A/N: Part 2 of my Scottuary Series, but can be read as a stand-alone. More spoilers for Lord of the Rings (that's a given in all of these).
This one goes with the prompt "Pain Taking Aftershocks."
Trigger Warning: Mentions abuse of prescription medication.
Disclaimer: Still don't own Teen Wolf.
Deeds Less Valiant
By: Minnicoops
It's funny how high schoolers seem to have a sixth sense for knowing when and where there's a party. Scott looks over the crowded room, wondering where all these teenagers had even come from. As far as he knew, this was supposed to be a simple little gathering, but it's definitely passed that point and he's pretty sure it now safely qualifies as a rager.
Malia doesn't seem to mind, though. In fact, she seems to be having a blast kicking everyone's ass at beer pong. And that's all that matters tonight, since this is her birthday party. Her first birthday party since she was nine.
It's not actually her birthday, not for six more months, but at some point in the last couple of weeks, Stiles had the realization that she'd missed out on six years of parties and decided the gang needed to throw her one immediately. Plus, he'd argued with that infallible logic of his, she'd be more surprised if they didn't celebrate anywhere near her actual birthday.
And so here they are, at Liam's house (because his parents are out of town for the weekend and Stiles had argued that as Scott's beta, he is obliged to offer his place for a pack party), with about a hundred kids who hadn't been invited and are getting drunker by the minute.
Needless to say, Liam isn't too pleased about the whole thing.
"Scott, there you are!" Kira appears next to him, touching his arm to get his attention.
He's been wondering where she got off to. "Hey, what's up?" he says, smiling back at her.
"Lydia's looking for you," she yells over the pulsing music. "Stiles is, like, really drunk, and she hoped maybe you could take him home."
Oh boy. Really drunk either means he's sobbing in a corner somewhere or dancing on a tabletop. And yeah, whichever state he's in, it's probably best that Scott deals with it. Stiles gets a little too honest and a little too clingy when he's drunk.
Scott's kind of ready to head out anyway. Partying until three in the morning isn't nearly as fun when you can't even get tipsy, and he's getting pretty tired. "You gonna be okay if I leave?" he asks Kira, not wanting to leave her stranded here alone.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm good," she tells him, blushing a little bit and pushing her hair behind her ear. "I'm actually hanging out with the girls."
His face lights up. "That's great!" She's always felt insecure around the other girls in the pack, feeling like they don't like her for some reason, so he's glad she's spending some time with them.
She looks up at him in that bashful way of hers and smiles, and he can't help but lean down to kiss her. "Have fun, okay?" he says before he pulls his lips away.
"I will," she promises, pressing her forehead against his. Taking his hand, she leads him out of the crowded living room toward the back of the house.
Turns out, Stiles is the dance-on-the-tabletops kind of drunk—like, he's literally dancing on a table when Scott finds him—which is good because that's easier to deal with than emotional Stiles. As soon as he spots Scott, he jumps from his perch, landing in a messy heap, but bouncing back quickly.
"Scotty!" he shouts, throwing an arm over his best friend's shoulder. "Come dance with me!"
"Okay, sure, dude," Scott says. "But first, let's go home. Where are your keys?"
Stiles pats his pockets, frowning, and then his face lights up with memory. "I threw them," he says proudly, waving a hand at the pool. "In there somewhere. Didn't want to drive cause…" He leans in way too close and giggles, and the smell of alcohol on his breath is almost overwhelming. "I'm drunk, dude."
"Yeah, no kidding," Scott says, rolling his eyes. He is not going swimming to find Stiles' keys, and there's no way Stiles will be able to stay upright on Scott's bike in the state he's in. "Okay, it's not that far to my place. Come on, we can walk. Maybe it'll sober you up a little."
Hooking his arm through Stiles', he starts leading him away.
"Where're we going, precious?" Stiles slurs, stumbling alongside him. He snorts. "Are we taking the hobbits to Isengard? Off to Mordor, the land of shadow and ruin…?"
Scott waves at friends as he passes them, mostly ignoring the stream of chatter coming out of Stiles' mouth. Stiles, thankfully, doesn't really seem to notice or care that they're leaving.
"Come on, Frodo," Scott tells him once they break out into the open air of the early morning. The pulsing of the bass leaves a ringing in his ears as they leave the party behind. "Adventure's all done for today. Let's get you all tucked up in bed."
"I'm not Frodo," Stiles complains, but he follows Scott obediently. "If anyone's Frodo, it's you, Scotty. I'd be more like… Boromir, probably."
"Why Boromir?" Scott asks. He might as well entertain Stiles' drunken thoughts.
"Cuz Sean Bean is a badass," Stiles scoffs, as if that's obvious. "And, anyway, Boromir's the one that kept screwing up, but in the end, he fought to protect Merry and Pippin. So he kinda turned out to be pretty good, you know?"
Scott bites his tongue, not sure if he should dig into that more. It kind of feels like taking advantage, though, and he doesn't want to tread into serious-talk territory when Stiles is this wasted. There's a thin line between hyper and happy drunk Stiles and hysterical drunk Stiles.
"So who would Lydia be?" he asks instead, deciding that talking about Lord of the Rings is probably safer.
"Legolas," Stiles answers without hesitation. He's apparently given this some thought, which is… Not really surprising. "Cause he's got the prettiest hair, and she's got pretty hair. And, and," he adds, gesticulating wildly, "he's always seeing stuff, you know? With his elf eyes. So it works. It was gonna be Allison, cause of the bow and arrow thing, but…"
Scott swallows, glancing at him. He rarely ever brings up Allison.
Stiles continues as if he hadn't mentioned her at all. "Malia's totally Eowyn. Not cause of the whole pining after Aragorn thing, cause that was dumb, but because she'd kick the Witch King of Angmar's ass. I mean, come on. She'd tear him to shreds. And Kira's gotta be Merry, cause you don't expect much out of her, but then, BAM! She comes out of nowhere."
Chuckling, because he's not sure how his girlfriend would feel about being compared to a hobbit, Scott wonders if he's assigned everyone a character. "What about Liam?"
Evidently, Stiles hasn't thought of this one, because he screws up his face in thought and almost wipes out on a crack in the sidewalk. "Probably Gimli," he says, not even noticing as Scott steadies him. "Yeah, definitely Gimli. Angry little dwarf. Oh yeah, and Derek would totally be Gollum."
That one makes Scott throw back his head with a laugh. Yes. Perfect.
The walk to Scott's house takes a bit longer than usual with Stiles unable to walk in a straight line, and Scott has a hard time convincing him that he needs to be quiet when they go inside so they won't wake his mom. By the time they actually get to Scott's room, it's nearly four in the morning, and they're both ready to fall into bed and sleep for a week.
"Hey, drink this first," Scott insists, catching Stiles before he can flop over completely into the bed and shoving a water bottle in his hand. "Then sleep."
"Scotty, you're the best, you know that?" Stiles slurs at him, raising the bottle to his lips and spilling a good amount. He blinks down at the wet spot on his shirt. "Whoops. I think I might be drunk."
"Yeah, dude," Scott tells him, rolling his eyes and taking the half-empty bottle to set on the nightstand. "You're definitely drunk. Now lay down and go to sleep."
The two of them have been sharing a bed for years, ever since they started having sleepovers at six years old, so Scott doesn't hesitate to climb into bed next to his friend and tuck them both in. Stiles' breathing has already evened out by the time he's settled. Scott smiles fondly, rolling over and joining him in sleep.
He wakes to the sound of retching.
Blinking groggily, he lifts his head to look behind him, where the sound is coming from, and notices Stiles is missing and the bathroom door is shut. It's eight-thirty according to the clock on his nightstand. More coughing and retching tell him Stiles is definitely regretting how much he drank last night.
Groaning, because he could use about eight more hours of sleep, Scott throws back the sheet and slips out of bed. Yawning and rubbing his eyes, he pads across the floor and knocks on the door. "Stiles? You okay?"
A miserable moan answers him, and his cheeks dimple into a smirk. "Drink a little too much last night, buddy?" he asks.
The toilet flushes, followed by the sound of the sink running. The door finally opens to reveal a pale and haggard Stiles, who's leaning heavily on the doorframe. He barely cracks one eye open to acknowledge Scott.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he mutters, lurching back toward the bed unsteadily.
"Whoa, careful," Scott warns, grabbing his elbow. "You all right?"
Stiles manages to shuffle the few feet across the room and collapses face-first back onto the bed, immediately suffocating himself in the pillow with another unhappy groan. He mumbles something into the pillow which Scott somehow manages to translate as, "Migraine."
It's been a while since the last time Scott remembers Stiles having a migraine, probably since, like, eighth grade, but he used to get them every now and again. Usually when he forgot to take his Adderall for a couple of days. Actually, that was pretty much the only time Scott remembers him getting them.
"You forget to take your pills yesterday?" he asks with a frown.
Stiles rolls his head so he's facing Scott and squints at him painfully. "Didn't forget," he says. "Just… Didn't."
"Stiles," Scott drawls severely. How many times has his dad gotten on him about misusing his medication?
"It's usually not a big deal," he whines, pulling the pillow out from under his head so he can bury himself under it. "Sometimes I need more one day, and then I have to balance it out or I'll run out before my next prescription."
"Stiles—!"
"I only do it on days I don't have to do anything important, and if I take enough Ibuprofen and drink a crap ton of water, I'm usually fine."
Scott pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh and sits on the edge of the bed. So not only abusing his Adderall, but possibly over-the-counter painkillers as well. Why is this not surprising? "Yeah, and how's that working out for you now?" he asks.
"Trust me, Scott," Stiles grumbles quietly, flopping a hand on the pillow so it better blocks his eyes and ears. "No one hates me more than I do right now. Alcohol plus withdrawal equals bad news. Lesson learned. Just… Let me sleep it off for a while." He shifts so he can pull his knees up a bit, snuggling further into the pillow cave he's made. "I took some Tylonal, it'll help."
From what Stiles has told him about his migraines in the past, that's a lie, but there's no point in arguing about it. Scrubbing his hand over his face, Scott sighs and climbs over Stiles so he can lay back down. Might as well sleep while Stiles does—it's not like he has anything going on today, and he's still pretty tired. And this way, he can keep an eye on his friend.
He snags the blanket from the end of the bed to drape over Stiles, who hums a muffled thanks, and settles down next to him. Dropping a hand on his back, Scott rubs soothing circles like he's always done when Stiles is particularly sick or sad.
He can feel the tension in Stiles' shoulders and slides his hand up to his neck to find the muscles knotted there as well. Resting his hand on the exposed skin above Stiles' collar, he starts pulling the pain from him, grimacing as it snakes up his arm. As he suspected, it's worse than Stiles let on.
Pulling pain is a strange sensation, always a little different based on who he's pulling from and what kind of pain it is. Now that he's gotten more experienced with it, Scott has noticed certain patterns, such as the metallic taste he gets in his mouth if the pain is related to a bleeding wound or the ache in his joints if it's something like a broken bone. And while he always feels the burning in his veins as the pain enters his body, it tends to pool in whatever area the person he's pulling it from is injured.
So he's expecting that taking the pain of a migraine from Stiles will probably make his head hurt, maybe even give him a slight headache the rest of the day, because sometimes that happens. But what he's not expecting is the sudden lights, little pinpricks of them, twinkling in his vision like an afterimage.
Before he can wonder about it, Stiles jolts himself up, pillow falling to the floor as he twists around and snatches Scott's hand. He glares at him vehemently as the black veins fade. "Dude, what are you doing?"
Scott shirks back a little at the unexpected hostility. He knows Stiles doesn't like it when he takes his pain—though Scott's not entirely sure why—but he's never gotten angry about it before. Then again, it's been a while since he's done it, so…
"I'm just trying to help," he explains.
Stiles lets go of his hand, scooting himself a little further away from Scott. "Well… Stop it. I told you, I did this to myself. I'll deal with it."
"Sorry," Scott mutters, holding up his hand in apology. He rolls over to face the window, pulling his sheet over himself with a huff. "Didn't mean to deprive you of your suffering."
Stiles doesn't answer him, so Scott closes his eyes. The lights are still there, more prominent with his eyes closed, plus he feels a little dizzy now. Huh, must just be a side effect of taking migraine pain. Weird, because his head doesn't really hurt all that much…
Nope, he spoke too soon. The pain hits him out of nowhere, starting at the base of his skull and crawling over his brain like a fist closing around it. His face twists in surprise as he tries to hold back a yelp, peeking his eyes open and blinking rapidly against the suddenly far-too-bright light behind the curtain. Holy shit, is this what a migraine feels like?
And it only gets worse, the pressure behind his eyes increasing with his pulse, until he feels like his head might actually explode. It's making him nauseous, it's so bad, and a pained grunt escapes his lips.
"Scott?"
He tries to answer, to assure Stiles that he's fine, but the nausea peaks and instead he's stumbling out of bed in the direction of the toilet.
Throwing up gives him some relief, but not nearly enough. "Dammit, this is why I didn't want…" he hears Stiles say angrily behind him. The other boy fusses with something at the sink. "You don't always have to fix my mistakes, Scott. Sometimes I deserve to deal with the consequences all on my own."
When he's done, Stiles hands him a cup of water, which he gratefully takes. He rinses his mouth and downs the rest to ease the burning in his throat, hoping maybe the hydration will help. That's his mom's cure to any ailment—drink some water. Might work for werewolves, too, right?
"I like helping," Scott tells him as Stiles helps him back to bed. The room won't stop making slow loops around him, and it's hard to keep his balance when it's doing that.
"You like it now?" Stiles snarks, laying him down and tucking his blanket around him in an annoyed, but still very parental fashion.
"Not so much," Scott admits, putting his arm over his eyes to block out the light. "Is this what a migraine feels like?"
"Yeah, dude. Sucks, doesn't it?" Stiles moves his arm down with sudden gentleness, replacing it with a cool washcloth. "Here, sometimes this helps."
"Thanks," Scott murmurs, feeling Stiles flop down next to him. Curious, he lifts the corner of the washcloth and cracks an eye to look over at him. "You feel any better?"
"Hmm," Stiles hums sleepily. "I'm down to normal killer hangover levels now. Some jackass stole my migraine."
Smiling, Scott raises a hand to swat at him lazily.
"By the way, this martyr complex of yours?" Stiles adds. "You are so totally Frodo."
Scott snickers despite how horrible he feels, closing his eyes. "Shut up and go to sleep, dude."
Before he can drift off, though, there's a sudden knock on the door. "Scott, sweetheart?" His mom swings it open, flipping on the light and sending more pain radiating through Scott's skull. "You got any dirty laun—Oh!"
She gasps sharply. "God, Stiles! What are you doing here?" She's not even talking particularly loudly, but her voice grates against Scott's ears.
"Sorry, Melissa," Stiles apologizes tiredly. "Didn't mean to scare you."
Scott pulls the washcloth off his face, lifting his head and cracking one eye at her. She has a laundry basket tucked under one arm and the other hand is splayed across her chest like she just had a mini heart attack.
"Were you here all night?" she asks. She looks from Scott to Stiles and back again, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Hang on a minute… Are you two hungover?"
"Uh…" Scott begins, sharing a pained glance with Stiles. His brain hurts too much to figure out how to explain the whole situation. Especially the part where he admits he was out at a party until four in the morning.
"Cause you look hungover," his mom continues, her face hardening. "I know that look, boys, so don't even try lying to me."
"Mom—"
"I'm hungover," Stiles tells her, words tripping over each other to get out of his mouth so he can fix this. "Scott wasn't even drinking. Well, I don't know, maybe he was, but he can't get drunk, so you don't have to worry about that, right, Scott? He was actually being really responsible, though. He took my migraine, that's why he's like this…"
Scott can tell she isn't buying it. Looking up at the ceiling, she shakes her head as if she can't believe whatever deity is up there gave her these boys to raise. "Unbelievable," she mutters, backing out of the room and slamming the door behind her, making the boys flinch at the loud sound.
"Don't think for a second I'm not going to tell your father about this, Stiles," they hear her shout as she stomps away.
"Ugh, sorry," Stiles groans, throwing his arm over his face.
Scott puts his washcloth back in place with a sigh. Great. Now he not only has to endure the first migraine of his life, but he'll probably get grounded for it. "Dude, you are never drinking again," he mumbles.
Stiles grunts affirmatively. "Roger that, commander."
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