AN: Oh. Um. Hello. c: Ennnnnjoyyyyy~
Chapter 5
I wake up to the intoxicating aroma of bacon and eggs coming from the kitchen. The old me would have clambered down stairs and demand to know why my father is cooking bacon and not something more healthy, while taking the plate full of deliciousness for myself as my father threatens me with a lethal weapon to either give back the bacon or be shot. I say the old me because the new me doesn't seem to give a damn anymore, I would much rather lie in bed for the rest of the day, but know I can't. I sit up against gravity, which agrees with me on lying down all day, and intend to get ready for school but my hand is strangely sore, then I remember another wolf had broken it the night before.
"Fuck," I rumble out as I cradle the now throbbing hand with my other. I touch the back of my head gently to get a sense of the damage back there. It's a little tender and is still aching, but I obviously don't have a concussion or anything that serious so I go ahead searching my room looking for fresh cloths and throwing them on the best I can with one working hand. When I'm finished I hesitantly tip toe down the stairs and poke my head into the kitchen to spot my father's back to me as he happily cooks breakfast, whistle and all. I look towards the front door, then back to him, then the door again and without another thought I fling my body at the door and quietly sneak out, and do the same for my Jeep. Once inside I slowly turn her on, wincing when the engine flared loud and proud.
Getting out of the neighbourhood was easier than expected, and once I was far enough away from my house I let myself feel bad for just leaving my dad when he was probably making breakfast for me, too, as he was probably worried about me over last night . I was thinking about how I was going to make it up to him when I pulled into the hospital parking area. I slid out of the Jump, turning her off and shoving the keys in my sweater pocket, and made the long-ass walk up to the main doors.
The stink of disinfectant has to be one of my most hated smells. Maybe it's because it smells like fear, or maybe it's because it is basic fragrance of any hospital, and I personally hate those, too. The elderly lady behind the long, sleek counter must have seen my distain because she waved me over with a 'son'.
"What are you look for, hun?" She inquires when I approach the counter.
I gesture to my hand and shrug, "I need someone to look at my broken hand here," I place my broken hand down onto the counter and cover it with my good one.
"Aw, honey, what happened?" She looks closely at my hands with a little, worried frown. The kind you would see on a mother- Mother? Scott's mom works at the hospital, I forgot about that. What would I do if I ran into her? Act like everything is still normal, like nothing happened at all? Would Scott have already told her? Probably, since he's a mama's boy.
I physically shake my head of those thoughts for now and look up at the mature, older lady with a smile, "Lacrosse. Boys got a little rough, where do I go for this exactly?" I look at my hand then back up at her.
She smiles and points at a hallway behind her with her wrinkly finger, "Down there, take a number and wait for your turn."
"Thank you," I walk off in the direction she told me too, and at the end of the hallway I end up in a small waiting room with only a few people sitting there. I take a number from those tall, ticket machine things and nod to everyone, who are staring at me like I'm some sort of new entertainment. I sit down anyway, two seats away from anyone and wait for my turn.
It seems like hours later when my number finally flashes on the little screen above everyone's heads with a loud BEEEP. I saunter over to the desk and the young women behind the glass. She smiles at me as I sit down in the much more comfortable, blue arm chair.
"What's the problem, sir?" Her voice sounds like honey, so sweat and almost sing-song. I give her a toothy smile before pointing to my wounded hand.
"It's broken, I need someone to wrap it or do whatever you do to make it better, soon." She looks at my crippled hand and frowns.
"Alright, we have a doctor free right now, actually. I just need your health card and information," She flips open a little, blue folder and takes one of the many insufferable, bright, fluffy pens from a container and begins to question me.
Ten minutes later I am being escorted through and down small hallways which turn in every direction until the young lady, who I found out is named Brenda, stops at a random room and opens the door.
"Just wait in here, they'll be right in," She shuts the door behind me. I hear her high heels slap against the floor harshly as she practically stomps away.
I jump onto the bed and stay perfectly still as the sound of the paper they put over the beds is annoying and unpleasing. I look along the walls instead and read all the posters about smoking and lung cancer. It doesn't take long before the door opens again and a lady with scrubs comes in.
It's my nightmare when she turns around and presents herself as Scott's mom.
She flashes me her usual motherly smile and looks down at the clipboard in her hands. "Broken hand, huh? What happened?" She asks me while putting the clipboard down on the bed beside me and touching my broken hand carefully with her cold fingers.
"Lacrosse," I mutter out, looking away as I find it incredibly hard to lie to her, always have. Her fingers leave my hand and she reaches behind her to grab a wheelie stool from the little counter with the sink. She pulls it close to the bed and sits down, then proceeds to take my hand in hers and examines it more closely.
"It looks almost crushed... What'd they do, all sit on it at once?" She asks, obviously not believing me at all. She flips it over, ignoring my wince of pain. "What really happened?"
"Wolves." I whimper out through the pain of her twisting, poking and feeling my hand. She places it down on my lap and spins in a 180 to the counter, pulling open a drawer and drawing things out.
"Was it Derek?" She simply asks half way through her search for what looks like things to make a wrap out of. I can almost see the frown in her voice. "You know how much I hate you and Scott hanging out with that man. I should have known he'd do something-"
"It wasn't him, believe me, I would have kicked his ass if he didn't something like this," There's a sudden ache to my chest while saying that, but I try to ignore it and continue, "It was some new pack. Nothing serious, they just wanted to threaten me, but as you know, I'm unthreatenable... If that's even a word. It is now! I should call somebody," By now she had already turned and had my hand on her lap, a long strip of white gauze in her hands. "I could give you some credit, since you were here when I made the discovery of the new word of the ages," I ramble.
She chuckles a little but otherwise ignores my babbling, as she has been hearing it for years. She then proceeds to gently wrap my hand in the gauze, "It's not broken, but there are some stretched muscles and your wrist is pulled out of place, you will have to keep it in this wrap for a few weeks, okay? Don't be taking it off once you get in your car."
I chuckle and roll my eyes at the memory, "That was one time, okay? I promise."
She smiles and wraps my hand and wrist a few more times, then tucks the end of the gauze in an edge and leans back a bit. "There you go. Gimmie a call if you need anything else, kay?" I nod and stand up, yearning to be out of the cramped place more than anything right now. "Oh and Stiles?"
"Yeah?" I turn to her only to me caught off guard. She has a sad look on her face and is looking at me with such motherly eyes its almost scary.
"I think you're good enough to be in any pack," she says with a small, sad smile.
I don't know what else to say but a small, "Thanks," and without another word I leave the room and speed walk out of the hospital, surprisingly having no trouble navigating my way through the hallway maze of the hospital.
So Scott did tell her? Is that how she knew it wasn't Lacrosse? Because Scott told her about the new pack already, and if there's a new pack, it automatically means Stiles has been hurt somehow. You know, cause that's all I do is get hurt.
I punch my stirring wheel and glare daggers at it, I know childish, but I'm fucking angry. I don't care if people see me beat up my stirring wheel, even if they think it's some crazed loony that could possibly eat them.
I want to know where Scott gets the right to talk about my business to his mother. We're not friends anymore, not in his eyes, so why would he tell his mother knowing she will talk to me about it. In what world is that okay? It's not. This only shows me that I can't come back here and risk her actually trying to have a conversation about what happened. If Scott didn't tell her his side of it.
How Stiles went bat-crap crazy and starting accusing the pack of shit they will never admit to doing.
I aggressively twist my keys in the ignition of my Jeep and fire her up, revving her up loudly and driving out of the parking lot much faster then I should have.
Right now I don't seem to care, because all I want to do is go home and sleep the day away.
When I arrive home, my father's car is still sitting in the drive way. To my surprise my father is also sitting on the porch of the house in one of our old lawn chairs. I turn off my Jeep and climb out; most of my anger has gone away since leaving the hospital. I awkwardly walk up the steps of the house, preparing for some yelling.
"Where were you?" He asks first. I know it's a game and once I answer that question he will go on a full out rant. I stop walking and slowly turn to face him. "What's that? What happened?" He looks at my bandaged hand, then up at my face.
I shrug, "Nothing, don't worry about it dad," Oh, aren't those words familiar. Not a day when I haven't said that back when I was sixteen.
He frowns, not pleased with my answer, "Don't say that, something happened, what was it?" He pushes, leaning forward to grab my hand and study it more closely.
"Nothing, dad. Sorry about this morning, I just wanted to get it checked out," I take my hand out of his and step back towards the door, bringing my no-good hand behind my back.
"I guess you're not going to school then, huh? I talked to Scott's mother, so I understand if you need a day to-"
"I don't need a day to mope, dad. I'm just," I put my other hand on the doorknob and sigh, "I'm just a little tired is all, I'll be fine," I lie effortlessly, pushing the door open and quickly climbing the stairs to the second level of my house without so much as looking back. I know he's worried, but I can't deal with that right now, I can't deal with anything right now. I slam my bedroom door shut behind me and rest my back against it with my eyes closed. Instead of doing a fist-pump for avoiding my father's rant like a pro, I just flop down on my bed fully clothed, pull the covers over my head and curl into a ball with my arms wrapped around my legs. It takes a while before the veil of darkness finally does any good in putting me to sleep, and when it does it's only a light, dreamless slumber.
When I wake up sometime after sunset I feel someone in my room, watching me.
Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf in any way, shape or form.