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They had done it. Stiles wasn’t sure how, but they’d stopped the Darach—and saved their parents. He grinned as he saw Scott and Derek walking up and stepped forward to hug his best friend. He’d already hugged Melissa and his dad several times, but he didn’t care.
Stiles felt the shift before he even realized it. The world tilted as the buzz he'd been feeling from the adrenaline began to fade. In that instant his brain caught something impossible: Scott’s eyes. Red. Bright. Alpha.
“Huh… tha’s… new,” he said. Stiles didn’t even know why.
Then his legs betrayed him, folding like wet noodles beneath him.
Scott caught him mid-collapse, startled by just how limp he was. He grit his teeth, trying not to let his best friend brain himself on the rocky ground. His voice bounced off the trees, sharp with panic.
“Mom!”
Stiles sagged against him. Words spilled out, unbidden, weirdly disconnected from anything he was thinking.
“Whoa… m'legs… went rubbery. Tha’s rude,” he mumbled.
God, please don’t let him admit to the gay porn thing. One time.
…Okay, twice.
He’d have to revisit the numbers later.
Cora saw the exact moment he started going down as chaos erupted around them. Cora moved before she even thought. Her leg’s folded under her helping to support his head as it settled into her lap.
The noise was deafening, and Stiles winced, making loud shushing noises.
Melissa arrived moments after Scott’s cry. She skidded to a stop, the Sheriff so close behind, he almost ran into her. Melissa crouched, eyes darting over the boy. Noah moved to the other side and followed suit, Scott stepping back to give him room.
Stiles.
Stiles.
Stiles.
“Tha’s m’name, don’ wear it out,” Stiles chuckled as everyone started shouting his name.
Melissa glanced over at the Sheriff and knew she needed to distract him. So she lifted a hand and pressed it to his shoulder, getting the man’s attention.
“Call 911. Tell them where we are. Keep them on the phone so you can help me relay information.”
Noah nodded and stood, getting his phone from his pocket. He paced as he dialed, like standing still was wrong.
Melissa turned back to Stiles, “Stiles? What happened?”
Stiles’ hand waved loosely in the air as he spoke before it fell back to the ground.
“I w’z driving. Then… I w’zn’t.”
Melissa and Cora glanced at each other to see if either one of them could translate. They were both disappointed at what met them in each other’s features.
Stiles shifted. “I… gotta go. I left… m’jeep.”
“Left?” Melissa asked, grabbing onto what she could. It didn’t look like anything was wrong, at least on the surface and that scared her the most. “Where did you leave it?”
Stiles winced as he threw his head in the direction he had originally arrived in. “Tha’way. Ow.”
There was silence as Melissa and now Chris, who had joined her where Noah had vacated, glanced in the direction Stiles had pointed. There was nothing but thick trees.
“So where’s the jeep?” Chris asked.
“Still got ‘ere though,” Stiles mumbled.
“He’s slurring, probably a concussion,” Melissa murmured more to herself than anyone else. She quickly turned her questioning back to the boy in front of her. The boy she’d known most of his life.
“Stiles. Stiles. Stiles, look at me,” she started.
Stiles blinked his eyes several times before focusing on Melissa’s face.
“You got dirt. Riiiigh’ ‘ere.” Then he reached out and brushed the end of her nose, “Boop.”
Melissa sighed, “Stiles, focus! Did you crash the jeep?”
Stiles tried to shake his head but his neck protested it too much.
“No. A tree jumped out an’ bit it.”
Melissa and Chris shared a confused look.
“Very ‘gressive f’res—fures—f’restry ‘round ‘ere.”
Cora sighed and gave a pointed look at Melissa translating in case she needed it. “He crashed it.”
Melissa felt relieved. That gave her a direction to go in. Now she just had to check for injuries. She was positive he had a concussion and relayed that to Noah to tell the operator so they could relay it to the paramedics. Next she turned to his neck and chest.
“What hurts Stiles?” she asked as she pressed lightly on his chest moving down.
“I run wif wolves, ev’ryth’ng alw’ys,” Stiles started before he was cut off mid sentence with a noise that was pain wrapped in pain.
Melissa froze from where she had been proding along his torso.
Chris was already moving pulling his multi-tool from his pocket to start cutting Stiles shirt from him.
“’ey! Tha’z m’fav’rite sh’rt!” Stiles complained.
Chris worked quickly, slicing the fabric carefully around Stiles’ chest. The knife wasn’t the best way to go about this, but it did the job in a pinch.
Stiles winced as the fabric tugged against the knife.
“Ow,” Stiles gasped. He was just floating before, between that moment when adrenaline kept the pain at bay and when it drained out and the pain came hurdling back in, sharp and immediate. Stiles eyes blinked his body started reporting like it was making up for lost time.
“’Kay, i’z startin’ t’urt now,” Stiles whined blinking tears now.
Cora turned his head so he could focus on something.
“Wimp,” she teased.
“Meanie,” Stiles gasped wetly, then regretted it instantly, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Ow.”
One tear fell, tracking down the side of his face before another matched it on the opposite side.
Th’z isn’ fun no'more.”
Things were sliding from bad to worse and quickly as his shirt was pulled away and Melissa could see the bruising starting to bloom around his ribs. It was turning purple too fast, which suggested possible internal bleeding. Nothing too serious, the most probably cause being a broken rib nicking the lung.
“Noah? Tell them suspected internal bleeding and possible pneumothorax,” Melissa hollered.
Noah yelled back, “Neuman—what?”
“Pneu-mo-thorax,” Chris supplied at the same time Melissa did.
“Yeah, that,” Noah said into the phone, voice tightening. “Possible… pneumo… thorax.”
Melissa was already turned back to Stiles.
Most of reddish purple coloring was concentrated to one side. That was the side with the internal bleeding, but from where, Melissa wasn’t sure. She had suspicions but that didn’t diagnose. So she went with her gut instinct from earlier. Her hands hovered without touching at first but she had to see how bad the bleeding was. So she pressed lightly against the dark reddish blob. She didn’t miss the wet sound in Stiles’ gasp before he cried out and that worried her. So did the way it moved under her fingers.
“Sorry, sorry, I know it hurts,” Melissa apologized as she watched the skin blanched under her fingers and flushed dark again when she lifted them.
“Stiles, I need you to take a deep breath for me, can you do that?” She directed him.
“Wha'?”
“I need you to take a deep breath,” Melissa repeated, as Stiles mind slowly processing her request before he gave what he thought was a nod. He inhaled, letting the air fill his lungs until he couldn’t anymore. He hit a point where his chest was too tight and it made his sides sting and protest.
“M’chest feels tight,” he said as he exhaled.
“Where is it tight, Stiles?” Melissa asked.
Stiles was quiet a moment, like he didn’t quite understand so she clarified, “Is it tight when you inhale or exhale?”
The wet sound in his breath was increasing and it was clear the discomfort was making him begin to panic. “Both?”
Cora glanced up. “I can take the pain.”
“No!” Melissa’s replied shocked even her with the intensity and quickness it came out with. She winced as she saw the way it jarred Stiles and Cora. The difficulty breathing was already making Stiles panic, and giving him something like this to latch onto would just spin him out.
So far, Cora had kept him talking, and calmer, which surprised everyone if they were being honest. But she was a born wolf in a family that also had humans. She knew how to temper her strength and distract.
Melissa softened her tone as she shook her head. “I mean, no. Pain is our warning system right now. If we lose it, we could miss something important.”
Cora nodded in understanding as she turned back to Stiles to keep him talking.
Chris glanced at Melissa but his voice dropped low, “What are you thinking.”
Melissa matched his volume. “Broken rib, nicked his lung. Not much, but would explain the blood pooling and why he’s just now having trouble breathing. Nicking it with a small puncture makes it take longer, right now the body is doing double duty to keep it from collapsing.”
Chris glanced at Noah and then back to Melissa and nodded. “I’ll go tell him.”
Melissa started to argue that she should be the one to go tell Noah, she was a nurse! But Chris raised a hand, “Paramedics can’t reach this far in. Someone needs to explain this to Derek and Scott. One of them is going to have to carry him out. Derek is probably the one that can do it with the most ease. If I ask…”
Melissa nodded instantly understanding. “Right. Big bad hunter can’t ask a werewolf a favor.”
Chris shook his head fondly as he stood to go talk to the Sheriff.
Stiles tried to follow Chris’ retreating form but Cora held his head, giving him something to focus on again. “Eyes forward.”
Stiles scowled with confusion and Cora sighed as she explained. “I don’t want you to puke.”
“Not… gonna…”
“Good. I like these shoes.” Cora answered.
Stiles’ scowl disappeared, “Wow. Y’r mean’r than y’r broth’r.”
Cora rolled her eyes, “I’m the reason he’s mean to begin with.”
“That...tha'tracks.” Stiles winced as he nodded, noticing Melissa was back in his periphery but she wasn’t on the ground this time.
“It hurts,” he told her.
“I know, sweetheart. Help is coming,” Melissa told him. She turned to Cora, placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Keep him talking.”
Cora barely dipped her head once in silent acknowledgment as she turned back to Stiles. His eyes were drooping. “Hey, don’t close your eyes.”
Stiles whined, “Tired.”
“Yeah well you look stupid sleeping,” Cora replied back.
Stiles eyes snapped open wide. “Rude.”
Cora shrugged, “You drool, Stilinski. It’s gross.”
Meanwhile, Melissa had walked over toward where Derek and Scott stood.
“What’s wrong?” Scott asked, his voice sounding younger than he meant it to. She gave him her warmest smile.
“He crashed the jeep and ran on adrenaline longer than his body wanted. The injuries are collecting their due.”
Scott nodded muttering something about a ritual, but Melissa didn't pry. Not yet.
Scott had heard most of what he was being told through the Sheriff’s phone. “And paramedics can’t get here.”
Melissa shook her head. “We have to bring Stiles to them. But we have to be careful. No brute force. No jostling around.”
“I can do it,” Scott said immediately, already stepping forward.
Derek had been leaning against the stump of the Nemeton as he listened. He stood, cleaning his hands on his jeans. “No.”
Scott frowned. “Derek—”
“I said no.” Derek’s tone wasn’t sharp, just finished. He looked Scott over the way he used to assess damage after a fight. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Derek gestured vaguely at Scott’s chest. “Your heart rate’s still spiking. You haven’t come down.”
Scott opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. He swallowed. “I can do it.”
He hated how petulant he sounded.
Allison’s hand closed around his arm, grounding him instantly. Her voice shook, just a little. “Scott, you’ve been running on adrenaline since the ritual. We all have, and when it drops… it’s going to drop hard. If it happens while you’re holding him—”
Scott went very still.
“He falls,” Derek said quietly.
“That’s not going to happen. I won’t—” Scott stopped himself. His hands curled into fists. “I won’t let him fall.”
“I know,” Derek said. Then softly, he added, “But that’s not the same thing as being able to stop it.”
Scott looked past them, toward where Stiles lay on the ground, pale and hurting and still somehow cracking jokes.
Derek’s hand settled on his shoulder, the touch careful in a way Scott hadn’t expected. “He’s heavier than he looks.”
“Yeah. Okay,” Scott said as a frown pinched his forehead.
Melissa turned fully to Derek. “You understand what you’re dealing with?”
“Concussion. Cracked ribs. Possible punctured lung,” Derek replied without hesitation. “Minimal jostling. Even pressure.”
She studied him for a beat, surprise slipping through despite herself. Then she nodded. “Good. That’s… Yeah, that’s exactly right.”
Scott let out a sharp breath. “I hate this.”
“So do I,” Derek said. Then, quieter, “That’s why I’m doing it.”
Scott stepped back at last, hands flexing uselessly. “Just… be careful.”
Derek knelt down, and Cora shifted carefully to get ready for the hand-off. Stiles, still half-lucid, murmured incoherent jokes.
“Big… scary… sourwolf,” he slurred, eyes half-closed, trying to match Derek’s grim expression.
Derek slid his arms under him—one under his knees, the other ready for his back once Cora shifted.
Stiles eyed Derek with utter confusion. “Uh, wait… when… ow… you… hug?”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek muttered.
Then Cora and Derek shifted together and pain began to tug more insistently at his ribs.
“Hey… caref’l… ow… car’f’l wi’the merch’ndise,” Stiles warned, voice loose and teasing even as sharp pain twisted through his ribs, flaring into a searing burn.
Derek adjusted his hold, lifting him in one precise motion. Even with the gentleness that belied Derek’s frame, the shift flared every bruise.
“Holy—fuck—ow—” Stiles’ voice cracked, halfway between a shout and a gasp. His eyes snapped open, wide and unblinking. The haze of half-lucid jokes evaporated, replaced by sharp, raw awareness. Every bump and adjustment reminded him: he was fragile, entirely in someone elses hands.
Summoned by the different kinds of pain, sharp, burning, stabbing, slicing… tears began to slowly spill down his face. Stiles clenched his jaw tight as it washed over him in waves.
“Scott…” he gasped, trying to track motion through the subtle swaying. “Don’t…ow, ow, ow, don’t…”
Scott moved closer. “I’m right here, buddy,” he said softly. “We’ve got you.”
Stiles’ head lolled slightly as he shifted with the sway of Derek carrying him in an oddly gentle way, out of the preserve, each careful step tugging at ribs that felt like they’d been run through a blender. “Scott… don’t… let… the… rocks… bite me,” he muttered again, voice ragged, like narrating some nature special he hadn’t signed up for.
Noah walked backward ahead of Derek for a few steps before being forced to turn around or end up in an ambulance himself.
A wet leaf brushed his shoulder. “Ugh… tha'tree… just peed on me,” he muttered, eyes squinting as the pain flared anew.
“Am I gon’a die?” he croaked, head wobbling.
“You’ll live,” Derek grunted, his voice steady, warm against the panic threading Stiles’ tone.
“This feels mor'like death‑adjacent,” Stiles protested, breath hitching, rising and falling with each painful inhale.
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek muttered fondly, tightening his careful hold.
Stiles let out a shaky breath, wincing. “I’m… trying. Every… every… ow… every step… fuck. I feel sick.”
He swallowed hard. “If… if I puke… ugh. I’m s’rry, ’kay? I’m r’lly… r’lly s’rry.”
“Stiles,” Derek grunted, his lips pressed into a tight line, “don’t.”
“Oh God,” Stiles choked a groan, “death would be less rude.”
“If you would shut up, you’d stop feeling sick,” Derek growled out.
“I’m… tryin’… ow… why are you… bullying me? I’m… I’m r’lly tryin’… God, pl’se don’t drop me if I puke,” Stiles rambled.
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek grunted as he had to twist to maneuver through a close cusp of trees.
The small twist was enough to make Stiles go silent immediately, pain locking his tongue. For a beat, he was still. He swore an hour had passed. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding—the shift into Derek’s arms had made breathing a deliberate, painful act.
“Is… this wha' quiet sounds like?”
Derek sighed, “No. You have to shut up long enough to find that out.”
“I did,” Stiles gasped. He was finding it harder and harder to breathe. “Tha'was like 'n hour!”
Derek tried not to laugh, though a corner of his mouth twitched. “You made it two minutes.”
“Liar,” Stiles wheezed wetly.
Derek nodded his head. “You’re right. I’m being generous.”
Stiles tried to roll his eyes and immediately regretted it.
The motion made the world tilt sideways. His stomach lurched.
He pulled in another breath and it stuttered, like something inside him had folded wrong.
Derek feels the change before Stiles names it.
The rhythm of his breathing shifts. What had been painful but steady turns uneven. The inhale catches halfway and doesn’t quite complete. Derek tightens his hold, instinctively bracing Stiles higher against his chest to limit movement.
The trees thinned ahead of them. Red and blue light flickered through the trunks. Movement. Shapes. The low murmur of voices that weren’t theirs.
Derek didn’t speed up. He tightened his hold instead, bracing Stiles more securely against him to limit the sway.
Stiles’ fingers hooked weakly into Derek’s shirt.
“Scott,” he tried again, softer this time. It cost him.
“Almost there,” Scott said, too soft for anyone but Stiles to hear.
They broke into the clearing.
Paramedics were already moving toward them, stretcher rolling unevenly over dirt and roots. Gloves snapping on. Calm, fast, controlled.
One assessed Derek in a glance, then the way he was holding Stiles.
“On my count,” someone said.
Derek knelt so they wouldn’t have to take him from height. They transferred him in one coordinated shift.
It still hurt. Stiles made a betrayed sound about it.
Cold hands. Penlight. Questions he half answered and half ignored.
“Can you take a deep breath for me?”
Stiles opened his mouth to comply and got distracted by his own thought.
“Scott, if I die, d’lete m’browser—”
The oxygen mask dropped over his face mid-sentence.
An IV slid into his hand.
Stiles scowled through the plastic.
“Rude.”