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Stiles could see Scott’s shoulders quiver with what? Rage? Stiles knew when Scott was angry. This was not that. Even with the shortened fuse on his anger, this was not that.
Scott was frozen in place, players from both teams running past him. The game was going on around him, and he did nothing. He was out of it… “And that can’t mean anything good if life has been any indication.”
The bleachers at Stiles’ back erupted with cacophonous cheering. He couldn’t help hazarding a look toward the root of the commotion. The goal was the focal point of a small celebration between a few of the Beacon Hills team members. So the goal had been theirs. No surprise, considering he’d heard the raucous cheers.
Hey, at least, even with Scott acting weird, the team was doing fine. That would double as a way to keep the attention off of Scott. And no one would question things.
Stiles brought his attention back around to where his friend had been standing on the field. “Oh, shit… Shit! Shit! Shit!” Stiles muttered. Scott was nowhere to be seen. He was gone. And with his heightened agility, he could have made it a fair enough distance to be worrying. …Especially when something was clearly up.
Stiles shot a glance at their coach. He was too into the scored point to notice anything amiss. He definitely wouldn’t notice Stiles disappearing regardless of whether or not there was a distraction. Stiles dropped the lacrosse stick he’d been clinging to while he’d still been hoping to maybe catch some game time and bolted.
If he moved during the excitement, no one else would notice him going. His dad wasn’t there, so it wasn’t like anyone was watching him anyway. “Great, maybe don’t think like that when there are more pressing things going on,” Stiles muttered to himself, throwing his head to the side. He definitely should have been keeping his mind on the more concerning issue and not his unfortunate lack of natural, or otherwise, athleticism.
Stiles couldn’t help but notice it was quieter on this side of the bleachers. The voices and cheers were still ringing through the air, but it was projected to the other side of the stands. He froze when a flash of colour caught his attention. A jersey was strewn across the grass below the stands. Stiles didn’t have to look to know it would be Scott’s. He scanned the remaining area, making his way into the parking lot. “Hey, Scott?! You aren’t going to jump out of some corner and scare the hell out of me because you are going all killer psycho, right?” Stiles called into the lot. He caught sight of his friend’s discarded helmet farther ahead. Stiles rushed forward with energy he hadn’t had to use on the field that night. He bent down, snatching the helmet up by the face guard.
He grimaced when his eyes landed on the shattered rear windshield of a small grey Saturn, the unlucky car that happened to be in the path of Scott’s projectile helmet. “At least it’s not my car this time.” It was always his car. It was only fair that once in a while, it got spared from harm.
Stiles pulled the helmet on over his own head, trying to ignore that it was wet with sweat.
Whatever it was that was going on with Scott was unsettlingly likely to turn into a gunfight. “Only, instead, it will be a gunfight with crazy hunter people who have crazy crossbows and damn silver arrows.” Stiles kept his feet moving. “Scott better appreciate what I put up with.” The parking lot turned to road. Where would Scott go?
“Well, that’s stupid. I know where he’d go.” If he was being an idiot he’d go to Allison’s house, and the only thing Stiles knew was absolutely certain was that Scott definitely was an idiot.
It turned out Scott didn’t go to Allison's. He saw his friend hunched over, clutching his head in the middle of the street. Still an idiot but not one that was going to get himself shish kabobed by silver arrows. There was definitely more hair on his back than there had been there in the locker room earlier in the day.
"Hey, Scott, just wanna be sure, if I come over there, you won't rip out my throat with distressing ease... I know I can be annoying." Stiles called as he cautiously moved forward. Scott didn't acknowledge the comment or his presence. It was a little unsettling because he wasn't too keen on creeping up on his friend, who more than had the means to gut him. "You know what, I'm probably good here."
Despite the heightened hearing, Scott gave no indication that he had heard anything that was being spoken to him...
Stiles' ears were good, though, meaning when he heard the sound of a car of some sort rumbling down the street, rubber on old cracked pavement. And it was closing in at an alarming rate considering Stiles could see the car rushing toward Scott.
Stiles' brain was moving faster than he could comprehend, but all the same, his body was moving. It wasn't necessarily against his will, but he hadn't quite worked out for sure why it was yet. And he wasn't quite sure he could tackle Scott down and out of the way from that position.
The world was still for a moment.
He was standing in front of Scott,
arms out wide, ready to take the full force of a car for his friend with super-human healing abilities. He was probably an Idiot.
But if one super-human ability was shot, who was to say another wasn't also?
So that's why he'd moved in front of a speeding car whose front bumper was making contact with his body at that very moment. Maybe he could count it as a relief that it didn't hurt…?
But then the rest of his back got it, and he was thrown forward like a log to a fire because that's what it felt like. Fire over every part of his body. The pavement felt hot as he skidded across it harshly. He couldn't be certain because everything was pain, but he had the idea that he was blacking out. That wouldn't be too bad, though, right?
It meant he wouldn't feel the warm oozing blood and his ribs that were probably shredding his lungs with every ragged breath.
He was right. The pain was dissipating, and in its place... sweet, tender nothingness.
-.-.-.-
It was a familiar scream like death that pulled Scott from the fog that was settling over his mind and senses.
The fur over his body was disappearing despite how tense he remained.
Scott lifted his gaze, seeing red. Blood. It was on the bumper of a car before him and the ground all around. It was a horrid stench.
Scott moved with numbness and a swirling world around him. The scene was uncomfortably close to the ones he saw in his dreams—nightmares—on most nights. The blood was the same. And as always… He stood in the middle of it all… As a monster.
The air reaked of blood and alcohol and... Stiles?
"Oh, gah, I thin' I killt 'em... Shi..." The voice dragged his attention unwillingly away from the confusing amass of scents. "I gotta ga' outta 'ere..." The voice slurred.
Scott now had a face for the voice.
The guy looked tired and pale. He was a rugged looking man with dirty brownish hair that was a greasy, stringy mess.
He was standing and stumbling weavily away from a sprawled body, dropping a glass bottle that shattered on the pavement before he collapsed in a ditch, passing out if the change in his breathing was any indication.
Scott shook the haze out of his mind. The body that didn't reak of alcohol but blood was dressed in the Beacon Hills team colours... Specifically, a jersey and helmet. He was in uniform. Scott felt sick.
The wind lifted the body's scent and beware it directly into Scott's face. He knew who it was before that, but this was the cold, hard punch in the gut. His legs were weak and wobbly. "Stiles...?" He croaked. Twenty-four stood out so clearly on the uniform. Scott wanted to punch something. "Stiles, you idiot! What were you thinking?”
Scott could hear his breaths so wet and shaky. He could see him breathe… But it didn't feel real. He looked dead.
Scott knelt over his still friend, rolling him onto his back, wincing as he took in the sight of the twisted arm, wrongly bent arm and immediate discolouration. Scott just stared. You would think he'd know what to do with his mom being who she was… But this was Stiles… He was lost. He used one hand to pull what looked like his helmet from Stiles head, the other hand positioned under Stiles neck to catch his head before it could hit the concrete.
It kept him from cracking his head against the ground, but it didn't keep his head from lolling to the side in a way that was like a sucker punch to Scott’s stomach before he had turned into a werewolf.
Blood trickled from the corner of Stiles’ cracked lips. That was the final straw. “Stiles! Stiles, wake up!” Scott patted his friend's cheek… Probably rather harshly…
Stiles moaned and blinked open his eyes. The way he fought to open them made it seem like they were being pulled down by lead weights.
“Stiles, what the hell were you thinking?” Scott didn't know what happened… But he could guess. And his guess was that Stiles was an idiot.
Scott already had a hand under Stiles’ neck. He slid his other arm under his only real friend's knees, warm blood wetting his skin. He wanted to be sick… Whether that be because of the overwhelming scent of blood… Or whose blood it was. Scott hefted his friend into the air.
Stiles gazed up at him hazily, head lolling into Scott’s chest. He coughed, blood spattering the front of Scott’s uniform. He almost gagged, but he couldn’t stop. He had to run. He knew where Stiles had parked. If he could get his keys, he could drive Stiles to the hospital. He wouldn’t die, right? No, he couldn’t die. Scott wouldn’t let him die.
Scott tightened his grip on Stiles as he got to the point where the car was clearly visible. “Why did you think that was a good idea…? What were you thinking…?” He muttered, not expecting an answer from his dazed—dying?—friend.
“Wa’ thinkin’ you were bein’ all weird ‘n stuff… You were gonna get yers’lf hit,” Stiles croaked out past burbling blood. He didn’t have his eyes open anymore. He was simply leaning into Scott’s chest, wincing and grunting with every step Scott took. “Bein’ all freaky.”
Scott breathed deeply, trying not to let the smell of blood make the lump in his stomach heavier. He made it to Stiles’ jeep, throwing the door open.
Scott gently laid his friend down on the seat, patting down Stiles’ pockets for the car keys. “Oh, shit.” They were in Stiles' locker in the school…
He had to leave Stiles there to get them… He’d be faster that way, but it was almost a physical pain that came over him about leaving his friend… What if Stiles didn’t make it…? What if he was alone when it happened? “Stiles,” Scott croaked, “please be here when I come back…”
“Na’ goin’ anywhere…” Stiles slurred from his slumped position. It was another punch to Scott’s gut.
“I’ll be right back.”
-.-.-.-
Stiles saw his friend's chest, and then he was put down. Everything hurt. And more than one place was numb.
He must have dozed off… Well, he must have passed out because the next thing he remembered was Scott in the driver’s seat of… Some car. Stiles’ car? He was speaking, mostly swearing… And then it was all lost in a blur once more.
Just the car rumbling and so much pain he couldn’t breathe.
-.-.-.-
The hospital was cold, a thing Scott had thought he’d gotten used to after having been there so often with his mom. But this time was different. This time, it might not have been the chilling AC—definitely wasn’t.
The doctor came by sometime. He said something about stabilising Stiles, but it was all lost in the haze. The room swirled, and people moved by him like blurs. Stiles would be fine. He’d make it. Stiles couldn’t die. He was too important. He was family…
“Scott.” A soft hand rested on his own, making dried blood flake from his skin. He looked up to see his mother wearing the same thing she had gone to the game in. It had felt like years ago at this point. It was cruel to think, hours at most. “The doctor just came out a moment ago and talked with Stiles’ dad. They think he’ll pull through… Do you want me to take you home?”
He didn’t know when she had gotten there, but he was so grateful to have her there beside him. “No, I can’t leave him again.”
Scott looked up. His mother’s face was an open book with one question plastered over its pages. “What happened?” She didn’t ask, but it was as clear as if she had.
The only words he could have said in answer were, “I don’t know.” He really didn’t. All he remembered was waking up in the street…
He didn't realise he had really said anything until she answered. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. You’re okay.” She was hugging him and pressing her chin to his head. “It's all going to be okay.”
“No, it's not… How is this okay? It should have been me…” It should have. It was coming for him. He was the one with crazy regenerative abilities. He should have been the one the car hit.
“No, Scott. You can’t think like that. Stiles wouldn’t want that.” Did they have to talk like Stiles was dead?
Scott froze, wincing as claws dug through his nail beds. He took a long dragging breath. He wasn’t going to lose it… He had to keep his cool… Don’t mess up. You have to stay here for him.
-.-.-.-
It was some time the next morning when Scott woke up. He was still sitting in an uncomfortable plastic waiting room chair. He stood up, hearing his joints pop with displeasure. Somewhere past the obnoxious hospital scents, he picked up a whiff of his mother and Stiles’ father.
Scott made his way down the hall to where the scent was stronger. There, they stood, sipping coffee from little white paper cups.
“How is he?” Scott asked, not even immediately realising he had spoken.
Both of the adults looked up at him, sighing tiredly.
“He’s looking all right for the time being. He woke up shortly and asked for you.” Stiles' dad said. He looked exhausted—rugged… worn too thin. “I’ll take you to him… But, Scott, I need to know what happened to my son.”
Scott shook his head. So much had happened, but he couldn’t say a word. “I don’t know.” He tried to keep his face from expressing his guilt. It was not a complete lie. But that was nowhere near the truth.
“I see.”
-.-.-.-
Scott had followed Stiles’ dad after they had stood there for too long in awkward silence in that hallway. Now there was an awkward silence, but at least they were moving. And then suddenly they weren’t any longer.
“I’m going to give you some privacy, okay?” Something in his voice said that was only part of the reason he wasn’t joining Scott in the room…
“Thank you, Sir. And I’m sorry I couldn’t stop this… I’m really so sorry.” Scott didn’t let his voice break.
“Just go in. Don’t leave him waiting… And if he does wake up again when you are in there, tell him I’m just outside, okay?” The pain in the man’s face was so evident. He did want to go in… But it hurt him… It was that bad.
“I will.”
Scott knocked on the door without an answer. He pushed it open, walking into the dim room, not expecting a voice.
“Hey,” a small voice croaked from the bed.
“S—Stiles?” Scott breathed out.
“Yeah… Who e—else would it be?” He coughed and whimpered.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” Scott moved closer to the bed, breathing sharply when he saw the state his friend’s body was in. His arm was wrapped in a cast, and if not for the blankets over his body, Scott imagined he’d see a lot more bloodied bandages and stitches. Stiles’ face was littered with them, several places swollen from the trauma. Bruises and ugly red cuts covered his skin.
“Sh—shut up. You'd've done it for me…” Stiles slurred weakly, voice strained with pain.
That was true… “But I would heal faster than you could…”
“True… But I’m an idiot… Don’cha know that by now…? Never gonna stop takin’ care of you. Even if you are a super werewolf freak…” Stiles was clearly slipping back into unconsciousness. His speech was losing its clarity.
“Thank you… But don’t do it again.” Scott knew what his friends reaction would be before he even said it.
“Can’ make any prom’ses.”
Scott chuckled mirthlessly… “Just remember that you can’t die. I need you… Your dad needs you too…” Scott remembered the man’s request. “He’s waiting outside those doors for you…”
Stiles was smirking, but he was clearly out. His breathing was shallow with sleep… But it was there… That’s all that mattered… Scott could stand there and listen to that thrumming. Please, don’t leave us.