Chapter Text
Beep.
Reaching desperately for his phone, tauntingly close but just beyond his fingertips. His hand closing around air, again. Crying out as he shifts closer, just an inch closer...
Beep.
Crying, because it was impossibly difficult to move those few inches, but he has his phone. Speed dial. Ring ring. Voicemail.
Beep.
"Dad... Dad, please, pick up, Dad... Dad, I'm sorry. I love you, Dad, I'm so sorry, please... I love you."
Beep.
Too tired to try again; can't see the numbers to dial, anyway. Dying. Someone is coming. Coming back? Oh god, please not coming back...
Beep.
"Stiles!? Stiles, shit, no, oh god, no.” What have I done? Shit, be okay, you’re gonna be okay...
****
Derek Hale stumbles up the highway, carrying a limp and bloody body, too torn to identify, too still, too bent, too much blood. A passing driver calls 911 but doesn’t stop, too terrified. A patrol car finds them, an ambulance; too many people- all unfamiliar, these strangers. Derek snarls and fights. He will not listen to reason, he will not listen to anything, won’t give them the body in his arms. The moment they have the opportunity- the moment he loosens his grip- they move, subdue him, take the motionless boy(?) away, wrestle Derek into cuffs and into the back of a car. No one has recognized him, not yet, his face streaked with blood and twisted, snarling. No one recognizes the body, either.
It is loaded into the back bay of the ambulance. An EMT writes “John Doe” on the paperwork, checks his watch to fill in the blank: “Time of Death.”
The body gasps, chokes, a small cough. The EMT is startled, a hysterical moment of fear, then he starts shouting, everyone moving, the situation suddenly and unexpectedly urgent. There is now a patient where there had previously been a corpse. The distinction is important.
****
John Stilinski arrives as the patrol car moves away, just after the ambulance has pulled screeching onto the main road. The situation is under control: the crazed man on his way to the station, unidentified teenage victim headed to the hospital. Such terrible things happen, could happen any time. John sighs, thinks about his son. His cellphone is on his nightstand, forgotten in a rush this morning. It’s okay.
He will make sure to tell his son that he loves him, tonight, later, at home.
****
Melissa McCall looks in at the mangled teenager. They have cleaned him up, as well as possible. They went over his body for evidence, for clues; bagged them, tagged them, washed them away. Stitched up the splits and reset the bones. It took hours. It was probably wasted effort.
It isn’t Scott. This is as much as she can tell: the boy’s face is swollen and discolored, cut up, and covered in tubes. Such a terrible thing, she thinks. She hopes they find his family soon. Maybe- not too soon. It will probably be less painful in the long run to avoid this false hope, to simply take the silent elevator down to the morgue.
****
The boy remains unconscious. This is probably for the best.
****
No one identifies the silent, motionless man in Cell Three. They have washed most of the blood away, after taking pictures, samples. He will be held indefinitely, until someone starts talking, or he is accused of a crime, or absolved. He does not object.
No one misses Derek Hale.
****
Scott assumes Stiles is at home, busy. John figures, since he hasn’t come home, and hasn’t answered his phone, that he is with Scott. (He will be in trouble for not checking in.) It takes nearly twelve hours before anyone realizes he is actually missing, and two more before it occurs to anyone to check the hospital. John hasn't checked his voicemail. He does, now. His heart stops.
****
Melissa is distraught at not having recognized him. John does not blame her. He doesn’t recognize him, either.
Stiles probably wouldn’t even know himself, if he could see this tragic broken thing. (He can’t.)
He doesn’t wake up.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.