Work Text:
He'd never told Scott, but after his mom had died, Stiles developed a minor phobia about going into hospitals. Whenever he had to stand before those sliding glass doors, he remembered the smell of the antiseptic and the sweetness of his mom's breath. That over-sweet smell that only served to remind him that she was sick. The steady but low beeping of the machines monitoring her, as if he couldn't see for himself that she was fading. The soft squishing noises the nurses shoes made on the floor as they padded along, a harsh comparison to the steady clicks of the doctor's shoes on the linoleum.
He remembered big words and fake sympathy. He remembered his dad crying with his bedroom door closed, not knowing his son could hear him in his own room. He remembered the way his mom would look at him, not with fear in her eyes that she was dying, but this sadness because she'd be leaving him. Them. 'Her boys', she called them, her hand brittle and too soft, making him scared to hold it, but he was more scared to let go whenever he did. Scared that if he wasn't touching her, if he wasn't keeping her here, she'd evaporate and float away.
Stiles remembered having to get her cups with ice chips in it because, for some reason that nobody ever bothered to tell him, she couldn't just have water. The pastel blue of the wool blanket that laid over the stiff sheets in the hospital bed was a color he never wanted to see again. She couldn't eat even the weak hospital food, having to try to force down energy shakes. Some days she couldn't even manage to keep those down and Stiles would hold the bedpan for her while she curled over the side of the bed, heaving into it, retches interspersed with apologies. He'd just tell her she had nothing to apologize for as he smoothed his hand over her back, waiting for her to be finished so he could wipe her mouth, get rid of what she'd brought up before bringing her a cup of ice chips to wash the taste out of her mouth.
He'd never told Scott because he got the same flashes whenever he saw his best friend's mom. Mrs. McCall had always been hovering around his mom, straightening her pillow, wiping her forehead, and giving Stiles these painfully sympathetic looks that made him hate her, just a little. It made him hate Scott just a little, too. It never lasted long, just enough for a dark look or a gritting of his teeth, but for a moment, he wanted to rage against the both of them. Tell them how unfair it was that they were happy and together and she was lying there like a skeletal caricature of the amazingly beautiful and vibrant woman she used to be.
But how was he supposed to say that to his best friend? The guy who was in the hospital almost as much as Stiles was, bringing both him and his dad food because they'd both forgotten about something so trivial as daily meals. The guy who took a swing for the first time in his life at some creep at school who'd made some off-color comment about Stiles' mom being in the hospital. The guy who had cried as they'd lowered the coffin with the shell of his mom's body into the ground. The guy that didn't say anything when Stiles crawled in his window the night after her funeral and just lay on the end of his bed bawling. He couldn't, and really, he didn't want to. It wasn't Scott's fault he still had his mom.
Mrs. McCall might get exasperated with him and frustrated, but he had a feeling that she allowed him and Scott a lot more leeway than they deserved because she felt bad for him. He'd remembered her hugging him in the hospital room when his mom had finally slipped away, arms wound tight around him as she tucked him against her and did her best to try to keep him from falling into the gaping chasm of grief he was looming over. The thing he remembered most about that moment was how she'd smelled; clean and with a hint of lavender. His memory of that day was a jumbled mess of pain, grief, confusion, rage, and that smell. He hadn't pulled away when she'd hugged him, just stood there with his arms limp at his sides and quiet tears rolling down his face, Scott's hand on his shoulder as his mom tried to comfort him as best as she could.
It hadn't been the magic solution to his problems. It hadn't made the nightmare that was now his life go away, but it had helped. It had reminded him that he wasn't alone. His dad had come over to put arms around them both, the four of them in this tiny huddle of grief, and he remembered thinking it was like they were two plates that had been broken in half, one half of each totally shattered while the two remaining halves were pressed together to attempt to make a whole plate again. They'd never fit completely right, but they'd be the other half when needed.
When Lydia had been hurt, that fear was still there. The fear that he'd leave the hospital to go to another funeral had hung in the back of his mind the entire time he'd camped outside her room. The smells had brought back the memories and he could swear there were times he'd heard the steady beeping of his mom's monitors. It didn't help that Mrs. McCall kept sweeping past him, trailing her light scent of lavender behind her. There were some times while he was waiting that he had to quickly bring a hand up to brush away gathering tears when the memories got too strong, then he'd berate himself quietly. She's not mom. She's not dying. She's not. Maybe if he said it enough times, it would come true.
After that, the phobia was still there, but it didn't have the same stranglehold on him that it had before. He could walk in the sliding glass doors without feeling a lump in his throat. He took a moment to thank whatever cosmic force had given Scott his werewolfy abilities. Yeah, it could be a pain in the ass and Scott could be kind of a jerk about listening to him when he was trying to help, but he was that much harder to hurt. He'd never have to stand over Scott's bed and watch him wither away into nothing. That was one more person he cared about that he felt was taken care of. If only it were that easy for everyone. One little bite and his dad, Mrs. McCall, and Lydia could be safe. But that wasn't the case. Lydia had been mauled and hadn't gotten that kind of protection. Finding out it was a fifty-fifty chance just made Stiles that much more adamant to protect his loved ones from it. Scott had been lucky. He wasn't willing to take that chance with anyone else.
Speaking of Scott, Stiles was currently doing him a favor. He had to work late with Deacon and he'd promised to bring dinner by for his mom. Stiles had said he'd do it, even though it meant going into the building he hated most in this town. The hiss of the sliding doors opening had his palms going clammy, but he affected his usual smile as he strolled down the halls to find the nurse's station. He'd almost reached it when he heard, "Code Blue. Code Blue. Room 114."
His stomach dropped out from under him, twisting and snarling as his own dinner eaten an hour before threatened to come back up. 114. His mom's old room. He saw the nurses behind the desk get up and move quickly and efficiently like busy little worker bees, one orderly rolling a defibrillator cart down the hall towards the hub of the activity. He stood there in the hall, a bag of forgotten food clenched in his hand, face gone pale as he had flashes of that day. He didn't notice the tear slipping down his face until a passing nurse asked him if he was okay. He nodded, wiping it away and coughing to clear his throat. Pull yourself together, Stilinski. That was then, this is now. Grow up. Be a freakin' man.
He'd almost managed to erase that episode by the time Mrs. McCall came back to the station, a sad look on her face that let him know that it hadn't been enough. Again. He made a mental note to make sure never to wind up in room 114, a room that was clearly cursed. She looked over at him, a confused frown on her face as she tried to figure out what he was doing there. "Hey, Mrs. M. Scott's stuck working late, so I told him I'd drop your dinner off."
He lifted the bag and waggled it, as though he needed proof that he wasn't here for some dubious ulterior motive. She looked at the bag, a weary smile appearing as she nodded. "Thanks, Stiles." When he came over to set it on the desk, she looked him over more closely. He was still a little pale, the smile he wore looking pinched and forced. She remembered what room she'd just come back from and felt a pang of sympathy wash over her. The poor boy. "You getting enough rest, Stiles? You look... tired."
"Me? Rest? Of course I am. You know, when I'm not a defacto delivery boy." He smiled to show he didn't mind, hoping this encounter would be over soon so he could leave. He subtly tried to wipe the palms of his hands off on his pants, feeling that clammy sensation tingle over them.
Melissa came out from behind the desk, a hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. "Maybe you should think about getting a little more. Or maybe talking to someone if you're feeling a little overwhelmed."
The lavender scent wafted over to him from her and he felt his eyes prick with unshed tears. He hated when she was nice to him because it made him just want to curl up and let her hold him. It made him want to pretend, even if only for a moment, that he had her back. He shoved his hands in his pockets, laughing a little and beginning to back away, away from that smell he wanted to bury his face in and cling to. "Nah, I'm good, Mrs. M. I just need to start finishing my homework before midnight."
It was a lie and they both knew it, but she let him hide behind it. "Maybe if you and Scott stopped running around god knows where..." There was a look behind those words; she knew what her son was and what that sometimes meant.
"I keep my eye on him, Mrs. M."
"I know, Stiles. Just... make sure someone's keeping an eye on you too." She gave him a sad smile before turning back to her work, heading back behind the station and grabbing her dinner.
Stiles took that as his cue to leave, keeping his steps measured and precise until he was finally past those suffocating doors. He wished for the millionth time that things were different, that his mom wasn't gone. And for the millionth time, he felt the disappointment and grief that it wasn't. Head down and thoughts a million miles away, he headed for his jeep and the comfort of his home. Scott's mom was right, he needed some rest. Running around after his best friend when he's getting himself into problem after problem was wearing on him. He needed the night to himself; no werewolves, no friends, no Jackson-lizards trying to eat everyone's faces off. Just him and his thoughts. Easier said than done, right? Right. No sooner had he gotten behind the wheel then his phone rang. Caller ID told him it was Scott. "What's up?"
"We need you to do some research tonight."
"What, no sucking up first? No praising my Google-fu?" He felt the tiredness wash over him, realizing he'd be in for another late night.
"You're my Yoda. Yoda doesn't need flattery."
"That's crap and you know it. Yoda would totally dig being told he was a hot little green dude."
"Okay, you're a hot little green dude. Now can you look some things up for us?"
He started up the jeep, putting it in reverse to pull out of the parking lot before switching back into first. "Yeah, but you'll have to wait till I'm home. I just finished chauffeuring your mom's meal, remember?"
"Yeah, thanks. Really, Stiles. Thank you."
"Yeah, yeah. You can thank me after I get whatever it is you want. I'll call you when I get home."
"Great. Bye."
Stiles sighed as he looked both ways before pulling out of the lot and steering out onto the road. No rest for the wicked, right? Maybe he should work on being a goody two-shoes if it meant he could get a little R&R. He stuffed all the things he'd been mulling over back into that locked box in the back of his head, closing the lid and trying to forget it was there so he could get on with his life. He'd forget the box, but he'd never forget her. Ever. But those were thoughts for when he got time to himself, not when he was being relied upon to keep the people he had left safe. And damned if he'd let a few tears and some emo-teen bullshit keep him from doing that. Grow up. Deal with it later. You have responsibilities. It was a mantra he said to himself over and over again. It was how he made himself get up in the morning and put his clothes on, eat his breakfast, and walk out the door. He'd had to say it a thousand times to himself that first month, otherwise he would have just laid like a lump under his blankets and let everything pass him by. If his dad could pull himself together, so could Stiles.
So he did, packing everything he couldn't deal with away and focusing on what needed to be done. What had to be done so he and those he cared about could keep going. That box was still there in the back of his mind, though. Still filled with memories and grief and pain and even some happiness. It would be something he'd never lose, no matter how bad things got. It might occasionally get more added to it, but that's what it was there for, right? That's why it had a lock. A lock that seemed to be remotely activated every time he passed those sliding glass doors. When he got some time, maybe he'd have to work on fixing that. He couldn't be scared of the place forever. It wasn't healthy. Right? The question went unanswered as he drove, heading towards his house and the distraction of research and werewolves.