Chapter Text
They were just starting to trickle out of the warehouse when some instinct made Peter look at Stiles. Not that that was all that unusual — he often found himself looking at Stiles. This time, however, he looked at the boy just in time to see him waver and then collapse. Peter leaped forward, catching him just before he could hit the concrete. Gently, Peter laid Stiles out and looked him over.
Besides the minor wounds on his face, which Peter hadn't had a chance to ask about, he found nothing obvious. Just as Derek and Isaac reached his side, Peter lifted up Stiles's shirt. There was a mass of colorful bruising, dark enough that he might possibly have internal bleeding.
"We have to get him to the hospital," Isaac said softly. Jackson and Lydia had reappeared, coming back inside the large hole the jeep had left in the wall.
"I know," Peter agreed. They couldn't call 911 and direct them to this warehouse, too many of them had bled all over it. Derek, Jackson, and Peter were covered in the former kanima's blood, and couldn't be seen in public until they cleaned up.
"Isaac, Lydia, take the jeep and get Stiles to the hospital," Derek said firmly. "The rest of us will go to my apartment and clean up, then meet you there. Just tell them he collapsed while driving you."
Lydia looked like she was about to protest being separated from Jackson — not that Peter entirely blamed her — but then she glanced down at Stiles again and firmed her resolve with a nod. "Come on then," she said to Isaac, directing him toward the jeep.
As soon as they were gone, Peter led the others to his car, hidden out of sight around the corner, and whisked them off to his apartment. They took turns showering quickly, then dressed. Being put in Derek's clothes was actually beneficial for Jackson, as it helped settle the new wolf.
"If anyone asks, we found you wandering in the streets near the hospital and gave you some of Derek's spare clothes from the car," Peter instructed as they drove towards the hospital. "You don't remember being anywhere else, and everything is fuzzy. I'm sure everyone will come to the correct conclusion that the EMTs were simply hasty in declaring you dead, and whatever drug you were given to make you collapse is responsible for your memory loss."
"Got it," Jackson said solemnly. Peter had no expectation that either he or Lydia would remain this docile for long, but the trauma of the night was working in their favor at the moment.
When they reached the ER, Peter dropped the other two off, confident they would follow directions, then went to park. As soon as he was parked he followed his nose and ears to find Stiles. His heartbeat was slower than normal, closer to that of a normal person, but still traceable. Shortly, Peter found himself around the corner from the Sheriff, who was speaking with the doctor. Peter made himself unobtrusive and listened in.
"—Afraid there might be a laceration on his liver, causing the internal bleeding," the doctor was saying. "We'll need to get him into surgery as soon as possible to investigate."
"Do it," the Sheriff agreed. "Please, do everything you can."
"We will," the doctor reassured him.
Peter sank into the closest seat, gripping his claws inside his fist. He willed the doctors to do their best, even as his fangs itched to drop. He wasn't the alpha anymore, and there was nothing he could do to help Stiles right now. He just had to hope that they had gotten him to the hospital fast enough, or that Derek could slip into his room if the worst happened. If they had to, if they were forced to reveal the truth to the Sheriff, they would. Anything to save Stiles.
Sitting helplessly didn't sit right with Peter, but he could be patient when the result was worth it. And Stiles would always be worth it.