Archive of Our Own

He remembered it better than anyone. The way he was trapped behind that fogged glass, watching himself be controlled and do things he would have never usually done. He had watched as he’d knocked out Kira and twisted that blade in Scott’s gut. He’d seen the looks of agony on the faces of his close ones. Stiles had been a witness to everything.

When he’d finally been released from the grasp of the thing that had possessed
him he couldn’t have felt more elated. Until he realized everything that had happened. So much blood had been shed and it was all his fault.

Upon waking up he hadn’t thought about it, for about a minute or so. He’d seen the faces of the people he loved. Scott had been there, Lidia… Somehow she still managed to look gorgeous even after she’d just saved his life. Derek had been there too. For a moment he almost thought that everything was okay – that everything could work itself out.

Then all the red had blurred his vision. All Stiles could see was the red on his hands, on his shirt and seeping through his chest. Blood rushed in his ears, came out of his eyes as he cried and when he’d tried to get up he couldn’t. He couldn’t feel anything. He tried to arch up and wiggle his toes, tried to stand up so he could run from all the red.

His breath had caught in his throat, the panic overcoming him when he couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t move.

He recalled something tugging at his spine when Scott and Lidia finally freed him. There had been a burning sensation at the base of his back where his hips met together and then after a stabbing shot of pain there had been nothing. That’s when he’d come to, eyes opening to see the Mccall’s living room.

His finger nails had scraped at the floor, forcing him onto his side. He’d sat up by sheer force and adrenaline, crashing down soon after and hitting his head on the corner of the coffee table. And someone had started holding him then – he thought it was Scott but no one had ever cleared it up for him – cooing words in his ears, trying to get him to breathe. Someone was shouting that something was wrong and Melissa had been checking him, trying to see what it was that had triggered Stiles into this state.

And then later on in the hospital, a place he was beginning to loathe since it brought him nothing but bad news, it was confirmed that he was paralyzed. Inexplicably, medical wise, but they all knew the real reason. The Nogitsune had taken more than just a piece of his life when it had left.

----

“I’m fine,” Stiles assured his dad as he dropped his school bag by the door. His shoes were the next thing to come off, though these were decidedly harder to take off. He bent at the waist where he could, reaching out with his arm and grabbing at the shoe lace that stuck up just high enough for him to grab with the tips of his fingers. As he forced his body to cooperate with its new conditions he cursed in his head, too proud and stubborn to ask his father for help despite the fact that he was but two feet away from him.

After a few minutes of still being unable to get even one shoe off Sheriff Stilinksi finally spoke up, hesitantly but with good intentions. “Are you sure you don’t want any help?” he began.

But Stiles abruptly cut off his father, snapping more viciously than he had intended to. “I’m fine, dad!”

The sheriff startled at Stiles’ outburst, a streak of guilt passing over his face. Now Stiles felt guilt ridden though. It wasn’t his father’s job to feel guilty, he was just being polite and of course Stiles had to go and be a dick because that’s what he seemed to be best at.

He just wasn’t used to being so dependent. Before the “accident” – if it could even be called that – he had been able to do things on his own. He’d been able to run across the field with his lacrosse stick, wrestle with Scott, drive his own jeep for crying out loud. And now he was here, strapped in a wheel chair that was less than accommodating and he couldn’t even do something as simple as taking off his shoes. It’d been embarrassing enough getting to and from school with his dad having to literally carry him into the wheelchair and now that he was half a dead weight it was even harder for his father to lug his weight around.

All of it was so embarrassing.

Sometimes when he lay in bed and was unable to fall asleep all he could think about was how much simpler his life could have been had he not been possessed by the Nogitsune. It would have been easier on them all.

He wasn’t stupid, he knew the others felt the same. His dad, Scott, Allison, Lidia, Derek… Especially Derek. The alpha would be much better off without a handicap burdening his pack. Whenever they went out to protect the citizens and do their crime fighting stuff that seemed like it’d been taken straight out a Marvel comic book they had him on the back of their minds to worry about. It was bad enough that he’d been human before, now he was a human who couldn’t even run away. A burden.

“Stiles?”

It was his dad.

These days he often got lost in his own head, especially when he was so focused on a certain task.

There was concern in his voice, though and Stiles couldn’t keep pushing away the help he desperately needed. “Can you please help me?” he murmured in a quiet, defeated voice.

Without hesitation Sheriff Stilinski leaned down and tugged at the shoe laces holding his sneakers on his feet. Stiles watched his fingers intently. He watched as he tugged the foot wear off his lifeless feet and for a moment he almost felt like he was feeling the pressure on his soles and the wiggle in his toes but to make sure it was all real he pinched his leg over top his shorts. When he didn’t feel anything he was reminded all over again that he was a paraplegic and disappointment began rotting his chest once more.

“Where do you want to set up?” Stiles’ dad asked after placing the shoes by the door.

“Living room.”

His dad nodded, grabbing the handles to his wheel chair and pushing him slowly towards the living room. They’d rearranged the furniture so that the couch was a little off to the left now, leaving space for his wheel chair to set up by the coffee table and still retaining a nice view of the TV. It also made it practical for whenever he had people around; he didn’t have to constantly tread on their toes with his tires which had already happened once to poor, unsuspecting Scott. He’d laughed along with everyone else but on the inside he’d just wanted to wheel himself into the middle of incoming traffic.

“Is Scott coming over today?” the sheriff asked, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he lingered around.

“He might. He said he had to go home first to take care of stuff but he might be coming around later,” Stiles said. He grabbed for the TV remote, figuring he could waste a few hours watching something. If he didn’t get to his homework he could just pull the hurt puppy thing on his teachers, something he was abusing more and more these days.

“Alright, well if you need anything I’ll be upstairs. Just shout,” his dad said. He lingered still, waiting for an answer from Stiles whose eyes were pinned on the images on the screen, watching in false interest so that he could avoid any more conversation with his dad.

When the man still didn’t leave Stiles turned his head, feigning a look of surprise at his dad being there. He could already see the words he was about to say and before he could sputter them Stiles pasted a wide smile on his face and chuckled like he used to. “Dad, I’m fine, really. Go up and do what you have to do. If I need anything I promise I will call you, alright?” To emphasise the point he was trying to make he shooed his father off with the remote still in his hand, twisted at an awkward angle in his chair but anything to get a moment of peace.

It took a moment but his dad nodded and left, disappearing up the stairs. The moment Stiles heard the click of the door he released a sigh of relief. At last, he could have a second to get his brain back together.

His phone was on his lap. He wouldn’t be able to feel it vibrate so he had to glance down at it every twenty seconds to make sure he didn’t miss a text from anyone. Scott wasn’t coming over, he had gone over to see Allison – at Scott’s insistence – so he was alone. Maybe he really would do his homework since he honestly didn’t have anything else to do. But his book bag was out in the hallway and he didn’t feel like driving his wheelchair out there to grab it.

Too complicated.

His eyes dropped to his phone again, expecting it to be blank of messages. Unsurprisingly it was.

At this rate he’d end up watching boring TV all night long and he was feeling too restless to sit here all night doing nothing. The ball in his throat was growing and his head was dully pounding. Stiles just needed to get out and get moving. He wanted to clear his head and forget about all these things bearing down on him.

His mouth opened, ready to call out to his dad, but he shut it almost as soon as he opened it.

Not the time, he thought, not wanting to bother him.

He’d just have to tough it out. He was fine.

School was just another thing Stiles had to live through. The first day he’d come back he knew that it was going to be hell. There was no more he could do than take it. Everyone whispered as he rolled himself down the halls or as Lidia or Scott – whoever was available – wheeled him to his class. Now he wasn’t just Stiles who might have the brain condition or Stiles who made wise jokes and annoyed everyone with his sarcasm, he was Stiles, handicap and the school’s pity party.

It was ridiculous. As much as Stiles tried to brush it off he could only do so much for himself.

In class one day he’d been sitting by the window, chair pulled off to the front of the room so they could accommodate his wheelchair, daydreaming about what it’d be like to run again. He almost had tears in his eyes and then as quickly as it had started his mind had snapped to dangerous places. The red was back, his throat was tightening and his chest was fluttering in his heart, reminding him that no matter how much he tried he could never run from his memories.

“Stiles,” he had heard Scott say. It had been his first attempt at trying to snap him out of his thoughts.

His hands had balled up into fists, squeezing so hard that his finger nails crushed into his palms. The spikes of pain was almost enough to distract him but he needed more. Like he used to do he automatically went to his legs, pinching hard enough to cause bruises but obviously that was moot.

“Stiles,” Scott had repeated when he had ducked his head down into the crook of his arm, eyes shut tight and breathing shallowly.

It was the bell that had done it, snapping him out of his thoughts. He jumped up with a start, hands unclenching almost immediately. Had he been the same person with the full use of his legs the desk would have toppled over. Part of him wished he’d been able to cause such a big scene.

Turning his head to the right he saw Scott staring at him worriedly. A few other stragglers had remained behind, pretending to be straightening up their books but they were actually all there so they could see what the freak show would do next.

“Are you okay?” Scott asked.

“I’m fine,” Stiles brushed off with a chuckle. “And before you can ask, yes, I’m sure.” He laughed for emphasis, brushing off Scott’s look of worry and straightening up his books. He placed them in his bag, making sure everything was okay. It was last period, he’d be going home soon, thank god. He’d been thoroughly embarrassed that morning already during gym class. He hadn’t been able to skip and had been forced to sit on the sidelines and a fly away volleyball had nailed him in the face. The head ache still hadn’t gone away and he was sure it wouldn’t for the rest of the night.

He was just excited to get home, kick back his feet and –

“Are you coming to Derek’s tonight? We’re having a meeting to talk about stuff. I hear Isaac’s going to be bringing some pizza and if we work together we can surely get him to buy us a beer or two.” Scott nudged his shoulder, making sure he was all set before tugging the wheelchair away from the desk.

“Yeah, sure, I’m ready,” Stiles said with a smile. To be honest, he’d completely forgotten about the meeting that night.

He recalled vaguely hearing Scott talk about it that morning… But that had been after he’d gotten the volleyball to the face so that might explain why he hadn’t processed it entirely.

“Want to grab something before we go?”

“Nah, let’s just hurry up. The sooner we get there the better.” He kept his tone light but he really was being serious. People were annoying him with their stares. At least at Derek’s loft he knew he wouldn’t have to face their judgement.

And Scott obliged, bringing him to his car. It took less time for Scott to get him into the car than for his dad, but he had the werewolf thing to thank for that.

As he was being hoisted into the car, though, Scott’s arm brushed his shorts, raising them a couple inches higher than they were meant to go. Though Stiles couldn’t feel his bruises he could see them and now Scott too could see them on full display. The purples, reds and yellows were portrayed on his pale skin, fully revealed to Scott who didn’t miss them as much as Stiles had wished for him to.

“Stiles, what are these?” he asked, staring at him with furrowed brows.

He quickly tugged down his shorts so he wouldn’t have to stare at the bruises any longer. “This?” he asked, laughing though the sound rang nervously in his ears. “This is nothing. I probably just got them from hitting my leg while getting into my wheel chair or something. No big deal.”

Scott eyeballed him for a while, clearly disbelieving. It had never been easy lying to Scott; the guy always seemed to know when he was lying. Thankfully, today he chose to shut up about it, flashing him a pitying look before rounding around the front of the car and getting in himself.

The drive to Derek’s house was full of their chatter. Stiles forced himself to chip in and hold a conversation with Scott, not wanting to give him more incentive to worry. He was fine – he was fine.

“Oh hey, looks like we’re the last ones to get here again,” Scott said, parking the car.

Stiles nodded, catching sight of the people through the window. Theirs wasn’t the only car there either. At least here he didn’t have to worry about whispering. All they did was stare at him for a while and ask him repeatedly if he needed help. Which in its own way could be considered annoying, he supposed…

“Stiles!” Lidia cheered as they walked through the door.

She ran towards them, bumping Scott out of the way so she could take over and wheel him into the living room. Stiles glanced around, trying to calculate who was here. There was Erica, Lidia – obviously – Isaac, Jackson hogging the arm chair and… No Derek. Where was he?

He glanced up to Lidia, wanting to ask her when the brute of a man showed up. He hadn’t shaved in a while, his stubble longer than usual, but he looked the same as usual, despite his hair not being styled up. It lay flat against his forehead, almost long enough to graze the tops of his eyebrows. He sported a black t-shirt that squeezed his biceps and sides and faded into the dark washed jeans hanging off his hips. It was another typical day for Derek Hale. It wouldn’t have been a polished look, though, if he didn’t have that trademark scowl on his face.

Stiles waited until Lidia had wheeled him into his new place before making a smart remark to Derek, tossing a piece of popcorn at him. “Do you own anything other than black?” he asked him, taking another handful to shove into his mouth.

Derek shot him a glare, standing up at the front of the room while he waited for everyone to come in and sit. “Yes, contrary to popular belief, I do,” he shot back at him.

Stiles smirked but was distracted from making any more commentary when his eyes wandered around. Scott and Allison were chatting it up; Lidia was off to the side talking flamboyantly with the others. His heart felt heavy with the realization that he couldn’t stand next to them and do the same. To keep his hands distracted he reached out for a bag of chips lying unopened on the table in front of him. His fingers stumbled to open it, the loud noise not distracting anyone but himself. He plunged a hand in, uncaring to what kind of chips they actually were, shoving the lot in his mouth so that he could focus on chewing and swallow down the lump rising in his throat.

His head hurt.

Another fistful of chips entered his mouth, scratching at the corners of his mouth with their ragged edges. His eyes fell shut, concentrating on the sound of crunching in his ears and the stinging in the cracks of his lips as the salt dribbled into them.

Since he couldn’t fit anymore into his mouth for the time being he pinched at his thigh again, hoping the rhythmic movement would help occupy him till his mouth emptied.

Another handful and he repeated the process, moving on to a different art of his thigh in hopes that maybe then he’d be able to feel something. No matter where he pinched, though, there was no sensation. The distress began to take over. His pinches were getting shakier. He ended up nicking his skin with his nails, creating shallow cuts here and there with some of them beading up with tiny scarlet drops.

The chip bag fell from his lap as the throbbing in his head intensified. The knot in his chest grew tighter, rising up till it was lodged in the back of his throat. He wished he hadn’t eaten the chips now. The shorter his breaths got the more nauseous he felt and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep the fried potato slices down in his stomach.

“Stiles? You okay?”

He couldn’t pin point where the voice was coming from or who it belonged to. He tried to pinch at his thigh again but missed, grabbing at his shorts instead. A hand held onto his fingers and squeezed lightly. Pressure he could recognize.

“Stiles…”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, though his voice deceived him. It sounded strained to his own ears.

There was an eerie silence that settled in the room. Stiles forced his eyes open so that he could figure out if it was just his imagination playing tricks on him. For a second his vision was blurred and terror seized hold of him. The mere idea of being stuck behind that foggy wall and being re-possessed by the Nogitsune was enough for his breath to be entirely sucked out of him, leaving him gasping and clutching the sides of his wheelchair as he tried to fight it off.

“Stiles!”

The urgency in the voice brought him spiralling down to reality. He hit with a loud crash, the pounding in his head intensifying. Everyone was staring at him. Scott in front of him, Lidia just off to the side behind him. Stiles glanced down at his hand, wondering who was clutching his fingers. What he found was the hairy knuckles of an all too familiar hand. Once they felt the weight of his gaze they travelled up to his forearm, fingers wrapped delicately around him there, waiting for a response out of Stiles.

He gave himself a moment to follow the knuckles up to the wrists, though. Further up still to the elbows, then the shoulders and the stern face of Derek who was watching him with a fierce concern that made him shrink into his wheelchair. Humiliation burned deep in his chest, mingling with the flutters of panic still lingering there.

After assessing his situation and realizing what had just happened Stiles plastered on a large smiling, forcing out a laugh. “I’m fine,” he told everyone, waving them off.

He shrugged off Derek’s hold, feeling an instant coldness swallow him at the loss of contact.

“Seriously,” he repeated, waving his hands around to fend off their looks of uncertainty. “Guys,” he said, exasperation heavy in his voice when none of them moved. “I’m fine, really, I promise, okay? So let’s just get this business stuff done and over with. I have some homework that needs to be done.”

No one seemed convinced. Stiles wanted to hit them all.

Scott fidgeted in front of him to which Stiles raised his eyebrows as if to say ‘What are you waiting for?’

Derek seemed to be the only one to pick up on the hint. He took a step back and cleared his throat, catching everyone’s attention.

The weekend was almost as bad as the school week. Stiles was cooped up in the living room since going up to his room by himself was impossible at this stage. His dad was saving up money to renovate the place so it’d be more wheelchair friendly but it was a slow process. So once he forced himself to focus on his homework for an entire ten minutes he watched re-runs on TV and when he finally got sick of that he shut it off and lost himself in his thoughts.

That’s always when things got bad.

He guided his wheelchair to the kitchen on that particular day. His stomach had been growling for the past hour and he figured it was time to get some food in his body. He had checked the fridge but nothing had seemed appetizing. The cupboard had been his next stop. There were a few things that appealed to him but what he really wanted was the cookies on the shelf just out of his reach where the instant coffee mix was resting. Cookies and coffee: that sounded like his type of lunch.

But no matter how hard he strained his arm he couldn’t reach.

His dad had had to go into the office that morning to work some over time. There had been another murder or assault – something like that; Stiles hadn’t exactly been listening when he’d told him. He probably should have.

“Come on, come on,” he grumbled under his breath.

For the billionth time he reached his hand up as far as he could, almost able to grab the corner of the cookie package in between the tips of his fingers. His nail brushed it but one fumble sent the cookies a half inch back. “Fuck!” the teenager cursed, dropping his arm back down in frustration.

His eyes narrowed into slits, glaring vicious daggers at the food that was continuing to escape him.

“Fine, you want to play hard ball… Well I’ve got one hell of a fucking swing,” he growled.

He brought his wheelchair back with a few clumsy swings, his growing agility lost in his moment of anger. The backs of his wheels hit the island and careened him forward where his knees hit the closed half of the cupboard. Stiles used it as incentive to get rougher with the kitchen ware. He was going to get those damn cookies.

Once his wheelchair was in place Stiles called upon his upper body strength to list him a couple inches out of his chair. He calculated the distance between the kitchen island and the cupboard and figured he could reach it. One hand left the wheelchair handle, setting him back a step but only long enough for him to grab the edge of the counter. From there he resumed from step one. He was able to get more height like this. Now that he’d confirmed that he dropped down, positioning his legs in a way where he could somewhat balance on them.

He placed one foot between the feet rests and the other next to it. Again his hands found their place, lifting him up. At first he was wobbly, unable to find the right balance. He dropped into his chair a total of two times.

On the third time he managed to stay up long enough to get his hand to leave the arm rest of his chair and push against the cupboard door.

“Aha!” he shouted triumphantly.

He was just that much closer to getting the stuff he wanted. He would need to let go with at least one hand now, though. Stiles flit his stare from his right hand to his left hand, wondering which one he could spare. He didn’t feel like he could spare either one of them without falling. All of his weight was resting solely on his arms and they were beginning to tremble from the dead weight hanging off his hips.

“Now or never,” he muttered to himself.

Without thinking it through thoroughly Stiles let go with the hand that was pushing against the cupboard. He thought he could move fast enough to at least get the cookies off the shelf but he didn’t even have enough time to lift his arm much higher than his head. Without his second arm to keep his weight up his other arm collapsed. His legs were too close in together for him to even have a chance at balance. For a second it almost felt like he was going to fall forwards but with his loose arm flailing about everywhere he ended up careening backwards.

A sliver of hope told him he’d be able to land gracefully in his wheelchair but instead the damn thing betrayed him. A strangled howl escaped Stiles as he missed the wheelchair by a mere inch, pushing it back and out of reach. His head bumped against the foot rest as he landed on his back, elbows barely having enough time to catch him so that his head wouldn’t be knocked too hard on the tiled floor.

A groan of pain slipped from Stiles’ lips. All he saw was the ceiling and some sparks of black as he tried to put two and two together.

Right above his head he could see the damn cookies. Only the tip was jutting out now from where he assumed he accidentally grazed it with his finger tips.

“Fuck you,” he said, feeling his eyes sting. “Fuck you!” he repeated.

He wasn’t quite sure if he was addressing the cookies or something else anymore. The tears broke through the barrier of his eyelashes, sliding out the sides and over his cheek bones till they dipped onto the ground. “Fuck you, you stupid good for nothing cookies piece of – ” A sob broke through the middle of his sentence. His chest heaved up, seeming like it was pulled by the knot tightening around his heart.

Stiles was suddenly filled with the urge to get out of the kitchen – out of his house. He just wanted to get off his back. In this position he felt like he was suffocating. His breaths were coming in short gasps. He clawed at the floor with his hands, trying to pull his weight onto the side. Crazy words were sputtering from his lips and Stiles was beyond trying to understand what was being said.

There was a disconnection between his body and his brain. There had been ever since the Nogitsune had left.

Where was his phone? He needed to call his dad or something.

He pawed frantically around his chest and pockets after he managed to heave himself up the tiniest of bits. His wheelchair was too far away for him to get back on. He couldn’t navigate to the house phone.

There! His phone was there! He grappled for it, wrestling it out of his pants’ pocket with great difficulty. His fingers felt bruised from all the scraping on the floor. With the sobs still racking his body he was finding it hard to remember what number he needed to punch in for his dad. He couldn’t even remember Scott’s. It took a couple erratic breaths and then he remembered he had speed dial.

His fingers had several attempts to unlock his phone, managing to open it before it locked down for too long. Somehow he got the dial pad up and then he pressed a number. Through the glaze in his eyes and the slowly invading black dots he managed to press a number. He curled his upper body into itself, pulling at his hair roughly to try and keep the little remains of sanity in his head.

He could hear the ringing in his ear through the sounds of his sobs.

On the third ring he began to lose hope. And then finally the clicking noise came of someone answering.

“Hello?”

“D-dad?” Stiles croaked, not waiting for a reply. His words could barely come out of his mouth. He wasn’t sure that his dad could even understand him. Due to his lungs closing in on him, or feeling like they were, he was practically shouting. His tongue was heavy, though, so despite his volume the articulation was off.

“Stiles?”

“D-dad I-I need – I-I’m not f-fi - ” He brought a hand up over his face, crying into the palm. His head was pounding now, and his vision was tunnelling. Without wanting to Stiles dropped the phone. He stared at where it bounced just out of his reach, whimpering in exasperation. He tried to drag himself towards it but the strength was leaving his body. A wail of a voice could be heard through the receiver. Stiles hoped that his dad was coming soon; he didn’t want to… Stay here… Alone anymore…

Stiles wasn’t sure what had happened. Shortly after he’d called his dad he had blacked out. He was resting on the couch, on his side and staring at the ceiling. Grogginess had sunk deep into his bones. Clarity began to settle only a handful of minutes later. Stiles tried to remember what had happened and it came back to him in snippets. The last thing that pounced at him was the memory of speed dialing his dad.

Oh god, his dad. What had he told him? He must be flipping out…

“Dad?!” he shouted into the empty air, forcing his arms to hold his chest up.

In this position he was forced to stare at his feet. Well, when he said stare he meant more like glare. Stupid, worthless, piece of crap legs that he had. He wished he could just cut them off and get rid of them. They weren’t doing anything for him anyway. Cutting them off wasn’t going to hinder him in any way.

With that dangerous thought in his head he pinched at his thigh, below the hem of his shorts. Off with his legs, he thought, grimacing.

“Stiles… What are you doing?”

The voice shocked Stiles. He snapped his head up, swearing he snapped more, locating the source of the voice. Instead of seeing his dad he was shocked to find Derek. His jaw grew slack, hanging openly while he gaped at the man.

“W-what are you doing here?” he asked.

Slowly he blinked, wanting to see if he was dreaming or not. Maybe he was still stuck somewhere in his unconscious.

“You called me,” Derek replied in a monotone.

“No, I called my dad…”

“Yes, you tried to call him but I’m guessing somehow that didn’t work out very well.”

He was never going to use speed dial again.

An awkward silence filled the room. Stiles glanced around, spotting his wheelchair by the couch. He supposed Derek had been the one to move him. There couldn’t have been anyone else unless he’d somehow had it in him to call his dad or Scott. Judging by the silence and lack of crowding, though, it was just the two of them.

Part of him was grateful that Derek hadn’t called anyone else. He’d take a life time of awkwardness with him in this room to the awkwardness he’d be faced with if it were his dad. God knows that if his dad had come over he would have probably ended up sitting down in front of him trying to express his feelings.

No… He liked this silence and he wouldn’t trade Derek for someone else. And he was saying that honestly regardless of the tightness in his chest – this one not provoked by anxiety for once.

After enough time had elapsed, according to Derek, the silence was broken. Leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest he said, “So, care to explain what happened?”

He shrugged, unsure himself of what had happened. “I snapped,” he finished by saying.

“You snapped?” The disbelief was thick in Derek’s voice and it rubbed Stiles the wrong way. He grabbed a pillow and propped it behind his back, crossing his own arms and glaring at Derek.

“Yes, I snapped,” he repeated, his words heavily induced with sarcasm. “It happens, you know, when one of the most important things in your life is taken away from you and the cookies seem to mock you about it from where they are on the stupid shelf, and no one seems to really understand.”

“What in the world does cookies have to do with any of this?”

“I just wanted the stupid cookies in the kitchen but someone put them on the stupid shelf I of course couldn’t reach and then I hit my head and –”

“You hit your head?” Derek pushed off the wall, eyebrows furrowing as he walked towards him. “Where did you hit it?” He was next to the couch faster than Stiles could process. He perched on the edge of the coffee table and tugged Stiles face towards him so he could probe his scalp with the tips of his fingers.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked, putting his palms to the others arms. He was ready to push but at that moment Derek put pressure on a tender spot. “Ow!”

“You’ve got dried blood here,” Derek stated. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“I don’t know, the bathroom, my dad’s room – I’m not even sure if we have a first aid kit.”

“Your dad should move it downstairs to make it more accessible to you,” he grunted, getting up to fetch the box.

Stiles rolled his eyes, kicking back and resting his head back on the cushion. He took a breath in through his nose, let it out through his mouth. In and out, he reminded himself, not wanting a repeat of what had happened before.

He actually felt relief when Derek came back. The static in his head buzzed down and quietened. Instead of having his head forced to meet Derek he offered it to him beforehand. Of course, he wouldn’t be himself without saying something sarcastic. He probably should have chosen a better time though because Derek abused his position, not warning him as he began cleaning out the small gash.

“Am I going to need stitches, Dr. Hale?” Stiles finally asked. He was restless. If he had to sit here another second this close to Derek he’d go insane.

Well, perhaps that was a lie. Whenever Derek was around he always seemed to think a little clearer. The knot in his chest always seemed to loosen when he was around. His loyalty towards the alpha had only intensified after his accident. Yeah, before he was always picking on him but he did that because he was fun. He was… He was Derek.

Stiles stayed put while the man treated his head. His eyes wandered to his arms, counting the dark, curly hairs there and then realizing how impossible that quest was. He traced the muscles in his biceps instead, stopping at his sleeves and reeling back to see if he could see any through his shirt. It was another bust and bored him quickly. He tried to look up to see his face but it hurt his eyes so he focused on the light brush of his breath on the side of his face.

His eyes shut down and Stiles almost swore that he fell asleep. However, that also proved to be a bust because when Derek next spoke it was loud and clear and his ears.

“Your legs aren’t the most important things in the world just for the record,” Derek murmured, pulling away. He placed the sullied materials into the plastic bag he’d dragged with him from the kitchen, shoving Stiles on the chest so he could lean back.

“What can I do without legs? I can’t even jack off, I have no feeling in my dick.”

Derek rolled his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s more to life than jacking off, too.”

“Then please, great and powerful Derek Hale, tell me what else is there to life. I can’t walk, I can’t run, I can’t play lacrosse, I can’t drive my jeep, I can’t help you guys with anything, I can’t get my own damn cookies off the damn shelf! I can’t even make myself coffee or walk up to my own bedroom without assistance, so tell me, tell me, what I can do without my legs -”

His lips were suddenly clamped. Not because someone had shoved their hand over his mouth or because they’d taped it. Stiles was shocked to find that he had been cut off by another pair of lips. They were soft, somewhat wet and they lingered there on his without moving. He went cross eyed to see if it really was Derek Hale doing this to him. It was. Derek Hale, alpha wolf man, had their lips pressed together and his eyes were closed. And what was even more shocking was that he seemed to be enjoying it.

When he finally pulled away the best Stiles could do was blink.

“I don’t get it,” he finally stated, staring straight at Derek.

The alpha was staring at him calmly, probably waiting out his reply. It was his turn to snort now, rolling his eyes for the billionth time it seemed. “Love Stiles, there’s still love to look forward to.”

“But my dick is limp.”

“Is that all you think about?”

“No, but… It’s pretty important, isn’t it?”

“You’re ruining this moment.”

“What moment?”

“God, you’re an idiot aren’t you?”

“If wanting to taste your lips again makes me an idiot, then yeah… I guess I am.”

“There are easier ways to express that, Stiles.”

“Shut up and kiss me already,” Stiles whined, reaching out to grab at Derek’s neck. He had no idea that one kiss could get him addicted to the man. He supposed he was addicted more because when he was touching Derek he felt the lump in his throat dissolve and his heart settle only to pick up again in a different way. It was different… And unlike when he was his dad, Scott, Lidia or anyone else Derek didn’t look at him in pity or constantly ask him if he was okay at the worst times.

He had always been there since the Nogitsune left in the background, silent as ever. Rare were the times he spoke up about his possession. There had just been that one time in the hospital after Stiles had been declared paralyzed where he’d come in during the middle of the night – something that definitely wasn’t condoned by the hospital staff since it was past visiting hours. But it seemed that Derek liked to uphold the tradition of sneaking in through windows and into his room at night.

Stiles had been crying that whole night and the man had had the decency to sit in the chair at his bedside until he was ready to talk and he’d spilled his heart out about everything. And all he had done was nod and brush his forehead before leaving at the first sign of sunrise. He’d asked him if he would be alright after he left and Stiles had looked him straight in the eye and answered ‘yes’ and that had been the only truthful time he’d admitted to maybe being okay. Because in the recesses of his mind, in the space where he locked his unspoken words, he knew that he had the second part to that sentence.

He’d be okay so long as Derek would be there next to him.

Their lips broke apart. Stiles kept his eyes closed so he could replay it in his head one more time. Just to make sure it was real. Their lips had moved this time, brushing against each other in a gentle caress he hadn’t know the alpha capable to possess.

He could have sat there forever imagining it.

Unfortunately for him, Derek wasn’t done.

“Now get up,” he ordered firmly. “We’re going for a walk. Your pity party is getting old.”

“I can’t walk,” Stiles stated dumbly.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Derek sighed, stalking towards the wheelchair. He rolled it towards the teenage boy and then rounded around to his side so he could help him up. “Come on, scoot up. You’re not a corpse.”

“Why are you so insistent about me going out? What’s out there that I haven’t already seen?” Stiles whined, grabbing onto Derek so he could make the lift into his chair easier.

“You only know the world as it is from a standing position. We’re going out to rediscover the world now so quit whining and deal with it.” Derek made sure he was comfortably seated in his chair, ducking down to adjust his feet rests.

“I’m not sure I’m okay with this new, philosophical Derek. I thought you were some sort of emotionally constipated hermit. Are you trying to tell me I’ve been wrong all this time?” Stiles gasped, feigning surprise.

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Do you want an honest answer?” He took the silent response as his answer and Stiles smirked triumphantly at having won this battle. When Derek wheeled him outside and helped him down the stairs he couldn’t help but lean back and tilt his head up to catch the afternoon breeze. It felt like a whole pressure had been lifted off his shoulders. Albeit, the anxiety still pricked at the outskirts of his mind and he was sure that this wouldn’t be the last of his battles with his panic, but for now, in this moment, even if it was still a bit difficult to swallow, he felt happy. “I guess you’ll just have to carry me places now, huh?” he noted, arching his back so he could look upside down at Derek.

He smiled his first genuine smile since the accident when he saw the older man snort and roll his eyes. “You wish,” he murmured, pushing him down the sidewalk and towards the new world they would discover together.