“Would you please stop that?” Scott hisses, crossing his arms against his chest in a dissociative fashion. The Hospital’s smell, a mix of disinfectant and sweat and sickness, is working its way inside his nostrils, making his stomach twist in a very unpleasant way, and he doesn’t need Derek’s low, worried whines to add to his very personal, very long list of things that make today a very fucked up day, thank you very much.
Beside him, Derek growls defensively, almost as if Scott is being the irrational one here. Which, just for the record, he is not. There isn’t much they can do beside waiting, and it’s not like crying like a scolded dog will make Stiles’ bruises fade or his cracked rib magically repair. Hell, Scott would be perfectly happy with dancing the Hula Dance with nothing on but a straw skirt if that would make Stiles heal faster. “Get a hold of yourself,” he whispers back, not nearly touched by Derek’s false display of anger.
“Mhng,” Stiles mutters against Derek’s shoulder, giving his very helpful contribute to the situation. He frowns, probably in pain, and then noses at the tender spot of skin covering Derek’s jugular, silently looking for comfort.
“Shh,” Derek whispers back soothingly, his hand caressing Stiles’ arm as he does so, cradling him even more against his chest, careful of not hurting him more than the kid already is. So stupid. So careless. Beside him, Scott’s heartbeat is fast, impatient, despite his calm demeanor. Derek sighs. “I’m just-” Worried. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to.
Scott doesn’t turn to look at him, doesn’t acknowledge the implications in Derek’s half-phrase. Instead- “It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs, his right knee hitting Derek’s in what is obviously not a comforting gesture.
Down the hall, a big, round clock marks the passing of another minute. They keep waiting.