Chapter Text
The Jeep was on two wheels around the corner, swerving into the other lane as it came back down to all four and jarring the bleeding passenger nearly out of his seat. Derek's shoulder bumped against Stiles' and the human boy had to wonder why it was his Jeep that had become the werewolf-only ambulance of Beacon Hills. Couldn't Scott have donated his Mom's car... or something? He curses and stomps his foot on the gas as the light turns yellow, laying on the horn as he blows through the intersection. Wouldn't you know it, that was his Dad sitting at a red light.
He didn't have time to think about it though, he just used his elbow to try to nudge the alpha werewolf awake. He didn't move. Didn't even growl, like he did when the whole pack was carting him to the Jeep and trying to sit him up in the passenger's seat. His eyes slanted open, landing on Stiles and the boy took that as his cue to talk, even as he noticed the lights blinking behind him and the sirens wailing. “Derek, come on man, wake up. You can't go fainting on me here. There's no way I can carry your dying ass into the ER all on my own, so wake up.”
Of course his eyes were already shut by the time Stiles had run out of semi-encouraging things to say to him. He made an irritated grumble in his throat and tried to elbow him into compliance again. It didn't pay off. He glanced in his rearview and cursed. His Dad looked torn between exasperated and pissed off. That didn't bode well. He multi-tasked and cranked the window down and waved his hand out the window, trying to tell his Dad to follow but let him keep going. He wasn't entirely sure the message got through. He took another high speed turn and almost ended up inside a store front. He spun out and nearly took out some pedestrians as he took an immediate right. He gunned it, steadily climbing the small hill and swerving violently into the ER parking lot. His Dad rolled in right behind him.
He wasn't sure how, exactly, but he would have to not only explain Derek's state of... comatose?... but his reckless driving and not pulling over for his Dad. His Dad met him at his passenger side door with a bellow.
“STILES WHAT THE HE—” Meanwhile, Stiles had opened the door and gotten a face full of Derek. Bleeding, dying and unconscious Derek. Not very appealing. He smelled like death, which incidentally explained the whole dying part. Stiles was trying to adjust akimbo limbs and tilt his face away from breathing in Derek's shoulder in.
“Not right now, Dad, but I promise as soon as we get him some help I'll try.” His wide eyes and general panic likely sent his Dad into protective parent mode instead of worrying about something as minor as his son not following all of the traffic laws. His Dad reached around him while the EMTs were wheeling a stretcher out to them. Even when Derek was transferred to their completely capable hands, Stiles was right there, one hand on the werewolf's uninjured arm. It was only when his Dad peeled him away and forced him down in a chair that he parted from the werewolf.
“Just what happened, Stiles? How did he get like this?” His Dad, playing the Sheriff now, stood in front of him with his hands on his hips, gesturing toward the door they had wheeled Derek behind. Stiles should really be there. He knew more than they did about werewolf physiology—he should be monitoring—his eyes glanced back at his Dad and he sagged back in the chair.
“A hunting accident, Dad.” He brought his hand up, fingers trailing over the sweat-dampened skin at his hairline. He hadn't known, even as the words were coming out of his mouth, what his lie was going to be. His Dad gave him an appraising look.
“It isn't hunting season, Stiles, try again.” At this point his Dad was getting used to having to wheedle the truth from him. He didn't like the feeling of it. He sighed and averted his gaze.
“I shot him? A total accident, I swear—” This time wasn't going to fly either.
“You don't even get within three feet of my gun, Stiles, there's no way this was you. And you wouldn't have lied about it first.” He had a point there. Ms. McCall came to a full stop beside the Sheriff and looked between them.
“I hate to break this up, but what kind of poison is there. Please, please, please tell me you know.” Her intrusion wasn't unwelcome, until she mentioned the whole poison thing. Stiles rubbed his head vigorously to release some tension and looked her in the eyes as his Dad sputtered.
“Wolfsbane. I mean—Aconite. Yeah, aconite.”
Melissa nodded and zipped off again, leaving his Dad turning his gaze back on him. “Wolfsbane, Stiles? What the hell were you doing?”
Stiles gave a keening sort of noise in the back of his throat and leaned forward as if he was about to get up, one hand falling to check for his phone which was... not in his pants. It was actually out in the damn forest smashed to bits. He swept his gaze back up to his Dad.
“It was Mr. Argent, okay. He showed up and wanted to show Derek some new hunting equipment,” That was stretching the truth... a lot, “I don't know how it happened, but then Derek was shot and he wasn't himself and we got him in the car.”
At that point he didn't have a lot else he could say. Anything more specific and he could essentially out everyone to his Dad, which meant the police knew, which meant chaos in Beacon Hills. His eyes were drawn to the doors Derek was behind. His Dad gave a huff, “You're telling me that Chris Argent was involved in this?”
Stiles shrugged helplessly and his Dad's lips tightened up in the way they did whenever he got irritated with his son. Stiles kicked his feet against the floor, scuffing his shoes. His Dad threw his hands up and walked away, pulling his cell phone out as he went.