Chapter 1: A Broken Hand
Stiles stumbles through his front door and drops his head against it once its shut. Today had been a particularly shitty day: lunch time detention with Harris for challenging him on the answers to a pop quiz, forgetting to do his AP history readings, Coach made him do suicides for being late to practice, and then put away all the gear afterwards. Stiles was going to have a shower and then sleep for a week, wolfy emergencies be damned.
He staggers up the stairs slowly, every muscle in his body screaming, and finally makes it into his room. He shucks off his lacrosse shirt and shorts, the sight of his bed renewing his energy and he moans happily. He turns to head to the bathroom when he sees a tall, dark, and brooding werewolf glaring at him.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Stiles screws his eyes shut and throws out his fist.
There’s a crunch. Then silence. And then pain.
“Stiles, what the fuck?” He feels his hand being lifted gently and his fingers being straightened out. Stiles drops to his knees.
“No, no, no, no, no, don’t touch it” he whimpers, and the hands holding his immediately still.
“Okay, okay. Stiles? Can you look at me? I need you to open your eyes,” Stiles blinks the tears away and looks at Derek crouching in front of him.
“There you are,” he says smiling softly, “I need you to concentrate on me okay?” Stiles nods, looking at his eyebrows. “I know you don’t like me bossing you around but I need you to do exactly as I say,” Stiles whines a little and Derek’s smile turns genuine. “I know, but its only for a little while okay?” Stiles breathes and nods again.
“Your hand is injured, possibly broken, so we need to take you to hospital. You probably don’t want to get dressed, but I’m not taking you anywhere unless you put some pants on.” Stiles blinks and looks down. Yup – he’s sitting in nothing but his boxer briefs. He looks back up to Derek pleadingly.
Derek sighs. “Alright, I’ll find you some sweatpants.” He moves Stiles’ right arm to his chest, so his hand is being cradled against his collarbone, and looks into Stiles’ eyes. “Do not move. It will hurt more if you do.”
While Derek is rummaging around his drawers, Stiles looks longingly down the hall to the bathroom. He just wants a long hot shower. He stands up slowly to walk out of his room when his eyes catch on a hole in the wall beside the door frame. He distantly feels his feet being lifted into his sweatpants and Derek pulling them up to his waist.
He’s still blinking at the hole when Derek ducks his head into Stiles’ line of sight. “Stiles. Look at me.” He waits until Stiles has focused on him. “We are going to the hospital now. Tell me where your phone and keys are.” Stiles moves his arm to point to his bag, but his wrist pulls and he cries out.
Derek throws the bag over his shoulder and shushes him softly, running his hand through Stiles’ hair. “Stiles, look at me. I need to move your arm so I can take some of your pain.” Stiles shakes his head, he’s never moving it again. Maybe Derek can cut it off with a saw like the good old days. “Nothing about those days were good, Stiles,” Apparently Derek is a mind reader. “I’m not. Stop talking.” Oh. That makes more sense.
“Stiles? Stiles. I need you to trust me, okay?” And then Derek is tugging his arm away from his body. Stiles braces himself for the pain, but instead he feels a little woozy. He starts to tip forwards and Derek supports him with an arm around his waist. He feels himself being lead down the stairs and out of his house and towards the Camaro, but he’s fairly sure he’s asleep before the engine even starts.
Derek wakes him when they reach the hospital and takes a little more of his pain before leading him inside. Derek signs him in and while they’re sitting in the waiting room, Stiles starts to wake up a little more.
“Dude,” Derek turns to him quickly, concern in his eyebrows, “You were in my house?”
Derek’s eyebrows switch to frustrated. “You missed a pack meeting. I was waiting for you.”
“You could’ve messaged me,” Derek takes Stiles phone from his bag and passes it to him. Stiles sees 4 unread texts and 2 missed calls. “Aw Sourwolf, you do care!”
Derek just glares some more, and Stiles swallows hard. “Okay, so you show up in my room and break my hand as punishment for missing a wolf-date?”
“I didn’t break your hand, Stiles.”
“Well, I broke it on your face. Still counts.”
“No you didn’t. You put your fist through the wall.”
Stiles pauses. “I punched a wall?”
“Through a wall.”
Stiles pauses again. “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense, actually.”
Derek looks at him likes he’s a moron. “How the hell does that make sense? You punched a wall! Is your aim really that terrible?”
“Well damn it, Derek! I wasn’t going to punch you!”
“Why not?! I would’ve healed faster than you are!”
“Fuck, Derek, that doesn’t give you an excuse to get hurt! Stop being a fucking martyr.”
Derek’s silence is ringing, and Stiles looks down at his injured hand to try avoid it. “I think I instinctively knew it was you. Maybe my subconscious shifted my fist so I’d punch something else.” He looks at Derek again, “You’re always throwing yourself into danger. The whole pack has noticed. No-one likes seeing you hurt.”
He’s saved from hearing more of Derek’s messed up sense of ‘sacrifice’ when the nurse calls out for him.
Chapter 2: A Twelve-Inch Laceration
Stiles finally has his cast off and it’s just in time for the full moon. Since his talk with Derek, everyone’s trying out different ways to spend time together as friends, not just a pack. Meetings are now movie nights, the betas and humans all sit together at lunch, and everyone is constantly touching and hugging. But the best part are the Full Moons. No longer chained up and bloody, Derek introduces them to hunting and stalking prey. The wolves always take down a couple of elk and Allison taught Stiles how to skin and butcher them for eating.
So the wolves are out hunting, and Stiles is hanging up a deer, still being wary of his hand when Lydia strolls over to him. He looks up for a second to acknowledge her, and then concentrates back on his work. He’s just started skinning when Lydia speaks up.
“You’ve gotten the hang of this.” She states and Stiles hums, being cautious of his cuts. “You’ve changed as well,” She continues. And Stiles falters slightly, but keeps skinning.
“You’re a lot more confident,” Alright, she was just going to keep talking at him, that’s fine. “You’re cleaning hunts like a real man, and the training you do with the wolves has really helped you fill out.”
Stiles flicks his eyes at her quickly, what was she getting at?
She understands his look and shrugs, “All I’m saying is that you’ve become really sexy”. Stiles’ knife slips, and there’s pain flaring in his arm.
“What the fuck, Lydia?!” Stiles hisses, pressing his hand against the blood flowing from his forearm. She shrugs again, even as she looks at the cut, concern in her eyes. She pulls out her phone and is calling someone.
“Hey Derek?” Stiles eyes widen, and he’s shooting pleading looks at Lydia while shaking his head. She rolls his eyes and keeps talking. “Yeah, everything’s fine here. Except Stiles has a foot long gash down his arm and is getting blood everywhere.” Stiles can hear the answering growl through the phone and whimpers. “Shut up, Derek. He’s gonna be fine. Get back here so you can take him to the hospital.” And then she promptly hangs up.
Stiles is left gaping at her, and Lydia smirks as she reaches towards his face and closes his mouth. “You’ll thank me for this later.”
Stiles splutters “I’m going to thank you? For sending me back to A and E, with an angry Alpha ready to give me hell about blood poisoning?” He pales “Oh shit. I’ve got animal blood in me. Am I going to die? No, that’s not possible is it? Oh fuck, am I going to turn into an elk?”
Derek chooses that moment to crash through the tree line, the rest of the pack following at a calmer pace, and Stiles spins around to ask him “Is there such thing as a were-deer?”
Derek frowns as he places more pressure on the wound and leads him to the Camaro. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Stiles is asking about vampiric elk as they speed down the driveway, with Lydia and the betas waving them goodbye.
Chapter 3: A Mild Concussion
The twenty-two stiches Stiles received in his arm made Derek ban him from cutting the elks. He tried banning him from knives entirely, but Scott and, surprisingly, Jackson convinced him that Stiles would be better protected in fights if he had a knife.
Also, Stiles was the only one who knew how to cook.
So the pack needed another outlet for their adrenaline that everyone could get involved in. Allison suggested paintballing to get everyone used to guns and while Derek was hesitant at first, he quickly saw how excited the betas were and hired the gear needed.
Unsurprisingly, and a little heartbreaking, no-one wanted to be on Stiles’ team. He was allocated to Derek’s because everyone thought that an Alpha and a… Stiles… could balance each other out.
It was Peter, Scott , Allison, Lydia, and Isaac, verses Derek, Boyd, Jackson, Erica, and Stiles.
The game started, and Stiles snuck off to sulk a little by himself. He found a good hill to camp at and ended up playing ‘sniper’ and taking out most of the other team. He was particularly proud of himself when he took out Scott the Betrayer; Stiles made sure to shoot him in the balls. As he went down, Stiles saw Boyd make his way to Stiles’ side.
“I’m sorry, Stiles,” He said, bumping his shoulder against Stiles’, “everyone was way out of line before.”
Stiles moved away from him slightly, “I didn’t hear you saying anything to stop them”
Boyd leant against him again. “I know. We were all dicks. I shouldn’t have stood aside and let them say that crap about you. I’m glad we’re teammates, you’ve got your father’s aim.” He said, winking.
Stiles sighed, and leant into the comfort Boyd was providing. “I’m just sick of constantly needing to prove myself to everyone. It’s like every time I try, something terrible happens and I’m always thinking ‘This is it. Derek’s going to kick me out of the pack this time, for sure’. Everyone thinks I’m useless, and I’m starting to believe it myself.”
Boyd frowns “Stiles, that’s not true at all –” he cuts off when a shadow falls over them.
“BOYD!” Stiles pulls him down as he sees Allison jump up behind him, and then he sees black.
When he comes to, the first thing he sees is Derek’s glaring eyebrows. He immediately closes his eyes again and wishes for death instead.
He hears someone to his left smothering a laugh, and Stiles groans as he realises he spoke out loud again. This time when he opens his eyes Derek looks a little hurt, before he masks it with casual indifference. He offers a hand to Stiles to help him up from where he is sprawled out in the dirt, but Stiles bats the hand away and pulls himself up. He stumbles a bit as he stands, but Boyd is quickly there to hold him up.
Stiles tries to blink his eyes into focus and sees the entire pack looking at him with varying degrees of concern and amusement. Stiles flushes in anger and tries to pull away from Boyd.
“Whoa, Batman,” someone, Erica, says “You need to slow down. You hit your head pretty hard”
“I’m fine” Stiles grits out and fails once again to move away from Boyd’s grip.
“Stiles, please,” he says, “You might have a concussion. Keep still!”
“Why the hell would I have a concussion?”
Allison moves infront of him and checks his eyes. “You saw me aiming at Boyd, pulled him to you and jumped off the hill. He fell on you when you guys hit the dirt hard.”
Stiles groaned and sat down, mumbling.
“Hey, what was that?” Derek asks him soothingly, crouching down infront of him.
Stiles closes his eyes “He didn’t fall on me. I moved under him.”
“… On purpose?”
“Yes, on purpose! He’s already been shot by Allison in real life, I didn’t want him reliving it! When I realised we were going to hit the ground hard, I twisted so he wouldn’t hurt himself”
Derek’s voice softened “You know he can protect himself, right?”
Stiles pushed himself up to stand in front of Boyd. “We’re a pack” Stiles spat “We should be protecting each other”
Derek just blinked at him, and the rest of the pack remained silent. Stiles sighed and grabbed Boyd’s arm. “Can you take me to A and E?” Stiles asked him, “I think you might be right about the concussion”
Derek touches his arm to stop him “I can take you”
But Stiles shakes his head “Finish the game, you might even win now that you don’t have a useless human getting in the way. Boyd can look after me”
Stiles thinks his sees another flash of something in Derek’s eyes before Boyd steers him towards the cars.
Chapter 4: Second Degree Burns
It’s a few days later and Stiles finds himself at the loft with the rest of the pack. He was going to stay away for a while and wallow in his own self-pity, but Boyd dragged him over for the movie night and threw him on the couch next to Isaac. Both wolves immediately started to scent and comfort him, and Stiles found himself feeling less sorry for himself.
Until Derek came downstairs and looked at Stiles, eyebrows turned up to eleven.
Stiles sighed and moved out from under Boyd’s body, muttering about starting dinner.
He moved around the kitchen gathering ingredients from the fridge and pantry, and setting water up in a saucepan to boil. He could hear his pack in the living room and whenever he looked up at them, at least two of them were smiling back. Stiles started to relax again as he began cooking.
He’s checking the water when he feels something shift behind him and a smooth voice saying “You’d make a delightful housewife.”
Stiles yelps and grabs the saucepan, turning around and throwing it at the voice.
The first thing he notices is that the voice is creepy uncle Peter.
The second thing he notices is the white hot pain in his hands and arms.
The third and most important thing he notices is Peter’s behaviour.
His face is too pale, his breathing is too fast, his teeth and claws have come out, and his eyes are flickering between soft grey and dangerous blue.
Stiles grits his teeth against the searing pain “Peter, Peter I’m sorry. Please, calm down. Just breathe, okay?”
That’s clearly the wrong thing to say, Peter’s nostrils are flaring as he lets slip a pitiful howl from his throat.
Stiles hears the pack stumbling over and Peter immediately roars at them. Derek steps forward, flashing red eyes but if anything it’s making Peter worse.
“Peter! It’s okay,” Stiles tries to sooth, “It’s just the pack, they’re going to help.”
“Please Peter,” Lydia calls, “Stiles is hurt. We need to help both of you”
Peter stands at the entrance to the kitchen and snarls at everyone who tries to move. Stiles reaches towards Peter to calm him, but Peter flinches away and his nose screws up.
Oh. Oh shit.
“Jesus Christ, Peter. I’m sorry! It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” Stiles says as he looks around the kitchen, he grabs some spices from the spice rack and chokes back a scream as his rubs them onto the burns on his arms. “Peter, look at me! There’s nothing to be scared about! There’s no fire – look!” Stiles hears Lydia gasp, and a whine from the wolves. “Allison! Get everyone out! Peter needs to calm down”
Allison starts herding everyone towards the door, but Derek stands firm. He looks at Stiles and his eyes look a little wet. “Stiles, please…” Stiles doesn’t know what he’s asking, but there’s no time for whatever it is. Peter is doubled over on the tiles , shaking and whimpering.
“Derek.” Stiles says with steel in his voice “You need to leave. Peter can smell my burns, but his wolf can smell you as a threat. Go!”
Derek looks at his uncle one last time, before heading out the door.
Stiles is alone with a panicking werewolf.
Stiles grabs a couple of hand towels and wraps his arms in them, wincing as he does. He grabs some more spices and slowly crouches next to Peter.
“Hey, sad wolf,” He says quietly, and electric eyes flash at his, “I know, I’m sorry. It’s a yucky smell isn’t it?” Peter’s wolf whines in response, and Stiles holds out the spices. “I can help you with that. Just relax, breathe in the spices, and breathe out the panic. Breathe in, and breathe out.”
Stiles repeats this mantra over and over, until Peter starts to respond. Finally, the wolf calms down and Peter is looking directly at him. “Stiles?”
“Yeah, creeper-wolf, its me.”
“So are you, man. Are you okay?”
Peter nods slowly, and eyes the towels wrapped around Stiles’ hands and arms. “Can…” He pauses.
“What is it, Peter?”
“Can I take you? To the hospital?”
Stiles laughs wetly.
Chapter 5: A Cracked Rib, a Dislocated Shoulder, and a Punctured Lung
So now Stiles is banned from the kitchen as well. He got into a pretty heavy argument with Derek, but the Alpha wouldn’t back down, especially when Stiles flailed too much and the bandages on his arms pulled. Pack nights are now movies and take out, with Stiles in the centre of the couch, Boyd on one side and Peter on the other, both trying to comfort him and calm him down whenever Derek glares a little too long.
Peter checks up on him all the time, too. Stiles catches him creeping between classes to take his pain, or runs his fingers through Stiles' hair in thanks during pack nights, or stops by the house before Stiles heads off to bed, doing both.
Stiles is starting to warm up to the guy.
But Stiles isn’t allowed to cook or prepare food, and he sure as hell can’t fight yet – with a knife or otherwise. So Stiles is using his other gift.
He’s pretty good at it now, figuring out quickly which information is fact and which is complete B.S, and whatever he doesn’t know, he calls up Peter for. Derek usually ends up fighting for Peter’s phone, but knows little to nothing about whatever Stiles was asking, so he’s getting less help on that front.
Anyway, he’s got some wolfsbane and other ingredients in his kitchen, and is trying to figure out some way to fight without being too close to the combat.
He’s thinking of making some kind of tear gas, or smoke grenade, so he starts mixing powered wolfsbane with mountain ash, chili powder, peppers, ethanol, and anything else that burns. He’s nose deep in homemade recipes and wolfsbane alternatives when he hears the front door open.
He is immediately on alert. His dad should still be at work, and the pack were meant to be training until two o’clock.
The door closes and there are footsteps coming down the hall.
Stiles starts to panic. He looks down to his wolfsbane tear gas. He can call this Test Number One: if it stops an attacker it might stop a hunter, or whatever shit-storm the Nemeton brings next.
He pours the mixture into a drinking glass, and slowly makes his way to the edge of the kitchen, pressing against the wall. He hears the tell-tale creak of the floorboards and throws his bomb.
Hearing a scream of agony he runs to the back door. Which is fucking locked. He is locked inside with a probably pissed off intruder.
This is how he dies.
Stiles looks around for another escape as he hears the intruder come further into the house. He spies the laundry window and immediately regrets his idiocy.
He runs to the other side of the room and launches himself through the glass, landing in a crumbled heap on his mom’s garden bed outside.
His body is filled with agony. He can’t breathe, tears spring to his eyes, there’s a stabbing pain in his shoulder, and a deep burn in his chest. He knows he needs to get up and run, but he can’t will his muscles to move.
The stranger inside is still stumbling around and cursing.
“Stiles? I can’t fucking see, are you okay?”
Chapter 6: +1: Stiles is High on Pain and Drugs
This chapter is a long one, and is written differently. Everything is said out loud, Stiles just doesn't realise it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
They gave Stiles the good drugs.
His body is one giant bruise, nurses and doctors keep poking him, it’s too loud, the lights are too bright, and the hospital chairs are making him sad, but he doesn’t really mind.
His tear gas worked. Scott is in agony.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself” Scott spits at him
Stiles should feel bad. But he doesn’t. Who breaks into their best friend’s house?
“You do! At least I used the unlocked front door and not the second floor window!”
Oh yeah, that happened once or twice. They always broke curfew.
“I’m glad you finally admitted it, son.”
Is that his dad? His dad shouldn’t be here, hospitals make him sad, too.
“Yeah, they do. But you’re alive, so it could be worse.”
His dad sounds sad. Stiles should feel bad.
But they gave him good drugs. Stiles feels like clouds.
Stiles could hear Scott giggling, so Stiles started giggling.
His dad should giggle, too.
“I’m not going to giggle, Stiles.”
Yeah, Stiles didn’t think so. His dad was too manly to giggle.
“Go to sleep, son.”
They took away his good drugs.
Stiles is in a lot of pain, and he has no good drugs.
“You’ll become an addict, if you keep taking them.”
There’s nothing wrong with that.
Someone is holding Stiles’ hand.
Oh, must be a werewolf doing the pain mojo.
Stiles pats their head in thanks.
“Don’t touch me.”
Oh, must be Jackson. He has pretty hair.
Not as pretty as Lydia’s though.
“Thank you, sweetie”
Stiles doesn’t like to be patronised.
Who else is here?
“It’s me, Jackson, and Allison.”
Where’s dad? Is he still sad?
“The Sheriff went back to his job, Stiles. He told us to look after you.”
That’s nice of everyone.
They could find him some good drugs though.
“or a good werewolf…”
Is Allison sassing him?
“No, Stiles, why would I do that?”
She’s totally sassing him.
Leave. Stiles wants to sleep.
“Okay, sweetie. We’ll see you later”
Someone is petting him.
He was totally sleeping and now someone is petting him.
Who the fuck woke him up?
“It’s Peter. I’m here with the Golden Trio.”
Hi Creeper-wolf. Is he sad, too?
“I’m a little sad. You’re really hurt, Stiles”
Stiles knows this. He felt better when he had good drugs.
“You can’t rely on them, Stiles”
Stiles knows this too. That’s why he has pretty wolf friends who can take his pain.
“Oh my god, is he pouting?”
Isaac should shut his mouth.
And then cuddle.
Stiles has missed cuddles.
Two wolves are cuddling! Yay!
But there’s hair in his mouth.
And boobs on his face.
“Oops! Sorry, Batman”
Nooo, put the boobs back.
Stiles has missed boobs.
“You’ve only been here for a day.”
All hail Boyd, king of sass.
“Besides, she isn’t really who he wants pressed against him.”
Creeper-wolf is no longer the favourite.
Everyone can go away now.
“Get some more sleep, Stiles.”
Love you too, Isaac.
Someone’s brooding and man-pain woke him up.
Must be Sourwolf.
“Shut up, Stiles.”
It’s definitely Sourwolf.
Is he angsting?
“No, I’m not.”
Derek doesn’t like seeing Stiles hurt.
“Not even a little bit.”
Stiles was totally right.
Why is Derek here though?
Is he kicking Stiles out?
“… out of… the hospital?”
Noooo, the pack.
“You want to leave the pack?”
Fucking nope. Stiles doesn’t want that even a little bit.
“I’m glad. I’ve grown quite fond of you.”
Stiles has grown fond, too. Of your face!
Stiles is hilarious.
Oh wait, no, he actually means that.
Aw, forehead kisses! Thank you Soft-wolf.
“You are so high right now. Go to sleep”
When does Stiles go home?
“Tomorrow. Everyone will be at your house.”
That’s very nice of them.
Aw, more kisses!
Stiles is still very sleepy.
“You can sleep soon, kiddo. In your own bed.”
Are they moving Stiles’ bed to the hospital? That would be nice, Stiles can’t sleep without his pillow.
“You’re going home, Stiles. We’re already in the cruiser.”
The Sheriffy car!? Can Dad turn on the Sheriffy lights and Sheriffy sirens?
OW! FUCK! TURN THEM OFF!
It’s too bright, and too loud!
“I know, son, I’m sorry. But it’s the sixth time you’ve asked. You don’t shut up unless I do it.”
What a mean thing to do to your only child.
“You’ve said that before, too”
Dad should carry Stiles into the house.
“You’re not a kid anymore, Stiles, you can walk.”
That’s not even a little bit fair.
Stiles is tired.
Stiles just wants to sleep.
“Stiles should stop talking about himself in third-person.”
… Stiles thinks that’s rude.
“You have visitors anyway, so you can’t go to sleep right away”
Tell them to go away.
JESUS H. CHRIST!
“Stiles. Sweetheart. Give your father back his gun.”
Why the fuck would you scare Stiles like that?
“We’re sorry, Stiles. We weren’t thinking.”
Bad Creeper-wolf. He’s lucky the safety was on.
He could’ve died.
“You are a pretty good aim though.”
Don’t sweet talk Stiles. You did a bad thing.
Dad is slowly unwrapping Stiles’ fingers from the gun.
“You’re all bloody idiots…”
Yeah. What dad said.
Send me a prompt, if you dare: my tumblr