Summary
The reality was, the attack shouldn't have felt like it had come out of nowhere. He shouldn't have felt as blindsided by it as he felt. It had been a perfectly normal, mundane day consisting of schoolwork and more schoolwork, though the only oddity was that he spent an hour or so in the library after the school-day ended to finish a project with one of his classmates. It should have been as simple as waving bye to the girl, getting a few things from the locker-room (slightly illegally obtained master-key), and then heading to the reconstructed Hale mansion.
…
It wasn't.
Though, there are worse ways to die—though Stiles Stilinski can't list them off the top of his head. His life has shortened to simplistic facts, such that he is stuck in the locker room after being questioned by Gerard Argent—due in part to one of Gerard's heavily muscled cronies and hired knuckle-head of the hour crushing Stile's knee under a booted foot. His knee is summarily screwed, so moving is out. There's a fine layer of aconite dust covering the floor—wolfsbane in a pure form that leaves Stiles with the mother of all migraines. The last, most inconsequential detail is that he is burning. Quite literally.
He is stuck in a trap because purified wolfsbane equals trap for his furball friends who should stay away for the sake of their wolvelihoods and the whole fact that he's burning alive, and this just royally sucks. He never wanted to understand Peter Hale of all people.
…
Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf because Sterek. It would have been a thing, just sayin'
Also this is my first attempt at writing and publishing for the Teen Wolf fandom and it may also be my first time writing something between two male characters. So, I kind of want to beg that you all don't judge me too harshly. Be critical because that's the point of free publishing and free reading, and I like when people give me critiques because it helps me improve my writing. I'm just kind of hoping to avoid being hated and am slightly babbling because I'm kind of nervous and I spent all of yesterday working on this and a few hours today. There are some points I'm not super pleased with as I feel the transition could be better so there might be adjustments made and if you spot any grammatical errors, don't hesitate to list them off and point them out. I don't have a Beta so it's mainly me trying to find that stuff and I'm obviously imperfect and will probably have missed something simple. I'll try to correct those errors.
Thank you for clicking on the story and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Curling in on himself, fingers and hands wrapped tightly around his right leg as his knee spasmed uncontrollably, he bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood—the coppery tang from the broken scab on his lower lip a secondary notable thought prodding against the back of his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, engraving the will to not cry in his mind because that specific break-down could occur later, when he wasn't left vulnerable on the floor in front of his locker in the boys' locker room and rather in the safety of his own bathroom where the loud squeaking of the pipes could drown out the racing thudding of his heart against his ribcage.
A complete and total breakdown could wait till then; when there wasn't even the slimmest chance anyone could hear him and try to dissect what was going on in his head. Or stare at him with those damning pitiful eyes like they knew the contours of his mind and spoke words like sorry and poor kid and whatever meaningless drivel that came from that universal metaphorical brochure. Grimacing, his mind detached as he mulled over that set of words—knowing that it may be directed at his father, who would speak stiffly to the other's face, but then down an entire bottle of whiskey privately.
It was enough of a motivation for him to peel his eyes open and shove his emotions to the side. They could be given the attention they craved later—when it wasn't important for the facts to be clearly laid out. His cheek smarted as he made a mental catalogue of his injuries. As far as superficial wounds went, he was speckled with more bruises than moles and a few instances where skin had broken. The side of his face had been slammed against the locker and that might mean he had a concussion on top of everything else.
Sucking in a sharp breath as he forced his body to uncurl from the fetal position he would deny it being in until his last breath—which might approach sooner than he liked at this rate. He dragged himself backwards with his right arm—laying on his side meant the left was trapped in a sandwich of his body and the cool, tiled floor—until he reached his locker. Stiles grumbled a foul set of curse words under his breath when his shoulder collided with the edge of his open locker because apparently jerk-face Gerard and his poser band of knuckleheads couldn't be polite enough to shut his locker.
Jackass.
That wasn't even at the top of the list of grievances Stiles had against Gerard Argent, but it was one he could easily focus on and add to the bottom. Not shutting locker door after beating me to a bloody pulp. Added to the list in black permanent marker and circled.
Angling his body to the right, easing his right leg with his slightly less bruised left arm, he couldn't look down at the mess of his knee—even with his jeans on, the initial perusal was disturbing enough, and Stiles would rather keep his lunch inside his stomach. When Stiles had slipped into the room, pocketing his key, he had nearly jumped out of his skin when he spotted five darkly dressed men with faux casual postures around his locker. Gerard Argent wore something different—marking him the leader in his richly dressed suit.
Stiles hadn't seen Gerard Argent in the few weeks since they had managed to snag Jackson as the Kanima from right under his nose. The man had been furious at his loss of a supernatural and controllable ally, but he had been quiet recently as the pack trained even harder to keep themselves on their toes for when the man's next nefarious plan came to fruition. Stiles had also been working privately to gather as much evidence as he could against Gerard—enough to put him away for life—that he would eventually take to his dad.
While Hunters were prolific with hunting supernatural creatures, some were exceedingly lazy when it came to leaving easily pullable strands of evidence. Paying off the legal authority in an area did not mean another area might not raise questions and Stiles had been unraveling all Gerard and Kate had been doing, finding a plentiful number of things in the past decade alone that he would give to his dad as well as Scott being smart enough to record an interaction with the man when Gerard was cocky enough to threaten Melissa McCall.
He had proceeded normally at the presence of the still-principal, though Stiles inwardly doubted how much longer that position would stick with the elderly cancerous man when he had taken an exceedingly long leave of vacation. Opening his locker, discreetly slipping his phone into his bag—and pressing a quick setting for an audio recording as he gathered his stinky uniform. Isaac had also messaged him to quickly grab his uniform as well to be washed, Stiles honestly pitied werewolves because most of the lacrosse team that were not dealing with furball problems did not clean their uniforms nearly as often.
If Stiles was more distrustful, he would think Isaac involved—but that notion was swiftly discarded and kicked into a bucket then doused in gasoline, brick tied to it, set on fire, and then tossed into the ocean for crispy fishy food.
There were only a few sparse seconds of preparation before Gerard started his interrogation—where were the pack, how did they train, what were their plans, etc. Stiles had kept his wit about him, despite some jackass slamming his head against the side of his locker, that specific ridge along the opening that Stiles did not know how to articulately describe. He had been barbed in his retorts and snarky, but it had mattered little because two of the goons' traded turns with punching and kicking.
Gerard kept going, kept questioning him and Stiles was proud enough then—and now, lost in the memory—to keep silent because they were his pack, and he was loyal to Scott McCall and Derek Hale.
He was loyal to Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd and Isaac Lahey. He was loyal to Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore. He was even loyal to Allison Argent over her psychotic grandfather—she had switched to their side when she discovered the latter's lengthy list of lies and manipulation, starting with her mother's death.
And that loyalty would not faulter under kicks and blows. Instead, it would only steel and strengthen and give him more of a reason to believe in his pack because even if they sometimes underestimated their own strength—they would never do something as evil as corner someone younger than them and attack them all at once.
Eventually, Stiles had lost consciousness and sometime between then and now—the sun had set, and Gerard and his goons had left, his mind lingered on that because it sounded like a cheap, backyard band that wasn't any good because lack of rhythm. He bit his lip once more, dragging his mind back to the present and ordering himself to focus—never an easy task because ADHD, especially when he was in pain, not that Stiles had much previous experience with that because this felt like a larger thing than Erica hitting him upside the head with his own car part and depositing him with the racoon food.
He closed his eyes and inhaled and exhaled, before reopening his eyes and continuing to angle himself as he lifted himself partially with the support of the locker and his right arm to grab the bag he had hanging in his locker. It had his clothes, a spare container of Adderall, and one of Scott's emergency inhalers in the drawstring and he had slipped his phone inside of it. His best chance laid with his phone because it might be hours before anyone would come looking for him—especially with Gerard as the principal who could have easily told the janitor to not come clean the locker room this evening.
"Thank god." He murmured, finding the rectangular device, and grinning triumphantly to himself. He regretted it a second later because ouch, but it was worth it because the thing was still recording—get wrecked Gerard. Stiles stopped the recording and backed it up to his account and then paused as he checked the time as well as his notifications. A few from some apps, meaningless drivel that Stiles dismissed. Three missed calls from Scott. One from Isaac. A message from Lydia.
His eyes darted up to the time as well, re-reading it. 6:58. The pack was supposed to have an evening training session that would go to 9:30, as it was a Friday, and Stiles supposed they were reaching out due to concern for his tardiness.
Granted, Stiles wasn't officially pack—Derek made that point clear a few weeks ago, but he hadn't stopped coming around because he didn't need to be part of their exclusive wolfy pack to hang out with his friends. He told Scott that they were his friends first, so he got first-privileges.
Nose wrinkling, he glanced down—pointedly avoiding looking at his knee because he was not going there, damnit—and frowned. Though the room was dark, depilated moonlight streaking sections of the floor, there was an odd layer of something against his fingers. Dusty-quality, mountain ash, his mind discarded the thought because mountain ash smelled different. This one had a poignant smell that was headache inducing. He tilted his phone screen to his fingers; the gray powder was also darker—though that might be the lighting.
He didn't think it was mountain ash, but then—what else?
Though he probably shouldn't sniff the strange substance because it was probably a stupid thing to do, he did so anyways. When he finally recognized it, his mind stuttered. Alan Deaton had been opaquely helping him to identify different supernatural substances without labels and this was purified wolfsbane dust. Ok, that's bad. Stiles clicked his phone screen back on, checking the battery percentage. He thumbed open his contacts and entered his father's number from memory before pausing.
Noah Stilinski still had no idea about the supernatural community and if this was a trap—which was looking incredibly likely—then he would be dragging his unaware father right into it. Aconite, though not as effective against humans when compared against werewolves, was still dangerous, Stiles recognized.
He opened a different section of the app and scrolled through his contact list looking for Scott's contact—affectionately named Pupperwolf2.0. Stiles pressed the green call button and pressed his phone against his hear, biting his lip and angling his head back. He would not burst into tears—because holy crap, he might have been tortured for information and that would already break Scott's heart. He batted the thought away, because he needed to be clear and concise, otherwise his best friend and practical brother might go into an uncontrollable state where he launched himself headlong into an obvious trap.
Delicate situation, he reminded himself. Delicate situation with purified wolfsbane dust covering the floor because that's a thing. Why did that have to be a thing? Why couldn't Gerard have not smashed his knee and let him be a slightly less injured message? Or why couldn't Gerard do what normal people do when diagnosed with a terminal illness and spend time with his family instead of being a hypocritical grade-A jackass.
Son of a—
The ringing of the phone was abruptly cut off as Scott answered. "Hello?" The answer was breathless in a way that reminded Stiles of Scott before the bite—when the asthmatic kid had pushed himself too hard in lacrosse practice privately. An old part of him that remembered that was instantaneously concerned and about to query where Scott was, if he needed his inhaler.
"Hey." Stiles greeted, attempting normalcy. His throat tightened and he couldn't find the words to mention that Gerard had cornered him, and he was surrounded by wolfsbane dust, and he was kind of freaking out right now because it was so obviously a trap and oh god Scott, my knee, I don't think I can ever play lacrosse again and why the hell am I concerned about that? He probably shouldn't start off with that because then Scott would ditch his brain. But, how else was he supposed to approach this; bring it up gradually?
Oh, hey buddy, so I'm kind of stuck in an obvious trap set by Gerard Argent for his nefarious plans. Could you potentially get Deaton so we can sort this whole mess out and I can go home and have a breakdown and panic attack in the shower? That'd be great.
He pinched the skin on his left thigh to refocus himself because it was not the time to freak-out because he was normally the planner; the brains to Scott and Derek's brawn. And going to Alan Deaton would be better, the man might be worse than Kilgarrah from Merlin—ok, maybe not that bad—but he would have an idea of how to get Stiles safely out of there and keep the wolves he ran with from getting themselves killed.
"Everything good, man?" Scott queried, voice breaking Stiles from his thoughts. Stiles almost wanted to cheer him on for being perceptive—he loved Scott, he did, but the boy tended to lean more towards oblivious. Stiles hummed noncommittally, prompting Scott to continue. "You sound strange." Scott spoke with concern thickening his voice. Stiles almost cracked wide open at that because everything was so far from good, it was laughable in the worst possible way.
If he were being completely honest with himself, he almost thought Scott wouldn't answer because the pack was training underneath the watchful eye of Derek Hale—and sometimes Peter Hale when the not-so-murderous-but-still-creeperwolf decided to join in. He hadn't thought Derek would give Scott the chance to take a call. "I always sound strange, Scotty-boy." Stiles quipped reflexively, his mind screaming for him to tell him, tell him, tell him.
He opened his mouth to do just that but then froze. He could smell aconite. But, then there was a more cloying scent mixing with that as well. It took a second for him to recognize that scent. "So, where are you?" Scott asked, voice questioning. Smoke. Stiles forced himself not to cough when he glanced away from the dust to see a thick layer of smoke and his peripheral saw orange light. Fire. "Did you forget we have an evening pack training session?" His best friend went on obliviously.
Another voice in the background sounded as Stiles pushed the pieces together in his head. His knee was summarily screwed. He couldn't move. There was purified wolfsbane dust coating most of the floor. And, the cherry on top, the room was on fire.
Stiles could hear Scott pull the phone away from his ear—which fine, because he muted himself so he could cough because a situation just went to shit. Like, complete and total shit. Well, that escalated quickly. "Isaac is wondering if you grabbed his uniform. He could swing by your house later to get it." Scott spoke, reiterating what Isaac doubtlessly asked in the background.
His mouth clamped shut and he squeezed his eyes shut, tears escaping because this was worse. This was so much worse. The dust would be more activated in the fire, and they would burn with him—oh god Derek would lose them all and himself just like in the Hale fire. He couldn't do that, not to them, they were his friends, he couldn't lead them straight into hell. They're not allowed to die with me, damnit, I won't let them die with me. "Sorry. Got a little caught up in researching some supernatural creatures in the bestiary. You won't believe the stuff they have on here about nymphs. Tell Isaac I'll wash his uniform for him and get it to him tomorrow, he doesn't have to come get it tonight." He lied.
It might sound like a small, white lie, but it wasn't. He was deliberately hiding the fact that he didn't see a way out of the locker room and that he was going to die. Isaac spoke in the background and Stiles felt the tears silently trekking down his cheeks. He dug his nail-bitten fingers into his palms, leaving behind vibrantly red crescent-moon imprints. "Isaac said he'd appreciate that." Scott informed him.
"It's not a problem at all. My fault for going straight home and into the research zone. Also, did more back ups to the back ups on a bunch of flash-drives. Pretty sure I blew most of the money I made at the Supermart this past summer on these suckers." Stiles rambled.
When Scott spoke, he sounded amused. "I thought you did the back ups of the back ups last weekend." He stated.
Stiles waved a dismissive hand for the principle of it, even if Scott couldn't see him. "I had to add more back-ups, you can never have too many." He announced. He didn't add that he had evidence of Gerard's crimes on all of them twice and that they were in his drawers and jeep and one in his wallet. He had done that the past Saturday, but he could pretend otherwise. "And, you know, one of those has the name Scott McCall taped on it." Stiles continued, glad for hindsight.
It wasn't that he planned on dying anytime soon, but he was glad for the precautions in his research he had taken. "Can't wait, man." Scott chuckled. Stiles muted himself once more, choking and wheezing for breath—it was taking every fiber of effort to keep his voice level and not reveal the crackly quality of his throat from the smoke. Scott seemed preoccupied with a conversation going on on the other side of the line, so he didn't notice. "So, you're not coming today?" His best friend sounded disappointed.
His heart cracked even more. He might not be able to come to pack meetings and such ever again because he was going to burn alive in the next hour. This might be the last conversation he ever had with his brother and there were so many things rotting away inside of Stiles's chest, the things unsaid cloying. "Yeah. Sorry, dude. I should probably start dinner soon for Dad and I." He unmuted his end of the conversation to speak the words.
"He's going to be home early?"
Stiles wiped at his face. "Yeah."
There was a significant pause on the other line. Stiles's heartbeat kicked up and he wondered if the pretense was all for nothing because somehow his best friend knew and was coming to help him and was just trying to keep him calm. He glanced to his left, spotting the orange shadows from the flames higher and brighter and closer than they were before. "And that's the only reason you aren't coming today?" Scott inquired; voice carefully controlled.
For a moment, Stiles desperately wished his best friend knew. Desperately wanted to tell him because he was scared. He was scared and in pain and he knew that the agony he felt now would be nothing compared to the hell that awaited him in burning alive. And for a split second he understood Peter Hale, something he never truly wanted to at this level. "What other reason would there be?" Stiles shot back quickly, maybe too quickly, he reflected. If werewolves could hear heartbeats through the phone, he knew that Scott would hear the lie in his. He would hear the lie in everything Stiles told him, and he would be livid that Stiles was trying to protect him from this, if only for a moment.
He wondered what would happen to Scott when he realized the truth—that the friend that he had just spoke to, the voice the pack had heard on the other end was dying as he spoke. He wondered if they would be vengeful and hoped they wouldn't try to follow him into hell—he was no hero and truly, heroes deserved heaven. "So, it has nothing to do with Derek saying you aren't pack?" Scott spoke cautiously.
Stiles also wondered how much Scott knew. He wondered if Scott knew why Derek saying those words hurt so much, though he wouldn't acknowledge why. "He's not wrong." Stiles answered flippantly. "Besides, I don't have to be a part of your super-duper exclusive furball club to annoy you into being my friends. I do that without." He reiterated the same thing he had said when Scott initially confronted and comforted him about it.
"Yeah, you don't." Scott spoke after a beat, surprisingly letting the matter drop. His best friend could be stubborn as hell when he wanted to be, especially when it concerned his friends and people he valued. Stiles had been on the receiving end an uncountable number of times since they became friends when they were five. "Shit, I've got to go. Derek is trying to brutally murder me with his eyes. Talk to you later?" Scott spoke quickly and Stiles had been wondering when Derek's patience would run thin with the distraction.
Stiles swallowed roughly. There wouldn't be a later. He lied anyways. "Right, talk later, bro." He hung up before he could completely break and tell the truth. Hanging up didn't stop the body-wracking sobs—which he shouldn't be doing since the bruises smarted and his knee, it was indescribable. He covered his face with his hands, phone in his lap, and tried to string the pieces together.
Bitterly, he remembered a conversation he had with Dr. Morrell when Matt died. Something that essentially told him to hold on—in terms of drowning, he might get closer to the surface or have more time to be rescued.
Minutes passed. They dragged on as the fire got closer and closer. And Stiles grew desperate. He grew desperate so he unlocked his phone and dialed Scott's number again, it went to voicemail. He left a voicemail.
He then dialed his father's. Noah Stilinski answered after a few rings. "Hey son, sorry I'm going to be home late. Something came up. Apparently, there's a fire at the school, minor according to the firemen but I've got to go see about arson and all of that fun stuff—" His dad spoke, and Stiles could hear the sounds of the car in the background. Stiles dragged his legs closer to himself, trying to keep himself as far from the flames as he could—they were coming closer from the left, creeping slowly—almost lazily.
"Dad?" Stiles' voice cracked.
There wasn't even a moment of silence before his father was speaking, a whirlwind of concern and worry. "Stiles, is everything ok? What's wrong? What happened? Are you crying? Stiles! Answer me!" The sheriff fired question after question, not giving Stiles a break to answer before he broke off at the lack of response.
Stiles bit his lip, trying not to scream when he jostled his knee and agony wrapped ribbons around his nerves. It wasn't much of a successful attempt, though the sound was broken with apologies. "Dad—dad, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Oh god. I'm sorry." He sobbed, panic winding around his chest. He felt rubbed raw, and the pain was not as easy to dismiss because he was dying and at first it was a realization he could regard apathetically before it became more and more real.
"Son, I need you to slow down. Tell me what's happening. Where are you?" His dad demanded slowly, speaking with attempted levity, though Stiles could almost see the expression on his face. It wasn't enough of a relief to know that there were people on the way, help was coming—however mundane that might be and his initial reservations for keeping his father in the dark faded.
The thought that they would all be too late because the fire was too close made him lose whatever calm his father's voice incited. "D—D—Dad, my—my knee. Oh god, my knee. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry—"
"Genim!" Noah Stilinski's voice turned into a shout, breaking through the haze. The use of his first name drew him back from the panic attack budding in his throat, though half-broken sobs tumbled out of his mouth. He couldn't quiet them or quell them, and he loathed the fact that he wasn't going to die being brave, but that he would die scared, and everyone would know it. They would know how truly scared he was. "Breathe. I need you to breathe, alright." His dad inhaled and exhaled loudly, the phone doubtlessly held close to his ear, pressing as close as it could get. "Inhale. Exhale."
It was the same method they normally used when he had panic attacks and the normalcy of it made it worse because this was the last time. He would never get that again because he was going to die and how was this fair to his father. He was all his father had and he was going to die like this. "I—I c—can—can't." He stuttered.
The sheriff spoke calmly. "Yes, you can. Come on, son, inhale. Exhale." He repeated, sliding into sheriff-mode. Stiles pressed his fingers to his chest, fingers tightening in the fabric as he shakily listened to his father's deliberately loud, even breaths. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend his father was right next to him. "Now, can you tell me what's going on?" His father asked and Stiles felt the familiar, all-encompassing panic as he opened his eyes.
He forced himself to stop and calm down. He thought of hanging up, but there was more he had to say. He had to tell his dad that he loved him because he couldn't remember the last time he had said it and he needed to say it. "Dad, my knee. I think it's broken." He decided to only tell him about that injury, not mentioning the superficial bruising and broken skin. His knee was the main problem, the main deciding factor.
"Alright, and where are you?" There was anger simmering in his voice, but he kept it locked tightly enough that Stiles only recognized it from knowing his father. Stiles grew quiet, remembering how the conversation started—the fire the sheriff had been driving towards. Might still be driving towards. Or he might have pulled off to the side of the road when he realized that Stiles wasn't calling him about dinner. "Stiles, I need you to talk to me. Where are you?" Desperation lined the words, breaking through the calm and collected façade.
Stiles swallowed, tears escaping from his squeezed shut eyes. "The—the locker room. I'm in the locker room." His voice cracked as he spoke and he heard the noise of the car more loudly, the sirens nearly piercing.
His father sounded livid. "You're in the burning school." He spoke slowly. Stiles knew how it looked, like someone was deliberately trying to kill the sheriff's son. He wondered how far away his father was and hated himself for doing this to him. But, he had been forced to choose between himself and his friends and he had chosen them, and he couldn't regret that. They were worth dying for.
And, if he lost them, he would die. He remembered when he told Lydia before their plan to free Jackson came to fruition that death didn't just happen to one person, it happened to the people around them, those at the funeral trying to figure out how to go on without that person. Maybe, he was a hypocrite. "Dad, I'm in the school, the fire—I can see it. Oh god, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. I can't move—I can't move. My knee. I can't move. And I—I called Scott, but I couldn't—I couldn't tell him and I didn't think that there would be a fire until halfway through the conversation and I couldn't tell him and then I left a voicemail—"
His father spoke insistently, cutting him off. "You're not dying."
Stiles sobbed even harder. "And I didn't even say goodbye when he answered." He wanted to say those words to Scott, to Isaac, to Lydia, and Erica and Boyd and Allison and even Jackson. To Derek. He wanted to say them when they could have responded, when they could have told him they cared about him. "I didn't say goodbye." He whispered.
The sheriff must have arrived because he was shouting orders to someone else. "Hurry, someone get in there! My son is in there! He's on the phone with me! Please, he's just a kid! Why aren't the sprinklers working? Don't just stand there. You can't just stand there!" He heard his father shouting loudly to anyone who would listen. Stiles didn't know if they were moving faster, didn't know how far the fire had spread, if it was just the locker room and surrounding classrooms.
"It's ok, Dad. It's ok. I don't want anyone to get killed. I love you so much and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry that I'm leaving you. I wish—I wish that I had more time. Please—don't eat all of the bad foods or drink too much when I'm gone and look out for yourself, ok? Promise me you'll look out for yourself." Stiles pleaded, needing the words—needing to hear them before he hung up because he didn't want his father to have a front-row ticket to his screams. He could already feel the flames starting to spark, the sparks landing on him.
They burned. "Shut up! Shut up, son. You're not going anywhere! Do you hear me? You're not going anywhere! You're not dying!" He felt the tears continue to fall, as he collapsed on his side. He tried to drag his shoes, the soles of his feet further away from the fire, but it only got him so far as the fire kept going, traveling the aconite dust.
He screamed when the fire got closer, and his foot burned, and it was on fire. Hang up, hang up, hang up. A voice whispered insistently, do not force your father to hear this. "Dad, my leg. I can't. Oh god. God. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I wanted to be brave. I wanted to be strong. I don't want you to remember me like this." He croaked, coughing, and trying to muffle the choking, hacking coughs. The entire time, he had been coughing, unable to breathe but now he noticed it as his throat burned. "Dad, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Noah Stilinski was shouting, "Stop it! God damnit. Get my son! Get my damn son out of there, you assholes! Save him! Save him! Stiles! Genim!" There were tears thick in his voice and Stiles closed his eyes, biting his split lip even harder to choke back the scream building in his throat—the screams building.
"I love you. I love you, Dad."
"My son—" Stiles took a deep breath, drawing the phone away from him.
He whispered. "I know." Then, he hung up and let the screams consume him.
Towel slung over his shoulder; Scott offered Allison a tired grin as she handed him a snack-size bag of Doritos. Boyd—basically the only one Derek entrusted the Camaro to—had left thirty minutes ago and returned with a few snacks. Normally, the task would have been left to Stiles, but his best friend was busy with research and probably somewhat hurt from Derek's inability to understand his own emotions. Scott had been practicing on understanding specific scents, the only reason he knew that Stiles and Derek were both struggling for the same reasons. He even understood why Stiles skipped the training session—because it even wore on him the dismissiveness levels Derek could reach.
"You seemed like you were doing good." Allison commented, opening a can of soda. She took a small sip from the can, a hint of laughter appearing in her beautiful eyes. Scott had never though he could be the one to wax poetry on someone's eyes, until Allison sat in the chair behind him.
Isaac snorted, quickly finishing his own snack-size bag of chips and going for another. "We got our asses kicked." He remarked, side-eyeing Derek. Their alpha was writing something down in a yellowed notepad in his small writing—Scott had once tried to discreetly see what he noted but Derek's hand-writing was tiny. Scott, Isaac, and Allison were gathered around the box that Boyd had put on the table while the rest of their pack were doing other things—Erica and Lydia teaming up against Jackson to put on the Notebook while Boyd observed with amused eyes.
Allison shrugged. "You fell down less than last week. That has to count for something." In the beginning, she hadn't liked the way they trained, but she did see that it made them better for it—prepared to fight against an enemy that didn't play fair.
Scott grinned, before checking his phone—he needed to message his mom and inform her that they were still in one piece because, even if she had met Derek Hale properly after her induction to werewolves, she was still concerned. He thumbed out a message and sent it before checking his notifications, surprised to see a missed call paired with a voicemail from Stiles nearly ten minutes after they had hung up. His eyebrows raised when he registered the length of the message. "What's so funny?" Isaac queried.
"I think Stiles butt-dialed me." Scott answered with a grin. He glanced up to Isaac as the other took his phone from him and whistled at the lengthy voice-mail. "Probably got caught up in research and then realized it before cooking dinner for his dad." He continued, crossing his arms when Isaac furrowed his brow at the time stamp. 7:13.
Isaac handed his phone back to him. "I wonder if he said anything interesting." He finished the bag of chips, wiping his fingers on his sweatpants.
Scott shrugged. "We both know the weird tangents he can go off in." He reminded.
Allison nodded her agreement, gesturing towards Lydia and Erica. "You think it might be more entertaining than watching the Notebook for the umpteenth time." She queried. Isaac snorted while Scott nodded, he had no intention of watching the Notebook again after Lydia and Erica eventually won against Jackson and maybe Stiles' butt-dialing them would drag them both off the topic and they could sneak in the Avengers or an action-flick instead.
Scott watched as she sidled up to Erica and Lydia and mentioned that Stiles butt-dialed Scott and left an embarrassingly long voicemail. Scott frowned down at his phone, he would have expected for Stiles to hang up and eventually text him that he was sorry for filling up the voicemail minutes and babble on at him. When no message was forthcoming, his frown deepened, and a knot of worry tightened in his stomach. He had a bad feeling, like this was the calm before the storm.
Erica practically cackled, "Oh, I wonder what embarrassing things Batman said." She snatched the phone from Scott and unlocked it—how she knew his password, he didn't know. It was super private. Alright, it might be Allison. She set the phone on the coffee table and wiggled in her seat until Boyd slung an arm over her shoulders. Scott noticed Derek lowering his notepad to eye his phone curiously before continuing to write in his tiny scrawl. She pressed the play button.
"Hey Scott, I know I just got off the phone with you—like—ten-ish minutes ago." Stiles's voice was calm, and Scott relaxed slightly. Maybe Stiles had meant to call him and then got distracted and forgot to end the voicemail—that sounded reasonable, though he did wonder what kind of insults might be layered in when Stiles thought he hung up. "But I—I found something. It's about Gerard Argent. I—uh—may have also been looking into his history. You wouldn't believe the bread-crumbs he left at so many crimes and the number of people he paid off. It took a while, but yeah, I might have something concrete to bring to my dad to get him locked up so he can't be nefarious. Well, he probably could, but he'd be in jail—so, yeah." He continued, much to Scott's surprise.
He hadn't known Stiles was doing that kind of digging—though he thought it was rather smart of him. He also knew that Stiles might have more than he mentioned because he wouldn't want to bring his father in till the last possible minute. "This doesn't really sound like Stilinski being dumb or embarrassing." Jackson commented, grabbing a pizza slice from the box. Pizza and chips may not sound like much of a meal, but Stiles normally brought them something more home-made after training.
"Maybe we should just turn it off." Allison suggested, expression pinched, and Scott sat down next to her, letting her lean against him. He knew how much it hurt her to know that someone she had trusted had turned out to be so wrong and hearing it—he couldn't imagine the specific brand of pain.
Erica shook her head. "No, I want to hear the insults he might have for Scott." She moved excitedly and Scott absently noted that she moved like a cat about to pounce. That must be the reason that Stiles affectionately nick-named her Catwoman.
"Like, all of the evidence I've got is from the last decade alone—though I'm betting there's more." Stiles coughed suddenly. "It's all—all on the flash-drives. That and the research I've got for supernatural creatures—though some of it might not be right, but it's a summarization and I've got a document on there with the links to the websites I use and some books I'm eyeing. But, yeah, it's all on the flashdrives—they're in my drawers and I've got two in the jeep and one in my wallet. Prepared, that I am." He rambled on, coughing a little more.
Scott furrowed his eyebrows; he had a bad feeling about this. "Why is he telling us where the flashdrives are?" Isaac tilted his head to one side questioningly. No-one had an answer and Scott noticed Derek closing the notepad and putting it on the table, eyes laser-focused on the phone. Their light-hearted mood was starting to dissipate the more the message continued, and Scott could feel his blood rushing in his ears, he felt scared, like Stiles was about to impart something awful.
He was right and the world shattered around him. "I—um—sorry. I'm probably freaking you out. I don't mean to." Stiles chuckled, the laugh sounding forced. "Ok, so, try not to freak out or be mad but—Gerard cornered me." He spoke quickly and Scott shot to his feet.
The rest of the pack did as well, Jackson cursing. "Call him. Someone else call him." Scott spoke insistently as Lydia got out her phone and dialed Stiles's number. They watched as the phone rung on speaker in Lydia's hand, before going to voicemail and the voices side-by-side was petrifying.
"It's not that bad. I'm fine. Clearly, I'm fine. I'm talking to you. Well, talking at you. But, yeah, everything's fine. You don't need to freak out or anything because I'm fine." The voicemail continued and Lydia called him again. They got his voicemail again and she redialed. "But, I'm—um a little stuck, currently. Nothing major or anything like that. I'll probably be completely safe by the time you get this and will probably regret leaving a voicemail because you might possibly kill me. But, yeah, stuck. Slightly stuck. Also, before I forget, there are five muscle-heads on Gerard's payroll that I know of. They were kind of with him. And, don't freak or anything—but um—I'm a little roughed up."
The image that painted did little to keep Scott from wolfing out. Gerard Argent had cornered his best friend—his brother, practically—with five other people. That son of a bitch. "Ok, where the hell are you, Stiles?" Derek growled, picking up the phone and nearly crunching in his claws—his eyes were red and there were growls slipping out of his throat.
"And you probably shouldn't come because there's—um—there's purified wolfsbane dust like everywhere and I'm pretty sure that going to be lethal if you come charging in."
Isaac rushed from the room, grabbing a shirt that Stiles had left over from the last time he was there—they had gotten a little muddied and his best friend had forgotten it. When Scott glanced around, Isaac, himself, and Erica were all wolfed out completely. Derek was almost there while both Boyd and Jackson had glowing gold and blue eyes respectively. "We'll track his scent if he's not going to tell us." Isaac held the shirt up. Through gold-filmed vision, Scott also tracked Allison and Lydia as they kept attempting to call Stiles.
"I think that you should probably contact Deaton because he's the one who taught me how to identify the stuff—emissary-in-training and all that fun stuff. Though, I still think you should just stay where you are because I'm going to be fine. Someone human will probably find me soon and I'll probably be hospitalized. That's probably why I'm not answering if you're calling me. Which I don't think you can do now that I think about it when a voicemail is playing.
"But, yeah, everything's going to be fine. Other than lacrosse. I might not be able to play that for a while—which is fine, because I sucked at it anyways." Stiles' voice was broken by a coughing fit at that moment and when he next spoke, his voice was hoarse. "Ok, full disclosure. He—um—actually not Gerard. One of his goonies, horrible fellow, impolite, I don't even know his name. He broke my knee. Like he stood on it until there was a cracking sound and I'm not going to look at it because I might vomit, and nobody wants to hear that. Not that I think anyone wants to hear that my knee is broken so running might be a challenge. Moving is kind of a challenge right now."
He broke Stiles' knee. Scott threw his head back and howled angrily, wolfing out completely—his wolf livid. He was tackled by Jackson, "Wait, Scott—damn it, wait. We don't know where he is. And we can't go running blindly—that's what Gerard wants, damn it Scott." Scott was nearly feral, clawing at his packmate before Derek roared at him, the alpha just as wolfed out as him though with some semblance of control lingering.
"Turn it off!" Allison shouted. "You're all only going to get angrier and that's not going to be conductive to finding him. Which is more important now than ever because he's unable to move and surrounded by something lethal to everyone except Lydia and I." She continued, elaborating when most of the wolves growled at her, eyes partially fearless and worried—fearless of the growling pack and worried for Stiles.
"But, I'll be fine. Because one of the janitors will probably find me in a little bit and they're human so they won't get hurt by the pure wolfsbane dust." Stiles' voice turned upbeat, and Scott's blood roared in his ears, wolf unsatisfied because Stiles was his brother, and he should be the one to find him. "That's kind of why I didn't tell you when I called like twenty minutes ago because I figured that it would be a trap and you know, not going to let Gerard set off that trap because fuck him.
"So yeah, will probably be hospitalized and on pain meds by the time you get this, and everything will be fine." There was a pause as Stiles' voice crackled over the phone and Scott could almost see the fake smile slipping from his expression. He didn't think it could get worse. But, it did. And this, this was pure hell. "Ok, I'm lying. I'm lying right now. And you can't hear my heart to call me out on it, but yeah, definitely lying. Um—it's burning. And I know, knee injuries, they burn. But it's burning."
He squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering as Stiles repeated the words once more. "Oh god, it's really burning. I'm in the locker room and it's burning. Scott. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I can—I can see the smoke. It's on fire. It's on fire." Stiles' voice completely broke, and Scott howled, aware of the others doing the same—Derek looked wrecked. Their alpha and Scott could feel it through the pack bonds that he was being destroyed from the inside out.
At first he couldn't understand why, and then, it hit him. The Hale fire. Kate Argent had ensured that all of his family would be swallowed by flames and smoke and now, now Stiles would be by Kate Argent's father.
Allison had frozen in her campaign of getting them to turn off the voicemail and even Lydia quit dialing Stiles' number, her own phone dangling from her fingers before dropping with a resounding crash. She put her hand to her throat then, gritting her teeth loudly and Scott could see the scream building. For a moment he couldn't understand why she wouldn't let herself scream and then he did. Lydia was a banshee. If she screamed than Stiles would die, Derek was in front of her then—growling menacingly.
"Do not scream, Lydia." Derek warned, gripping her jaw with clawed hands. Jackson made a protesting growl, but Derek only flashed, scarlet-colored eyes at him, leaving him to take a step back.
Lydia nodded; her expression pinched with fear. Her scent was also doused in fear, of Derek, of what could happen to Stiles if she screamed his name. "I'm trying." She murmured, teeth gritted, and jaw locked in place. They lingered like that for minutes and Scott heard Allison turn off the voicemail—there was more to it and Scott didn't know how he felt about that, he didn't want to hear it get worse.
"I thought he butt-dialed me." Scott breathed, legs giving out beneath him, and he dropped harshly to his knees. Isaac made a whining noise deep in his throat, but Scott could not look up at him—couldn't look at anyone because they had been having fun, they had been laughing and joking while his best friend—his brother burned. "I thought he butt-dialed me. I planned on teasing him." His voice remained a whisper.
Someone put a hand on his wrist, tapping lightly against his pulse-point. Allison. Even wolfed out with the glowing eyes and the clawed hands, she still lingered beside him—his anchor. Scott hadn't realized that Stiles was also something of an anchor too. She pulled out her phone, the light from the screen casting shadows across her own tear-streaked face, before she frowned. "He sent me an audio message and his username and password for his phone account." Allison spoke.
It felt worse than the voicemail, somehow. Worse because if Stiles was sending them that information—it meant he had no plans of escaping, of surviving. How could he? He was immobile. "We—We have to call his—his dad." Scott whispered.
Derek growled. "No." He answered shortly.
Scott pried his eyes from their perusal of his nails. "What do you mean, no? It's his dad, his dad needs to know. If Stiles is—if he is—his dad needs to know." Scott spoke insistently, disregarding the red eyes of his alpha. His wolf paced frantically inside of him, but his humanity refused to be dismissed.
"Stiles is not dead." Derek's voice was a near-shout, teeth sharpening and face forming features of his beta form. His grip loosened from Lydia's jaw as he stepped purposefully towards Scott. "Boyd, Jackson, Erica—go to the school, check the status of the fire. Do not move until you are given the order. Scott, Isaac, Lydia—go to the clinic, call Deaton. Allison—call your father, inform him of what Gerard has attempted, send him the audio Stiles sent you as well." Derek's expression twisted suddenly as though he knew what that audio would say.
They all nodded as much as they were capable of, Boyd's presence soothing Erica from her wolfed-out beta form. Lydia grabbed her phone when it started ringing, the sound sharp and loud and echoing off of the depilated walls of the Hale mansion. Scott heard his phone as well and launched forward, grabbing it from Derek's claws. It was Noah Stilinski. He answered immediately. "Dad, what's going on?" Scott retracted his elongated teeth, attempting to speak more clearly.
The sheriff was sobbing on the other side of the phone. "It's Stiles. Oh god, Scott." Noah got out in between the tears, voice breaking. "We—we barely got him out in time. You—you have to come to the hospital, you have to get here, right now. Where are you?" He couldn't answer quite yet, mind dissecting that answer—because they got him out. He was in the hospital. Derek took the phone from him, about to answer, before Allison took the phone from Derek, shaking her head.
"We're on our way. We'll be there soon." Allison promised. Scott could hear the sheriff saying more to her, but the noise was distant—background.
"I'm so sorry, Scott." Scott wanted to scream at Stiles to stop apologizing. He had heard him saying those same words repeatedly in that voicemail and every single time his wolf would howl and whine with anger. "God, I'm so sorry. We—we had all of these plans. We were—we were going to go to college together—we were going to be roommates and we'd probably get annoyed with each other. We were supposed to do that—because we're both slobs—and we were supposed to do that. And I was supposed to kick you out when the pining for Allison got terrible and I'm so fucking sorry that all of those dreams—all of those plans are gone.
"I don't regret a thing. I want you to know that. I need you to know that. I don't regret not telling Gerard anything—I could not live in a world where I betrayed you to him. I could not live in a world without you and the pack. You're my brother, Scotty-boy. You're my brother. You've been my brother for almost a decade. Why did I never tell you that? Instead of calling you bro, I should have said it. I should have told you when I first called you, but I couldn't because it was a trap.
"It was a trap, and I can't drag you down with me. I can't let you die with me. You can't die with me. Do you understand me? Do not go and get yourself killed, please Scott. Please." Scott squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the phone tightly. Their pack was scattered around the waiting room, but he had slipped away when Chris Argent arrived and Allison and him and Derek had started talking. "I love you, man." Stiles' voice continued.
It was the first time he was hearing the message all the way through. When they had arrived at the hospital, it was to a wrecked sheriff in his mother's arms, and they had settled around the waiting room as they waited to hear news on whether Stiles made it through the emergency surgeries. It had been hours. "I love you, too." Scott whimpered, head in his hands as he sobbed. His heart felt like it was breaking. His brother was somewhere in the hospital, out of reach, fighting for his life.
If Stiles survived, they would never let him out of their sight again. He might get frustrated by the consistency of the attention, but at least he was alive to do so. "And—and can you please tell the others I love them too. Actually—actually, I think you're playing this aloud to everyone so—could you—could you pass the phone to Isaac? Please, pass the phone to Isaac." Scott quickly paused the message, breathing heavily. He checked the time stamp on the voice message and his heart pinched.
Stiles had packaged his last goodbyes in this message. And, Isaac—Isaac needed to hear it. Scott clamored to his feet, gripping the wall tightly and trying to keep his claws retracted—he would not scratch the wall, that would only raise questions and he doubted they could say a mountain lion had gotten loose in a hospital. He moved quickly, walking back to the waiting room.
When he arrived, the pack was as spread out as before, though the sheriff, Chris Argent, and Allison had disappeared—the evidence Stiles had gathered, Scott realized. That evidence would put Gerard away. His wolf almost protested that—wanted to claw its way free so it could exact revenge in a manner that was completely deserved by Gerard Argent. His nails bit into his palms as he reclaimed his seat next to Isaac. Erica and Boyd as well as Jackson and Lydia were sitting closely, Erica and Lydia crying. At some point, Lydia had stopped feeling the obvious need to scream—but there were moments where Scott thought he saw the scream building in her throat.
Isaac was tracing the veins on his arms, silent tears dripping. Scott wrapped an arm around his shoulder and tugged him close—offering comfort. Isaac wasn't the youngest of them, but he was the one they all considered to be able to fit that role. He didn't liken Isaac to being vulnerable because he was aware of how that sounded. "Isaac." Scott whispered. "Come on, let's get you something to drink." He continued, speaking in the same quiet tone as he whisked Isaac away.
Whatever Stiles had to say to Isaac, Scott had the feeling it needed to be completely private, and he would give them both that privacy as he got Isaac a water bottle and then left him in the quiet area he had found to listen to the voicemail—heading far enough away so that he couldn't hear as Isaac played the voicemail.
"—could you please pass the phone to Isaac? Please, pass the phone to Isaac." Stiles' voice turned pleading, begging. Isaac hadn't known that Scott intended to retrieve him so that he could hear some of the voicemail. But, he should have figured it when Scott gave him a water bottle and took him somewhere secluded. Helplessly, his grip on the bottle tightened, though his claws did not yet poke through the plastic. "Isaac, I'm—" There was a scream then, raw, and half-bitten off. "Sorry. Sorry. The fire got close and had to drag myself a little. I'm sorry, I wish I had done more for you.
"No, that's not enough. I'm the sheriff's son, Isaac. I should have known—I should have seen, but I got so caught up in my own problems that I turned a blind-eye and I'm so sorry. I should have seen what your father was doing—but I didn't. And I wish I had been inquisitive enough to get you away from him. God, I hated that man when I heard what he had done. But, that's one of my biggest regrets, Isaac. That I didn't see you. And you're my friend and a great person. I'm proud of that—proud of you.
"You're like—like the annoying middle brother and younger brother at the same time. And I don't know if that makes sense—it sounded like it at first, but thinking on it, it doesn't, not really. I know that you can do anything, that you will always be great, and I wish I could see it, but I don't regret dying with all of your secrets intact and not in Gerard's hands." Stiles' voice was choked, and he started coughing more from when the message started, that meant it was getting worse. It was getting worse, and Isaac was momentarily grateful he couldn't hear it get worse.
And, there was so much said, and Isaac wanted to run to Stiles' room, he had Stiles' scent, he could find it easily, and tell him that he didn't blame him for a second. He didn't blame Stiles for something so completely out of his hands and he wished that Stiles had just told Gerard because they'd rather have him alive than dead. He hated that Stiles could say he didn't regret dying—because that wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Gerard Argent even had the chance at killing him.
Stiles deserved more, he just deserved more. He pressed play on the voicemail and heard the beginnings of the message that Stiles started for Erica. Isaac went back ten seconds, before pressing pause and then heading towards where Scott's scent led. When he found him, Scott was wiping at his face, and he cast Isaac's wet and empty hand a short glance. He had destroyed the water bottle throughout hearing that message.
"Erica." Isaac murmured. Scott nodded and together they headed back to the group and Isaac watched as Scott grabbed Erica and Boyd—not acknowledging the curious looks they got from Lydia and Jackson.
She hadn't understood what was happening when Scott dragged both her and Boyd away from the group, getting them both a water bottle and then depositing them somewhere private, shoving his phone in Boyd's hand and then casting them both a significant glance. It wasn't until she saw the partially played message that she understood. Scott was giving them the privacy to hear their part of the message.
Stiles had dedicated part of his final message to them. She wrapped her arms around herself at the thought—feeling younger and more powerless than she had felt since she received the bite. Boyd gripped her hand in his free one before pressing play. They heard the tail-end of Isaac's message, before Stiles started one for her. "Erica, hey Catwoman. I think—I think I have the same regrets that I had for Isaac for you. And that—that is—" His voice broke off, a coughing fit taking place.
"I wish I had done more for you. I wish I had been there for you with the epilepsy. I should have been—but I was selfish. I was so unbelievably selfish, and I didn't even help you as much as I should have." She made a protesting growl deep in her throat, claws shredding through the water bottle. It dropped to the ground messily and she spotted another one on the ground, Isaac had done the same. She still remembered when some asshole got a video of her having a seizure during math in her freshmen year and remembered when Stiles had decked the wannabe cameraman. "I should have been a friend to you before all of this, but I'm glad I got to see you in action, Catwoman. You make a great wolf, Erica. That's an understatement. But, it's like you were born to be a wolf.
"I hope that you and Boyd get to be happy—you're both so good for each other and you're like the less in-your-face version of Allison and Scott. It's a compliment. I promise, it is one. You have no—no idea how—how many times I heard Scott wax poetry about Allison's—Allison's eyes. I love you like a sister, Catwoman. And I hope that you and Boyd find the happiness that both of you deserve. You deserve every iota of happiness the world has to offer.
"And Boyd, I know we never—never really—really talked too—too much. Which is odd because I've been babbling for the past twenty-ish minutes. But, I'm—I'm sorry for not spending time with you before and please make my Catwoman happy. She deserves it and you deserve it. And—and—and you're like the exasperated older brother that started at us long-sufferingly when we're all chaotic. You're my family—both of you—and I'm—I'm proud of that." Stiles' voice broke off with a rough scream that made Erica snatch Boyd's partially shredded water bottle and shred it herself.
A litany of apologies greeted their ears and she never wanted to hear Stiles apologize for anything again—she hated that word more in that moment than she had in her entire life. Even in the epilepsy when someone would apologize for her condition, she never had hated it as much then as she did now. Boyd pressed a hand against the small of her back and she made a whimpering noise, burying her face in his neck and scenting his soothing scent. It calmed her—grounded her.
They had also been close—Erica and Boyd—but she hadn't realized that it had slid so seamlessly into further than friendship. They traded a wordless glance, acknowledging both of their thoughts on it, before interlacing their fingers as Boyd gently led the way back to Scott. Erica gave him a short hug for what he was doing—she knew it must be difficult, but he made precautions, giving them something to shred so they wouldn't unleash themselves on the walls of the hospital.
"Allison." Boyd murmured to Scott, who paused and then nodded. Erica traded a glance with Isaac when they returned and the other traveled closer to her and Boyd. The three had always been tactile with one another—always needing a grip on each other to anchor themselves. Erica saw the curious look from Lydia, but she averted her gaze and didn't answer. She didn't think she could answer the questions in Lydia's eyes—it was simply too painful, and she was sure Lydia would understand her silence soon enough as Scott disappeared somewhere, doubtlessly searching for Allison.
"Um—Allison? Ally? You're a good person—you know—when the dust settled, and you chose us. I can't imagine how difficult it was to go against your family. I can barely stand going against my father with the lies. I don't—I don't want him to know. Ever. I don't want to drag him down to hell with me. Well maybe he wouldn't, because heroes go to heaven, I think." Stiles' voice was a croak, hardly a whisper and Allison had to press Scott's phone to her ear. She had delivered the audio to her father and the sheriff as they settled the arrest of Gerard Argent.
Her grandfather would be arrested before the day was over. And Chris was withdrawing all accounts for her grandfather so he would have no access to the money to pay anyone off or get away from the California justice system. She had also told them that Stiles had left a voicemail talking about some flashdrives that held more evidence. It was enough of an excuse for Stiles to be targeted without involving the supernatural aspect—though Gerard had made no secret he was after werewolves, but it could be blamed on delusions and the cancer.
When Scott had located her, she had been outside—eyes on the road in the direction that Noah Stilinski and her father were taking. She knew why the sheriff needed to get away from the hospital, he had lost his wife there and now he chanced losing his son there and he needed to get justice for what happened. She understood that more clearly than she wanted to.
"I hope you and Scott work out—I hope you two find happiness and get the cliché, white-picket fence happily ever after." Stiles' speech was broken with hoarse coughing fits. He exhaled heavily into the phone. "You're—you're so good for him. You know that—so—so good for him. You make him better. I hope you know that and as someone—as someone who has known Scott for over a decade, I can—I can say that.
"Please, please, don't tell anyone I'm scared. I'm terrified right now, but I'm trying not to be. I don't want anyone to know that I was so weak in my final moments." Allison broke down into tears, barely pausing the voicemail in time. Stiles was a hero—is a hero. She would accept no other answer and she would never think less of him. They would never think less of him—ever. She couldn't hear any more of the message—she just couldn't. Suddenly, Scott's arms were around her and she felt his tears dripping on the back of her neck.
She sobbed, completely destroyed. "It's not fair. It's not fair. What happened? How could this happen? How could my family do this? How could they?" Allison had never wished that she wasn't connected to the Argent family more—even her father provided no redemption for what Gerard had done.
A small, private, part of her had carried hope that her grandfather could not be so evil—remembered the man who had given her gifts and presents and told her stories, someone who was so warm. A façade that hid a cruelty that she had never suspected. Scott just held her, offering no reassurances, knowing the words would be unnecessary—insurmountable when compared against the guilt of the Argent clan. They lingered there for what felt like hours—both crying, both grieving a loss not yet solidified.
Lydia had figured that Scott would come for them once he returned with a teary-eyed Allison in tow. She had offered a quick hug to her best friend—feeling Allison's silent tears on her shoulder—before Scott had grabbed both her and Jackson. His expression was tight and controlled and he grabbed them both a water bottle before relocating them too, somewhere private. She could see bits of water bottle on the floor—making her swallow roughly. It was something she considered a blessing that she was not swallowing a scream of Stiles' name—something that had happened six times since they arrived at the hospital.
Jackson's grip on the phone was too tight, nearly cracking the device and Lydia removed it from his hand with shaking fingers. She felt so incredibly vulnerable—and her mask of a mean girl had slid away to be replaced with something far rawer. Jackson rubbed circles on her free hand as she unlocked the phone and pressed play on the voicemail before she could rethink it. She wiped roughly at her face, removing her hand from Jackson's before he gripped it again—offering the physical comfort where words failed.
"Ok—ok—um—there's so much more I wanted to say, but—but I don't—I don't think I can. I can hardly—hardly breathe. God, it hurts to breathe. Jackson and Lydia. Jackson—you're an asshole but you're less of one now—which—which is odd. Because werewolves always seem so growly and scowly and angry—at least—at least Derek is that way. You're—you're like the cousin I always wanted to punch in the face—but—but if anyone else does it—I'll fight them. I'll fight them.
"And Lydia. Lydia—goddess amongst mortals. You're one of the smartest people I know—might actually be the smartest. And I admire—I admire you so much. I've been half in love with you since elementary school. Not the glamourous version, but the girl beneath the mask. But—but I don't know. I don't know if I love-love you like that, I don't think I do. But I do love you. And—and I hope you and Jackson find happiness—I really do. You're good together. Jackson, take care of her—not that she can't do it herself—but do it.
"Or else I'll come back as a crispy ghost and haunt you forever. I'm talking—talking a true haunting—like scary stuff, not murder-y stuff, but the scary stuff." He went quiet after a moment and Lydia could see Jackson closing his eyes, a tear sliding down his cheek. Their message was short—when she compared it against how long the others had been gone—but it carried the same meaning that Stiles always had in his words.
It carried the care and the love he had for them. Though, she was surprised to hear that he wasn't in love with her like that—though, hindsight revealed that it wasn't entirely a surprise—not one that was unwelcome that is.
She had carried her suspicions, especially when a message to Derek started. She paused it, knowing that their alpha would need to hear it privately and that they would not be privy to it. Lydia gripped Jackson's hand tightly as they headed back to Scott, leaving behind two destroyed water bottles.
A beeping noise rung in his ears—increasing in frequency the longer he lingered on it. Everything hurt, ached in a way that he had never felt before. Stiles swallowed hoarsely, his throat feeling as though it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. As he peeled his eyes opened, he closed them almost immediately against the bright, white light. It stung and burned his eyes and he attempted to peel his eyes open quite a few times as he adjusted. There was a hand in his, fingers wrapped around his loosely and Stiles blinked a few times.
From the white room and the tubes and monitors around him, he realized that he was in the hospital. He also noted that his knee was elevated and wrapped in thick bandages. As a matter of a fact, most of his legs were wrapped in bandages and his right arm wrapped in slightly less than his left. The morphine—and he was willing to bet that it was morphine—kept him unable to register the exact reasons for those bandages.
He wracked his brain, trying to come up with a reason for his hospitalization, but he only felt a blank spot. Stiles rubbed his forehead with his free, bandaged hand—dismissing the recollection for later. He glanced around the room—relieved to spot the pack scattered around the room. They were all resting—settling close to each other in something Stiles considered a puppy-pile, though they were all resting. He frowned in consternation when he noticed the bags under their eyes and the exhaustion sagging their features.
His father was also amongst them, seated in a chair, but curled up with his hand brushing against the pillow to the right of Stiles' face—a thin blanket draped over his father. It looked as though he hadn't had the time to change and shower recently, face a bit stubbled in a tell-tale way and Stiles worried at his lower lip as he contemplated waking his father to kick him out so he could go take care of himself.
Opting not to, because his father looked exhausted enough on Stiles' account and he returned his attention to his gripped hand. Derek Hale was at his bedside—expression pinched, and Stiles felt his heart give a surprised flutter. He hadn't suspected that the elusive alpha would be at his bedside as he was, and it was a sign of his exhaustion when he barely shifted in response to Stiles' heartbeat changing. The door opened and Stiles lifted his free hand to press a finger to his lips quickly—knowing that the pack needed their rest.
Melissa McCall stood silhouetted in the doorway—scrubs wrinkled and hair loosening from its bun, more strands framing her face than what was pulled back. She nearly dropped her clipboard when she saw him—his file, Stiles realized—but recovered and deposited it on a free surface, hurrying quickly to him. "You scared us to death, Stiles." She whispered against his forehead, pressing her lips in motherly affection there a second later. She pulled back, checking him over. "I'm going to remove the tube, alright? I know it needs to be removed." She spoke after a moment and he nodded, he was attempting to breathe around it—but also be silent at the same time and it was an odd combination.
Panic thrummed through him when she did so, the tube scraping mercilessly against his throat, and he made a whining noise—tears slipping from his shut eyes. The hand in his gripped tighter, signaling that Derek was awake, grounding him and he opened his eyes to look towards Derek. Derek's expression was pinched, and his eyes flared red, though purple veins crept up his arm and Stiles felt the relief of the alpha taking his pain—mind registering that that was why Derek was at his side.
It must be the alpha's turn if they were all attempting to ease his physical pain. "Cough, Stiles—I know it hurts, but you need to cough." Melissa told him and he obeyed at a nod from Derek. It did hurt, a hurt that was swiftly taken away and Stiles thought of frowning and telling Derek that he shouldn't be hurting himself to see to Stiles. "Good—you're doing good." She spoke encouragingly, before the tube was completely removed and Stiles relaxed against the hospital pillows, closing his eyes.
He felt completely exhausted, but he forced his eyes opened after a second—unwilling to fall back asleep before he figured out what the hell happened that caused him to end up hospitalized. "What happened?" His voice was a hoarse whisper and he winced—a grimace sliding across his face when it hurt to even speak.
Derek stared at him for a second, eyes assessing, before he scowled. "Gerard Argent." He growled. It took a minute—a flicker of confusion—before Stiles remembered. Panic threaded along his bones, and he could barely register anything other than his own heartbeat—his own fear. It was like the words were a summoning and he was irrationally afraid that Gerard would barge into the room and finish what he started. That fire would lick at the curtains and there would be no escape for any of them.
Hands gripped his face, and he gripped their forearms, registering the red eyes in front of him. Derek was speaking, voice a low murmur that slid under Stiles' range of hearing and his vision focused on Derek. The heat of Derek's hands on his face were real. The force of his gaze was real. He was real, a presence at his side and in front of him. More real than the idea of Gerard Argent barging into their room. That thought centered him, grounded him. He still felt distant terror under his skin—fear resounding in his breath, but it was more manageable.
He kept his grip on Derek's forearms, fingers digging into the leather jacket. Derek let him—let him anchor himself and didn't pull back like Stiles half-expected him to. Derek removed one hand after a few heartbeats—panicked and fluttery—to press it against his chest, over his heart. Stiles focused on his bandaged hand—pressing against Derek's Henley and feeling the movement against his fingers. The even beat of Derek's heart soothing and grounding and he almost said that he wished Derek was there more during his panic attacks because he had never felt so calm afterwards.
Their gazes locked. The red faded from Derek's eyes, leaving that strange green-blue-brown-hazel color that Stiles thought changed based on his moods. Right now, they were a green-blue color, light and brilliant with specks of brown that could be seen from as close as they were.
After a few minutes, Derek flicked his gaze to Stiles' right and he followed, their hands sliding away from each other. The rest of their mismatched group had awakened during Stiles' panic attack, and he felt a pang of guilt for that—though it was quelled by the relief he could see in his father's gaze. The sheriff lunged forward, wrapping Stiles in a tight hug—mindful of his injuries, though it was for nothing as Stiles could feel Derek's hand against his shoulder. The alpha kept taking away his pain from out of sight of the sheriff.
"Don't ever do anything like that, again." His father ordered, breathing the words against his hair. He pulled away and Stiles felt Derek's hand slide away when his father could see it. "Do you understand me? Don't ever do that to me, again. I can't lose you." There were tears in his father's eyes—making them glisten in the hospital light.
Stiles nodded, "I'm sorry." He whispered.
He was crushed into yet another hug. "I'd rather never hear those words again." Erica murmured contritely and Stiles lifted his gaze to cast her a curious glance, lips parting. She met his gaze squarely, dark eyes sparkling with fury and tears. Her expression informed him exactly what she thought of his apologies, and he lowered his gaze after a minute, lifting his arm to wrap it around his father's shoulders, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes.
They were not normally the affectionate sort, but he knew his father needed the embrace as much as Stiles needed it. "God, dad, you stink. Have you skipped showering for a month?" Stiles spoke once they had pulled away and his father seemed to have a more manageable control of his emotions.
A smattering of light chuckles followed the query, though they seemed entirely forced. "You haven't been awake for two weeks." His father choked out, "It's been two weeks." Stiles mentally documented that. He could imagine that the two weeks must have felt like hell and the only reason he was able to manage consciousness was because the wolves were draining his pain and perhaps even Deaton had been privately involved in his healing.
"I—" He started.
Erica growled. "Don't you dare say, you're sorry." She demanded, quieting slightly under Boyd's hand. Stiles glanced quickly to his father—assessing his expression, wondering if he had been told about werewolves and all of that. He didn't see anything in his expression, though it could be because he wanted to have that conversation with Stiles later. "You have no idea how many times we've—I've—" Her voice tapered off, eyebrows pinching.
Stiles searched her expression for a moment before he found what he was looking for. They had heard his voicemail—heard his words to them, his goodbyes and he hardly remembered all he said. He remembered the emotions easily enough, but the actual words were lost to him. He must have said he was sorry a dozen times, hence their aversion to him saying the word again. "Ok." He whispered, nodding.
Licking his lips, cringing at the dry, cracked nature, he glanced away. He could feel their penetrating stares and the room seemed thick with silent tension. He knew they wanted to talk about Gerard Argent and his own stupidity in choosing death, though he didn't know what exactly his dad knew. "You just woke up; I'm not going to question you Genim." His father informed him after a minute.
"Dad." Stiles' gaze flicked to his father, scolding. There was a reason he went by Stiles instead of Genim, but his father only lifted his eyebrows challengingly—daring him to tell him not to. He released a put-upon sigh at the expression, argument deflating like a popped balloon. He pinched the skin of his thigh, focusing his thoughts. There were a plentiful number of questions he had about what had happened while he was asleep, though no one seemed willing to start on that—leaving him concerned.
He licked his lips again and Scott grabbed the water bottle near him and opened it. His best friend hurried forward, ignoring Stiles' attempt to grab the bottle for himself and instead holding it to his lips—waiting to angle it as Stiles settled and gave a short jerk of his head. The water was soothing—a relief and welcome respite against the coarseness of his throat. Almost too soon, Scott pulled the bottled water away and Stiles made a brief protesting noise, before relaxing tiredly against the pillows—eyes fluttering.
"Go to sleep, son." His dad spoke sternly. "We'll talk more when you're ready."
It would be a while before Stiles could stay away for more than an hour. Amidst his spurts of consciousness, deputies had come to take his statement. Apparently, all of his plans in place had given plenty of evidence for Gerard Argent to be locked away and his statement would be used against the man. Initially, his father had protested him delivering a statement from a hospital bed, but Stiles had figured that it would be more impactful that way—give the DA more ammunition to put Gerard away for the rest of his life.
Though, it was unquestionable that that life would be short as his late-stage cancer settled. He had wanted to grin at that—Gerard had practically handed over the keys to his own downfall in his cornering of Stiles. Attempting to kill the sheriff's son left him no allies in the human world and attempting to kill a human in a pack of peaceful werewolves had left him no allies in the hunter community. Most honored the used code of not attacking werewolves without provocation and there had been exceedingly little.
Even Kate Argent would not be able to get her father aid from the hunters beyond the grave because her crimes had also been brought to light. The two had apparently been disowned by the hunter community along with their allies, at least according to Chris Argent. It would have been Allison to tell him, the man had said, but Chris had felt he owed Stiles a debt for what his father had done.
The sins of the parents fall on the children to repent.
It was a ridiculous thing, in Stiles' esteemed opinion, and he had held little blame for Chris or Allison Argent. They had not been involved in Gerard's nefarious plans and would have stopped him if they had known. That was enough for him—though his forgiving nature did not give him an easy recovery. His knee had been wrecked and it was likely he would have a limp for the rest of his life from it—that knowledge had caused Derek to retreat for the past week or so.
Stiles rather considered himself lucky it hadn't been worse. It could have been so much worse than a few burns scars and a limp. Granted, that might be understating the wounds in the moment as Stiles found it difficult to stand with the aid of the bed. He was also alone—but he had had to use the bathroom and he didn't want to have to call someone to assist him to the bathroom. They tended to not leave, and Stiles appreciated the help though he loathed the awkward feeling in his stomach when the most basic task was a challenge.
Hence, his attempt to go to the bathroom on his own. He hadn't been moved from his initial room yet, though there were talks of him being discharged. The fact that it was almost summer made it more likely that he could be discharged from the hospital because he would have people at his house to keep an eye on him. The school had also been shut down for the few weeks it took to rebuild it enough to be structurally sound and most of the classrooms near the gym and locker room had been closed off and their class rerouted.
At first, they hadn't wanted to give him schoolwork yet—but they had relented when Stiles had grown bored and taken to pranking the nurses and doctors. He had finished his schoolwork—they had sent home pamphlets for the rest of the year, even Harris, so maybe the guy wasn't a complete asshat as to give him more than required—and then the boredom had come in again. Most of the Hale pack were at school, other than Derek—who was avoiding him—and the temporary pack-mate Peter.
That had been an awkward conversation.
Peter Hale had slipped in when everyone else was preoccupied to chat with him and had looked at the burn damage with a sympathetic glint in his eyes. They had both nearly burned alive—they were similar in that aspect—and Peter had even taken the liberty of taking away some of Stiles' pain. He had fallen asleep before they could really have a full conversation that hadn't consisted of the monologue that Stiles thought Peter might have practiced in the bathroom mirror that morning.
It wasn't an evil villain monologue—well, not the typical one anyways. It had been covered in snark and sarcasm, but there had been concern present as well. Stiles refocused on the task ahead of him, hopping along and keeping his right foot from touching the floor.
He couldn't be on his right leg for months—his knee needing time to heal, though Stiles figured he wouldn't exactly follow the doctors' guidelines for his recovery period. Stubbornness triumphs. Gritting his teeth, he began the process of edging around the bed, keeping his right leg close to the bed, letting it take some of his weight. The bathroom wasn't supremely far from him—though there was a short distance he had to cross wherein he didn't have anything to grab onto.
Stiles had turned off the monitor sound and disconnected himself from it and a few of the tubes—he knew exactly where to reconnect them, having the nurses do it when they helped him the bathroom and him being observant during those times.
Hopping along on his left foot, he grinned when he made it to the bathroom. Yes, his blood rushed behind his ears, but he had made it to the bathroom. He relieved himself, one hand propped against the tiled wall, before washing his hands thoroughly—they had removed the bandages on his hands, though not his feet, and the blisters needed a salve to keep them from hurting too much and the soap did sting inside of them. Stiles grimaced, before turning, hand outstretched to grasp the door.
Leaning against it for a moment's pause, he pressed his forehead against the cool, wooden surface. A small fever had churned beneath his skin—due to the prolonged exposure to the heat—and he shivered, gooseflesh spreading a layer on his skin. With a long exhale, he nudged the door open and maneuvered himself to the outside of it. "Stiles." Scott's voice was warning. His best friend had appeared while he was in the bathroom and Stiles felt a flush creep up his neck.
"Oh, hey, Scotty-boy." Stiles rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. He offered a flimsy, sheepish smile. "School got out, already?" He glanced to the small digital numbers in the corner of the screen on the heartbeat monitor, squinting.
Scott deposited his bag on the table with a long-suffering sigh. "Why is it that you always have to be up to something when we leave you alone for an hour? Probably less than an hour." He walked over to Stiles and wrapped an arm around his waist, helping him back to the bed while Stiles scowled and purposefully tried to keep his weight from leaning against Scott. It was a matter of his own stubborn pride. "How are you feeling?" Scott queried once he finished helping to situate Stiles.
Stiles scowled at his thin hospital sheet. "Bored." He drawled out the word. He nodded to his completed school-work. "Finished the work for the year. And Melissa took away the TV remote." He crossed his arms, flicking his gaze up to meet Scott's.
His best friend did not look as sympathetic as Stiles had hoped, rather looking amused. "Probably shouldn't have pranked them." Scott plopped down in the chair, leaning forward to balance his elbows on his knees. "Pain, ok?" He asked, checking in. Stiles had accepted the packs' incessant pain-relieving, but then he had gotten tired of it because it was a practice that left him sleepy, and he had taken to hitting them with empty Jell-O cups.
"It's fine, Scotty-boy." Stiles waved a dismissive hand.
Scott's expression did not change, unappeased with the answer and doubtlessly the telltale sign from Stiles' heartbeat. Stiles gave him a look, telling him to let it rest for the moment and his best friend looked as though he wanted to protest before backing down. "You better let me know if it gets worse." Scott murmured warningly. "Anyways, you'll be out of here soon. I think I overheard the nurses mention that your discharge date might be this Saturday." He added and Stiles smiled.
He flicked his best friend's ear. "Thank your wolf ears." Stiles teased.
Swatting his hand away, Scott playfully scowled. "Don't call it that."
"Alright." Stiles nodded placatingly, biting back a mischievous grin. "Wolf-boy."
Rolling his eyes, Scott murmured contritely. "I can't win with you, can I?"
Stiles shook his head. "Nope." He offered the grin he had been biting back. He shifted his weight and cringed slightly at the small pressure on his side—on top of the burns, he also had the bruising from the beating he had taken and those had a way of reminding him when it was least convenient. "Scott, do we need to have a discussion about you keeping your paws to yourself." Stiles warned, popping an eye open—he had closed his eyes to manage himself.
With a scowl, Scott withdrew his outstretched hands. "Alright, fine. But we do need to talk." Scott spoke with a thin tone of voice. Stiles squired uncomfortably, contemplating pretending to go to sleep to avoid the conversation. They hadn't discussed the voicemail Stiles had left the pack—mainly because he would force himself to wake up in the fleeting moments where they weren't there or busy himself with homework or babble around the conversation.
Attempting the same tactic, he offered a wisp of a smile. "Oh no, you're not about to break-up with me. We need to talk—" He adjusted his voice to mimic Scott's deep tone with a hint of mockery in his tone. "—normally a phrase said before a break-up, and you should at least wait till I'm out of the hospital bed."
Unimpressed look firmly in place, Scott crossed his arms and angled his head to one side. "I would have waited, but—" He shook his head, face lined with impatience. "You—you almost died, and I want to know why the hell you didn't tell me that when you first called. How the hell could you have thought that I would be ok knowing later that while I had been having fun—you were dying. And in the worst possible way." Scott's voice got louder the more he spoke before he closed his eyes.
Stiles' expression pinched apologetically. He outstretched a hand to place it on top of Scott's fist. He would have apologized, but that implied regret and he wouldn't regret keeping his friend safe and alive—as well as the fact that the pack seemed to loathe him apologizing. So, instead, he said nothing.
"You can't ever do that again—do you understand me? You can't ever choose to die again, not for me. Not for Derek. Not for anyone. You said I was your brother—well you're mine and I can't live without you, either." Scott finished, reaching forward to wrap Stiles in a hug. He was crying, the tears falling on Stiles' neck, and he squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the back of Scott's shirt, burying his face in Scott's shoulder. Even though he knew that wolves needed that kind of comfort, the tactile comfort of scenting, he also realized that he needed it too. He needed the comfort just as much, maybe even more.
He couldn't make that promise, though. He didn't regret remaining loyal to his friends, the only thing that he did regret was the pain he caused them. Leaving a voicemail of goodbyes had seemed the right move at the time—because his death had seemed a surety. "You all seem to hate it when I say I'm sorry—so I really don't know what else to say." Stiles murmured, even if he wasn't near Scott's ear, he knew his brother would hear him.
Scott stiffened. "You truly have no idea how often you said it." He pulled away. Wiping at his eyes, Scott withdrew his cracked phone from his sweatshirt pocket. Stiles quirked a brow at the state of Scott's phone—he didn't recall it being cracked when he woke up. Scott caught his gaze, "Derek." He stated simply.
"He broke your phone?" Stiles queried. "What? Did you piss him off during training?"
Scott shook his head in the negative. "Nope. I gave him the phone so he could hear your message to him." Scott answered. Stiles swallowed roughly, he had been hoping that Derek's avoidance may be an unwillingness to see him injured and not a rejection. Clearly, he had been wrong. Derek was avoiding him because of that, and it hurt. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead—feigning a headache for the tears forming in his eyes. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't. It was fine—he had faced rejection aplenty from Lydia and this—this was just another name on the list.
Opening his eyes, he saw Scott with pursed lips and furrowed eyebrows, confused. "Ok, well, I guess I'll pay for fixing your phone screen." Stiles shrugged with faux casual-ness. He quirked a brow when Scott shook his head insistently.
"You're not going to pay to fix my phone screen. I'll get it out of Derek eventually." Scott assured him. Inwardly, Stiles mused that if Derek had not offered to pay to have it fixed already than it was doubtful he would have anything to do with it. "Stiles, what did—what exactly did you tell him?" He questioned curiously.
Stiles offered a wisp of a smirk. "Oh, you know, it was full of insults to the greatest sourwolf to ever live." He answered quickly, uncaring that the uptick of his heart would give him away as a liar. Scott may protest it, may dig his heels in and try to extract the words from him, but Stiles could dig his heels in just as much. "So, mundane-normal-people talk, how was school? Is someone tormenting Harris as much as I normally do?" He changed the subject obviously.
Scott grinned. "Well—Isaac has started taking the task very seriously."
"Oh. You have to tell me everything."
It was an indescribable relief to finally be in his room for the first time in almost six weeks. Stiles had missed being there—being able to seek the comfort his bedroom offered, even if it was upstairs and not recommended that he stay on the second floor over the first, he had met his father's will on that stubbornly. Bed beat couch. It was far more comfortable to start, and the bathroom was right across the hall. Stiles relaxed on the bed, stretching, and adjusting—the typical aches were slightly subdued by the pain medication they had prescribed him.
That and the burn lotion he was being required to use. Stiles glanced over to his father in the doorway and rolled his eyes. "Dad, I'm fine. You can go to work. I'm sure Scott will be by in like an hour. I can manage an hour on my own." Stiles remarked.
"Stiles—" His father started; arms folded across his chest.
Stiles shook his head, jabbing a finger at him. "Nope. You're the sheriff—go do sheriff-y things. And, most of you have been hovering for the past six weeks—space is a thing, you know. And I'm not just talking about space like outer space but breathing space—putting like a mile between us space. So, to end my long-winded rant—go. I'll be fine." He insisted, inwardly pleased when his father looked slightly amusedly exasperated by the babble—though it could also be the somewhat maniacal gesturing.
His father stared him down for another second, blue eyes assessing before the tension in his shoulders dissipated fractionally. "Fine. But, I'm going to text you when I get to the station and you better text me back—I'm serious, Genim." He added extra emphasis on his name and Stiles grimaced—his dislike for his first name and the fact that many of his friends now knew it painfully obvious.
"Ok, ok, I will. Just stop with the Genim business." He muttered the last part to himself, agitated. He grabbed his phone off the end-table, someone had also taken care to move his charger and laptop to that specific table—Stiles suspected Isaac may have been responsible for that since his father had alternated between being at the sheriff station running through paperwork, he had given Stiles curly fries when they finally got the paperwork for Gerard Argent through, and the hospital.
Dad nodded acceptingly. "Good. Now, do you need anything before I go?"
Stiles pinned him with a look. "Hovering." He deadpanned. They traded farewells and Stiles tilted his head back for a view of the ceiling. It was nice to have a moment to himself—in truth, he always had a max of an hour completely alone, unless one counted the nurses, before someone would be hovering at his bedside. Or multiple someones—he appreciated the gesture, but it was starting to get a little bit frustrating when he couldn't even get ten minutes to do his own thing.
And if his own thing included research or just browsing through his favorite YouTubers than that was that. Stiles laid there for a few minutes, before he heard the buzz of his phone and responded to his father's incoming text with an eye-roll. He placed his phone back on the table and grabbed his laptop off of it—sitting up and adjusting his pillows awkwardly, the reach did put a little bit of strain on him but nothing unmanageable. He sat his laptop in his lap and powered it on.
Entering his passcode—a lengthy thing—he connected to the internet before loading up Netflix. Stiles needed something light and fun, and Netflix housed the Office and Arrested Development—both of which held exceedingly little angst and seemed normal and mundane though Michal Scott was a character. He loaded an episode—selecting at random—before turning the volume up on his laptop.
It was probably due to that that he didn't notice Isaac vault into his room until the other cleared his throat and Stiles jumped. Isaac's face was all apology when Stiles paused the episode to glance up at him, one hand shooting to his chest. "You furballs need to start learning the meaning of a door. Doors are for entering places, you know. You knock on them and then you enter. Windows are for looking at things from inside a house or room—unless you're a creeper. If you're looking at someone from the outside of a window—you a creeper. Ignore whatever Derek classifies as normal because he a creeper."
Isaac snorted as Stiles scooted over, grimacing a little and patting the space beside him. "Thank you for the world-class definition. What? Did you read a dictionary while in the hospital?" Isaac teased lightly.
"Yes and I did it solely to annoy you." Stiles quipped. "So, what brings you here? If you're here to hover, I will smack you upside the head with a pillow." He warned, holding a free pillow threateningly.
The other rolled his eyes, "Oh, I'm so scared." Isaac retorted mockingly. Stiles swatted him. "So, the Office, huh? I would have expected you to be binge-watching Supernatural like your life depended on it." Isaac teased, quirking an eyebrow at the show choice.
Stiles shrugged. "I've watched it like eight times in the past year alone." He answered. Isaac gave him a look complete with eyebrows raised near to his hair-line. "What? I thought there might be some elements that would be the same. Sue me." He countered, avoiding the topic of why he wasn't watching it now. He just—needed a break from that world for a moment and the idea of watching hunters settled like food poisoning in his stomach because even though the last hunter he had interacted with was Chris Argent, it was hard to set aside his far darker interactions with Gerard Argents and the merry brigand of muscle-heads that were missing a few screws—clearly.
"Only you would turn a TV show into research." Isaac shook his head fondly. Stiles just stuck his tongue out. "I'm surprised your dad didn't wait for one of us to get here." He stated after Stiles had pressed play on the episode, skipping the intro once the joke from the beginning played out—earning a muffled laugh from Isaac.
He waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, I kicked him out. Have I mentioned that I hate hovering because I do—I hate it." Stiles answered with faux cheer in his voice. He deflated after a second, running a hand through his hair—it had grown out a little in the six weeks, leaving it at a somewhat awkward stage. "Look, I appreciate the concern—but the round-the-clock surveillance thing should not be a thing." He informed the werewolf testily.
Isaac was silent for a few minutes, the room filled with the sound of Michael Scott. When he spoke, his voice was level. "We're also making sure that you're still ok. Stiles, I don't think you realize how terrifying it was to hear that voicemail. Because you almost died from something we thought we could keep you safe from and it rattled us—it rattled the pack." Isaac remarked, lips pursed. Stiles paused the episode, turning slightly to view the werewolf. Isaac's eyes were bright with tears when he looked towards him, and he felt slightly wrecked and taken aback. "I know that, for me. My wolf wants to be around you constantly right now, wants one of us to be around you constantly to assure itself that you're alive. It's not that we think you're about to keel over—but it's an instinct that we can't avoid right now."
Stiles wrapped his arm around the other, damning the aches and pains because he sensed that the embrace was needed. "You really think I'm pack, don't you?" He murmured the question.
Nodding, Isaac leaned against his shoulder, one hand on his arm and Stiles let him absorb some of the main, cutting him a warning look when he tried to go too far. "Of course, we do. Derek might be too stubborn to admit it, but you are pack. You are pack and we almost lost you." Isaac assured him. "Though, we do need to talk about the guilt thing." His voice turned particularly angered when he brought that up.
"The guilt thing?" Stiles furrowed his eyebrows, racking his mind for what Isaac was talking about before he remembered that he may have overshared his guilt for not getting Isaac out of a terrible situation. "Oh, yeah, that. Do we have to? Can't it just be one of those unsaid things where you just forgive me, and we both give it's cool nods?" He offered a half-smile.
He wasn't expecting Isaac to growl at that. "There's absolutely fucking nothing you should feel guilty about with my father. So, no, it's not a forgive you thing because there's nothing to forgive. I never, once, even thought of blaming you. So, the fact that you blame you is just—it's ridiculous. And, another thing—I'd rather you be alive, and Gerard know our secrets than you dead—burned alive, which is a whole 'nother sea of issues—and him know nothing, ok?" Isaac spoke with barely contained anger in his voice and his eyes completely gold.
Stiles glanced at him. "Tell me that you would have done something different, Isaac." He challenged quietly. "Tell me that if it were Gerard cornering you—you would have told him everything about the pack knowing that everyone in it might die because of it. Tell me that you would, and I'll promise to never do something like that again." He finished, drumming his fingernails against his arm.
"I'm a werewolf—I'd heal quicker." Isaac fired back.
"And if you weren't. If you weren't a werewolf or if he had used something that would hinder your healing and you had to decide between the packs' lives and your own that you would choose yours." Stiles did not wait a heartbeat before shooting that down. He softened. "You wouldn't Isaac. If I am pack than I carry that same damn loyalty to you and everyone else that you carry to me and everyone else." Stiles was choosing to focus on that rather than the guilt thing—because it was still something he felt in the back of his mind, the guilt of being an unknowing bystander.
Isaac made a whining noise, burying his face in Stiles' neck and he let him, running fingers through the curly blonde hair. "You're never going to promise to not do something like this, are you?" Isaac murmured loud enough for him to hear.
Stiles shook his head. "I'm not. I don't regret it, Isaac. I'd die for all of you—it's a sucky thing to hear and I'd appreciate it if you didn't wolf out on me or start growling at me for it because I know you'd do the same." Stiles added when he realized that the sentiment might cause a lack of control for Isaac. The glowing eyes were a bit of a dead giveaway to the barely there fragment of control that he had.
"Ok." Isaac whispered. He pulled back, meeting Stiles' gaze with blue eyes. "Though, I do want you to know that I never blamed you for my father." Isaac's expression turned distant and there was an old hurt residing in his eyes at the mention of the man who did not even deserve the title.
Stiles squeezed his shoulder, nodding. He wouldn't say that his guilt would be completely alleviated, but the words did help to push it to the back of his mind. "Alright—that's enough of the sappy shit. We're watching the Office and we will laugh at the corny jokes and cringe at the second-hand embarrassment and not worry about anything, got it furball?" Stiles turned his attention back to his laptop screen, pressing the keypad to take it off of sleep mode—they had left it alone too long apparently.
Isaac nodded; a movement Stiles noticed in his peripheral as he unlocked his laptop. "What the hell kind of password is that?" Isaac snorted, arching an eyebrow.
He shrugged. "What? Did you expect me to take a page out of Scott's book?"
"Do I want to know?" Isaac queried.
"His username is Allison, and his password is also Allison."
"Should you be sharing that?"
"Peter already knows—long story about him being a psycho with a penchant for cornering innocent jeep-owners—and Scott hasn't changed it since then." Stiles cringed—he tended to keep what he had done then away from anyone's knowledge because it made him feel like a traitor for giving away the location to a psychopath. "Anyways, back to the Office." Stiles changed the subject.
Isaac did not seem pleased with that—though he did let it go. "Seriously, though, the Office?" He asked after a few minutes of watching the episode and a very put-upon sigh escaped Stiles' mouth.
"My house, my rules, wolfy."
Over the next week of his confinement to bed-rest, which majorly sucked though it sucked less than being stuck in the hospital with strangers poking their heads in to check on him. Rather, the people doing the checking—correction, hovering and coddling—were the pack. He minded it a little less after his conversation with Isaac—it did help that Isaac considered him pack as well as the others, now if only Derek could do that and stop being a pansy and avoiding him. He felt majorly bored and spent most of his time on his laptop or playing card games with Scott, Isaac, and Allison.
There was the one time he tried to play a card game with Erica and Boyd—but that one was better left unmentioned and would never be mentioned again if Stiles could help it. Currently, the two were in charge of him—well Erica was painting her nails in his room while she hijacked his computer to watch something other than the Office or Arrested Development while Boyd was raiding the fridge and probably getting them some food as it was almost lunch-time.
The rest of the pack were busy. Jackson was being forced to volunteer at his father's office here—a compromise he had with his dad that allowed for him to stay with Derek while his adoptive parents were in London. Lydia was out shopping with Allison. Scott and Isaac were working a shift at the animal clinic—the latter having accepted the job so that he could pay for groceries sometimes and not completely mooch off Derek. And Derek—well Derek was still pulling the avoiding routine.
"Your alpha is a pansy." Stiles blurted out at the thought of Derek. There was a distinct choking sound from downstairs and he smirked a little in amusement at the fact that he had caught Boyd so off-guard. Erica snorted and paused the episode she was streaming on his laptop to quirk her eyebrows at him questioningly. "What? He's a total pansy. You can tell him I said that." He informed her.
She chuckled. "Derek doesn't believe in not shooting the messenger, so—I'd rather not."
Stiles did not pout—he just frowned. "And here I thought Catwoman wasn't afraid of anyone." He baited while she bared her teeth in a distinctly unfriendly manner. Stiles was unfazed—Derek was much more intimidating when he got going.
Boyd returned to the room with a few sandwiches on a paper plate, giving him a look questioning his sanity before handing him a toasted ham sandwich and taking a seat beside Erica. "Oh, she's not. But she knows when to pick a fight." Boyd spoke, taking another bite from the sandwich he must have started eating while downstairs.
"I would think that the time to tell your alpha he's being a pansy is when he's avoiding people." Stiles countered. He turned to his side to look at them fully, mindful of the sandwich and making a note to dust off the crumbs when he finished. "I mean, seriously. I haven't seen him for weeks—not since the knee-limp thing—" He tried not to cringe or feel sad about that—it did suck that his lacrosse career was essentially over and many athletic things might be over as well, but he was alive, wasn't he? He made it; it could have been worse. "—or is he still uncomfortable about the voicemail I left him? Because I've tried to apologize for it, but he's not answering and I'm pretty sure he blocked me."
They both frowned, their senses obviously incredibly informative of his mood regarding his knee. "What exactly did you tell him in that voicemail?" Erica tilted her head to one side, blonde, curled hair falling like a waterfall over one shoulder.
Stiles shot her a weak grin. "Nice try." He hadn't shared what he had told Derek and Scott was nice enough to keep the voicemail to himself and not let anyone else hear that part of it. "But, seriously, though? Is this going to come down to you all leaving because Derek clearly doesn't consider me a part of your exclusive after-school wolf club?" He bit his lip, having not meant to share that at all, but it had slipped out.
"Shut up, Batman." Erica answered automatically.
"Well, that's nice."
She pinned him with a look, eyes flashing gold. "You're pack, Stiles. Derek knows that. He's just—he feels guilty Stiles. He feels guilty and all of these other emotions that I can't share with you—and he's handling it in a truly shitty way." Erica spoke quickly.
Boyd also piped in. "She's right." They both ignored her hair toss and the I normally am, "You're pack, Stiles. And you have no idea how much it hurts to see you like this—none—and to know that you're going to have lasting pain because we couldn't save you. It hurts all of us—and yes, Derek might be being a—a pansy as you call it—but he blames himself just like you blamed yourself for somethings completely out of your control or for things that we don't even blame you for." He fixed Stiles with a look, and he exhaled, getting the impression that this went back to the voicemail.
Apparently, they had to talk about that. "I'm not angry at you, Batman. Actually, we both forgive you if that's what you want to hear. If that's what you need to hear." Erica told him, her expression fixed and telling him that he would believe it or else. She muttered something more under her breath about people being so fucking similar, but he didn't catch all of it. "Ok, you get that—conversation over—now both of you shut up so I can get back to watching the goriness of American Horror Story." Erica ended that pretty quickly.
Boyd gave her a fond look and sent Stiles a significant one and he nodded as she pressed play. He appreciated that he didn't have to ask for Boyd to give him another sandwich, once he had finished his, the other hadn't even blinked as he reached the plate over to give him another.
A few days after his conversation with Erica and Boyd, he was also separated from the others with Lydia and Jackson—giving him the first inclination that they were sectioning themselves off on purpose so they could talk about the voicemail with him. He gathered as much from the distinctly uncomfortable expression on Jackson's face and the determination in Lydia's as she polished off her slice of pizza. They had both brought pizza from one of the more expensive restaurants in Beacon County, someone outside of town that Stiles hadn't been to, though he loved the pizza.
"So, I'm guessing you're both here to clear the air and bribe me with pizza?" Stiles raised both eyebrows as he gave them an amused glance. They both had let themselves into his room without much preamble and Scott had quickly made an excuse to leave that didn't require for Stiles to have wolfy-tingling-senses to know was completely bullshit before practically dragging Isaac out by his scarf.
Lydia nodded while Jackson grabbed another slice of pizza. She had forced Jackson to grab a dining room chair when she realized he only had the one desk chair and then claimed the more comfortable chair. "Yes. So, you don't have feelings for me anymore?" Lydia cut straight to the point.
Stiles shrugged. "Straight to the point." He commented, at her perfectly plucked eyebrow lift, he continued. "Ok, I don't. I admire you a lot, as you probably heard in the message—but nothing but platonic and probably sibling-y feelings here." Stiles gestured to himself before gesturing to her.
"That's a relief, then." Lydia spoke. Stiles cringed and she seemed to realize that it was a little harsh. "You're a great guy, Stiles. But—" She glanced significantly towards Jackson, who took yet another slice of pizza to avoid participating in the conversation. Stiles got the brief impression that she had dragged him here by his ear. "I don't care about you like that. Not like Derek." She cast him a glance when he sputtered incoherently.
He snorted. "Derek?" Stiles could hardly believe his ears. He didn't remove the smart points from her pedestal, but he came close to it because Derek didn't have feelings for him. He was pretty sure the guy was apathetic towards him due to the avoidance. "You mean the guy who's been avoiding me for a month after I left him an embarrassing voicemail when I almost died. That speaks total rejection, Lyds. Like complete and total rejection, but not really knowing how to do it to the kid that almost died."
Jackson choked on his pizza. "You are an idiot, Stilinski." Jackson spoke insultingly. "I mean, seriously. I knew that the guy had feelings before I even became a wolf—hell, even Danny called it. Derek has feelings." Jackson informed him factually.
"He doesn't."
Jackson growled at him. "I'm a fucking werewolf, Stiles. I'm pretty sure I can pick up on what my nose is telling me. Hell, even Scott picked up on it—and his head is so far up Allison's ass that it's a miracle he can walk straight." Stiles glowered at him for the insult to his best friend—it was true, completely, but Jackson was Jackson. That was explanation enough for him to not like him insulting Scott. "He likes you. You like him. And you're both complete and total idiots about it."
Lydia flicked him on the forehead when he finished the rant by grabbing another slice of pizza. Jackson was probably putting away an entire box by himself. "We're getting a bit off topic here." She informed him.
Stiles crossed his arms. "I'm pretty sure that most of my voicemail to you two involved me approving of your relationship and threatening Jackson if he screwed things up." He stated dryly. "Do we really need to reiterate that?"
She seemed to think on it before nodding once. "Alright, we don't. Though, we're both glad about it." She gave Jackson a glance, daring him to challenge her on it. Stiles bit his lip to prevent himself from smiling or commenting on Jackson being whipped. "Mainly, I want to help you work things out with Derek." She leaned forward, handing him a slice of pizza. "Because everyone in the pack has come to the agreement that you two knuckle-heads can't work this shit out on your own and you're frankly depressing with the moping."
"This feels like a friendship based on insults." Stiles commented idly.
Her grin was distinctly shark-like. "All of the best friendships are." Lydia acknowledged. "So, we're going to get you over to Derek's loft and then lock you two in a room and force you two to fucking communicate and we're not letting you out until you figure your shit out." She informed him.
Stiles immediately found a loophole. "One thing, pretty sure you're not going to be able to keep Derek inside his own loft. And, even if you do, he's great at the silent game and I don't know what more I can say." He countered with a helpless shrug. "Even if Derek does have feelings, he's being pretty clear that he doesn't want them. He doesn't want to be with me—if he did, don't you think we'd be having a different conversation?" There was something distinctly sad that he was attempting to talk them out of setting him up with Derek—someone he cared about a lot more than he was willing to think on right now.
Because it hurt.
It hurt that Derek clearly didn't want to have those feelings. He didn't want anything to do with Stiles because he had left him high and dry—avoided him like the plague. And that, that was worse than a simple rejection because it gave him embittered hope that maybe one day he would reconsider the fact that he didn't care enough about Stiles to want to care—if that made any sense.
"You seriously want to give up?" Lydia sounded appalled. Her brow furrowed.
Stiles offered a bitter, half-smile that made them both cringe. "Don't you think I've done enough fighting in the past few months? I can't do much more fighting—I literally can't. I'm immobile right now, Lyds. And I'm going to be for the foreseeable future—don't you think in the moments you guys have left me alone that I haven't tried to get up? But I can't. So, I'm dealing with that, and I can't deal with the rejection Derek obviously has for both of our feelings." He rubbed a hand down his face.
Jackson wheeled the computer chair forward. "You're not going to be confined to this bed forever, Stilinski." Jackson assured him. "You're not." He spoke again when Stiles seemed a little disbelieving.
He nodded his acquiesce with that. "But I'm not going to be able to walk the same—hell, I'm not even going to be able to be on the lacrosse team. And—and I know I was a bench warmer before that one game where I actually managed to do something. But—it's gone, now. I only get that one game of being good. That's it. And—and I can't even run with you guys anymore—" He blinked back the tears.
Lydia moved out of he chair to sit on the armrest of the computer chair. "It's not forever, Stiles. It's not. You're going to get back up and you're going to be able to do those things because you're Stiles and none of us are going to let you think or believe otherwise." She jabbed a finger in his face.
Jackson nodded. "You do have us, Stilinski." He seemed a bit awkward with the statement and Lydia rolled her eyes at him. "So, stop worrying and let Lydia figure out a way to get you and Derek to sort out your idiocy." Jackson ordered him.
Stiles gave her a look. "I appreciate it, but I'd rather not. I just—I need a bit more time before I want to force Derek into the same room as me." He did need that—because Lydia's plans seemed forceful, and Stiles almost thought that maybe Derek would come to him. "So, give me that and when I'm ready then you can do all of the plotting you like. You'll be the first to know that I'm ready. Promise." He assured her when she seemed a little displeased by the request.
Lydia sighed. "Fine. Now, eat some pizza—you're thin and Jackson—don't you dare open that second box." She moved back to her chair, after giving him another slice and didn't even turn to Jackson when he moved for another box—they had brought six with them. Jackson gaped at her for a moment before rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath before he started scrolling through his phone.
A few minutes later, Stiles laughed when Lydia scolded Jackson for touching the second pizza box again and told him to participate in being social.
When the time came for a conversation with Allison—Stiles was marginally more prepared. He didn't think she would mention the thing with Derek—or he would steer the conversation away from that because Allison was not like her best friend and wouldn't force him to confront the topic. He figured that that conversation may have come sooner if she hadn't left for a vacation for a week—she had informed them that it was really just them going to talk with a few other hunters to inform them all of the details of what Gerard did and why his calls should be avoided by everyone in the hunter community.
Well, mainly it was a trip to solidify that—the hunters had already been neglecting their calls with Gerard but, it was a method of getting that to continue. Stiles still had nightmares about Gerard—more so when he was brought up during the day, though his father or a packmate was normally there to comfort him. There had been that time in the shower that he and Scott decided to not talk about when Stiles had a full-fledged panic attack. It had taken nearly two hours for him to calm down and he had passed out shortly afterwards.
The transition to being able to hobble around on crutches was one he appreciated greatly, though nobody let him manage stairs on his own. But, it was a work in progress that left him feeling much better than he had felt when confined to strict bed-rest for almost three weeks. Those weeks had been depressing and led to some dark thoughts that were difficult to push aside because it made him feel helpless and like he had no chance of getting better.
So, when Scott dropped Allison off and then went downstairs and outside—citing a need to go get the take-out, Stiles truly needed to update Scott on better excuses—he wasn't surprised. "Your boyfriend is an idiot." Stiles informed Allison dryly, with a hint of fondness in his voice.
Allison shrugged and plopped down in the computer chair, wheeling it over. "He's not my boyfriend." She informed him. She bit her lip, "We're still trying to work things out—hopefully the peace treaty will make things a bit better." Allison continued, before shaking her head. "Anyways, not here to discuss that."
Stiles' lips quirked into a mischievous grin. "Are you sure? You know Scott sometimes comes here to wax poetry about your eyes, right?" He teased and she flushed slightly, before giving him a look. "Alright, alright—I'll stop Katniss. Or do you prefer Speedy—you know Thea Queen from the Arrow, red leather, bow." Stiles tilted his head to one side, considering the nickname.
Allison gave him an exasperated look, before she softened, and Stiles gulped. "You told me that you didn't think you were a hero." She spoke softly and Stiles wondered why that part was something she was lingering on—though he could guess why as the others had chosen to linger on the more difficult parts as well.
"I don't think I fit the standards for hero." Stiles answered simply.
Her brow furrowed. "You know, Erica calls you Batman and he's a hero. He's human and he's willing to sacrifice whatever he has to for the sake of others—even himself. He's human and he does all of those things—stand in line with those who are superhuman and can fight side-by-side with them. He's brave and smart." Allison spoke confidently, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands.
Stiles shrugged. "He also knows how to hold his own in a fight." He reminded her.
Allison gave him a challenging look. "And you didn't punch Jackson in the face before. You haven't stood up to Derek before. Haven't stood up to Peter Hale or Gerard Argent." She placed a hand on his arm when he cringed at the mention of Gerard. "You're a hero, Stiles. We all know it—we all see it, so we're going to force you to see it as well. Because the nearly dying for us is pretty damn heroic and you're lucky I didn't tell the others what you said to me about that because they would have both physically and metaphorically hit you upside the head multiple times until you got it—injuries be damned."
Stiles gave her a curious look. "Why are you so insistent on this?" He queried.
Averting her gaze momentarily, Allison picked at a thread on her jean jacket. "Because it was my grandfather who did this to you." He opened his mouth to tell her that he didn't fault her for what her grandfather did, but she cut him a sharp look and he closed his mouth and gestured for her to continue. "Because you said you thought you were going to hell—which is total bullshit because if heroes go to heaven, then you're going there." She added, eyes meaningful. "Because you're Stiles."
He cracked a grin. "And that's a category all to itself." Stiles could feel himself cracking a little because she seemed to believe it, comparing him with Batman and then simply saying that he was a hero because he was Stiles. He almost wanted to believe her—but it was hard to shake the insecurity, the voice that whispered that he hadn't saved that many people. He didn't do much of the fighting because he was fragilely human with no combat training and limited gun training—Dad's the sheriff.
"You're Scott's brother. You're a part of our pack. You risked your life—knowing that you might die—to keep us safe. You've done so much for us, Stiles. So, so much that you didn't demand a thank you for and just did it because it was the right thing to do. So, yes, Stiles you're Stiles and you're a hero." Allison insisted. "And I'll keep telling you that until you believe me. I don't care if I've got to tell you it a hundred times or a million—by the time I'm done, you'll believe it." She finished with a half-smile and Stiles understood how sweetheart Allison could be best friend with somewhat-mean-girl Lydia.
Stiles shuddered. "Why do I feel like this is a fight I'm never going to win?" He muttered and she offered a bright, beaming smile. He side-eyed her, Scott may see an angel, but he saw a bit of the devil in her grin, that saccharine tinge.
Allison patted his shoulder. "Because you won't. Now, what do you want for take-out? I should probably tell Scott, so he stops running laps around the preserve." She asked cheerily, fishing her phone out of her pocket.
After a few more weeks—more towards mid-summer, they were finally giving him longer than an hour to himself. Stiles somewhat missed it at first—being constantly surrounded by people was something he was getting more used to, especially with the return of his mobility—but he kind of appreciated the chance to take a shower without someone in the bathroom with him making sure he didn't fall over or hit his knee on anything. Stiles sat down on the toilet, biting his lip as he wiggled his boxers on and then his sweatpants—moving both past his cast.
He grabbed his phone and sent a quick message to his dad—before toweling his hair and putting on a baggy graphic tee. Hobbling a little around the sink, he grabbed his toothbrush from the stand and squeezed some toothpaste onto it from the nearly empty tube. They had more in the sink, though Stiles wasn't allowed to try and reach for it—something he had to roll his eyes at—and he brushed his teeth, half-listening to the song playing from his Spotify.
Finished getting ready, he put on some deodorant and then put his crutches under his elbows and started the trek back to his room across the hallway. Stiles had to turn once to grab his phone—still playing music at a low volume. It was his first day to himself, something he was immensely grateful for as he had told his friends that they needed to get lives rather than playing babysitter.
Erica, Lydia, and Jackson had been insulted and Erica threw a pillow at his head for the comment—though they had agreed to give him space for the day as long as he texted someone when he was moving. It was a compromise he hadn't wanted to agree to, though he just knew that they didn't want him to fall and somehow screw himself up even more, so he had agreed for the sake of private showers.
He would never take private showers for granted again, he mused as he entered his room and then paused because Derek Hale was sitting on his bed. "I knew there was a trick in it." Stiles muttered contritely as he went to his dresser to grab his favored red sweatshirt. "I knew they wouldn't leave me alone for three hours." He scowled, maneuvering his crutches so that he could put his arms through the sleeves—pointedly not addressing Derek for the moment. Avoidance—how do you like a taste of your own medicine, pansy?
When he turned back to Derek, he arched an eyebrow, hovering in the middle of his room on the crutches. His eyebrow raising skills were not as practiced and effective as Derek's, but he figured that if Derek could communicate through eyebrow-movement, then he would be doing the same.
"So, you're not going to talk to me." Stiles stated more than questioned. He lifted his eyes skyward before refocusing on Derek. "See, this is why I told Lydia that locking us in a room together would be ineffective." He muttered, uncaring if the alpha heard him.
Derek's eyebrows raised. "Lydia didn't tell me to come here." He spoke. The fact that it was the first time Stiles had talked to him in almost three months and it was something about Lydia crept under his skin. They hadn't even been alone together in longer than that and Stiles didn't like that he remembered the last time he had been alone with Derek—it made him feel pathetic.
Stiles shifted his weight slightly—uncomfortable with hovering with the crutches but he wasn't sitting next to Derek. Childish, maybe. Or most definitely, but he didn't care. "Right, of course. You didn't have to be practically forced to be in the same room as me." Stiles let his disbelief seep into his words. Derek opened his mouth, but Stiles didn't let him say anything, cutting him off. "Even if that is true—then what exactly is it that you're doing here? I'm not exactly feeling up to being research-guy at the moment." He remarked.
Derek gave him a glare, eyes flashing red. Stiles just returned his look with a glare of his own—he didn't have the eye-flashing thing, but if someone glared at him, he glared back. He didn't know how not to poke the angry bear—or born werewolf in this case.
Waiting for Derek to start talking, Stiles exhaled. A few minutes passed in which they glared at one another before Stiles started feeling absolutely done with that. "So, are you not going to talk or are you just going to keep glaring at me until someone else comes. In that case, could you move? I'd like to lay down." Stiles informed him.
"You have enough room to lay down, Stiles." Derek countered; eyebrows furrowed.
Stiles gave him a pointed look. "Right, of course I want to lay down next to the guy who spent the past three months avoiding me like an absolute pansy after I nearly burned alive. I'd rather stand. And if you could get to the point, that'd be great or just go out the window you came in through, that'd also be great because I know you didn't use the front door. You and your wolves seem to have a problem with understanding the meaning of a door." Stiles rambled on a little at the end there, but he couldn't help the consternation in him at that detail.
Doors existed for a reason, people. Use them and not the window. Stop being a cliché. "Did you just call me a pansy?" Derek questioned after a few heartbeats. He sounded completely unimpressed with the title and Stiles got the feeling that he wanted to say I'm the alpha and you have to show me respect and blah, blah, blah, grrr, bow down before my resting bitchface of alphadom.
Stiles shrugged, the movement awkward and ungraceful. Crutches did not make shrugging easy and the thought of that made his armpits ache. He exhaled, closing his eyes as he tried not to react to that ache. Choosing to opt out of taking anymore pain meds had seemed like a good enough idea at the time because he didn't want to become too reliant on pain medication—but it did not make it easy to do what he was doing. "I'm sorry; what exactly would you call it, Derek? Being a stand-up, reliable friend. You and I have vastly different definitions of that one, Derek." Stiles refused to call him sourwolf because the past few months had been Derek just being a dick. "At least calling you a pansy is keeping it PG." Stiles added.
The alpha stood up and quickly forced Stiles over to the bed. "Lay down before you fall down." Derek spoke as he took the crutches away. Stiles watched him warily, wondering if he'd try to sit on the bed and cage Stiles in—the man seemed to pick up on how that would go an instead claimed the desk chair. Stiles didn't want to sit on that because it would be more difficult to lower himself onto it and he'd rather not show that weakness to Derek at the moment.
"You haven't answered my question." Stiles noted. "And it's a pretty simple one; why are you here?" He reiterated, adjusting the pillows behind him with the ease of having to do so before and then scooted backwards to prop himself on them.
He would look at Derek instead of the ceiling so Derek could not try to worm his way away from the conversation—not unless he wanted Stiles to throw the empty paper plate on is end-table and his free pillows at him. He might even hit him with his phone if he was feeling particularly vengeful. Derek grabbed something out of the pocket of his leather jacket and Stiles recognized Scott's phone.
Gaze bouncing between the phone and Derek's face as the man unlocked the device and then thumbed through it. "Did you seriously steal Scott's phone? He's going to be pissed." Stiles piped up.
Derek waved him off. "He let me borrow it." Derek informed him.
"Even though you cracked it last time." Stiles countered, folding his arms in an unimpressed manner across his chest. He scoffed. "Did you even pay him for the repair of that or is it another thing you avoided?" Stiles realized that he sounded entirely bitter, but he was sure his feelings couldn't be clearer on that voicemail than if he tattooed his feelings to his forehead. "Why did you even want it?" He queried.
He didn't get a verbal answer, at least, not from Derek. Instead, Derek played the message after skipping to a certain time-stamp. Stiles had to cringe at how his voice sounded—cracky and the choking, hacking, wheezing coughing fits. The memory of it also made him cringe. "Oh god. God. I'm sorry. I don't think—damnit! Ok, ok, get a grip. Umm—Derek? Are you there, sourwolf? Hi. I know—I know I irritate the shit out of you, and you're probably pissed right now because—because of all of this. I'm burning. I'm burning and I can't—I can't move. And it's a message to you because fire—or I think it is. Maybe. I don't—I don't really know—it's hard to think.
"There's—there's so much I want to tell you. So—so many things I wish—I wish I could tell you. You're a good Alpha for starters—I know you sometimes doubt that, but—but you are. You care about your pack. And I know that's hard because caring can—it can get you hurt because life—life is so precious. And caring means you can lose—you can lose people. I also wanted—wanted to tell you that—that I—you're so important to me. Like, one of the most important people in the world to me.
"Which is why I couldn't betray you. I just couldn't do that to you—or—or the others. Because you're important and I think about you a lot—a lot more than I should. I shouldn't think about you—about you so much, but—but I do." Listening to those words, Stiles knew what was coming and almost wanted to beg Derek to shut it off, but he could tell from the piercing gaze he could feel against his forehead—he had lowered his gaze and angled his face downwards, biting his lip. "I think I—I think I love you. Like, love-love. Like, I think I'm in love with you and you—you barely tolerate me, and it doesn't really matter. But I do. I'm in love with you and—wow, how you know I'm probably going to die in the next—in the next twenty minutes.
"I don't think I would have told you that considering the barely-tolerate thing. But, I—I don't think I regret it. No—no regrets, right? Don't want die with those." The words were cut off with a scream and Stiles covered his ears, hearing himself scream. It was awful. It reminded him of the pain in those moments. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Sorry. Sorry. I wanted—I wanted to say more. But, I don't think I can. I know—I know you don't—that you don't consider me pack. But, you're all like pack to me. You're my pack—and—and I—I love—love you guys. L—love. And I'm sorry it's—it's ending like—like this."
There's more, a few seconds more of breathing before the voicemail ends. Stiles sat there, knuckles white as he gripped the sheets. "Why did you play that?" Stiles breathed, tears dripping on his fingers. "How could you play that? What the hell do you want from me, Derek?" He finally looked up, shouting the words, his voice cracking. He could feel the memories—the ones he had worked so precariously to shove back emerging. Why? Why did Derek have to remind him of that—he was fine.
Derek threw the phone on the table, "Is it true?" He dug his nails into the armrests of the computer chair and Stiles imagined that his claws were extended by the glowing red of his eyes, and he almost thought to demand that Derek buy him a new computer chair. An expensive one.
Stiles scowled. "Is what true? Did it seriously take you three months to come ask me if it was true that I have feelings for you? Is it because you couldn't hear my heartbeat to know if I was lying? Wow, what little trust you have in me. Considering you doubt what I told you while I was dying. I was fucking dying, Derek. And all I could think was that I would die, and no one would know how I felt because I never said all of it. And—and you want to fucking tell me that you thought I was fucking lying?" He could feel his face reddening with anger because that was so—it was so fucked.
The alpha was suddenly striding quickly to him, hands braced against the bed. "Exactly, Stiles. You were fucking dying. You almost died and none of us—none of us could do a fucking thing. And because of us—because of your fucking connection to me, Gerard Argent almost fucking killed you." Derek growled, eyes glowing bright red and teeth elongating. "So, yes. Yes—I avoided you because it's not safe for you. Being around us isn't safe, Stiles. Your life is already ruined enough—do you really want to destroy it more?"
Stiles bared his teeth, growling. "Do you think I'm a coward, Derek?" He glared. "You think that at the first sign of danger—the most recent death experience, because you and I both know it's not the first—I'm just going to pretend that werewolves don't exist. That I'm going to run away." He shoved against Derek's arm, attempting to push the fingers he had gripping the bed off.
Derek then hovered over him, arms on either side of his head. Stiles sucked in a sharp breath at his stubbled face being so close to his own. "What about your father, then? Because what if you die next time? Are you really going to be that selfish?" Derek snarled.
Stiles spluttered. "Are you fucking serious, Derek? Low blow, man. Especially, considering you want to call me the selfish one. Who is it exactly that is being selfish because you refusing to do the whole rejection thing so I can move on seems pretty fucking selfish? Or what about the fact that you seem to think that you can make my decisions for me? The fact that I'm in love with you and you either don't feel that way or you do but you don't want to because you're a fucking pansy. Find a better excuse than my life is dangerous, and you might die. You're stooping to Oliver Queen to Felicity Smoak levels." He countered, jabbing a finger in Derek's chest with every point.
"Do you honestly think this is a fucking game, Stiles?" Derek growled. "Look at you—you're on crutches, you might have a limp for the rest of your life—this is not a game. This is permanent, life-altering shit."
A bitter laugh escaped his throat. "Don't you think I know that? It's my life, Derek. I get to chose what I do with it. And if you think that you can just kick me out of it—then your thoughts could not be more wrong. I'm not going to stop helping Scott because you're afraid I might die. Because you're afraid to care about me because you think that the people you care about die." Stiles countered, snarling the words.
Derek leaned closer—close enough that if Stiles wanted to—he could lift his head and kiss him, but he didn't. He didn't because he was livid at Derek for being a pansy and he wasn't going to kiss him. "My family died, Stiles. They burned alive. Kate Argent—under the same orders of the man that nearly burned you alive—burned them alive. So, it's not a thought, it's a reasonable thing." His voice was softer, lower when he spoke and less filled with anger. Instead, it was more filled with sorrow and grief.
Stiles softened, wiggling his arm a little before reaching it up to press tentative fingers against Derek's stubbled cheek, tracing his jawline quietly. "When you care about people—even if you know they're dying—you don't push them away. My mother died, Derek. Every day I watched her fade away until she was almost unrecognizable in the end. But I would hate myself more if I pushed her away before she died because then I wouldn't have been present for some of the lucid moments. You take the bad with the good when you care about someone. The fact that we might die with the fact that we have those fleeting moments of normalcy." He informed him in a level voice, not stammering.
Derek was silent, his eyes slowly losing the red hue until they were green-blue, the brown specks wider, darkening his eye color. He let Stiles continue his absent perusal of his face—their eyes locked before Stiles' gaze wandered to where his fingers traced Derek's jaw to his ear and then back, feeling his chin. The gesture was intimate in a way that made his heart flip inside his chest.
"Let's be real, Derek. With my luck, I could get hit by a car tomorrow and die then. Accidents happen. Bad, completely human-caused accidents happen, and they cause death. And I know—I know that you'd regret this. You'd regret the months you spent avoiding me—yes, like a pansy. You'd regret shoving me out because all of the things that could have been we never ever had a glimpse of. We never even had a shot of. Or a taste of." Stiles murmured quietly. "We never got to go on a date. We never got to celebrate birthdays together or Christmases or New Years or Valentines. We never even got to kiss. All of the fun we could have had would be left to nothing more than wasted opportunity." He finished.
Derek shifted his weight, settling more comfortably. He did something that completely surprised Stiles and buried his face in Stiles' neck. Stiles fingers brushed against the hair on the back of his neck before he ran his fingers through the rest of it. "Why can't you ever do what I think you're going to do?" Derek murmured against his neck and Stiles chuckled watery in response—a tear sliding down his cheek.
He closed his eyes and kept a constant movement of running his fingers through Derek's hair. "Because I'm an unpredictable, stubborn asshole." Stiles answered after a few heartbeats. "You're one too for playing that voicemail. It was like being dragged back into that moment, Derek. Worse than when I talked about it with everyone else because I got vague memories, but I didn't have to remember exactly." He babbled.
A whine escaped Derek's throat. "I'm sorry." He spoke, nose trailing along Stiles' collarbone.
"I might need that in writing—sourwolf, leader of the furballs apologizing." Stiles quipped reflexively and he didn't have to see Derek's expression to know that there was an exaggerated eye-roll. He tugged Derek's face back from his neck, locking eyes and his eyes searching Derek's. "Did you really think I was lying?" He asked, feeling vulnerable.
Derek shook his head. "No." He answered. "I knew you weren't—but it was my fault, Stiles. I couldn't protect you—I failed to protect you and you almost died because of it." He continued.
Stiles pulled Derek's face forward, a hairsbreadth between their noses. "The only one to blame for that is sitting in a jail cell. You can't be blamed for the pscyhos in the world, sourwolf. And I made my choices—I chose you and I'm never going to regret that. No matter what happens. I need you to understand that even if you don't want to chose me." His grip tightened on Derek's jaw before he loosened it and let his hand drop so Derek could pull back like Stiles suspected he would.
He didn't expect Derek to cup his face and angle it to one side. He didn't expect the alpha to close his eyes and kiss him. Stiles' eyes slid closed, and he lifted his hand again to toy with the hair at the back of Derek's neck. Even though, Jackson and Lydia had both told him that Derek had the same feelings for him—he hadn't thought that Derek wanted those feelings to exist. Derek broke the kiss, letting Stiles exhale, lips slightly parted, before he resealed his lips over Stiles' again.
When Stiles used to picture kissing Derek—he used to think the words hot and filthy and dominating because Derek wore black leather and had stubble and a jawline that could cut glass. He was scowl-y and growly and had a penchant for throwing Stiles against a wall when he was feeling frustrated.
But, actually kissing Derek Hale was nothing like that. It was soft and slow and almost sweet, careful and chaste—even though he was caged in, and the lines of Derek's body mimicked Stiles' private thoughts though his mouth was nearly searing in the gentle-ness. There was an ease to kissing Derek—and his mind almost short-circuited at the thought. He had gone from wanting to punch Derek in the face for being a world-class, emotionally-constipated jerk to slowly making out with him.
They exchanged a few more kisses—moving slowly. Stiles moved his hand more into Derek's hair, angling his head and pulling him impossibly closer for the last kiss before Derek pulled away—their breath mingling in front of their faces. Derek had one hand on his neck, the juncture where neck met shoulder and was rubbing circles into the skin there while his other hand was on Stiles' hip.
"You're human." Derek whispered; expression raw.
Stiles quirked an eyebrow. "If you're trying to use that as an excuse to push me away and avoid me again—it's a shitty one." He had no problem keeping his thoughts on the inside—for all of the times that Stiles could not exercise the brain-to-mouth filter, he surprisingly managed to have some secrets. "So what? I'm human. Doesn't make me less than you, wolverine. Just means I have a different skill-set. Such as researching and exposing criminals—because let's be real, I would have exposed the hell out of Gerard. I also know how to shoot a gun—my dad's the sheriff, sourwolf." Stiles nearly crossed his arms though he doubted he had the room to.
They were pressed too closely together, sharing the same breath and Stiles resumed running his fingers through Derek's hair because he was letting him. He was letting him keep their closeness and Stiles had a vague idea that it meant that Derek would not retreat from him—would not give him this and then run away. Otherwise, Stiles might shoot him in the face.
Repeatedly. From the front, right, and left.
He knew exactly where the gun his father kept was—in a locked wooden box under the bed and his dad always kept the key on a bracelet on his wrist, something his mother had gifted when Stiles was four. He might have made a copy of that key and knew how to put the bullets in and reload it and take the safety off. So, he knew where the gun was, and he was completely unafraid to seek it out if Derek thought he could get away with avoiding him again. Maybe, it was a little bit much considering they had only exchanged a few kisses.
"—and if you're trying to use it as an excuse to run away and pull the avoiding routine like a pansy—" Stiles ignored Derek's growl, lips twitching into a smirk, "—I will shoot you in the face, multiple times, from different angles."
Derek laughed abruptly—sounding surprised even in himself by the action. His eyes were softer when he looked down at Stiles, pressing a brief kiss to the top of Stiles' cheek. "I'm not running, Genim." Stiles groaned, closing his eyes. Moment ruined, he mused. He ignored the little flutter in his stomach at Derek saying his first name with the proper lilt in his voice.
Stiles did not cease his head massage as Derek buried his face in Stiles' throat. "You have ruined the moment sourwolf. Slaughtered it. Brutally murdered it with a metaphorical butter knife. Then again, maybe my dad ruined the moment when he decided to call me that in front of everyone." He hummed thoughtfully and Derek pressed a lingering kiss to the fluttering pulse in Stiles' throat. Swallowing, the youth tried to keep his heart rate at an appropriate level—though he had a feeling Derek was purposefully sucking on his neck because he could feel the spike in his heart and hear it.
Derek pulled back after a few minutes and Stiles had a feeling that the man was immensely satisfied with the purpling, tell-tale mark he had left behind. He arched an eyebrow at Stiles and the youth withdrew his hand from Derek's hair. He didn't know why he liked running his fingers through the strands. "I like your first name, Gen." Derek informed him, finally moving off of him, but not leaving the bed and instead laying down beside him. The alpha gently rearranged Stiles—who cringed momentarily at the ache in his bones—so that he was propped on Derek's shoulder.
Stiles felt his eyelashes fluttering, feeling supremely comfortable by his new pillow. "Well, I prefer Stiles." He cracked an eye open, offering a cheeky grin. "Though, I guess you can call me Gen when there's no one else in hearing range. You're probably the only one who knows how to pronounce my name, anyways." Stiles added, making a surprised but pleased noise when Derek pressed a kiss to the grin. "Not that I don't appreciate kisses, but what was that for?" He queried once the other pulled back.
There was a small smile on Derek's lips as he traced Stiles' lips with a thumb, almost like he was memorizing them. Stiles shivered slightly at the touch. "I like that smile." Derek answered simply.
"So, every-time you and I like each other's smile, we can kiss." Stiles arched an eyebrow. Derek rolled his eyes and he saw the need to elaborate. "Ok, that works for me. But, I am expecting you to take me on a date in the Camaro. Take me to the movies or to dinner or hell, even a picnic works. Or better yet, take me to the bookstore café they just opened up next to the school." He babbled a little.
He would have continued but Derek shut him up with another lingering kiss—wherein he brushed his tongue along the seam of Stiles' mouth, though he didn't move further when Stiles opened his mouth at the silent request. "You want me to take you on a date." Derek pulled back to give him a questioning look.
Stiles half-shrugged. "I want you to be my boyfriend." He informed him with a grin. "But, I figured that we should at least go on a date first before the whole official-exclusive thing. And, just so we're clear I don't put out on the first date. You'll get a kiss at the end if you're lucky." Stiles teased, reaching over to kiss Derek on the cheek.
Derek's smile widened slightly, revealing dimples and more of the bunny teeth and his genuine smile was so perfect. Stiles loved the shit-eating grin, the half-smile he had when he thought no one was looking, the smirk that was arrogant, the smirk that was somewhat homicidal, but this one. This one was swiftly becoming his favorite. Though, he had a feeling that might change when the different smiles and smirks were flashed at him. "And, what are my chances of being that lucky?" Derek's eyebrow raised.
"Pretty good, so far." Stiles bopped him on the nose, chuckling when Derek playfully snapped his teeth at him. As they laid there for a few more minutes, Stiles thought to maybe grab his laptop—give Derek free reign on a TV show and he absently wondered what kind of TV Derek liked. If he watched DC TV shows or American Horror Story like Erica or Supernatural so he could laugh about how wrong they were or if he had seen an episode of the Office. "You know, they said my knee is looking pretty good. I might not be stuck on crutches for as long as they initially thought." Stiles murmured.
Derek rubbed soothing circles on Stiles' arm. "What about Lacrosse?" He questioned.
Stiles shook his head, smile slipping. "I wasn't much of a lacrosse player anyways—star benchwarmer, you know me." He assured, burying his face and Derek's neck, and releasing a shuddering breath.
His potential boyfriend made a soothing noise in his throat, arm wrapping around Stiles and simply holding him. "You loved it." Derek whispered.
Stiles thought about it before nodding. "But, I'll find some new activity to love. You know, Mom and I used to paint together—she loved it, we've got some of her work in the attic along with the paints and brushes and cups and easels." Stiles stated, pressing a kiss to Derek's throat, and then rubbing his nose along the side. Derek's grip tightened around him, both knowing the gesture was Stiles scenting him like Derek had scented and marked him earlier. "Maybe I'll show you them." He pulled away after pressing another kiss there.
Derek arched an eyebrow. "I don't know if I can picture you as an artist." He teased lightly. Stiles swatted his nose for the remark and Derek kissed the tips of his fingers—which wasn't really a discouragement in Stiles' opinion.
"Don't diss it. I could have mad, kick-ass art skills, dude."
"I'll have to see it to believe it."
"Challenge completely accepted." Derek laughed in response and Stiles grinned at the surround, noting that Derek didn't do that enough because the alpha always sounded so surprised by the sound. He knew there might be fights because Stiles was not the type of back-down and Derek had an over-protective streak. He knew there might be difficult days for him as he recovered slowly from his ordeal—both physically and emotionally because the torture still haunted him in the dead of night. He knew there would be panic attacks and dark days.
But, he made the choice to take the bad with the good. And there was so much good—good that should be cherished. That he would cherish for as long as he could. Later, he wouldn't be able to run with the wolves during training—and his self-defense lessons may need a bit more patience—but he would demand Derek into giving him a piggy-back ride. He would bribe him with Derek's favorite TV shows and popcorn or his favorite meal or just getting in the Camaro and driving.
And, he loved all of those things. He loved them because he knew that Derek would be there for him—just as he would be there for Derek, for as long as they could both be there. And, though they had not proceeded beyond exchanging kisses on his bed or Stiles throwing out ideas for their first date and mentioning official relationships, Stiles could feel it in his bones that this—what he had with Derek was something people looked for, for years.
With his head full of thoughts, he initiated the kiss this time—sealing his lips firmly over Derek's smiling mouth—and reminded himself that they had time.
So, I hope you enjoyed the story-it was kind of a rollercoaster of emotion for me, like there were moments where I honest to god cried for what Stiles was going through. Also, maybe the voicemails seemed melodramatic and did not extend to the time limit when one is in a fire-I've never been in one, thank god. So I know exceedingly little about how long it takes for a fire to spread, much less in a locker room. And, as for the sprinklers-it's sort of alluded to that Gerard disabled the sprinklers. If he can force the janitor away from that set of rooms, I'd like to think he can disable the sprinklers. I also enjoyed writing the background Gerard take-down because I feel like it could have happened, Gerard was incredibly obvious and also seemed the type to be proud of his work so I think canonically there had to be bread crumbs and strands to unravel so the legal system could get him. I also think it's kind of poetic for him to be taken down and locked away by the same people he was claiming to protect to justify being a murderous psychopath.
I'd also like to apologize if the characters seemed a little out of character, my teen wolf watching is a little rusty-sorry so I don't have their character fully pinned down yet.