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The rumble of thunder was distant, far enough away that you wouldn’t be able to hear it unless you were really listening. Lightning flashed across the sky, visible even though it was concentrated miles away, illuminating the otherwise darkened clouds.
Stiles knew at that moment that he was lost.
He’d been denying it for what must have been the past hour, not wanting to believe that he’d been stupid enough to get lost in the middle of the woods with a storm on the horizon – not to mention that it was the dead of night.
Stiles should really start listening to Scott.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, trying to keep the torch he held in his other hand focused on the ground and trees around him. The first person he tried was Scott, obviously, the phone ringing out twice before he decided to give up. Ringing anyone else would just end badly, most likely with them never letting him live it down – something that he’d unwittingly do if the situation was reversed, so he wouldn’t blame them, but he’d just like to avoid the situation altogether.
Stumbling through the woods at any time was a bad idea, Stiles knew that, he really did. It’s just that since all of his friends became supernatural beings, he’d found himself doing a lot of things that would normally be considered bad ideas. Not that it had been uncommon for him to be following bad ideas before all of that – it was his idea to go wandering through the woods at night that had gotten Scott bitten in the first place.
When he finally tripped over the root of a tree – finally because he knew it was bound to happen at some point – he dropped the flashlight he thought he’d had a death grip on. It was evident that he hadn’t as it thumped to the ground, the bulb flickering out as it rolled out of his sight into the thick layer of leaves that covered the ground.
Thunder still growled in the distance, getting closer and closer with each passing second, causing fear to course through Stiles’ body. He was shaking, his hands visibly trembling as he tried to push himself to his feet, feeling blood trickle down his leg. Looking down, he saw a rip in his jeans, the skin beyond it darker than it should be – whether with mud or just blood, he couldn’t tell. He just had to go out in his brand new pair of jeans today, didn’t he?
Not the time for that, Stiles, he thought to himself, mentally cringing at how his own brain was thinking about himself in the third person.
Instead of standing – seeing as that was never going to work, not with the pain now pulsing in his leg – he sat back against the traitorous tree that had caused him to fall in the first place. Stiles pulled his phone from his pocket, desperately trying to turn it on despite his quivering fingers.
Because it was just his luck, the phone didn’t turn on. With one juddering flash of lightning that was definitely more intense than any of the others before it, he could make a crack that ran from the top of the phone screen to the bottom, spreading out in a vein-like formation.
Stiles was lost.
Stiles was lost and his phone was broken.
Not to mention, there was the worst thunder storm he’d seen in years heading directly towards where he sat incapacitated with no way of contacting anyone. That thought alone sent shivers done his spine, causing his body to shake more than it already was.
In addition, he could feel his breathing becoming laboured as his vision swam with tears, blurring the already hard to see environment. As much as he tried to fight the tightness in his chest, he couldn’t; it felt like something was being pressed against his torso, constricting his lungs, making it difficult to allow oxygen passage in and out.
The storm was almost directly above Stiles now, alerting the coal haired boy to just how cold he was, his skin rising with goose bumps all over his body as the rain pelted against it. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the area surrounding him, though showing him nothing more than what looked like the same trees he’d seen throughout the entire trek he’d taken into the forest. It was only a moment later that thunder rattled through the foliage all around him, reverberating through his own bones and setting his teeth on edge.
He shrunk back further against the tree – which didn’t count for much, he was already pushed up against it fully – and brought his knees up to his chest, the pain in his leg protesting but not stopping him. His hands came up to cover his ears as he buried his face in his legs. It did nothing about drowning the sound of the storm out, but it made him feel safer, having his body in the tightest position he could muster.
Stiles didn’t know what to do.
*
It felt like hours – but was most probably minutes – before the storm started to ease up, the thunder getting quieter and lightning becoming less powerful. It was stupid to think that it was over, so Stiles stayed exactly as he was, body hunched in on its self.
He was still having difficulty breathing, but he knew that the worst of the panic attack was over, his lungs finally able to take in a more sufficient amount of air. The pain in his leg had increased, his trousers damp and heavy with blood, not rain water like he so wished it was instead.
Rain was still pouring down from the clouds above, making his clothes stick to his skin uncomfortably. An unbelievable cold had settled into his bones, wracking his body more than the panic had, but there was nothing he could do warm himself up; he couldn’t move, and the rain didn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.
The only sound in the woods was that of water hitting leaves and branches and dirt, the thunder now only a whisper of a grumble in the air above. Subsequently, Stiles couldn’t believe it when he heard his name being called out from somewhere to the right of him, still a large distance away.
It was only when he heard his name being shouted right into his ear that he realised that he wasn’t just shaking from the cold and panic, but because someone was actually shaking him.
“Stiles? Fuck, Stiles, can you hear me?” A frantic voice asked, hands trying to pull his own from where they were still covering his ears. “Stiles!”
Lifting his head from his knees and blearily blinking his eyes clear of the moisture that clouded them, Stiles could barely make out a figure standing before him. If his head was clearer and he was actually thinking straight then he’d probably be able to decipher who it was, but that was something he was unable to do while his brain was still worrying about the tempest.
“You’re okay, you’re fine now,” the voice soothed, sounding closer than it did before, warm breath fanning out across Stiles’ face. “I’m going to help you stand now, okay?”
Before Stiles even had a chance to respond, he was being hauled to his feet, his body relieving itself of most of the tension that had built while he’d held himself in a tight ball. His leg, however, gave out as he put pressure on it, an inane amount of pain vibrating through his body from where he’d injured himself earlier that night.
An arm wrapped around Stiles’ waist abruptly, stopping him from colliding painfully with the ground beneath him. Werewolf, he thought as he was lifted off of his feet and into his rescuer’s arms, wondering why he hadn’t come to that conclusion before – who else in their right mind would be out in weather like this? If it had been any other day in any other situation, he would’ve objected vehemently, but seeing as he was going nowhere fast with his leg hurting as bad as it did, he kept his mouth shut, choosing instead to bury his face against the broad chest beneath him.
“You’re going to be okay, nothing will hurt you now,” the voice continued to murmur above Stiles, whether to comfort him or reassure whoever it was, he wasn’t sure.
*
By the time he was being placed down on top of a soft surface, Stiles had drifted into a light sleep, his body just giving out on him and shutting down for a while more than anything else.
He blinked his eyes open, taking in his surroundings. It was a room he’d never seen before, but the smell of the bed below him was distinctly that of one sourwolf, even he could tell that without the need of enhanced senses. The room itself was rather bare, though the pile of boxes in one corner suggested that it wouldn’t remain that way for long. There was a small picture frame on the bedside table to his left, holding what looked like a family photo – a Hale family photo – but Stiles couldn’t be certain, his eyes still having not adjusted to the dim light in the room. The sheets he was laying on were plain but soft, black in colour, as would be expected from their owner, truthfully.
The door to the room creaked open at that moment, Derek standing beyond it, a guarded expression across his face. His clothes were soaked through, as were Stiles’, and his hair was plastered to his forehead, his body portraying the opposite of his usual harsh demeanour.
The older man didn’t say a word as he entered the room to stand over Stiles, helping the smaller boy sit up when he attempted it on his own. He handed a glass of water over as his eyes roamed over Stile’s body, making him squirm under the attention – not that he minded, really.
“How are you feeling?” Derek asked, the sound of his rough voice breaking the silence that had otherwise settled over the room, reaching to take the glass back when Stiles was done.
It was a stupid question and they both knew it; Stiles would bravely answer that he was fine – as he always did in a situation like this – and Derek would immediately pull him up on lying about it, using the younger boy’s heartbeat as his reasoning. The worst part about it, though, was how Stiles knew what was going to happen; he’d been in this position so many times before that he actually had a reference and could just guess how it’d play out – now that really said something about his life.
So instead of saying what was probably expected of him, he uttered out a small “my leg”, before turning his head down to groan into his shoulder. The pain that he’d felt earlier surged back through him tenfold, his heart beating harder than it was before and his breathing becoming ragged again.
Derek didn’t say anything as he left the room, leaving the door open this time, though returning just moments later. He had at least three towels thrown over his shoulders while his hands held a bowl of water, bandages and an unlabelled bottle, which he set down the bed before him.
Before he could move, Stiles had a towel wrapped around his shoulders, leeching warmth into his still frozen skin. Another was placed over his lower legs, with the others being positioned into a pile alongside him. He reached over quickly to grab one, tangling his hands within the warm softness, trying to regain as much feeling in his stiff fingers as he could.
“You need– I– Can you–” Derek cut himself off, glaring down at his own hands which were clenched into tight fists, causing his knuckles to turn an unnatural white. The words he was searching for clearly weren’t working well for him, something that Stiles was determined to help him overcome – when he didn’t feel like he was about to pass out, that is.
Although, it didn’t take long for him to figure out what the wolf was on about, even though he hadn’t been given any further indication as to what he was trying to ask. He sighed and swiftly undid the button on his jeans, struggling to pull the zip down for a moment until it finally cooperated.
Actually taking the trousers off proved to be more of a challenge, seeing as he could only use one leg to help lift his hips off of the bed so he could shimmy them down, and it wasn’t like he had good coordination at the best of times. His fingers scrabbled at the waist of them before they finally found purchase and could slide them downwards.
When the rough, damp material of his jeans dragged over the still-open cut on his leg, Stiles winced dramatically, his breath hissing out between his teeth. As he pushed them the rest of the way down, he kept his eyes trained on the ceiling, using the old tactic of ‘if I can’t see it then it’s not real’ – though that had failed him many times over the past couple of years, the werewolf staring at him worriedly being an obvious display of that.
He decided at that moment to just take his t-shirt off too, only just noticing that his hoodie had already been removed, not liking the feel of the moist fabric clinging to his chest. It was awkward, he was too pale and he knew that his muscles were barely noticeable, so he quickly pulled the towels to cover himself, under the pretence of wanting to be dry and warm.
Neither said anything more as Derek carefully cleaned the area around the wound before pouring water over the cut, triggering Stiles to hiss once again, trying to keep his leg from moving and making the whole thing worse. Blood was still oozing from the puncture, but no longer at a rate that could be considered alarming. Not that it mattered within the next few seconds, as Derek trickled saline solution into it, the pain doubling.
*
Stiles had passed out.
It wasn’t the first time it’d happened, and by no means would it be the last, but he still hated it. The feeling of coming back to himself after being unconscious always left him feeling disorientated, never knowing exactly where he is, or what had happened that had caused him to be in that position.
He no longer had clothes sticking to him, but he was still unbelievably cold, so not too much time could’ve passed. The pain in his injured leg had subsided, now just a dull ache that could easily be ignored. And Stiles would’ve ignored it, if he hadn’t of been for the crack of thunder that suddenly sounded from outside, making him twitch in a way that couldn’t be seen as normal, the room being lit seconds later by lightning that managed to seep in through a gap in the curtains.
Derek was nowhere to be seen; he was no longer sitting beside Stiles on the bed, the spot feeling cold when he ran his hand over it. Stiles didn’t have long to panic about where the older man was, whether he was alone again during the storm, when said man appeared in the doorway, panic clearly written across his own features – or as clearly as it could be when the guy never showed any emotion other than through the positioning of his eyebrows.
He strode quickly over to the bed, his voice shaking slightly when he talked. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you hurt?”
A second clap of thunder cut off Stiles’ reply, not that he even knew what he was going to say. He whimpered slightly, turning his head into the pillow under his head to try and block out the sound. His body wanted to curl in again, protect himself, but his leg was stiff and hurt to move, so he stopped trying, instead choosing to twist his torso as much as was humanly possible. That was until the next roar of thunder, where his whole body flinched, turning onto his side and wrapping his arms around himself, his head now fully bowed into the pillow.
“Stiles?” Derek was closer than he’d been before, his hand resting against the side of the scared boy’s neck, attempting to calm him down without crowding him too much.
It took a moment for Stiles to realise what he was doing: baring his neck to a werewolf. The sign of submission is not something he’d usually do, unless Scott was really about to lose it, because it reminded him of what a non-threat Stiles was and how he wouldn’t be able to fight back or heal. Not smart, he thought belatedly, not bothering to move even after, finding the touch comforting in a weird sort of way, a reassurance that he wasn’t alone.
“Hey, hey, you’re fine, the storm can’t get to you in here,” Derek murmured, his tone softer than Stiles had ever heard it.
The fact that Derek – genuine I-will-rip-your-throat-out-with-my-teeth Derek – was actually worried about him made Stiles smile some, finding it hard to believe what was happening. It was almost enough to make him forget about the unfortunate weather outside, but only almost.
As more thunder rumbled outside, sounding as though it was directly over the house, Derek removed his hand from Stiles’ neck, causing the usually talkative boy to whine slightly in the back of his throat, choosing to not use his words to show how he instantly missed the contact – the action itself being a clear enough indicator.
The next thing he knew, there was a warm body pressed against his front, aligning perfectly with him. Warmth started spreading through him, expelling the ice that was still pumping through his veins, bringing a flush onto his otherwise pale skin.
He pushed forward into the figure, choosing to burrow his head in Derek’s chest instead. The other man didn’t move for a minute, his whole body tense under Stiles’ hands, up until Stiles winced and cried out at the combination of a crash of thunder and streak of lightning. At that, he brought his arms up to wrap around the smaller boy, bringing him in as close as possible.
Stiles could feel his heart hammering, but he couldn’t bring himself to care in that moment.
“Please don’t leave,” Stiles whispered into the cloth of Derek’s shirt, that he had tightly clasped between his fingers – he could finally feel and move them properly.
Derek stilled his own fingers, which had been slowly combing out Stiles’ tangled, wet hair, leaning his head down so that his nose was pressed into the spot instead.
“Never.”