It's been four days since Stiles was admitted to the hospital.
He's out of the ICU, but he's still got a ways to go, say the doctors.
Scott stayed for the entire first day, but the Sheriff and his mother made him leave because he really couldn't afford to miss school this close to the finals. He comes back at night to sleep on the left side of the bed.
Stiles' dad stops in at least a few times a day, usually taking a nap and mumbling in his sleep about how he can't lose his son, too. Then he gets up and, with incredible sorrow but a strong sense of duty, leaves his son to work on a case that must be immensely important.
Lydia and Danny come often, the tan teen stroking Stiles' hand gently and not actually seeing the darts flying at him mentally from across the room. Lydia keeps her composure while she pulls at the lint that gets caught in the boys pokey hair and readjusts the flowers in the room.
Jackson pretends to be drug along, but actually comes willingly. The douchewolf won't admit it, but he actually cares deeply for the human. Everyone does.
Derek had actually said how much the teen meant to the Pack. "It's just like you, Stiles," he had said, alone in the room except for the ever present figure on the right side of the bed. "Weaseling your way into our lives. I guess the Alphas saw how important you were even though we didn't."
Peter came and took some of the teen's pain, although the older werewolf had to endure a painful glare of condemnation from across the bed while he did.
Erica and Boyd brought flowers and balloons and a little stuffed wolf. She cried a little bit. He just stood there looking pissed.
Allison came one day while Scott was there. She said that she was just there to see Stiles and he left the room. She stroked the boys hand and cursed werewolves under her breath. She cursed herself for pulling away from the group. For not teaching the persistent teen to fend for himself when she knew he would inevitably get hurt in their world. It's strange, really. She wasn't at the top of the list of people who cared about Stiles, but she seemed to be taking it the hardest. Well, maybe the second hardest.
Isaac got Derek to excuse him from school pretty much indefinitely. Like Scott, he really can't afford to be missing school right now. It's pretty much given at this point that he's going to have to go to summer school for chemistry. He doesn't really care. Stiles is going to be pissed, though. But the thought of it just makes Isaac smile - for a moment. Then he cries a little more.
He hasn't been healing particularly well from the stab wounds on his stomach. The five marks started bleeding a tinge of black last night. It may or may not be because Isaac has been taking Stiles' pain, even though Scott, and Derek, and Peter, and even Lydia told him not to. But, again, Isaac doesn't really care about causing himself more trouble. As long as he's making Stiles more comfortable.
The black runs up Isaac's arm and he lets out a long breath as it crawls its way up his neck.
"You need to stop that, Isaac." A voice pierces his focus from across the small room. A dark hand comes from behind the curtain and pulls it open. Deaton keeps talking as Isaac pulls his hand back, "You're not healing. In fact you're killing yourself. And you're not really helping Stiles. In fact," he says, putting down a leather doctor's bag on the foot of the bed, "you may be keeping him from getting better." Isaac's nostrils flare at the doctor's, completely unfounded, accusation. Okay, well, maybe not completely unfounded. Deaton does tend to know things that everyone else doesn't. "I'm not one hundred percent sure, but," he opens the bag, "if I'm right," he pulls out a very small vial, the size of a fingernail, full of a luminescent powder, "this should wake him up."
Isaac stands suddenly, which doesn't help his abdomen, and grabs the doctor's wrist across the bed. Eyes glowing, he stares directly into the man's eyes, "And if you're wrong?"
Deaton gives a knowing smile. That fucking annoyingly knowing smile that makes Isaac feel self-conscious and uncomfortable and angry and… safe. "Well, he might float a little. But nothing actually bad will happen." Isaac's breath stutters out as he releases the man's wrist and focuses on standing next to the bed without falling down. Deaton leans over Stiles' face and holds his eyelid open. He taps a little of the powder in each eye and then stands back.
Nothing's happening…
This light show is interesting and all, but I'm getting sick of it.
Stiles has been trapped in this weird twilight zone for what feels like forever. He can vaguely make out voices, but they seem distant, like people are shouting across a giant chasm. He sees Isaac in the sparks a lot. A few other people, too, but he can't really place them.
The lights seem to try to get closer to him, but they never make it to him before Isaac comes back and fills him with warmth and comfort.
It's one of those times when Isaac is in the lights right now. The face stares off to the side and then the sparks reappear and dissolve the image. He can hear low voices discussing something briefly and then the lights get very bright. Very close.
It kind of hurts. Stiles would close his eyes, but he doesn't have any eyes to close.
There's a sound, maybe just a sense, of rushing air as Stiles feels himself pulled back into his body.
… until Stiles' eyes burst open and start glowing.
The small teen inhales sharply as he bends at the waist to pull himself up. It's as if he's just been released from being drowned.
The jolt caused a number of the IVs and sensors attached to him to rip off. The monitor starts beeping wildly and Isaac can hear the doctors and nurses running toward the room. Deaton calmly but incredibly quickly closes his bag and leaves the room before anyone else gets there.
"Isaac!" shouts Ms. McCall, "Get back!" Two nurses and one doctor have come into the room and Isaac does as he's told. The doctor quickly gets all of Stiles' vitals and lays him back down on the bed. A few minutes later, all the connections are put back where they should be and they're decently sure that Stiles it okay. Mrs. McCall stays in the room after the other two leave to talk to the boys. "So…" she starts, checking over her shoulder to make sure the others are out of earshot. "Why do I get the feeling that this little wakeup call was aided by something not super normal?"
Stiles just shrugs, so Isaac answers - he respects Scott's mom. She's a very kind woman. "Because it was. Deaton was here."
"Scott's boss?" she asks incredulously.
"Yeah," Isaac replies. "He seems to be the only one that actually knows what's going on in this town most the time." It would be great if he'd stuck around, too. They'd really like to know what exactly it is that he did to Stiles.
The woman just shakes her head and heads toward the door. "Get some rest, Stiles. You're doing remarkably better all of a sudden, but you're still all kinds of beat up." Stiles rolls his eyes. He's had enough sleep for at least a couple of weeks. But, he just nods at the woman who has basically been his adoptive mom since what happened a long time ago.
"So," Stiles says, rolling his head over to the boy standing at his side, "how long have you been here?" Isaac looks down, too embarrassed to answer the question. A moment of silence passes before Stiles breaks with an awkward, "Okay. You know, you can sit down." Isaac looks to the chair behind and tries as hard as he possibly can to not wince in pain as the marks on his stomach begin to bleed again. Stiles notices. "Are you okay?" Isaac smiles and nods his head weakly. "Isaac, let me see." Stiles sits up a little, leaning on his arm, which is surprisingly not making him scream out in agonizing pain.
"I'm fine, Stiles. Lay back down," he commands. Stiles just gives him a look that says he's not moving until he gets what he wants. The werewolf sighs and lifts his shirt, revealing the gnarly marks on his skin.
"Oh my god. You need to get that looked at," Stiles says it politely, which is weird, but there is a tinge of why-are-you-being-so-stupid-and-not-getting-that-l ooked-at.
"I'm fine, really. I am a werewolf: it'll heal." Isaac is already starting to feel a little better. Now that Stiles is awake, he doesn't feel as awful about the whole situation. It's still terrible, but less life-shattering.
"Speaking of gnarly open wounds," Stiles segues, "I wonder how mine are doing." He lifts up the sheet covering himself - causing a massive internal struggle in the boy sitting next to him - and starts to pull the bandages up.
"Stiles. Stop. You can't do that." The boy just keeps lifting the bandages, revealing relatively well healed wounds beneath. They're still tattered and terrible looking, but they should be far, far worse. Isaac stands and puts a hand out to touch the pale and bloody flesh. He looks to Stiles, who is equally confused by the rapid healing that should have taken weeks to get to this point.
"Well… this is weird."
"Not really." Thank god. Deaton's back.
"What do you mean?" Isaac asks, hand still resting on the other boy's abdomen.
"To be blunt: Stiles, you're a fairy." The boys share a look that says that Deaton has clearly gone insane.
Stiles looks back over at the old, mysterious man. "No offense, dude, but you're a little behind. I came out of the closet a week ago," he retorts sarcastically, in classic Stiles style. Isaac gives a little chuckle, and then a little whimper.
Deaton looks at the werewolf for a moment and then to Stiles, clearly not approving of the mocking tone when Stiles knows that's not what he meant. "No. A fairy. Fae: Supernatural non-human beings who can influence their environment. I noticed you had the spark in you a long time ago, before Scott had been bitten. I figured it was just a human spark, one like a lot of people have. But, in light of your dire situation, I figured I may as well check for fae blood."
"So…" Stiles breathes dubiously. "What you're saying is I'm a little woodland creature that sprouts insect wings and hops around between branches?" The mocking tone saturates every word. "Yeah. Not really seeing it." Isaac laughs softly, pulsing pain through his body. Seriously, this whole Stiles humor deal might be the death of him. Stiles notices the whimper and turns his head.
Deaton interrupts the relatively intimate look of concern. "Again, not really. There's a number of different kinds of fae. I can't be sure which line you're descended from until later. For now get some sleep." He turns to Isaac, face patronizing and a little concerned. "Take this," he reaches into his bag and pulls out a small glass jar with thick, viscous liquid and pink flowers inside. "It's a verveine infused salve of honey and bilberries. It should help with your wound, seeing as you made it worse taking Stiles pain." He hands the tall teen the medicine and exits the room, knowing full well the conversation that would be had in the future based on that last comment.
"Isaac?" Stiles asks from the bed, staring up at the boy and contemplating Deaton's words. "Don't take this the wrong way. I'm glad that you're here. But: Why are you here?"
"I, uh…" he fumbles, sitting back down in the chair near the bed. "I guess I feel responsible. I should've kept you safe. But I couldn't. I had to make sure you would be okay. I guess. I don't know…" Stiles just nods, understanding that feeling. The one where you're not exactly sure why you're doing what you're doing. It's been happening a lot lately. "You should get some sleep. I'm going to call your dad and Scott. I'm sure they'll be here when you wake up."
"Okay," Stiles says, reclining on the soft but far too sterile hospital bed. "You should get some sleep, too. Use that medicine. Apparently I'm some kind of scary fairy," rhyme time, "so if you don't get better I'll pixie dust the crap out of you." Isaac huffs out a few laughs again. 'Ouch.'
Seriously, Stiles will be the death of him.
Okay. Couldn't resist the fairy joke. There will obviously be more to come. I do have a plan (crazy, right?) for what Stiles is. Full on Stissac is approaching rapidly as well. At least, it should be ;)
Hope you all like it still! :D