "I just… I'll be fine, okay?" He looked back out the window and swallowed, his fingers flexing on the smooth leather seat beneath him. "I called Danny a fag."
"What?" Derek's eyebrows shot up in surprise and confusion.
"I had to. He was in the locker room with us, and I had to get him out before Isaac completely lost it. It was the first thing I could think of." Stiles could feel tears stinging at the corners of his eyes and he couldn't summon the energy to do anything about them as they began to fall steadily down his cheeks. "He's gonna hate me," Stiles's voice broke and his chest began to heave again.
Derek reached across and splayed his palm flat against Stiles's chest, pushing him back into the chair and keeping a steady pressure as he made the turn onto his street. He could feel Stiles's heart beating against his palm but after a moment or two it began to slow and Stiles's breathing came easier. Tears were still sliding down his face, but Stiles looked calmer.
Derek pulled to a stop at the curb and came quickly around to Stiles's side of the car to help him out. Stiles huffed out an embarrassed breath and waved Derek away, wiping at his eyes as he used his good hand to pull his gym bag out from the foot well.
"I'm not an invalid, I can walk by myself," Stiles muttered when Derek reached out a hand to help Stiles up to the curb. Derek ducked his head to hide a relieved grin. If Stiles was back to being snarky it meant he was feeling better.
They made their way into the warehouse and up to Derek's floor in silence—but this was a lighter silence than the earlier one in the car. When they reached the iron stairs up to Derek's loft Stiles handed his tattered gym bag to Derek with a sardonic look, knowing he couldn't make it up the stairs without a hand on the railing and well aware that he couldn't carry the bag with his sprained left wrist. Derek was careful to keep his face blank as he took the bag and followed Stiles closely up the stairs.
Stiles waited on the landing for Derek to walk past him and unlock the door. Once inside Stiles dumped the gym bag beside the couch and stood, looking uncertain and slightly helpless in front of the coffee table.
Derek stepped into the kitchen and poured Stiles a glass of water from the sink. He placed the glass on the counter and opened a drawer on the island, pulling out a bottle of Tylenol and spilling the three remaining pills into his palm. "Sorry I don't have anything stronger." Stiles was lucky he even had Tylenol, to be honest. Werewolf metabolism worked too quickly for painkillers to be of any use. Derek picked up the glass and walked back to Stiles. He handed the Tylenol over and Stiles dry-swallowed mechanically.
"Do you want a shower?"
Stiles nodded mutely, eyes dropping to his blood covered hands as he took the glass from Derek. He tilted the glass and with one long swallow drank the entire contents. Derek took the glass and set it on the island before looking back to Stiles.
"First," Derek pulled out his phone and held it up. "Let me send a picture of that," he gestured to the gauze peeking over the collar of Stiles's shirt "To Scott. If his mom says you need stitches, we're going." Derek fixed Stiles with a firm look that brooked no arguments.
Stiles rolled his eyes. "Okay, mom," and brought his hands up to his shirt, undoing the buttons.
"I'm not your mother, so stop calling me that." Derek growled as he set his phone down on the coffee table and used both hands to carefully peel the bandage off of Stiles's skin. Stiles winced and avoided looking at the deep gouges or the bloody pad of gauze that Derek tossed carelessly beside his phone.
Derek ran a soothing hand down Stiles's arm before reaching down to pick up his phone and taking a quick picture.
"Can I have a shower now?"
"No." Derek sent the text to Scott.
Stiles gave an exasperated sigh.
"We have to clean that out first."
Stiles paled.
Five minutes later Stiles was shaky and sweating, lines of pain etched into his face as Derek helped him up from the couch.
"Are you okay?" Derek had to flex his hands to fight the tremble in his fingers. The sounds that had ripped their way out of Stiles's mouth as Derek had held him down and poured peroxide over his wound would haunt him.
Stiles nodded weakly, wiping sweat from his upper lip with his good wrist.
"Okay." Derek gathered up the old bandage and the peroxide and carried them into the kitchen. "You can shower now if you'd like—but keep your shoulder out of the water. And no soap," he added as he dumped the gauze in the garbage.
"Alright." But Stiles didn't move from where he stood in the middle of the living room. Derek looked up, brow creased with worry.
"Is something wrong?"
Stiles shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet Derek's eyes. "I don't… I don't want to be alone. Can you come with me?"
Derek nodded, an odd lump in his throat at the way Stiles hunched his shoulders defensively, like he expected Derek to refuse.
"Thanks," Stiles relaxed slightly and followed Derek into the bathroom.
Derek had Stiles strip in the bedroom, handing him a large, fluffy towel and turning his back as Stiles clumsily worked his pants and boxers down over his hips. Once Stiles had the towel clutched around his waist, Derek scooped up the pile of clothes and placed them in his laundry basket. At Stiles's quizzical look Derek shrugged. "I'll wash them.
It was on the tip of Stiles's tongue to call Derek 'mom' again, but he held back and let Derek lead him into the bathroom. Derek opened the glass door to the shower—which was huge, like everything in Derek's loft—and turned the water on, adjusting the taps until he was satisfied with the temperature. Stepping back he took the towel Stiles handed to him, keeping his eyes steady on Stiles's face, and moved aside so Stiles could ease into the spray.
Knowing he was getting water all over the floor but needing to ask before he closed the door, Stiles hesitated in the doorway. "You won't leave?"
"I won't leave," Derek reassured him, leaning back against the sink and folding the towel to set it on the counter beside him. Stiles nodded and closed the door before moving fully under the spray—though careful to keep his left side out of the water as much as possible.
He winced as the water ran over his various scrapes and bruises, washing clean the blood that had dried on his skin. His fingernails were the worst, with Isaac's blood dried under them. He tried not to think about how that blood had got there.
"Isaac's okay, right? I didn't hurt him too badly?" Stiles called over the spray.
Derek looked up from where he'd been checking his phone—Scott had replied to his picture text—and frowned. "He's fine. Peter met up with him and Scott in the woods, and they rode herd on Isaac until the drug wore off. He's completely healed," Derek tried to keep the irritability he felt out of his voice. Stiles shouldn't be worrying about how Isaac was doing; he should be worried about himself. But Scott's mom had said that the claw marks wouldn't need stitches, so that was something.
The glass panes of the shower had completely fogged up with heat and Stiles was a vague suggestion of pale skin behind them. It reminded Derek all too clearly of the first time Stiles had been in the loft and Derek had pictured what Stiles might look like in his shower. The thought had heat pooling sudden in Derek's stomach and he quickly looked away, gritting his teeth. Stiles was recovering from a panic attack and had nearly been killed. What was wrong with him?
"Do you know how Isaac ingested the drug?" Derek's voice was hoarser than he'd intended and he was glad that Stiles probably couldn't tell through the sound of running water. He needed to focus on the fact that someone had been able to drug Isaac when the whole pack was on high alert. Not on how naked Stiles was.
"Yeah," Stiles ducked his head under the spray and if Derek hadn't had superhuman hearing he wouldn't have caught a single word that followed. "It was in his water bottle. But I heard the seal break when he opened it, so I don't know how. Unless," he added thoughtfully "He used a syringe or something to inject it through the top." Which would have been pretty smart, and meant that the pack would have to be even more careful about what they drank. Or ate. Could GHB be in food? "Any idea how to figure out who this guy is?" Stiles couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice.
"Peter's looking into it."
"Of course he is," Stiles muttered under his breath. He didn't trust Peter, but that was nothing new. Though strangely enough, this was the first time that the thought of Peter made his stomach clench with unease. The stress of the last couple days must be getting to him, because he couldn't understand his odd reaction. He needed this whole thing with Mr. I-Like-Using-Werewolves-To-Murder-Innocent-People-Cause-I'm-A-Huge-Dick to be over. Like, now. And they were nowhere close to catching him. Stiles could feel the quick flutterings of panic start again in his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on the pounding of the water against his skin. He needed something to distract him. Something to turn his brain firmly off so that he didn't keep thinking about the huge looming threat that had nearly already killed him. Twice. And nearly turned him into a killer.
The next breath he took in was ragged and he reached forward to shut off the water with a trembling hand.
"Stiles?" Derek pushed up off the counter.
Stiles opened the shower door and stepped out. Derek averted his eyes and picked up the towel, handing it to Stiles. Stiles ignored it and pressed in so that he was standing only inches away from Derek.
"I need you to make me stop thinking." Stiles met Derek's gaze with whiskey gold eyes that were clear and earnest. "I need you to distract me." He stepped closer and Derek swallowed as he felt the press of Stiles's growing erection.
"I don't think—" Derek broke off as Stiles reached between them to cup Derek's rapidly hardening cock.
"Don't think, Derek. Let's just stop thinking, okay? I want you to," Stiles licked his lips nervously, a flush rising in his cheeks, "I want you to fuck me until the only thought in my head is your name and I can't even remember my own."
