Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Okay, I don't think I can do this much longer."

Stiles isn't even exaggerating. He's fucking exhausted. Every single muscle in his body is cramping and aching and there's not a damn thing he can do about it. If he stops kicking his legs or using his free arm to tread water, they'll both sink. If he lets go of Derek to relax the muscles in his other arm, the man will die.

But he's starting to think he's not going to have a say in the matter much longer.

A quick look over to where his phone is laying on the floor just beside the pool and an idea starts to form in his head. Not a good idea. But it's not as if they have a whole lot of options to choose from right now, and Stiles thinks it may just be their best — their only — hope to survive the night.

Derek seems to think otherwise.

He follows Stiles' gaze to the phone, then looks back, eyes wide. "No, no, no! Don't even think about it."

Stiles can't exactly blame him for not liking the plan.

"Could you just trust me this once?"

"No!"

Which...okay. That's not a shock, really. There's not a whole lot of trust between them at the best of times and this is absolutely not the best of times. Still, Stiles thinks that dragging Derek’s reckless werewolf ass away from the creature and keeping him afloat should have earned him at least a little good will. "I'm the one keeping you alive, okay? Have you noticed that?"

He chooses not to mention the fact that he's also the reason they're both in the pool in the first place.

No need to dwell on the details.

Derek rolls his eyes and Stiles wishes, just for a second, that the venom the creature used to paralyze Derek didn't stop at the neck. He could do without the death glares and the half-baked hostility from Mr. Bunny Teeth.

"Yeah. And when the paralysis wears off, who's gonna be able to fight that thing, you or me?"

And...Derek may have a point. But Stiles sure as hell isn't going to admit it. He coughs out another lungful of water, trying to ignore the way his chest burns at the action and asks, "That's why I've been holding you up for the past two hours?"

"Yup," Derek says firmly. That same surety is still there, that conviction that Derek always seems to possess, but there's a flash of uncertainty, too. "You don't trust me. I don't trust you. But you need me to survive, which is why you're not letting me go."

For just a moment, it's like the world stands still. The relentless ache in his muscles, the fire in his lungs, it's all forgotten for just that fraction of a second, as he chooses between risking both of their lives by doing nothing, or risking Derek's life to save them both.

It's not really a choice at all.

"Stiles!" Derek's shout cuts off as Stiles lets go and he sinks below the waterline, and Stiles can only hope that werewolves are able to hold their breath longer than humans, because this sure as hell isn't going to be a quick trip.

The swim to the edge of the pool is torture. Every stroke of his arms, every kick of his legs is like razors slicing through his overtaxed muscles, ripping him to shreds from the inside out, but he pushes through because what the hell else is he supposed to do? He pauses just before he reaches the edge, though, heart leaping into his throat as he catches a flicker of movement in the shadows, the swish of a tail and the glint of an eye.

"Good kitty," he whispers under his breath.

He'd swear it growls back.

The creature's movements are fluid in a way that screams danger, that makes Stiles feel like nothing more than prey, and it takes every ounce of strength and willpower he can muster to swim the last few feet and stretch out an arm, swiping his phone just as the creature lunges for him.

He moves on instinct, feet planting against the wall of the pool to shove him back as far and as fast as he can, but the motion has his head dipping below water even as he holds his hand up high, keeping their only lifeline as dry as he possibly can.

The problem is, his heart is beating wildly in his chest, battering painfully against his ribcage, and the breath that was punched out of him as the creature pounced didn't leave enough oxygen in his lungs to circulate through his body.

He gasps for air just before he breaks the surface.

Water floods into his lungs, suffocating and burning as he chokes and coughs, his body fighting to expel the liquid as chlorine singes his throat and scrapes at his lung tissue in a way that conjures terrifying images of what the creature's razor sharp claws are probably going to feel like when it gets hold of them.

By some miracle, he keeps his head and the phone above water as he sputters and heaves the last of the liquid from his lungs. The second the grey spots clear from his vision and he can see the screen, he shifts the phone in his hand, one-handed dialing Scott while his other arm cuts back and forth in the water, just barely keeping him afloat.

When the call connects, the ringing is like a beacon in the night, a hope that just maybe, they'll make it through. He doesn't even wait for Scott to speak before he's calling out.

"Scott!"

"I can't talk right now," Scott whispers and then disconnects the call, obliterating all hope with five small words.

Stiles can only stare at his phone screen, wide-eyed with shock.

What. The actual. Fuck.

He's sure Scott has a good reason for hanging up, and he knows Scott wouldn't have ended the call if he'd understood just how dire the situation is for Stiles and Derek, but that doesn't keep him from being a little bit pissed and a whole lot annoyed.

If he doesn't die a horrible, painful death, he's definitely gonna rip Scott a new one the next time he sees him.

Or maybe try the silent treatment again, because honestly his throat isn't feeling so hot at the moment and yelling seems like a lot of work when he's already this drained.

Silent treatment it is.

For now, though, he tosses the phone to its watery grave and sucks in as deep a breath as his spasming lungs can manage before dropping beneath the surface of the water. It's already been long enough that he's genuinely worried about Derek's ability to breathe, to heal, so despite his exhaustion and the cramps that attack his muscles, he pushes down to the bottom of the pool, down to where Derek is lying motionless, looking far too close to dead for Stiles' liking.

Derek's gonna be really, really pissed if Stiles accidentally killed him.

Even in the near weightlessness of water, grabbing hold of the man is agony, sore muscles protesting every damn movement he makes, but he somehow manages to get a good grip on Derek and then he's flutter-kicking them back to the surface.

They break through the water with matching gasps, but while Derek's turns to heaving breaths, Stiles' fades into a hacking cough that shakes his whole body and makes it nearly impossible to hold them both up.

"Stiles?" Derek asks, his gaze whipping over to Stiles as he hacks and sputters. It almost sounds like genuine concern, but even as Stiles fights to catch his breath, he realizes it's probably just self-preservation. If Stiles drowns, so does Derek. "Stiles, you good?"

All he can manage is a small shake of his head, but the coughing dies down a little once he finally expels the last of the water from his lungs.

"Tell me you got him," Derek asks, then spits out the water that pours in his mouth when Stiles doesn't paddle quite hard enough to keep their heads above the surface.

Stiles spits out his own mouthful with a half shake of his head. "Yes and no."

"What does that mean?" Derek asks slowly and deceptively calm. Stiles has started to think of it as his if I don't like your answer, I'll rip your throat out with my teeth voice.

"He hung up," Stiles blurts, getting a distinct 'scorpion and the frog' vibe from Derek the second the words pass his lips. At this point it honestly wouldn't surprise him if Derek really did rip his throat out, even if it meant going under himself. "Think he's in the middle of something."

Stiles can feel the vibrations of Derek's growl where his arm is wrapped around the man, and it triggers his fight or flight response enough that he nearly drops Derek into the pool again. Thankfully, he's able to tighten his grip just before Derek slips beneath the water, but it leaves him whimpering when his bicep screams at him for the movement.

"What's wrong?" Derek's frustration drops away in an instant as he turns his head to face Stiles, gaze sweeping over his features like he's analyzing every tick and crease on Stiles' face.

It's...intense. And a little creepy.

"Oh, you mean besides being stranded in a pool with a paralyzed werewolf while some mysterious supernatural killer prowls around said pool, waiting for the opportunity to kill us?"

There's a slight twitch to Derek's jaw and a small pause before he answers.

"Yes. Besides that."

Stiles is about to answer that Derek could maybe stand to lose a few pounds — because good God, it's like the man is a meat sack full of nothing but bulging muscles — when his leg cramps up so bad it's like a branding iron has just been jammed straight through his thigh. He cries out and stops his half-assed doggy paddle, but the second he does they both start to sink, falling about a foot below the surface before he manages to kick them up again, using one leg and his free arm.

"Leg cramp!" Stiles sputters out before Derek has a chance to ask.

"It's more than that, isn't it?"

Maybe it is, but right now that's his most pressing problem so Stiles flexes his foot and tries to stretch out his leg, hoping to work the cramp out before it sends them both sinking to the bottom of the pool. The cramp fades away soon enough, but it leaves him sore and twingeing even once it's gone.

"Stiles?" Derek says it almost...gently? Honestly, the concern makes Stiles worry even more than he was before. "What is it?"

"Just getting a little tired," Stiles says. It's not a lie, per se, but it's not exactly the full truth either. "It's fine."

Or at least, it'll be fine. If someone happens to find them soon.

"Can you grab my hand without us sinking?" Derek asks, looking at Stiles' arm as he continues to guide it back and forth in the water, helping to keep them afloat.

"You wanna hold hands?" Stiles spits out another mouthful of water, realizing he's sinking lower and lower despite the effort he's putting in to keep them up. "I know I don't have much experience with werewolf customs, but for humans, it's customary to ask me on a date first."

"You're an idiot." There's no heat behind Derek's words so Stiles doesn't even react. "If you can take my hand, I might be able to siphon off some of your pain."

"What?"

It looks like Derek isn't entirely sure he wants to say whatever it is that he's about to say, but when they both slip back under — just up to their noses, because Stiles is losing the strength to keep them afloat — it seems to make the decision for him.

"It's a werewolf thing. We have the ability to absorb the pain of a person we touch. I don't know if it will work when I'm like this, when I can't actually feel anything, but if it does, it might help keep us both up long enough for someone to find us."

"You can...Well that's….You'd do that?" Stiles starts and stops a few times, surprised by this hidden ability more than anything else, but also surprisingly grateful that Derek would do that for him.

"Keeping you alive keeps me alive. So yes."

"How very magnanimous of you," Stiles mutters, but he also kicks his legs a little harder, biting his lip to keep from crying out at the pain that ignites like a wildfire in his muscles as he does. But with his legs working double time, he's able to reach for Derek's hand without them both sinking to their deaths. "Now what?"

Stiles pants with the effort it takes to keep them upright, but Derek is the one that looks in pain, eyes shut tight and eyebrows furrowed as he concentrates on...whatever the hell it is he's trying to do.

And whatever it is clearly doesn't work.

"Damn it!" His shout echoes through the cavernous room and has the creature stalking up to the edge of the pool again, cautiously dipping a claw in before jerking back like the water is scalding. Derek shoots the thing a glare so withering that Stiles actually shivers, deciding in an instant that he never wants to be on the wrong side of that look. Thankfully, when Derek speaks again, his voice is quieter, even if it's still filled with tension. "I can't do it."

"Performance issues are a common occurrence as men grow older," Stiles quips, dropping Derek's hand so he can use his own to help keep them upright and above water. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Shut up."

The grumbled words are half-hearted at best and Stiles can see the worry that's etched into Derek's face now. He can't be sure if it's the fact that this supposed healing power won't work or the realization that they're both probably going to die there, but it looks like Derek is finally understanding how royally fucked they are.

For a few minutes, neither of them say anything. The only sounds in the space are the quiet splash of water and Stiles' increasingly frantic and uneven breaths. He's completely winded from over two hours of treading water with 190 pounds of dead wolfy weight wrapped around his shoulders, but more than that, he keeps slipping below the surface, losing buoyancy the longer he paddles. And each time he dips down he winds up swallowing or inhaling a bit more water, unable to stop his desperate gasps even as he sinks.

The water is like acid in his lungs, leaves him coughing and hacking, leaves his chest aching in a way that makes his muscles seem downright pleasant in comparison.

They're not going to last much longer.

"I think I can feel a tingle in my toes," Derek says, breaking the silence between them. "I just need you to hold on a little longer. Just until I can move again."

Oh, is that all? Stiles thinks to himself.

As much as he'd love to keep them afloat until Derek is back to his usual terrifying self, he's not sure he can. He's barely able to keep his head above the surface at this point, needing to tilt his neck back for his nose and mouth to remain clear of the water, and even that isn't foolproof. He keeps dipping under, just for a second or two at a time, but it's more frequent with every passing minute.

His body is failing him.

And it's going to kill them both.

"Trying." It's all he can manage at the moment.

"I know," Derek whispers. There's something that feels a little like respect in his words, but Stiles can't focus on the absurdity of that just now. It's taking everything he has just to keep them partially above the water, though it's clear it's a losing battle. "Just a little longer, and then I'll be able to help keep us up until the venom wears off completely. I think I'm already moving my feet."

Stiles nods and tries to tap into some unknown well of strength inside of him, begging the universe for just a few more minutes.

Unfortunately, it doesn't look like he's going to get it.

He takes a breath, sucking in just a little water as he does and he barely has the energy to cough it out.

"I can't stay up any longer," he whispers, hating to admit defeat but knowing he needs to. If they stay in the middle of the pool, they're going to die. Soon. "I need something...to hold on to."

A quick look around the edges and he spots the diving platforms, with bars underneath that would give Stiles a chance to hold them up without using his leg muscles.

He just needs to get there.

The swim over is excruciating and leaves him in tears, though they're washed away each time his head slips beneath the water. Progress is achingly slow, but as they get closer, a spark of hope ignites deep inside of him, thinking that just maybe they're going to make it out of this after all.

But then he reaches for the hand hold.

It's not the white hot burst of pain in his arm as he extends it as far as he possibly can that stops him. It isn't even the cramp in his fingers as he tries to wrap them around the plastic handle. It's the all-consuming muscle fatigue that's conquered every inch of his body. He literally can't hold on.

When he goes under this time, lungs burning and muscles tied up in knots, there's not a damn thing he can do to make his way back up.

He loses his grip on Derek, though his gaze catches the barest hint of movement in the man's arms and legs as he sinks, like he's starting to get feeling back, like he's trying to swim to Stiles.

He doesn't make it in time.

With how hard Stiles had been panting and gasping before he went under, there's no hope of holding his breath for longer than a handful of seconds once he's down. His body bucks, hardly noticeable at first before jerking hard as he bites on his lips in an effort to keep them closed, to not breathe in, but in the end, biology wins over common sense.

Only a few feet away Derek shakes his head, shoots Stiles a terrified look, but there's nothing either of them can do. Stiles' mouth flies open as his lungs demand oxygen, sucking in a heaving gasp and getting nothing but chlorinated water in place of the air he so desperately needs.

It's like shrapnel embedding in the tender tissue of his lungs, ripping him open with no remorse as he tries to cough it out, tries to breathe in again but only pulls in more water, more pain. His body convulses against the intrusion in his lungs while his mind flies into full-fledged panic mode, sparing just a flitting thought that he never imagined dying would feel like this.

Never imagined it would hurt like this.

But just as his vision begins to tunnel, darkness creeping in around the edges, a hand slips down the collar of his tracksuit jacket, yanking him up and out of the water with such force that he's sent flying back onto the ground behind the diving platforms.

He's slammed down hard enough that he's sure there's bound to be bruises, but the impact still isn't enough to force the water from his lungs. He only just catches sight of Derek dragging himself over — partially paralyzed legs still trailing uselessly behind him, though his arms appear to be working almost properly — before the darkness claims him completely.

And then there's nothing.

Until there's everything.

His chest aches as a sudden blast of air is forced into his lungs, Derek's mouth sealed over his for a fraction of a second before Stiles whips himself onto his side and heaves out what feels like gallons of water and half of his insides.

It hurts more than anything he can remember experiencing before. That first pull of air hits his starving lungs and the strange dichotomy of ferocious burning and overwhelming relief leaves him even more lightheaded than the lack of oxygen.

"That's it. Just breathe," Derek half collapses next to him, laying propped up on an elbow in front of him, reaching out to rub soothing circles over Stiles' back as he wheezes and rasps and tries to remember how breathing is supposed to feel.

As much as he hates to admit it, the touch helps. Grounds him, somehow. The spasms begin to settle and he manages a few deep, rasping breaths, enough to clear his head as he blinks away the tears that cloud his vision. Enough to finally hear the sounds of a war being waged around them.

He looks up just as the creature hurls Scott across the room, slamming him into a mirror which shatters into a hundred thousand pieces of jagged glass that skitter across the slick floor. The thud of Scott's body hitting the wall, the melodic tinkle of glass as it falls to the floor, it's like a gut punch to Stiles and he tries to call out to Scott, tries to make sure he's okay, but his voice comes out grating and just as jagged as the shards of glass scattered around Scott as he pulls himself up.

"Stay put," Derek orders, gently pressing Stiles down when he tries to push himself up.

Stiles is too exhausted to argue.

His entire body is somehow cramped in pain while simultaneously feeling like jelly, and he's not sure he could move even if he wanted to. Even just trying to lift his upper body a few inches nearly knocked him right back out as his chest throbbed and his ribs shrieked their displeasure.

That ache, though, is practically a flashing neon sign announcing that Derek must have performed CPR on him, and his chest becomes impossibly tighter as he realizes just how close he was to dying.

"You saved me," he whispers, then breaks into another coughing fit. He cries out and curls around himself as his ribs and muscles flare up at the jerky movement, though he tries his best to keep quiet to avoid drawing the creature's attention.

Derek's gaze darts back and forth between the battle and Stiles, and it's almost like he's trying to pull himself into a protective stance despite the fact that his body is clearly not online just yet. If Stiles wasn't so consumed with pain, he might even be touched by the gesture.

But then something happens and it's like he can finally breathe, can relax the muscles that are strained so bad he's sure they must be torn.

And he doesn't understand.

It's only when he looks down that he realizes Derek's hand is wrapped around his own, some sort of black sludge moving through his veins from where he's touching Stiles, up into the cuff of his sleeve. And the better Stiles feels, the more Derek grimaces, like whatever it is that he's doing is hurting him the longer he holds on.

As good as it feels to have his pain siphoned off, Stiles can't watch someone else hurt because of him — even if that someone is Derek fucking Hale — so he gently tugs his hand away. The movement has Derek looking from the unexpected standoff between Scott and the creature down to Stiles, confusion tugging at his eyebrows.

"Thank you," Stiles practically mouths, unable to manage more than a word or two without breaking into a coughing fit. When he does speak again, it's a couple words at a time with painful panting breaths in between. "Like you said, if someone needs to help Scott fight, it needs to be you, not me."

It's clear how badly Derek wants to jump in, too, to help defeat this thing that's racking up a disturbing body count, and Stiles doesn't doubt for a second that Derek would go after the thing right now if he had even half of his mobility back. Right now, though, Derek is just as useless as Stiles is.

Thankfully, Derek's interference isn't necessary.

Scott wields a fragment of the broken glass, ready to fight even as he's so obviously hurt, but when the thing catches its reflection in the mirrored shard, it seems...confused. Enough that it somehow parkours its way out of the room via the glass windows in the ceiling, leaving them alone and more than a little lost as to what the hell just happened.

"Are you guys okay?" Scott asks, straightening up from his crouch with a grunt, rolling his shoulder as he makes his way over. "What happened?"

When Stiles tries to speak, the ache in his throat and lungs doesn't let him get more than half a word out before he's closing his eyes and trying to suppress the cough he feels bubbling up once again.

"He needs a doctor," Derek murmurs while slowly pushing to his feet, swaying dangerously when his leg nearly gives out beneath his weight. Scott is quick to shore him up, despite the glare Derek shoots him for helping. "I think I cracked his ribs and he still has water in his lungs. I can hear it rattling."

"And what are you going to do?" Scott asks, shooting a worried look down at Stiles and then backing away when Derek shakes him off. "How are we supposed to figure out what this thing is?"

It's a fair question, Stiles thinks. This thing is out for blood and Stiles and Derek were thisclose to being its latest victims. They need to find out what it is so they can find out how to kill it.

And God, does Stiles want to kill it right now.

"It's called a kanima," Derek sighs, sounding so world-weary and beaten down as he makes his way over to Erica that Stiles almost feels sorry for the man.

Scott's gaze shoots from Stiles back to Derek. "You knew the whole time?"

If Stiles could speak without his lungs trying to climb up his throat to splatter themselves on the floor, he'd tell Scott that Derek definitely didn't know all along. There's no way he would have kept silent about what it was when their lives were on the line.

"No," Derek answers, yanking a disoriented Erica to her feet. "Only when it was confused by its own reflection."

There's some back and forth after that as Derek fills them in on what he knows, as Scott suggests they work together, but Stiles just closes his eyes and focuses on breathing.

It feels like there's puddles in his lungs, keeping the air from getting as deep as he needs it to, but he can't even bring himself to try and cough them up. Not when everything still hurts like a mother fucker and the smallest movements make him want to curl up in a ball and cry for his mommy.

"Stiles?" Scott calls out tentatively, a warm hand landing on Stiles' bicep. Dude's like a damn furnace and Stiles only realizes how cold he is as Scott's heat seeps through his sodden tracksuit and into his skin.

It takes nearly all of Stiles' energy just to drag his eyelids open again. He's so tired. He just wants to go home and crawl into bed, buried beneath every blanket in their house.

"Stiles, can you get up? Or do I need to call an ambulance?" The worry in Scott's voice is a nearly palpable presence between them, and Stiles would love to reassure him that he's fine, but he just doesn't have it in him right now.

"No hospital," Stiles manages, just above a whisper. His lungs still spasm, but he manages to keep the cough in, wincing as it rocks his body. The look that Scott gives him makes it pretty clear that he's not okay with that idea, but the last thing Stiles wants is a night in the hospital and his dad worrying about him more than he already does.

"Derek said he might have busted your ribs. And that there's still water in your lungs," Scott sort of whisper-yells. "You need to get checked out!" It's easy to see he's trying to stay calm but is too concerned to truly manage it, and Stiles almost smiles at just how much of a cinnamon roll his best friend is. It also makes Stiles feel just a smidgen guilty about how easy it is to sway him.

Not that it stops him.

"Please?"

Stiles can practically see Scott's resolve crumble at the single word and the puppy dog eyes that Stiles hits him with. It only takes a few seconds of silence before Scott caves completely.

"Fine. But if you still feel like crap in the morning, you need to promise me that you'll go to the doctor, okay?"

Stiles nods, agreeing easily enough to Scott's terms, but he's sure that a good night's sleep is all he needs.

"Okay, let's get you up," Scott says, offering a hand to help Stiles off the floor, but when Stiles tries to reach out and take it, his arm cramps so badly that his vision nearly whites out. "Stiles? Stiles!?"

It takes a second to get his bearings and Stiles spares half a thought to imagine how nice it would be if Derek could take some of his pain away again, which is when he notices that Derek and Erica are both gone, leaving Scott and Stiles alone in the room.

"M'okay," Stiles breathes out. It doesn't sound convincing, even to his own ears. "Might...need...help...up."

For a second, he's sure that Scott is about to say screw it and call an ambulance, but instead, he practically picks Stiles up off the ground, getting him to his feet and wrapping one arm around Stiles' back to keep him steady when the sudden movement makes him scream and then dissolve into a coughing fit that leaves the bitter tang of blood on the back of his tongue.

"I don't know about this, Stiles."

Stiles isn't entirely sure about it himself.

But he talks himself into it and then manages to talk Scott into it, too, in broken and painful sentences that would've knocked him on his ass if Scott wasn't holding him up.

Before he knows it, he's in his bedroom and Scott is awkwardly drying him off and helping him get into his pyjamas because he can't lift his arms up on his own.

Once he's in bed, though, sinking into the soft cloud of his mattress, once Scott covers him up with every throw blanket he can find, Stiles forgets about everything except for the deep pull of slumber.

"I'm coming by in the morning," Scott whispers, crouching down next to the head of the bed. Stiles can barely keep his eyes open to look at him. "If you can't move on your own, or if you can't talk without coughing, we're going to the hospital whether you like it or not."

It's not a request and Stiles knows it.

He nods his agreement anyways, but is asleep before he can see Scott's reaction, before he can watch Scott sneak out the window in an effort to not wake his dad.

After that, the darkness is all he knows for far too long

Chapter Text

John's alarm goes off far too early for his liking. He's been working extra hours with all the weird shit that's been going on and it's starting to catch up to him. All he wants is one day. One day without a murder victim discovered in some gruesome manner. One day to sleep in and linger over a cup of coffee in the morning, knowing that the most he'll have to deal with is a bit of graffiti or a street full of mailboxes that were knocked over in the middle of the night.

His luck lately, though, means that's about as likely as hitting the next Powerball jackpot.

He doesn't even bother opening his eyes, just swings an arm out and pats around his nightstand until he finds his alarm clock and silences the incessant beeping. Just a minute or two isn't going to be the end of the world, so he lays there in the columns of morning sun that filter through his windows, letting his mind come back online and his eyes adjust to being open.

Usually he'd hear Stiles stumbling around the house at this point, bumping into edges and knocking things over as he gets ready for school while still half asleep, but the house is surprisingly silent.

He guesses he's not the only one that wanted just a little longer in bed this morning.

Unfortunately, neither of them have the luxury of sleeping in.

He drags himself out of bed and leans his head out into the hallway, calling out, "Stiles, you better be ready to leave for school before I leave for work!" before he heads into his en suite bathroom to let the shower wash away the last of his sleepiness.

There's no answer, but John just waves it off, running through his morning routine on autopilot until he's fully dressed in his uniform, taking an extra second to clip his duty belt around his waist before he heads out of his bedroom and down the hall.

"I swear to God, Stiles, if you're still in bed I'm gonna drag you out and send you to school in your pyjamas just to—"

The words cut off as he leans into Stiles' bedroom, like he's been gut punched and couldn't keep speaking for all the money in the world.

Stiles is in bed under a heap of blankets, leaving only his face uncovered, but it's all John needs to see for the panic to go off like a bomb in his chest. Stiles is pale, almost grey, with a blue tinge to his lips that sends a wave of bile skating up the back of his throat.

He's seen corpses that look less dead.

The only thing that keeps him from collapsing to the ground then and there is the faint rasp that's coming from his son, rattling and awful, but still so very real.

John's body is numb as he bolts into the bedroom, nearly tripping over his feet in his rush, dropping down to his knees next to Stiles' bed so hard that he knows it should hurt, but he doesn't feel a damn thing.

"Stiles?" It's barely a whisper of breath but it's all he can force out as a vicious and unrelenting fear wraps around his heart and squeezes like a vice. The terror spreads as he reaches out, laying a hand on Stiles' cheek only to be met with cool, clammy skin that feels nothing like it's supposed to. "Son?"

There's no answer, no response at all.

With hands that don't even feel like his own, John pulls out his cell phone and dials 9-1-1, despising being on this end of the call more than anything he's ever done.

He swallows hard around the lump in his throat — once, twice — before he can speak, before he can request an ambulance for a non-responsive adolescent male, before he can spit out his own damn address for his own damn son who looks like he's dying right before his eyes.

"Son, I need you to hang in there. You keep fighting, you hear me? Don't you dare stop."

He's supposed to stay on the line until the ambulance arrives, but he knows his time would be better spent finding out what the hell happened to Stiles, and he'd bet his meager pension that Scott knows exactly what Stiles was doing last night, would know if Stiles was showing any symptoms of...whatever this is...before this morning.

"Sheriff?" Scott sounds worried, and John knows that something must have happened, something that has Scott on high alert before John even says a word.

"What happened to Stiles?" John nearly shouts, his fear suddenly masquerading as anger.

"Is something wrong?" Before Scott even finishes speaking, it sounds like he's on the move, a burst of air rushing through the phone line along with his words.

"Yes! He's barely breathing. What the hell happened?"

"He nearly drowned last night," Scott huffs, and John would swear his soul leaves his body. "He needed CPR. It—It might have cracked his ribs."

"Jesus Christ."

The phone slips from John's hand, clattering to the floor as his entire world grinds to a halt. Stiles nearly died yesterday, and John just went to bed like nothing happened. He slept like a baby while his son was down the hall, fighting for every single breath.

He wants to ask how it happened, wants to ask why the fuck they didn't go to a hospital right away, but all he can do is reach out and rest a hand around the back of Stiles' neck, his thumb stroking lightly along the hairline just in front of his ear.

"Kiddo, I need you to wake up, okay? I need you to wake up and be okay so I can kill you myself, because you keep doing this shit and…" The sound that rips from his chest is too close to a sob to be passed off as anything else. "I can't lose you, Stiles."

John realizes he must truly be out of it when Scott comes up behind him, heaving out a shuddering breath as he looks down at Stiles. He didn't even hear him come in.

Somehow it helps, having Scott there. Someone he needs to keep himself together for, because he feels like he's falling apart as Stiles' breathing becomes more and more laboured, like he's sucking air through a straw into a bag full of gravel and is desperate for a full breath.

"The ambulance is on its way," John says, voice cracking.

"I—I saw them down the street," Scott stammers. When John spares half a glance over his shoulder he sees that the kid looks almost as pale as Stiles. "They should be here in a minute. I left the door open for them."

John didn't even know Scott had a key to the house, not that it surprises him. Or even that it really matters, as far as he's concerned. He's just grateful he won't need to leave Stiles' side to let the medics in.

He shifts his hand on Stiles neck, moving fingertips to his throat to check for a pulse, finding it far weaker than he'd like, so similar to how Claudia's was right at the end that he can't hold back the tears that spill over, trailing down his cheeks completely unchecked.

There are a thousand questions and accusations, pleas and prayers, circling through his head, so many he can barely think straight, but the one that forces its way out is, "How did this happen, Scott?"

"I don't—" Scott starts but breaks off as a voice calls out, announcing the arrival of the paramedics, and suddenly Stiles' room is a hive of activity, with one paramedic pulling John away from the bed while the other pulls down the cocoon of blankets Stiles has wrapped himself in.

They start working immediately, checking vitals and asking questions that John only half understands, though he pays a little more attention when Scott explains that Stiles was underwater in the school pool for several minutes, that someone pulled him out and performed CPR to get him breathing.

The paramedic that's not currently hooking Stiles up to some sort of machine tugs his shirt up, presumably to listen to his lungs, but John is so caught off guard by the vivid, violent bruising that wraps around Stiles' ribs that he doesn't even pay attention to what the paramedic is doing.

Purples so deep they're nearly blue at the edges, broken up by furious splotches of blood red, paint his whole left side, and while logically John knows that whoever performed CPR on Stiles saved his life, a little voice in the back of his head is screaming at him to find whoever did that to his son and end them.

But then they're moving, strapping an oxygen mask over Stiles' face before lifting him gently onto the gurney and buckling him in place.

Stiles doesn't react to any of it.

"Sheriff, are you riding with us?" One of the paramedics asks as they raise the gurney and head to the door.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am," John says, but he pauses just before he follows them out of the room, turning to Scott who looks just as terrified as John feels. "You and me are gonna be having a conversation, but for right now, is there anything else the doctors need to know? Anything that could change how they treat him?"

Scott looks so lost, so much like the little boy that used to come over and ring the doorbell, asking if Stiles could come out and play, that John has to rein in the urge to go and hug him and tell him it's going to be okay, because right now he needs answers and needs to get back to his son.

"I think he was treading water for a long time," Scott whispers, devastated. "Hours. I should have taken him to the hospital last night. Why did I listen to him?"

John can piece together that it was Stiles' idea not to go to the hospital, and that doesn't come as a surprise at all. Stiles never wants to be a burden, never wants anyone worried about him. John's been trying for years to make him understand that he's never been a burden, but clearly he's got a long way to go to win that particular battle.

Assuming Stiles pulls through and they have the chance to try again.

"This isn't your fault, Scott. But I have to go."

And with that, he leaves Scott alone in Stiles' room and rushes after the paramedics, who are just wheeling Stiles out the front door, careful to jostle him as little as possible.

It takes no time at all to load him up in the back of the ambulance, and John climbs in next to the paramedic, sitting beside Stiles with nothing to do but wait and hope. The only thing that makes the ride slightly more tolerable is that Stiles starts to look a little less corpse-like the longer the oxygen mask is strapped to his face. He gets a bit of colour back in his cheeks, and the crease between his eyebrows — the one that made it look like, even unconscious, he was in pain — seems to fade, too.

The paramedic continues to monitor Stiles the entire trip to the hospital, calling out stats to the driver that mean absolutely nothing to John, but she seems less concerned, less frantic, than he would've assumed if Stiles was in critical condition.

Or maybe that's a lie he tells himself to keep from falling apart.

A group of doctors and nurses are waiting at the hospital entrance when they arrive, examining Stiles even as they move him through the halls. John follows just a few steps behind, close enough to keep an eye on his son but far enough back that the nurses don't immediately keep him from following.

"Patient appears to have atelectasis," the doctor diagnoses within a matter of minutes, before they've even transferred Stiles from the gurney to a hospital bed. John stands just outside the door of the small room they take him into, watching, listening, but still staying out of the way. He knows he's lucky, knows that no other parent would have been allowed this far, but his uniform gives him access to places that civilians wouldn't normally be granted. "Let's start with an x-ray and blood work, but prep for a bronchoscopy to confirm. If we don't see improvements in his blood ox levels in the next few minutes, let's switch him to BiPAP."

They're moving again soon after, wheeling Stiles out of the room and towards x-ray, and this time, uniform or not, John can't follow along. He's left alone in the hallway as they take Stiles into a corridor marked 'authorized personnel only,' standing there lost and afraid that he might just be losing his son while he waits.

"Sheriff?"

John turns to find the doctor — a man he doesn't know, though he's aware the doctor is a recent transfer from a hospital up north — looking at him expectantly. He suspects that the doctor may have called out more than once to gain his attention.

"Yes. Sorry. Sheriff John Stilinski," he says, reaching out a hand that the doctor immediately shakes with a firm grip.

"Doctor Ahmed," the man says easily.

"How is he?"

"I suspect he has a partially collapsed lung, which is causing the breathing issues. Based on the bruising on his torso, it looks like he may have a few broken or fractured ribs, as well, which may have contributed to the collapsed lung in the first place. We'll know more after x-rays, but right now our main goal is to get his blood oxygen levels up."

The words pass through John without ever making a home in his mind. It all feels so surreal, like a nightmare he's going to wake up from any minute with a racing heart and a gasping breath, and then he'll find Stiles in the kitchen, burning his pop tarts. Again.

Except he knows that's not going to happen.

"I understand he inhaled a fair bit of water and required CPR. He should have been brought to the hospital immediately to be monitored for complications," Doctor Ahmed says just as firmly as his handshake.

John agrees. And he'll be having a conversation with Scott about that as soon as he's sure Stiles is going to be okay.

And the second Stiles wakes up, John intends to ground him until he's thirty so nothing like this ever happens again.

"I know," John sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. The day just started and he's exhausted in a way he hasn't felt in years. Almost like it's gone past physical and his soul is tired. "I didn't find out about it until this morning or I would have dragged him here right away."

The doctor nods his understanding and John suspects that the man might just have a teenager of his own that he's doing his best to keep healthy and out of harm's way, even if their kids seem to make that an impossible task some days.

"Teenagers," Doctor Ahmed sighs, all but confirming John's suspicions. "Sheriff, if you'd like to have a seat in the waiting room, I'll have a nurse come find you once his tests are complete. We won't know how severe the damage is until that point, but his blood oxygen levels were already improving with just the oxygen from the paramedics and that's a good start."

The doctor offers one last comforting smile and then turns away and walks into another exam room, leaving John alone in the hall, wondering how the hell it came to this.

Somehow, without ever remembering moving, he makes his way to the waiting area. He's too keyed up to sit, so he winds up pacing the area, back and forth, back and forth, until he finally remembers he's supposed to be at work and orders his thoughts long enough to call the station and let them know he'll be away for the foreseeable future.

Then it's back to pacing.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Eventually a nurse finds him, tells him Stiles is back from his test, that the doctor will explain things shortly, that the sheriff can see him now if he'd like to follow her.

The nurse leads him to Stiles' room then hurries on to her other tasks, and John barely makes it past the doorway before he's frozen in place, unable to push himself any further into the room. Because, goddammit, Stiles looks so small and frail in that hospital bed, halfway on his side with pillows propped beneath his back to keep him in place. He looks more like the kid he'll always be in John's mind than the man he's growing into every day, and John's heart aches to see him like that.

But then he watches as Stiles blinks his eyes open, half-lidded and red-rimmed, but gloriously open, and John rushes to his bedside in an instant.

"Stiles?" He gently takes hold of Stiles' hand, careful not to jostle the IV or the pulse oximeter that's clipped to his finger. "Hey kiddo. God, it's good to see you awake."

As true as that is, Stiles still looks far from well. There's a blue undertone to his pallid skin that feels distinctly unhealthy, even with a good portion of his skin hidden beneath the mask that's fastened to his face. It covers his nose and mouth, with two straps that run from the mask itself and circle around the back of his head, one just below his ears and the other just above, keeping it firmly sealed over his face.

"Hey, no. Leave it on," John says kindly, grabbing hold of Stiles' free hand as he raises it to his face in a weak attempt to push the mask up and off. John has to wonder just how much pain Stiles must be in as he watches tears build up in his eyes as he moves, like just lifting his arm is torture. John is already looking around for the call button, pressing it repeatedly as he says, "It's helping you breathe. You need to leave it alone, okay?"

Stiles looks up at him with glassy eyes, blinking slowly, like it's taking him a moment to process the words, but once he does, he lets his hand fall limply back to his side. The simple movement seems to have used up all of Stiles' energy, and within seconds his eyelids are fluttering closed, surrendering to the exhaustion that's apparent in every line on his face, every feeble movement he attempts.

It's with a heavy heart that John reaches out and thumbs away the tears that trail down the side of Stiles' face as his eyes close. "That's it, go to sleep now. You're safe here."

And God, does John hope that's true.

Fortunately, he doesn't have to wait long for answers.

He's still standing next to the bed, still holding Stiles' hand, when Doctor Ahmed walks into the room. He nods to the sheriff and takes a quick look at Stiles' chart, then examines the bank of machines that Stiles is connected to, looking for God knows what before he turns his attention back to John and begins to speak.

"My apologies, but would you mind telling me how to pronounce your son's name?"

"He goes by Stiles," John sighs, once again regretting the name he and Claudia chose for him.

"Thank you. The good news is that Stiles is breathing much easier now. His blood oxygen levels are back to what we'd hope to see given his injuries, thanks to the machine he's on there. It's called Bilevel Positive Airway Pressure, or BiPAP, and I can assure you that it looks far more intimidating than it is. It's the same type of machine that many patients with sleep apnea use at home."

John appreciates the assurance more than he can say, because despite all of the time he's spent in this hospital – between sitting at Claudia's bedside as she faded away from their lives, and questioning injured victims after a crime or an accident — the set-up is still unnerving.

"And the bad news?" John asks, knowing damn well that no one starts off a sentence with 'the good news is' unless they're about to drop a bomb on you.

"Right now, our biggest concern is the possibility of brain damage, since we don't know how long his oxygen levels were diminished. Unfortunately, we won't know for sure until he's awake and we can run some tests."

"Jesus." John breathes. He has to force himself to ease his grip, to not squeeze Stiles' hand any tighter than he already is. The kid is bruised enough without him adding to it.

The doctor seems to understand the fear, the shock, that's rocketing through John, and he gives him a moment to process before continuing on.

"Less troubling, but still of some concern, is that he does indeed have two broken ribs and two more that are fractured, as well as the partially collapsed lung that we discussed earlier." Doctor Ahmed seems far less concerned about the news than John is, but he supposes that's to be expected. "There also seems to be a fairly severe chemical and fluid imbalance in his body, though we're already treating that through his IV."

The thing is, it's not just the injuries themselves that have John's stomach twisting into a thousand knots, it's the mental picture that the diagnosis paints in his mind. Of someone pulling Stiles out of the pool, laying his lifeless body on the ground, and then pumping his chest so fiercely that the bones beneath their hands snapped like twigs. He can't help but wonder how long it took to get Stiles breathing again. How it felt for Stiles when he finally coughed up the water that nearly killed him.

How it felt for him to go to bed that night, alone and in so much pain.

"Right now, I'd suggest you prepare yourself for a lengthy wait. It could take a day or two before we truly know where we stand, but we'll be keeping a very close eye on him in the meantime."

The doctor finishes and leaves the room soon after, and John takes his words to heart, settling himself in the plastic chair next to the bed, keeping hold of Stiles' hand the whole time, like he can keep him from going anywhere if he just holds on tight enough.

"What were you thinking, Stiles?" John whispers. There's no anger behind the words — not anymore, not when there's only room in his heart for worry — just a burning need to know. To understand why Stiles would put his life at risk just to what? Keep anyone from worrying about him? Keep himself out of trouble for breaking into the school pool after hours? To protect someone?

Because Scott's reaction to everything was a pretty damn clear indicator that he wasn't there with Stiles when he nearly drowned. He wasn't the one that performed CPR and snapped Stiles' ribs.

But someone did.

John intends to get to the bottom of it, to get the full story of what happened, just…not quite yet. Right now, he needs to be with his son. He needs to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

It's such a simple thing, John thinks. Breathing. Something that no one pays any mind to until it's a problem. But then it's the only thing in the world that matters.

He thinks back to when Stiles was a baby. When they first brought him home from the hospital, squirming and squealing and so very real after nine months of seeming like a distant dream. John would wake up at night, unreasonably afraid that something was wrong, and he'd lean over Stiles' bassinet, watching his tiny body swell with each breath he took, letting the motion calm his nerves and remind him that Stiles was fine.

It seems less of an unreasonable fear now.

John sighs and leans in a little, holding onto the guardrail and resting his chin on the back of that hand. His voice is quiet when he speaks, hardly loud enough to hear over the bustle of the hospital around them and the sound of the BiPAP machine next to the bed. "Just keep breathing, alright? Can you do that for me, Son? If this is the one thing you actually listen to me about...just. Keep breathing."

There's the slightest bit of pressure around his fingers, so weak that he barely even notices it at first, but when he gives a little squeeze back, that pressure firms up for just a second.

Stiles is listening.

Is fighting.

For John, it's the straw that breaks the camel's back. The relief bleeds into the fear and anger of the morning and he finally breaks down and cries as his composure cracks and breaks and gives him room to breathe.

And Stiles squeezes his hand just a bit tighter.

The rest of the day passes in a haze. Nurses come and go so frequently that John barely even registers their presence after a while. The doctor stops by once or twice, too, talking in hushed tones with whichever nurse accompanies him, but unless they speak directly to John, he just lets their conversations float over him, knowing he won't understand the medical mumbo-jumbo anyway.

Scott and Melissa stop by in the evening, bringing him a bag of takeout that John knows would make Stiles tsk and snatch it from his hands, insisting on something healthier. It's funny how now, when Stiles can't say a word about it, John doesn't even have enough of an appetite to open the bag.

Still, he appreciates the gesture. Appreciates them coming at all. He knows Stiles is in a unit where he's only supposed to have one visitor at a time, which means Melissa is bending the rules by being there, but one look at Scott tells him exactly why she's doing it. The kid looks devastated.

Without ever letting go of Stiles' hand, John reaches out and gives Scott's arm a comforting pat. They need to sit down and talk, all of them, about appropriate responses to injuries, but now is not the time. Not when he's sure Scott is feeling just as raw as John himself is. Not when Stiles can't be there to roll his eyes and inject his usual sarcastic comments into the lecture.

They don't stay long. Some words of encouragement and solace from Melissa and they're gone again, but John feels a little steadier from their visit.

Time stretches on after they leave, sunlight slowly tracking across the room until it disappears altogether, food going cold on the bedside table. He knows he's supposed to leave, that visiting hours have long since ended, but the nurses don't ask and John doesn't offer. He merely keeps his silent vigil next to Stiles' bed, only ever speaking in those fleeting moments that Stiles wakes up, looking exhausted and confused and in pain. It's then that John murmurs quiet words of comfort to help lull him back to sleep, giving Stiles everything he can before sinking back into silence once again.

It's sometime after one in the morning that John finally loses the battle to stay awake, releasing Stiles' hand as he leans back in his chair and stops fighting the heaviness of his eyelids.

It's a restless kind of sleep. He half wakes up a couple dozen times, catching glimpses of nurses moving through the dim room as they check Stiles' vitals and adjust the various machines he's hooked up to, or as Stiles wakes up and tries to speak but only winds up coughing and in tears.

At some point during the night, when John is so exhausted that a fine tremor sings through his body, he even has some sort of a waking dream. He groggily blinks his eyes open only to find Derek Hale next to Stiles' bed, his fingers wrapped around the same hand John had been holding earlier. And just as John is about to call out, to ask what the hell Derek is even doing there, he spies the rivers of black sludge flowing through Derek's veins, right from his fingers and up through his arms.

John's gasp is nearly silent but Derek seems to hear it regardless, slowly turning his head to look at John.

"It's okay, Sheriff" Derek says quietly, "You're still asleep."

A flash of glowing eyes, unearthly and impossible, has John scrubbing a hand over his face, realizing he must be more tired than he thought, and when he looks back up, Derek is gone.

The disturbing thing is that it's not even the strangest dream he's had.

Now that he's truly awake, though, he brushes aside the strange dream and leans in to check on Stiles, pleased to find him sleeping soundly.

As a matter of fact, he looks completely at peace. And John can only hope that means he's on the mend.

It's several hours before he finds out that, yes, Stiles is actually healing quite nicely. Doctor Ahmed assures them that there are no indications of brain damage from oxygen depletion, and the atelectasis can be managed through incentive spirometry rather than surgery. A confused look from John is enough for the doctor to explain, bringing out the strange plastic contraption that Stiles will be blowing into multiple times each hour for the next week or so.

It beats the hell out of surgery, as far as John is concerned.

After another round of tests, the nurses switch Stiles from BiPAP to a regular nasal cannula, slowly easing his reliance on machines to help him breathe. It surprises John just how much that change helps to ease the worry in his heart, too.

It's not until Stiles is fully awake and alert, though, that John truly feels like the world has righted itself. The kid still looks weak, fragile even, but as he sits propped up in that bed, John can see the Stiles that he knows shining through in the mischievous gleam in his eye, in the impish quirk of his smile.

John would swear he's already plotting something.

"Okay, before you say anything—" Stiles rasps, his voice sounding like he spent the night gargling whiskey and glass shards.

John just holds up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "You're grounded until you're thirty."

"Aww, come on, it's not even that b—"

"Make it forty."

Stiles opens his mouth and takes a shallow breath — honestly it looks like it's as deep a breath as he can manage — and John just needs to raise his eyebrows expectantly for Stiles to snap his jaw shut.

If his son can't learn to take care of himself, John's just going to have to make sure he's never in harm's way again.

And really, in a town as small as Beacon Hills, how hard can that be?