Chapter Text
Stiles had been pretending the problem was simply a series of isolated incidents for about three months now.
That was the easiest way to survive it.
The thumb thing was from texting too much. The ribs were because he slept twisted weird. The SI joint was from Jackson shoving him sideways into a locker hard enough to bruise his hip two weeks ago during an argument in the hallway because apparently being rich and emotionally constipated made physical contact seem like a communication style. Every individual problem had an explanation if you looked at it separately.
The issue was that they had started ganging up on him together.
He was under the Jeep in Scott’s driveway trying to loosen a bolt when his hand slipped for the third time.
Not because he was weak. That was the infuriating part. His grip just… stopped cooperating halfway through the motion, pain flashing through the base of his thumb sharply enough that the wrench clattered against the concrete and disappeared somewhere beneath the axle.
Stiles stared after it.
Then he let his head thunk once against the underside of the Jeep.
Above him Scott’s voice floated down. “You alive?”
“Debatable.”
Scott crouched near the front tire, upside down from Stiles’ perspective. “Want me to get it?”
“No.”
The answer came automatically, fast enough that Scott paused.
Stiles could already tell that pause meant Scott was noticing things again. Lately everybody was noticing things. The hesitation before he stood up. The way he used counters and tables and doorframes like they were decorative mobility aids. The fact that sometimes after sitting too long he moved like his body had to reboot before walking.
He hated it.
He scooted farther under the Jeep, reached for the wrench, and immediately regretted the angle when something deep near his left hip shifted wrong with that awful unstable sliding sensation that made every muscle around it tighten defensively.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, twisting to lay on his back again. He tested his hip and slowly turned this time, grabbing the wrench. He instantly regretted that as well when he dropped it again, hissing.
He grabbed his thumb with his other hand and yanked. Scott winced at the sick pop it made sliding back into place.
“Jesus, Stiles.”
“What?” Stiles grabbed the wrench again before his hand could decide to betray him a second time. “It’s fine.”
“When did your thumb start doing that?”
“They all do that. It’s normal.”
Scott was quiet for a second. “No, it’s not.”
“For me it is.” Stiles shoved the wrench back onto the bolt trying to hold back that violent, angry monster building in his chest.
“Stiles.”
“What?” he snapped, harsher this time when the wrench slipped again. “It’s not like this is new.”
Scott shifted closer to the tire. “You never said it was that bad.”
“Because it’s not.”
“You just popped your thumb back in like opening a soda can.”
“Yeah, and?” Stiles came back immediately, his voice rising in irritation.
Scott stared at him for a second. “And that’s not normal.”
Something hot and ugly flared immediately in Stiles' chest.
“You’ve known me since we were four, Scott. If you thought I was normal, you are really stupid.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Scott deflected.
“No, I know exactly what you meant.”
Scott opened his mouth, hesitated, then tried again. “I mean that your hand shouldn’t be doing that.”
“Well my genetics missed that memo!” Stiles yelled as he shoved himself farther under the Jeep again, shoulder clipping metal hard enough to jar his ribs. Pain flashed sharp across his side.
“Ow, Jesus Christ,” he grumbled.
“Stiles.”
“What?”
“You’re hurting yourself.”
“Yeah, I gathered that from the pain, thank you.”
Scott’s patience started fraying a little around the edges now too. “Can you stop biting my head off for like thirty seconds?”
“Can you stop looking at me like I’m about to fall apart?”
The words came out fast and too angry.
Stiles immediately regretted it, which unfortunately did not stop him from doubling down.
“I’m serious, Scott. Everybody keeps doing this lately. The careful voice, the hovering, the ‘you should sit down’ crap. It’s annoying.”
“Nobody’s acting like that.”
Stiles barked out a laugh. “You literally tried to take the wrench out of my hand.”
“Because your hand was shaking.”
“Because it hurts,” Stiles shot back. “That doesn’t mean I suddenly need adult supervision.”
The words hung there ugly and sharp the second they left his mouth.
Scott leaned back slightly like he’d actually been hit.
Which, naturally, made Stiles feel even worse.
But he was too wound up now to stop.
“I’m serious, Scott, I am so tired of everybody walking around on eggshells around me lately.”
“I was trying to help.”
“I don't want it.”
“Okay, wow.”
Stiles twisted the wrench hard enough that pain shot straight up through his wrist again. His hip immediately complained from the angle under the Jeep and his ribs felt wrong from where he’d hit them against the frame.
Fantastic. Full team participation.
“You know what the worst part is?” he muttered. “It’s not even big stuff. It’s dumb crap. Sleeping weird. Opening jars. Jackson shoving me into a locker like an asshole and suddenly my SI joint’s screwed for two weeks. I’m getting taken out by activities of daily living.”
Scott was quiet for a second.
Then, carefully: “Okay, legally we both need adult supervision.”
Stiles tried to stop the snort. “Shut up.”
It was quiet while Stiles lay under the Jeep thinking. He sighed, “If you want to help go get me some water and an electrolyte packet.”
Scott smiled and gave a salute Stiles couldn’t see, but could hear in his voice. “Be right back.”
Scott disappeared into the house.
Stiles let the wrench fall against his chest and closed his eyes for a second.
By the time he finally rolled himself back out from under the Jeep, his ribs hurt from twisting, his hip hurt from compensating, and both hands had started aching in that deep hot way that meant they were done for the day whether he agreed with it or not.
Scott handed him the water already shaken up with the electrolyte packet but still watched him with that concerned furrow in his brow.
Which was somehow worse.
Scott absolutely told his mom.
Stiles realized this because Melissa started watching him like she was reviewing security footage. At first he thought he was imagining it, but then she watched him stand up from the couch one night and immediately zeroed in on the way he paused after standing, shifted off his left side, then started walking like none of that had happened.
“Your hip still bothering you?”
Stiles stopped halfway to the kitchen. “I’m sorry, what.”
Scott looked up from the table with the expression of someone who had suddenly remembered another place he could be.
“Scott.” Stiles said calmly, too calmly.
“I might have, accidentally, mentioned the thumb thing.” Scott had the decency to look apologetic.
“You are incredibly weak under questioning.”
“I said it was an accident!” Scott defended himself.
“Which on Google Maps is still a car crash, Scott.”
Scott had the decency to look a little guilty about it, though not guilty enough to stop sitting there while Melissa continued openly evaluating Stiles’ skeleton like she was trying to solve a crime.
“Left side?” she asked.
“You can’t just say that with confidence and expect me not to feel profiled. This feels very hostile and illegal.”
“Am I wrong?”
Which was annoying because she wasn’t. Stiles had shifted off it immediately after standing up, same as always lately, except apparently not as subtly as he’d thought.
Scott snorted into his drink while Stiles narrowed his eyes at both of them. “This entire house has become hostile.”
Melissa ignored that too. “And your ribs?”
“What about them?”
Melissa circled around him a little before frowning. “Your shoulders are lopsided.”
“Wow Mrs. McCall I feel very attacked—”
“And you look like you’re trying to hold them in, right now.” She added.
Stiles dropped the hand away from his side automatically before he even realized he’d been doing it again. That, unfortunately, did not help his argument.
“Okay,” he said after a second. “In my defense, you notice things professionally, which feels unfair.”
“Does sitting make it feel better or worse?”
Stiles thought about that for a moment before he replied, “Both?”
“Standing?”
He thought about that too for a moment before he replied more resigned, “Also both?”
Melissa nodded absently and went back to stirring something on the stove while Stiles leaned against the counter beside the fridge, mostly because standing still had started feeling weirdly expensive lately.
“You’re treating pain like it’s the measurement,” she said after a moment.
That pulled his attention back immediately. “What does that even mean?”
“People compensate for fatigue before they realize they’re doing it. Leaning more. Sitting differently. Avoiding certain movements because they’re irritating not painful—yet.”
Melissa pointed at him with the spoon.
“That.”
He looked down automatically at the way he was half resting against the counter.
Stiles straightened immediately out of spite alone.
His SI joint hated that almost instantly.
Scott laughed into his drink while Stiles glared at both of them like this was somehow a coordinated attack.