The Morning After
Thursday, Jan. 20th
Later Stiles would remember the rest of the night and early morning in fits of sensations. He wouldn't remember all of what he'd said, and his father would tell him about how he'd told the Sheriff to get his phone's GPS, that he'd found the animal and the girl, that he needed an EMT. How his phone had gone quiet as Stiles passed out, nearly giving his father a panic attack.
He remembered the smell of blood. For a second his body felt feverish and his heart pounded and he could swear the beast was back-could smell it's rank, bloody breath. But that was just a nightmare. The next sensation was pain and nausea as his world shifted from the ground to the air, carried by a stretcher, voices carrying in and out around him as his vision darkened again. The bright lights of an ambulance stung his eyes once and he felt himself fall back into comforting darkness, even as his father's voice pled with him.
He knew the smell of the hospital: antiseptic and illness, bleach and death. He knew the place very well. Stiles didn't bother to open his eyes. This was just another nightmare.
Pain… and heat and wet, a numb pulling sensation on his skin, a tightening across his chest and arms, restraining. The world tilted and his stomach churned. A tugging on his shoulder, then his leg, up and down, over and over. The feelings were horrifying and swift, washing over him in waves of memory sensation one after another and each second of it felt like an hour. A new source for nightmares resting in the back of his skull.
Stiles wouldn't remember the first time he woke. Apparently it'd been quite early in the morning, and his father had been slumped by his hospital bed waiting. The familiarity must've been terrifying. He'd been given a sip of water for his dry throat and then he'd passed out again, unable to stay awake under the leftover sway of anaesthesia. But the nurses and doctor told his father it was good that he'd woken. It showed he hadn't retreated into his mind with the trauma. Stiles was glad for that too. His head wasn't somewhere he wanted to be at all times either.
He remembered the next time he woke. It was early afternoon, warm light coming in from the windows and a soft bustle of noise coming from the corridor beyond his closed door. The Sheriff was still slumped in that uncomfortable chair, asleep this time and holding his right hand. His left had a cannula pressed under the skin of his knuckles and heart rate monitor on his ring finger. An IV delivered a clear fluid directly into his vein. The electronic beeping quickened with his awakening and stirred his father. Stiles squeezed the man's hand, feeling surprisingly strong where he'd expected exhaustion. The elder Stilinski woke completely with a jerk, catching his son's eyes right away. Blue eyes watered instantly and then strong arms encircled him ever so gently. The Sheriff leaned over, hugging his boy as fiercely as he dared and ignoring the discomfort of the position.
Stiles found himself holding on to his father's shirt with both hands, tilting their temples together as his own eyes teared in relief. Then the man pulled away, cupping the boy's elbows and looking at him seriously, "Never do that to me again. Do you hear me? Never again."
The teen whispered, voice trembling, "I won't, I won't. I promise. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Dad." His last apology was muttered into the man's shoulder as he quickly ducked to hold his son again. The sheer relief, of being alive and seeing his Dad, wrapped up in his father's arms like a little kid, made Stiles shudder into relaxation. Muscles that had tensed in remembered pain and exhaustion went lax, and surprised Stiles by a lack of stabbing pain. His shoulder ached to the bone, and chest felt warm where he was sure he was nursing a cracked rib at the least, but overall he was surprisingly pain free.
"These must be the good drugs, huh?" Stiles attempted to laugh. The Sheriff sighed, a hint of relief about him even as he shook his head in exasperation and leaned back. He worked his chair closer, scraping the floor, before he sat and rested his elbows on the bed, gripping the boy's right hand like an anchor.
"Lowest dose, I think, but it's still morphine," the Sheriff agreed with a nod. The teen frowned a bit. That didn't sound right. His dad would've mentioned if he was doped with anything else. There were two bags attached to his needle, and he recognized both: the morphine on a timed drip, and saline. But he'd lost a lot of blood, Stiles recalled. Maybe he'd already been given a bag, during surgery? He assumed he'd had surgery. He could feel his left arm for one thing, and his shoulder was padded with gauze and tape. He didn't even feel like he needed physical therapy. Hopefully that was just the drugs, Stiles thought uneasily.
"Did you find the girl?" he blurted out, the question had been lingering in the dark of his mind without conscious thought.
His father tensed and nodded, "Right where you said she was."
"Where I said?" He didn't remember that. He could barely remember holding up his phone, the glow bright against the surrounding darkness, not all of it the night.
The Sheriff frowned in return, "How much do you remember, kiddo?" It was a necessary question. Stiles knew that. He didn't want to think about it, barely let his mind rest on one image before spinning off to another. He wished he didn't remember.
"Finding the body. The attack. Trying to call you," he explained in short quick sentences, his heart rate steadily increasing but not spiking dangerously as he purposely took deep breathes. Old light blue orbs took in the monitor, measuring it, and nodded in understanding. But Stiles knew he was going to need to go over everything, in detail, at least twice despite being the Sheriff's son. Maybe because of it. He needed to get over this, now.
"Can we get a Deputy here?" he asked, letting the implications hang in the air. They both knew the procedure. The earliest they could get a story, the less likely a witness was to misrecall things. Not that it didn't happen anyway, but they were less likely to fill in the gaps on their own.
Sheriff Stilinski studied his son with concern, but when Stiles held his gaze if not with confidence, at least with surety, the man nodded again in understanding, "Alright, son. I'll go get Deputy Graeme."
Tara, Stiles thought, not the best choice for an impartial cop. She'd helped raise him, helping him study his maths all through middle school. But he just nodded in return, watching his father leave before looking down at his hands. Carefully ignoring the puncture in one hand, the teen observed that someone must've cleaned him up. A kind nurse, maybe even one that remembered him when his mom was here.
He was glad. He didn't want to see what those fluids had looked like in daylight. And cautiously hoped that when his phone got back to him from evidence that someone had the foresight to wash the screen. Although, he thought he'd have scraped palms from the tree climbing… Touching his neck and ear, Stiles was relieved to find he didn't look like a murder victim covered in blood anymore. He still felt the need to shower off the grime of the woods, the feel of twigs and leaves digging into his back as a massive weight hovered over him-he wanted a shower.
He needed to give a statement first. His room door opened slowly, letting his father in who held the door for Tara. The pretty, dark-skinned woman gave him a motherly smile, relief in her eyes. "Good to see you awake, Stiles."
"Yeah, finally, am I right? I could still sleep for twelve hours straight without trying right now," Stiles grinned, turning his head to watch her take his right hand visitor's chair. His dad stayed at the foot of the bed, but couldn't seem to stop himself from grasping his son's foot. His right one. Which didn't feel pained at all, now that he thought of it.
Swallowing thickly, Stiles brushed that aside and focused on Tara. She had pulled out a recorder from her belt, setting it on the bed between them, though she gave his hand a soft squeeze too. Small town cops, Stiles thought with affection.
"State your name for the record," her soothing voice started.
"Ah, Stiles Stilinski. I don't think my legal name will do anyone much good here," he added with a half-hearted grin. Everyone at the station had at least heard about his ID, and the fact that his first name was a simple initial told everyone just how much the DMV had hated it. The clerk had looked at him in relief when he said to just put an 'M' down.
Tara watched him warmly, but with the recorder on didn't remark. What followed was possibly the slowest conversation he'd ever had. Deputy Graeme kept it professional, walking Stiles through the previous night as the boy answered in fits and starts. He bypassed explaining how he knew to go into the woods and with an exasperated sigh his father left him off the hook. The recorder probably helped. As did the heart rate monitor acting like a lie detector, which Stiles only realized halfway through when his heart jumped at the memory of redredredeyes.
When it came to describing the body, the teen could barely look either adult in the eye. He realized now his little adventure, his bit of small town excitement, came at the expense of a dead woman and those who survived her. Somewhere along the line, he might have to speak with someone, a father, a sister, a best friend, and say he was the one who found her. The top half.
Stiles choked after. Because after… He didn't even know what the Hell that beast was. The closest and only logical species was bear. But he'd never seen a bear look like that, or even fucking sound like that. The snarls and roar was more akin to a sci-fi movie Hellhound, a cross between lion, bear, and wolf. And Stiles couldn't get a word out around the lump that his monstrous creature was in his throat.
Tara talked softly, stroking his hand to bring him out of his head. She broke it down for him, action by action. The chase, the tree and the fall. The heart monitor came in handy, making him hyper aware not to touch that edge over into panic territory. All three of them listened whenever his pulse jumped, pausing and waiting for him to breath through it. Eventually, he gave the best description he could: a huge Grizzly-sized bear, but short black fur, enraged like a bull elephant, but missing an eye after trying to go up against the younger Stilinski. That properly shocked the adults in the room.
"You're sure? You're sure the bear will be missing an-" the Sheriff began, a weird expression like pain and pride across his face.
"Yes, Dad," Stiles interrupted with a roll of his eyes, "I know, shocker. Little old me got one over on the Killer Grizzly. But you should know, the virgin always lives. Now I just have to stay celibate until you find and shoot the damn thing. Otherwise my life is forfeit until the sequel."
The Sheriff snorted softly, covering his face with his palm to restrain the laughter bubbling along his shoulders. Stilinskis. Always good for gallow's humor. Tara sighed with a slight smile, but otherwise said nothing. Right, the recorder. Well Stiles can't be expected to remember he was in an official interview when it included his dad and math tutor without any Adderall. Come on!
"Anyway, it ran off and I was able to get my phone out to call my Dad. I don't know how you knew that I needed medical attention," the teen added with an inviting look. His father had implied they'd spoken, though he could've sworn he just passed out after the call connected. Sheriff Stilinski nodded an acknowledgement, but didn't speak. Instead he mouthed 'later' and pointed his chin towards Tara.
"You don't remember your conversation?" Tara reiterated. Stiles nodded absently, listening to his heartbeat slow with the end of his story. The next time would be easier, he thought. Surely, it would be. Had to be. She nodded in return and added, "We'll ask the Sheriff to give us those details later. This will do for now. Let me know when you'd like another go." This last was said to his father who nodded in return, quietly thanking the woman as she stood to leave, clicking off the recorder.
Stiles focused on the beeps of the monitor, counting them and hearing them slow. His whole body felt tense, on edge, and his mind was exhausted; emotions dredged up and hashed out, restrained for their audience and echoing in the clench-unclench of his fists.
Tara paused at the doorway, watchful for a moment. He finally looked over, and her gentle chocolate brown eyes held, "Just remember, Stiles. You survived this. And everything that comes after… Just divide it," that sounded familiar, but he couldn't tell from where. She must've read it in his face, because she smiled and quoted, "Divide each difficulty into as many parts as is feasible and necessary to resolve it."
Recognition sparked and distracted all but his deepest thoughts from past events. Memories of long division and algebra, sitting at the Department's front desk with Tara, hunched over worksheets and textbooks flashed warmly through him. "Descartes," he answered and nodded gratefully. With the acknowledgement and her recorded statement, Deputy Graeme left the room to head back to the station.
It was like his mind had been given a puzzle. Divide it. He survived. Now he just had to figure out… Amber brown eyes drifted to his left shoulder, covered by gauze and tape and not hurting. He swallowed.
Divide it.
"Son?" The Sheriff started, concern etched across the age-lines of his face. Too many of them were caused by him, Stiles knew; too many panic attacks and nosing into trouble and not being where he was supposed to be. They didn't talk, not as much as a father and son who'd lost the 'mother' part of the equation should. He didn't know if that was typical or odd, but either way, they didn't talk about Mom. They hugged, but they didn't… hash out their feelings. Stiles had seen a therapist for his panic attacks. His dad had seen Jack Daniels. Maybe this time they'd try something different.
Maybe he'd try to get through it with his dad rather than worrying each other to death. "I need a shower," Stiles blurted without permission from his brain. But it was a start, he thought, "Could I just change my bandages after?"
The elder Stilinski's concern visibly lessened, and he confirmed, moving to the side intending to help Stiles up off the bed. But he wasn't exhausted, not physically really. Dark brows furrowed as the boy pushed himself up from his elbows, touching his left side again as the heat along his back shifted but didn't pain him. He exited on the left, careful of the IV needle, letting his barefeet touch the cold floor without flinching.
They both looked at his heart monitor and IV tubing with consideration, before the Sheriff diplomatically pressed the 'call' button to alert a nurse. Stiles carefully edged off the bed, feeling for aches or pains while his father helped steady him by his right elbow. Thankfully he'd been dressed in scrubs rather than that embarrassing backless gown. Well, he didn't have a catheter either, which was probably a minor miracle. He'd been sleeping a long while and the thought made him feel the need right there.
By the time Stiles was done taking stock of all the weird places that didn't hurt and the Sheriff wasn't done watching for any signs of pain, a nurse stopped by. The teen ignored their conversation, focusing on the IV bags even as the nurse turned off their equipment and started to tape the cannula to his wrist to keep it from sticking out. Thanks to his previous hospital experiences he could tell the morphine dose really was low, and the bag was still mostly full. He hadn't been lying there long enough to even halve the bag, which meant even the drip was dialed slow as well. The morphine was barely affecting his system. Considering what Stiles knew his real injuries had been, this should've barely taken an edge off.
Free of the plastic restraints, Stiles gave an absent thanks and walked to the restroom, rubbing the back of his hand covered by a plaster. In his peripheral vision he saw his Dad take a seat on the more comfortable chair closer to the window and the bathroom. "Let me know if you need anything," the man said before Stiles got in.
"Uh huh," the boy muttered, hand absently drifting to his stitched shoulder. He closed the door, quickly emptied his bladder and then stripped the thin clothes off. Bandages covered his shoulder. A beige colored cloth was wrapped tightly along his lower ribs. Another white bandage covered a square patch of calf. Pale pink skin as far as his eyes could see; no bruises or scrapes of any size were visible. Taking a determined breath, the teen unclipped the ace wrap, pulling the cloth loose until it fell around him to the floor. Then he quickly ripped the bandages from his skin, barely looking until they were on the floor and he stood before the mirror again, looking up with wide eyes. Black stitches etched an ugly wound along the meat and curve of his shoulder; the lower jaw had angled towards his chest. Twisting to see the back of it, he visually traced where the front teeth would've clasped. That thing really had been huge.
His breath shuddered and he realized he was trembling just as he caught the edge of counter on his unblemished hands. The skin was an angry pink, but… There wasn't even a hint of scab. It was a scar. Already. Stiles involuntarily looked down to his white-knuckled fingers as he started counting his breaths. This was real. This was something he survived and…
A little further down he caught a glimpse of more black lines and turned his ankle just so. Three neat black lines covered the back of his leg. Four pale pink lines almost matched them. One of the claw wounds hadn't needed stitches. He swallowed thickly and compared them to his shoulder. The teeth marks were a little more visible, a little more fresh looking. But just a little.
Jesus Christ. What the fuck had happened to him? Clearing his throat and physically shaking his head just to feel it, Stiles turned to the shower and quickly started it up hot as he could take. The pounding water and instant steam grounded him, told him it was real. No matter just how unbelievable such a thing was. He rolled his shoulders, fisted his hands and let go, curled his toes, twisted at the waist. He felt a vague ache where his injuries had been.
Scrunching up his face, Stiles forced himself to the present by grabbing the tiny soap bar and scrubbing it across every inch of skin he could reach, avoiding the stitches more for what it meant than their original purpose. When he finished his frantic washing, when he couldn't feel the leaf litter at his back thanks to the rather average water pressure, he breathed deep of the steam. Palms pressed against the slick, cool tile replaced the sensation of bark and short fur, and he took several deep breaths through his nose and out his mouth. He didn't stop until he started getting light headed, until he couldn't smell the blood or the beastly musk in the back of his nose, nothing but steam and slightly floral soap.
With a sigh, he dipped his head under the spout, ran a hand over his closely-shaved hair and then turned off the water. Thin towels were stacked over the toilet and he absently wiped himself off, avoiding the stitches until the last. They still looked the same. No oozing, no healing scabs, and all perfectly healed skin. He left the bandages and wrap on the counter and opened the door dressed only his towel before he could talk himself out of it.
The Sheriff looked up automatically, glancing at the naked flesh as if to seek injury before he focused on the teen's serious face. Stiles bit his lip, tensing and unable to keep from hesitating at first, stomach churning nauseously. "Stiles."
"There's something wrong with me," he started automatically, then blinked and backtracked, "I mean, not wrong, I'm fine. I'm too fine. I'm…" Swallowing, Stiles blinked rapidly and gestured to his stitches, hoping his father would just see for himself. It was strange to explain, difficult to say aloud for the… Fear, he'd admit. Fear of what was happening to him. What it meant.
With a frown, the Sheriff stood and fully focused on his son's bare shoulder. Stiles could see the moment it hit him. At first the man had looked relieved, glad for the healing wound, and then surprise. Stiles was right, it was too healed. A large hand gently grasped his shoulder, avoiding the black lines and he carefully studied the wound from front to back. When he looked back at his son speechless, the boy just looked down at his leg pointedly.
Immediately crouching to see, the blue-eyed Stilinski examined the healthy pink scar tissue, daring to touch the pale line with no stitches. His mouth gaped in shock. Yeah, that silence was probably Stiles' first choice in reactions. Better that than questions he couldn't answer. Or maybe his father could just see his helplessness etched in his face. The next worse choice would be telling the doctor about it.
A frantic thought occurred, and Stiles glanced to the door to his room. His unlocked door. "Don't let them know," he said quickly, backstepping to the bathroom, away from his still crouched father. "Please, I don't want-what if they-it's not natural-I don't-"
The Sheriff interrupted as his boy quickly pulled the scrubs back on over damp skin, standing and pacing a few steps, "Okay-okay, we won't, we'll… I don't-but what do we do if we don't talk to the doctors?" he ended helplessly. But he hadn't insisted. He returned his son's stare helplessly as the boy looked around in fear.
"What if they want to study me?" Stiles started, wide eyed, "They'll want blood samples, and if they don't find anything, they'll want more samples, more everything. What if they take me away? Take me away for experiments and-" Flashes of late night X-Files viewing ran away through his mind, alongside imaginary images of himself on a steel slab, cut up and open to see how quickly he'd heal.
His voice had been reaching a frantic level and his father broke in, "No! No, I wouldn't-that wouldn't happen. I wouldn't let it happen. No one is taking you away," the Sheriff said like it was a law. A known fact. No one was taking his son from him. Over his dead body. The thought churned his stomach, recalling how close to death Stiles had been just last night.
The surety of his voice lent a calm to the teen and he realized that in sharing this, in dividing this problem with his father, he'd have to give up something. Something else unbelievable. Only a little shaky now, the boy continued, "There's something else. Something I didn't tell Tara."
"Something-" the Sheriff repeated, meeting his son's stare with his own wide-eyes, "Like a vat of toxic waste something? A meteor? A magic fairy circle-what?!"
At the boy's flinch, the man closed his eyes and pressed both palms over his whole face, muttering Jesus Christ before apologizing softly. Stiles swallowed, forgiving his distressed father easily, "It wasn't a bear. Or, I don't think it was."
The man mouthed the words back at first, unthinking. Then he said it aloud as if to make it real, "It wasn't a bear," pausing on the phrase as if it would make sense the longer he thought on it. It didn't. "Then what the goddamn Hell was it?"
"I don't know," Stiles muttered at first, looking away, and unfortunately catching a glimpse of his covered shoulder in the mirror. He turned his head quick and stepped out of the bathroom. The images almost seemed clearer, cleaner in the light of day. Having gone over it before, his heart pounded but didn't edge into panic. It was a thin line. Sharing this seemed to be keeping that panic back. "It was-it was bigger than a bear. Maybe polar bear in size. And super strong. It didn't just pull me down the tree, it dug it's claws in and threw me from it. And it had-it had… It had red eyes."
"Red…" his father repeated helplessly once more. Watching his son stare listlessly around the room, their cumulative confusion seemed to lessen their raised emotions. Resolved the anger and fear, the tragedy of the attack, in the face of this impossible beast. The Sheriff couldn't help asking for more, "It didn't look like a bear?"
"It's fur was… Different. And it's head. It didn't have that slope, you know," here Stiles gestured, finally comfortable enough to describe with his hands, "That bear forehead. The skull was more curved," he remembered clawing his fingers down it, "and it had a shorter muzzle. Kinda broad, but more dog-like. Bears have a really fleshy nose, full jaws. This thing's jaw was long, brought it's nose to a point like a…"
Stiles blinked incredulously. This was impossible. So impossible it was practically… He'd eliminated everything else, so no matter how… implausible, it was probably true. He couldn't help mangling the quote to his situation. Sherlock hadn't seen a werewolf in Baskerville. This was just… ridiculous. "Like a wolf. In fact it kinda looked like…" he looked at his dad as the man started to shake his head, "It did, Dad. It looked like those freaking werewolves in Underworld! With the nose and the ears!" He couldn't help gesturing, showing off the muzzle and the odd, low-placed pointed ears. That hadn't been one of his favorites. He'd thought the monster design looked weird. Even the Wolfman had been better put together.
"And red eyes," the Sheriff added, shock evident in his voice. He shook his head again in disbelief, "Stiles, are you-are you sure?"
"Yes!" the boy emphasized and then paused as he realized the implications that must've already occurred to his dad. Why he'd been in denial, hadn't wanted to believe his son. Because that would mean… That would mean he'd been… "And I was bitten…"
Blood rushed in his ears, echoed in the tremble of his limbs. His breath caught tight. Amber eyes glazed into the middle distance, unaware of his father suddenly coming in close. Hands gripped his elbows before squeezing hard and then he could hear his voice.
"-Stiles listen. Breathe for me, that's it," at his gasp, "Hold it for a second, now let it go, son. Exhale, longer now. Okay, in again, again, deeper Stiles. Hold. And let it go," the coaxing and instructions started a pattern he'd once been accustomed to. Not so long ago that he'd forgotten it. When he could feel his senses coming back online, his lungs steadying instead of clenching, Stiles gripped his father's forearms. Getting his balance back, the boy nodded, still following his subconsciously counted breathes while he stood on his own. The Sheriff let go, but stayed close, "We don't know if it's true, Stiles. We don't know anything right now."
Purposefully widening his brown eyes, the teen practically wrenched his neck to pointedly look at his stitches and then back to his father, keeping up his exercise rather than speak such obvious words.
"Okay, yes, you've healed… Spectacularly, actually. We know that. But-but maybe it's more like Wolverine or something."
Stiles laughed. It was a soft, breathless thing, involuntary. But he laughed. A grin twitched across his mouth, unable to settle in his revolving door emotions, "Oh, if only. Am I right?"
The Sheriff chuckled too, forced for his son's sake like the boy couldn't tell, "Okay. But we don't have to immediately jump to-to werewolf. I mean, if you want a supernatural explanation, there's a number of things to choose from, right?"
The teen nodded, though he didn't really believe it. It fit too perfectly. The simplest solution was typically the best one. He'd been attacked by a giant, hairy, wolf-man-like beast. On a full moon night. He'd been bitten, and healed by the next day. He was a… He was… He swallowed.
"Alright," he acknowledged, hoping for his dad's sake that he wasn't going to turn once a month for his Sheriff-father to try to keep holed up and away from murdering people. Shaking his head, Stiles forced himself to think of the next problem, "But they're going to want to put new bandages on me. And they can't-I don't want them to know."
This time the man nodded, no hesitation. The situation wasn't something that could be shared with the general public. No need to bring his son under a microscope. The Sheriff realized then that Stiles had been oddly reserved in his police statement and only hoped that he wouldn't misword anything in the future. His boy was clever, but he was still young.
Sheriff Stilinski was thinking of a solution in the quiet, while his son fidgeted and looked out the window in the afternoon light. Stiles was grateful the moon wasn't visible yet. He dreaded to find out if he could be affected by the waning full moon. For three days, most people saw the moon as fully shaped, only the middle day, yesterday, was it at it's peak. But still… Stiles unconsciously began to bite a knuckle.
"Melissa," his father burst out, startling the teen into staring at him, "She'll help us out. You know she'll cover for us." Blue eyes watched him steadily, reassuring his nervous son until the boy nodded in acceptance, "She's on shift. I'll bring her in, and we'll have to explain, but she'll get us out without anyone else seeing to you."
"Okay," Stiles confirmed around the lump in his throat. He swallowed down his instinctive denial, the need to call his father back as he walked to the door, tried to trick himself into thinking he could see the man, knew exactly where he was going and he'd be right back, that he wasn't actually out of view. It was an old trick he'd done as a child, after his mother… Just after. And as these reassuring, though obviously untrue, thoughts ran through his head, the teen realized he was gnawing on his knuckles and hearing a pulse in his ears.
He really needed to slow it down, next thing he knew he'd have as much heart trouble as his father. Stiles really couldn't give up red meat, not before he'd gotten out of his teens. But the focused breathing exercises didn't seem to help; if anything, he could swear he heard it louder the longer he calmed. Brow furrowing, he tried to find his pulse in his wrist, pressing down when he caught it and wondering at the inconsistency for a second. Stiles could feel his pulse in his wrist. It wasn't as quick as the one he could hear. Well, until he realized he was hearing someone else's heartbeat, then his own pulse jumped accordingly. Shit.
The teen startled when his father suddenly opened the door to the room, and Stiles lost track of the rhythm in his head like it was never there in the first place. Fucking Hell, he thought, was that trauma messing with his head?
Melissa had followed his father through, seemingly unaware the man quickly closed and locked it behind her as she focused on the tall boy in front of her, "Alright, I know you guys wanted to talk, but let me work while we do, okay? It's best to get the bandages-Stiles, why'd you put your shirt back on? You'll just have to take it off again so I can re-wrap your shoulder."
"Well hey, less work for you today," Stiles answered back snippily, before cringing back at the force of a double 'disappointed parent' stare. Melissa's came with a raised eyebrow to signal confusion, "I mean, uh… You really don't have to do any bandages. Unless they're fake ones, like if we need them to get me outta here, then I'll wear some, but really I don't like the tape-"
"Stiles," the Sheriff interrupted with a sigh. Melissa had crossed her arms, staring in a decidedly unimpressed way, "Just show her."
"Oh, right," the boy muttered, before grabbing the hem of his thin shirt. If he'd thought about it, rather than been distracted by the throbbing in his eardrums, he would've realized that of course the Sheriff couldn't explain what was happening right out in the open. Nerves made his fingers stiff and the fabric tangled on both his elbows, locking his arms together for a second.
"That doesn't hurt? Do you need help, Sti-" the nurse's words abruptly cut off as the shirt was finally pulled away, revealing the neat stitchwork. And the scars. Her big brown eyes widened and her mouth dropped only slightly. Stiles would've felt better if she'd made a more ridiculous face. Slowly, she reached up to tentatively poke at the bright pink skin. Stiles made no move to stop her; it really didn't hurt. The woman he'd come to think of as a second mother, gently traced alongside the stitches with a fingertip. Then a frown slowly drew across her lips, and Stiles was treated to the classical face of 'worried Melissa'. Usually Scott was the recipient, and being on the other end of it now made Stiles feel guilty as Hell.
It was a wonder the other boy didn't hesitate before following Stiles on his schemes. Actually, Scott's obsession with lacrosse had probably saved his life last night. Or… or maybe he would've just been bitten and survived too. And the wound would have healed… Would his asthma have healed up too? Would he ever have to worry about his own health ever again? God, the choices were Hellish: creature trauma and incredible healing, or sanity and asthma that could kill you one day. What a choice.
His father started speaking as Stiles slowly came out of his head; Melissa was already studying his calf stitches, "We don't want to tell the doctors if we can help it. This sort of thing would draw a lot of attention. He's just a boy, Melissa."
"You don't have to convince me," the dark haired woman answered automatically, before taking a deep breath and lowering Stiles' pant leg. She stood and absently commented, "You can put your shirt back on," before focusing on the Sheriff, "I get it. This is big, and weird-"
"Hey," Stiles chimed in reflexively, before giving both their stares a nervous smile. They ignored him after a second.
"I can get you guys out of here, but you'll have to file out as against medical advice. There's no way around that or the wheelchair. You can take my car for now, I'm on shift until five," Melissa hashed out, one thing after the other as businesslike as she could make it. Stiles realized she really made the best, level-headed nurse.
"Thank you, Melissa," the elder Stilinski said strongly, looking physically relieved. "It'll be easy to excuse the both of us as just not wanting to be here longer than necessary when Stiles can recover at home. That's perfectly true," he added with a sad smile. His son looked away guiltily, all three of them aware of their past hospital experiences.
In the next moment Melissa seemed to notice Stiles unconsciously fumbling with the thin shirt having not put it on yet, and moved to the counter behind her. The boy watched in confusion before she revealed a pair of silver scissors. With a raised eyebrow, she stated, "Since they're not doing you any good," and started to quickly snip the necessary threads before gently tugging the stitches out.
"Damn, that feels so weird," Stiles commented, watching despite the fact it was giving him goosebumps. The bite pattern rose and fell with the change in canines, molars, etc. And so did the pattern of stitchwork, requiring multiple snips to free up the knots. His stomach churned as Melissa stepped behind him to get his back.
"Think the scars will fade?" the Sheriff asked suddenly, having watched their personal nurse work as closely as his son had. Stiles almost shrugged, caught himself with a slight flinch that made Melissa smirk and pat his back gently.
"Who knows," the teen muttered morosely. Normally he might be all for a wicked scar, a story to tell to a captive audience, but this wasn't something he could announce with pride. When Nurse McCall finished with his shoulder, tossing the many black threads on the counter, she came around to see both men.
"They might, they might not. I'm sorry Stiles. I think if they hadn't been stitched they wouldn't have scarred at all. Can you bring your foot up?" Stiles thought on that while he stepped closer to the bed and obligingly stood on one leg for her. The thin pants stretched, revealing half his shin before he tugged it up the rest of the way. Both Stilinski men watched as her deft hands undid the stitchwork once more. Now the teen wasn't sure whether he wanted them to fade, as if last night had never happened, or to keep them as a visceral reminder that this wasn't something he could deny. Couldn't ignore. He got the feeling if he did, he could end up hurting someone. "Do you know what the original injuries were, Stiles?"
He startled, jerking as Nurse McCall tugged the last thread away. Swallowing and trying to breath evenly, he rubbed the fresh skin on his calf and asked, "What do you mean?"
Damn it, wrong question. Both adults looked at him with a varying levels of suspicion and concern. Then the Sheriff stared directly at Melissa and asked in a tone that said he dreaded the upcoming realization, "Do you mean he was already healing by the time the paramedics got to him?"
Stiles could imagine just the image he'd presented his father: passed out in the leaves and blood, clothes saturated with it and puddled by his head. Now that he thought of it, he realized someone must've brought the Sheriff a change of clothes. He was in casualwear. Hopefully someone had managed to salvage the bloody uniform, those things cost the department an arm and a leg every year.
"Stiles?" Melissa prodded, and the teen lowered his leg, crossed his arms defensively though he knew he'd have to answer. Not that the knowledge would do anyone any good.
"My leg was pretty bad, moving my ankle hurt so the claws must've gone deep," his jaw clenched, "Pretty sure I broke a rib, maybe cracked a couple, when it threw me on the ground. And the bite," he paused, licking his lips and breathing for a second, unconsciously touching his shoulder where the pain had gathered before the numbness of the rest of his arm. The new, uneven skin made an unnerving contrast under his fingertips, "It severed tendons, maybe an artery. My arm was numb, couldn't feel or move it. And there was so much blood…"
Sightless amber eyes watched the memory of those blinding white teeth arching toward him. The skin on the back of his hand had torn across the thing's teeth, but that paled in comparison. Just like he didn't bother mentioning the scrapes he should have on his palms from climbing the tree. Such little things, of course he could heal those so no one knew they were there if he could heal from such devastating damage in half a day.
In the quiet Stiles had missed the look of horror on his father's face. He didn't miss the man swiftly grabbing him up in a bear hug. The warm embrace tugged his mind to the present, and Stiles sighed in relief, hugging back tightly. He rested his forehead on his father's shoulder, taking slow, deep breathes of the familiar soap and aftershave, the detergent they've had since his childhood, and the lingering scent of gunpowder and ink.
When a minute had passed, the Sheriff sniffed strongly and clapped his son's back once before grasping his shoulders to look him in the eye, "Son, I know this is awful, but I am… I am just so glad you're okay. No matter what that thing was that bit you, I'm grateful you're not worse off."
Stiles nodded, fully understanding the mixed blessing after having thought on Scott possibly being in the creature's path. Melissa got both their attention with a soft sigh. The elder Stilinski pulled further away to look at her, and she gave them a weary smile, "Alright. Let's get moving. Stiles can get dressed, there's at least socks in a drawer here. Your clothes and things were taken for evidence, but it's not too cold out. You'll be okay to get to the car. I'll go get the paperwork, let a doctor know you're checking out, and get my keys. I'll see you in a few minutes."
Both Stilinskis nodded with her and she grabbed up the black threads then took her leave. Must be disposing them somewhere they wouldn't be noticed, the boy realized. Stiles pulled his shirt on, then the socks his dad had swiftly found for him though he wasn't cold at all. Another weird thing he was getting too tired to think about. Also… Oh my God, was he starving.
"Man, we are so stopping for food first thing. I'm starved," he commented absently. Sitting heavily on the unmade bed, Stiles sighed and watched his father do the same before sitting in the closest chair. Somehow, even though his first instinct was not to worry his dad and to have kept this to himself, the stress of everything didn't seem so bad with everyone working together. He was attacked, healed, and probably a freaking werewolf. And he didn't have to give himself a heart attack trying to keep his healed wounds from his dad, hide the faint scars from medical staff on his own or try to make up an explanation for whatever the Hell was going on with his head.
A bemused smile crossed his lips, "Thanks for bringing Tara, dad." His father looked up, watching him for a moment until a sad smile was returned to his son.
"You weren't going to tell me, were you?" Stiles looked down a touch guiltily, let his fingers twist and turn against each other in mimicry of his rapid thoughts.
"It was a bit unbelievable, don't you think? I mean," light brown eyes shot up again, meeting his father's understanding expression, "When I saw scars instead of… Just the creature itself was too weird to be real, but healing overnight like that-"
"Yeah, that's something," the Sheriff agreed thoughtfully. He scratched at the back of his head, ran a hand through his short blond hair, a habit shared between them. Then he relaxed back into the barely comfortable chair and segwayed, "We're getting burgers. And do not give me any crap about the beef. Hell, I'm getting bacon too. I think this situation calls for a free for all."
Stiles snorted and looked away with a wry smile, "Whatever you say, dad." He wasn't getting bacon. Try all he wanted, that wasn't going to happen. The teen would concede on the real beef at least. After the stress he put the man through last night, he definitely deserved it… Alright, if the man could sneak bacon onto his burger without Stiles noticing then he'd let the man have it. But only then.
After what seemed a short minute of comfortable silence the door burst open, startling Stiles into jumping to his feet. The Sheriff stood as well, slower and instinctively getting between the white coated doctor and his son as subtly as he could. The man was shorter than the officer, with average brown hair and a regrettable face. Stiles couldn't recall him, but then the only hospital employee he truly knew was Melissa. The rest-he preferred they kept to the status quo. He doesn't know them, they don't know him; no one brings up the reason a seventeen year old boy is intimately familiar with the layout of the only major medical center in Beacon Hills.
"So, you want to check out early, Mr. Stilinski?" the man asked neutrally, eyes still on the clipboard in front of him, pen sketching across it. Melissa stood next to him, a wheelchair and keys jangling in each hand. Looked like she had her way, not too surprising.
"Yeah, the hospital's not the best place for him to recover," the Sheriff answered vaguely, stepping close enough to confirm which forms were being filled out. The man glanced back with an affirming nod to his son, making the boy exhale in relief.
"It would've been best for him to be under observation for the first day, but I can understand your sentiment. Nurse McCall will teach you how to take care of your bandages, how often to change them or tell you where to come if you'd like a nurse to help with that instead. I've prescribed an antibiotic, an anti-inflammatory, and a series of rabies shots for the upcoming weeks. You got your first just after surgery. Make sure to keep those appointments," brown eyes glanced up for the first time in his whole speech, finally meeting each Stilinski's in turn. The very thought of the rabies needles had Stiles' stomach churning, skin prickling as if cold. The teen gave a weak smile, more a grimace, before the man signed one more thing and passed the clipboard to the elder Stilinski, "Please fill out the designated areas, sign at the bottom, Sheriff... You're taking your son against medical advice and I'd like to remind you of the insurance issues this could propagate."
The Sheriff's hand paused before the signature, and he looked over his shoulder where Stiles stood awkwardly fidgeting. The boy raised his eyebrows meaningfully, with no little amount of sarcastic humor, before casually bending his scarred limb to scratch the very back of his neck. Blue eyes rolled, and the officer smiled wryly at the doctor before signing, "I think we'll be fine."
Hopefully Melissa could get him out of those rabies shots, because goddamn that would suck. He's heard those hurt like a bitch. When the doctor gave his parting words and left, Melissa passed along her car keys and where the Toyota was. She gave a quick gesture toward Stiles and said, "Here, I'll take that off for you," reminding him at the last minute of the rough band aid holding his IV shunt to him.
An ugly thought occurred as he glanced down at it. He hated needles. An open tube to his vein was almost worse. With a calculating frown, the teen murmured absently, "Oh. Right," before roughly peeling up the adhesive. He was highly aware of the two adults watching him with concerned expressions and couldn't help himself. The thoughts buzzed inside him, and he just wanted… He wanted to see it. No one had seen it happen before, so who knew if it was even still happening right? Taking a bracing breath, Stiles ignored Melissa's calling his name and offered, "Let's see a magic trick."
He pulled on the tube, remembering at the last minute to cover the injection site with the same palm, dropping the cannula. "Stiles!" his name echoed in stereo in the small room, both adults rushing the few steps closer and hovering, unsure what to do. Stiles licked his lips, having felt a single spurt of blood and then nothing. Still staring at the back of his hand, he deliberately smeared the heel of his right palm along the needle point. Most of the red fluid rubbed down his wrist, away from his knuckles and revealing his wound.
Or well, where his wound should be. But there was nothing but skin. Pale, blue veined, hairy skin. Blinking reflexively, Stiles exhaled in a mix of relief and fascination, mirrored by his father. He was knocked out of his daze by a swift slap to his shoulder.
"What?!" he cried automatically.
Melissa held her pointer finger to his face, expression a mix of concern and irritation, "Don't you do that again." The teen widened his eyes in a mocking innocence, giving his unhurt arms a short flail to demonstrate nothing had happened. She used the same hand to cuff his skull, eliciting a startled yelp, and pointed again, "Go wash your hands. Jesus, Stiles. You just can't help yourself, can you?"
He grimaced at her, muttering under his breath about the Hippocratic Oath but doing as he was told anyway. The Sheriff only sighed, rubbed a hand against his temple and forehead before smiling apologetically at the woman who shared his suffering.
Stiles had to deal with not being able to wheel his own ass out of the hospital, no he wasn't going to do a wheelie, who did they take him for?, but at least it was his dad doing the pushing instead of Melissa. Getting wheeled out by a petite Hispanic woman would've been a touch more awkward than his father, especially considering Stiles knew he already looked ridiculous with his long limbs and cramped slouch.
The Sheriff left him with Melissa for a few minutes as he brought the old Toyota around the entrance. Stiles spent this time clenching and unclenching his fingers, biting and licking his lips to the point he could feel them chap. Finally the woman couldn't seem to take it any long and exclaimed, "Well, spit it out already!" shocking him into almost kicking out of the chair. With his ass hanging off the edge, Stiles looked at her wide eyed and utterly ridiculous. She just sighed at him and waited, watching until he looked away and started to collect himself.
"I just," he paused, tapping with agitation on the chair arm, "I'm glad Scott wasn't there. And," Stiles swallowed the lump building in his throat and felt his shoulders slump without conscious thought. His voice softened as he finished, "I'm sorry I asked him to come with me. Last night."
In the silence that followed the teen sniffed and cleared his trachea, wondering if they'd sit in the quiet until his dad drove up. Then he felt a small hand touch his shoulder, making him whip around to look up at her. A soft expression, something like sadness and understanding, watched him as she gently squeezed his newly scarred shoulder, "I'm glad he didn't come with you too. And I'm sorry he wasn't there for you last night."
Stiles felt his eyes burn and when he couldn't hold her gaze any longer he stared out into the parking lot, sniffing quickly before trying for a deep breath to make himself not think about it any longer. He cleared his throat again, getting rid of the pressure, and felt relief when he spied the McCall's vehicle come around the corner. "It's lacrosse try outs today. Think I'll hold off the weird shit if he makes first line and if he doesn't I'll use it to distract him."
The blue Toyota car rolled up slow and the Sheriff came around swiftly to open up the passenger side door. Stiles didn't bother to stand until he looked at Melissa again who gave him a grateful smile in return, "Sounds good, Stiles. Stay safe and call me if you need help with any of the 'weird shit', alright?"
The teen nodded, standing while his father gave Nurse McCall his own thanks and gave a little show of holding his son's elbow to help him into the car. The Sheriff added that he would bring the car around at the end of her shift and said their goodbyes. When the elder Stilinski was comfortably in the driver's seat, door closed and scanning the lot to move out, Stiles sighed and reminded him, "Food first."
"I gotcha, son. I didn't bother with the cafeteria here." Stiles snorted in response, too tired to start a fight on balanced meals and healthy eating habits. The man was lucky to have gotten dinner last night before getting called in. If all he missed was breakfast it wouldn't be the first time. To the teen's relief, his father pulled up to Denny's so at least it wasn't Carl's Jr. or Mickey D's. It also wasn't the diner where he was guilting the staff into restricting the Sheriff's diet to heart healthy choices but Stiles would let this pass on account of the fact it felt like his stomach was eating itself.
They were seated quickly despite Stiles' lack of shoes; the Sheriff recognizable by his face alone, which made his son suspicious on just how often he ate there. But the interrogation would have to wait on account of his groaning gut. They ordered swiftly, a quick and dirty argument over the bacon-"Bacon cheeseburger, no onion, fries are fine." "No bacon, and add a side salad." "Yes, bacon." "No bacon."-at which the Sheriff pretended to lose ungracefully and Stiles allowed him to nonverbally cue the waitress to get it anyway. It wasn't exactly subtle, mouthing 'yes bacon' behind his menu while passing it to the woman. But Stiles let it slide. Because he is the soul of generosity.
When their plates were served, Stiles dug into a turkey club with abandon, barely tasting it. The filling sensation gave him an almost instant relief. After downing the first half the teen gave an excessive groan and leaned back in the booth, muscles melting into the cheap plastic. Almost immediately exhaustion hit him like a two by four to the skull. His eyes closed and he let his head fall back, just missing his father giving him a cautious stare. A strange light-headedness seemed to be traveling from his neck down his spine and limbs. Stiles' next deep inhale left a tingling in his nostrils and an odd taste in the back of his throat, like when a smell is so strong you can taste it.
"Son?" the Sheriff asked softly. Stiles hummed and opened his eyes to half-mast, seeing his father's brow creased in worry. "You alright?"
The teen cleared his throat of the taste, gave his head a slight shake to try and curb the fuzzy feeling, "Yeah. Yeah, fine. Just tired." His dad had stopped eating for a moment, watching the boy start on the second half of his sandwich with all the enthusiasm of his chem homework. The rapid appetite change and mood shift wasn't lost on either of them. Still, Stiles kept at it, knowing he had to replenish his energies. Disconnected thoughts vaguely circled the idea that he needed to eat, needed to keep his calories up, hadn't he just lost a lot of something? Blood, right?
So his body was just rebuilding; he had healed incredibly fast. And Wolverine wasn't exactly an accurate representation of biology, no matter how quickly a healing mutation could work. His father ate slowly across from him, concerned glances becoming more frequent as the man, for once, finished before his teenaged son.
The Sheriff pecked at his salad, inviting criticism, wit, anything. Stiles seemed to barely be paying attention. All of the boy's focus was on trying to finish before he fell asleep at the table. On the last bite his hand dropped to the table with a slight bang and he muttered a soft apology. The elder Stilinski immediately stood, throwing several twenties on the table and pulling on his son, trying to get him standing.
Even the attempt at exercise couldn't get his body to slow his descent into sleep. "Dad?" he questioned roughly, trusting the man to guide his limbs to the car. Voices echoed around him, raised in concern but unintelligible to his ears. His skin was unfeeling to the brisk outside air, too warm for it to matter, like he was running a fever. But without any muscle aches or headache. Just that inexplicable lethargy. His father uttered soothing words, encouraging him to keep walking, to watch his head as he sat in the passenger seat. When Stiles' hands were too heavy to reach for his seatbelt, the Sheriff did it for him.
When the driver's side door shut away the outside world, the older Stilinski leaned over and tapped at his son's face. He tried to waken him just a bit more, calling his name repeatedly before, "Stiles, what is this? Should I take you back to the hospital?"
That finally got a response, half-asleep as it was. "No," Stiles murmured with a roll of his head, eyes stubbornly shut, "'s the healing…"
"You've already healed, there's-there's nothing more to heal, right?"
"I's fine. Too much healed. Tired," the boy sighed out, sinking further into the seat before rubbing his cheekbone across the fabric of the chair's shoulder pad, "No hospital." His last words were barely breathed out before his body went limp and the Sheriff was left helpless once more with his passed out son.