Chapter Text
Stiles hadn’t even made it to the kitchen for his late-night snack when he heard it — a heavy, dragging thud against the front door.
He froze.
Another thud.
Slower. Heavier. Desperate.
“...the hell?” Stiles muttered, heartbeat stumbling.
He grabbed the nearest thing capable of doubling as a weapon — a baseball bat leaning by the coat rack — and crept to the door. His palms were already sweating. The air felt too still, wrong in that way that always meant supernatural trouble.
“Whoever’s out there,” Stiles warned, voice shaky, “you better not be— murder-y.” He yanked the door open. The bat hit the floor with a clatter.
“Derek?”
Derek Hale was on his knees on the porch, one hand braced weakly against the doorframe, the other pressed hard against his side. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark and too much. Dirt was smeared across his clothes like he’d crawled the entire way to the Stilinski house. His chest heaved in shallow, broken gasps.
“DEREK!”
Stiles dropped beside him, catching Derek just before he pitched forward onto the porch. “Hey— hey, look at me,” Stiles urged, voice cracking. “Derek, oh my god, what happened? Why didn’t you go home? Why here?” Derek’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, glassy.
He barely managed one word: “Hunters.” And then he went limp Stiles’ heart stopped.
“No— no, no, no, no, don’t you do this! Derek— Derek!” He shook him lightly, terrified of shaking him harder. “Come on, big guy, stay with me! You don’t get to die on my porch! That’s, like, the worst place to die!”
Derek didn’t move. Panic detonated inside Stiles’ ribcage. He hooked Derek’s arms over his shoulders and hauled him to his feet — or something like it — dragging his dead-weight body toward the Jeep.
“Okay— okay— we’re fine, we’re fine— you’re fine— I’m lying, we’re SO not fine—” By the time Stiles shoved Derek into the passenger seat, his hands were slick with blood he didn’t remember buckling in he didn’t remember breathing. All he remembered was flooring it toward the Beacon Hills Memorial ER Stiles didn’t remember the drive.
He barely remembered getting Derek out of the Jeep — flashes of asphalt, Derek slumping, Stiles practically carrying him through the automatic sliding doors. “Nurse!” Stiles yelled, voice hitting a pitch it had no business reaching. “please somebody— he’s— he’s bleeding, he’s not healing— he’s not— please!”
The moment the nurses saw him — saw the blood all over him — everything snapped into motion.“Get a gurney!” “Page trauma!” “Move, move, move!”
Stiles didn’t let go.
“He wasn’t healing,” Stiles gasped. “He should’ve been healing. He wasn’t— he wasn’t waking up—” A nurse put a hand on his shoulder. “Honey, we’ve got him now. Let us—”
“No! I can’t— I—” His voice cracked into something that hurt then—
“STILES?!”
Melissa McCall.
She was suddenly there, breathless, eyes wide with panic as she took in the sight of him covered in blood.
“Oh god— sweetheart— are you hurt?”
“No— not me— it’s Derek—” Stiles tried to point after the gurney being rushed down the hall. “He came to my house— he collapsed— he wasn’t healing— he said hunters— and then— he just— collapsed i--”
His breathing hitched into a sob.
“Oh, honey.” Melissa pulled him into her arms without hesitation. “You did everything right. You hear me? You saved him.”
She looked over her shoulder.
“Someone call Sheriff Stilinski!” she shouted.
A nurse sprinted Melissa guided Stiles to a chair, never letting go of him, one hand rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. “Sit. Breathe. Derek’s in good hands.”
But Stiles couldn’t look away from the trauma room doors that had swallowed Derek whole.
“What if he doesn’t—?” Stiles whispered. “Stiles,” Melissa said softly, “he’s strong. He’s a Hale. He’ll fight.”
“He wasn’t healing,” Stiles said again, voice smaller. “He should’ve been healing. What if the wound h-h-has something in i-it that could k-kill him.” Before Melissa could answer, the doors burst open again — but this time, it wasn’t a doctor.
It was Noah Stilinski.
He came rushing through the hallway, uniform still on, worry carved deep into his face. The second he saw Stiles, his expression broke.
“Stiles,” Noah breathed, voice cracking.
“Dad—”
Stiles collapsed into him.
Noah wrapped him up, one hand in his hair, the other pressed firm between his shoulder blades. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re okay.” “I didn’t know what else to do,” Stiles sobbed. “He wasn’t waking up. He crawled to the house— Dad, he crawled.”
Noah exchanged a glance with Melissa.
A grim, worried one before either could speak, the trauma doors slammed open again—
Doctors rushed in.
Nurses followed.
Equipment was wheeled at sprinting speed.
And then a furious voice erupted from down the hall: “What the HELL happened to my nephew?!” Peter Hale stormed toward them, eyes blazing.
Melissa immediately stepped in. “Peter— not now.” But Peter wasn’t listening. He was listening to the doctors, the frantic orders, the rising panic on the other side of that door.
Then—
preview for next chapter
A monitor inside Derek’s room began to scream Stiles went still frozen. single, shrill, endless tone. “His heart rate’s gone—he’s flatlining!” someone yelled.
Chaos erupted instantly. Nurses rushed forward. A crash cart slammed into Derek’s bed. Someone pushed Stiles back without looking, and he stumbled, breath shattering as he watched helplessly.
“NO—hey! Derek! Derek, look at me—LOOK AT ME!” His voice cracked, raw panic ripping up his throat. Gloved hands grabbed paddles.
“Charging!”
“Two hundred—clear!”
Derek’s body jolted.
The monitor didn’t change.
Stiles’ stomach dropped so fast he almost threw up. His knees buckled, and he folded toward the floor—but a strong pair of arms caught him from behind.