Chapter Text
Stiles sways in place and stares at his hand. There's a nasty cut running across the length of his palm that has thick blood leaking out of it. He sighs, and wanders over to his bathroom. Gosh, what a night it’d been.
They had fought faeries. Faeries. Stiles had always thought that they were supposed to be nice little things that lived in flowers and tamed wild squirrels, and left dew where they walked. But no, as it turns out, they seem to kill every bit of foliage they walk on, they eat squirrels (and any other poor helpless creature they get their hands on), and they are actually people sized. And have sharp teeth. And claws.
And are mean. And violent.
...And scary.
And one of them had gotten hold of Stiles at one point and tried to rip his throat out. With their teeth, no less.
Luckily Scott had taken care of that faery before much damage was done. Well, okay, it bit Stiles’s hand open and had wound up slashing his stomach with its claws, but it wasn't something Stiles couldn't handle on his own. Which is why he didn't say anything when Derek asked if anyone got hurt. He didn't want to put anymore burden on them.
Those darn werewolves always have too much on their minds, anyway. Stiles can't imagine how stressful everything must be for them. They're always having to worry about their school and jobs and families, and how to act like a normal teenager even though once a month they suddenly shed their clothes and opt for fur. And each one of them is fighting their own demons all the while. Besides... even if he ever did mention any of his problems to them, they'd probably blow him off. Like always. He can't even bring himself to really care anymore.
But he does care about how uncomfortable all this blood is starting to get. The gash on his stomach is sticking to his shirt, and it just feels so... awful. He stumbles over to his shower, turns it on, and steps inside. Even though his clothes and shoes are still on.
He watches blood and grime flow to the drain, and lowers his head to let the water run down his neck and back. The warmth of the shower eases some of the pain in his joints and he rolls his shoulders tiredly.
He sits down and lets all the water flow lazily down his cheeks. He leans against the back of the tub and looks down at his hand. The blood is still flowing freely. He clenches it into a fist, and watches in fascination as the blood begins to trickle through his knuckles, down his arm, and towards the drain.
Stiles stares at his stomach and is momentarily grateful his black shirt hid the bloodstains. He would have been found out immediately if he'd been wearing one of his lighter colored shirts. Actually, he's kind of surprised that he didn't get found out for the smell alone. Surely his wolves would have been able to smell the blood. His own blood, to be specific. It’s not like they’d never smelled it before, right? They probably didn't single him out because of all of the dead, bleeding faeries that had been surrounding them, though. Must have messed with their olfactory senses or something. It's a good thing he escaped to his jeep before they figured him out, then.
Stiles rests his head against the side of the tub, and watches the continuous stream of blood and mud flow from his body. He's about to close his eyes, the warm water(and probably the blood loss) lulling him to sleep, when-
"Stiles."
Stiles can't help that he screams in an unmanly fashion. He also can't help that he flails reflexively and rams his funny bone into the side of the tub.
"HOLY SHI- Oh my God!" He begins to to stamp at the end of the tub in pain and clutches at his elbow frantically. "Seriously?!" he screams.
Stiles turns to the motionless figure in the corner, prepared to berate him, when his dad bursts through the door. "Stiles, are you-!"
Stiles's sneakers squeak embarrassingly as he scrambles onto his feet to face his father.
There's an awkward, uncomfortably quiet moment of Mr. Stilinski staring at his son, who is standing in the shower with his clothes and shoes still on. Stilinski nods slowly, before asking, "Stiles, why... are you showering fully clothed?"
Stiles stares at him, open-mouthed, before looking down at himself. He looks back up, grins, and throws his hands up. "Uh- my clothes were dirty! And I was too, so I figured I'd just, y'know, kill two birds with one stone. Yeah, just, clean myself in the shower, and then my clothes... at the same time..." He nods at his own explanation, eyeing Derek in the corner behind the door, and prepares for his dad's response.
"Okay, right. Well," his dad sighs, "just be sure to take a real shower before you head to bed. I have to go take another shift, so I probably won't be seeing you for the rest of the night."
Stiles nods at him. "That's fine, dad. I'll see you later."
Sheriff Stilinski smiles at him, and leaves.
Stiles waits for the front door downstairs to shut, before turning to Derek. "How did you get in here?! There're no windows!"
Derek raises an eyebrow at him. "Through your bedroom door."
"You actually used a door?" Stiles says, incredulous. "That's a miracle! It's a miracle! Praise the Lord, sing hallelujah, we gotta alert the press-!"
"Stiles," Derek growls. "Shut up."
Stiles stares at him, then sighs. "Fine." He sits back down, and watches Derek through the still streaming water. "So why are you here? Do you get your kicks out of watching a vulnerable boy take a shower? That's disgusting, man, you're disgusting!"
"You're wearing clothes," Derek points out, sighing.
"Yeah, this time, but how many times do you watch me without them?!" Stiles yelps.
Derek just barks at him. Loudly. Like a dog.
"Shutting up," Stiles mumbles. They sit in silence for a few moments (well, Stiles is sitting, Derek is brooding in the corner), and as the shower continues, Stiles watches a small trail of blood flow down the drain.
"Where were you bit?"
Stiles jumps at the sudden breaking of silence, and turns to Derek. "Sheesh, warn me next time!"
Derek just glares. "Stiles," he repeats. "Where were you bit?"
Stiles turns away from Derek's freakish red alpha eyes and stares at the blood flowing by his feet. "I don't know what you're talking about," Stiles says.
"Was it your hand?" Derek asks.
"Of course not! I'm fine, look!" Stiles throws his left hand up and flips it front to back. "See? Nothing!"
"Your other hand," Derek growls.
Stiles just shrugs at him. "Why would you suspect my other hand?"
"Because you've kept it in your pocket since you noticed I was here."
Stiles swallows thickly, and breaks his eyes from Derek's gaze. "My hand's fine," he mutters.
Suddenly Derek's growling above him, and Stiles can't help that he jumps. He can't help that the jolt causes a twinge of pain in his stomach. He can't help that he winces. He knows Derek notices.
Derek grabs the hood of Stiles's soaked jacket, and Stiles tries to ignore the quickening pace of his heart. "Stand. Up." Derek grinds out. "You've been bitten, and for what ever idiotic reason, you're not telling me where. Now stand up!"
Stiles scrambles up and allows himself to be slightly perturbed by Derek's hold on his jacket. "I don't know why you keep insisting I've been bitten," Stiles stammers. "I mean, do you even have any proof?"
Derek stares him in the eye for a suffocating moment, then looks at Stiles's feet pointedly.
Stiles looks down also and notices the blood flowing by his feet. He glances back up at Derek, and Derek waits for Stiles's explanation. Stiles swallows minutely. "Alright, you got me. I'm on my period."
Derek has him by the collar and is slamming him into the wall before Stiles even has a chance to take a breath. It's so sudden and so shocking that Stiles almost misses what's said next, the pain in his head and stomach fighting to drown out Derek's words. "Stiles, this is serious! Their fangs and claws are laced with a deadly poison, and it will slowly numb you and kill you unless you let me treat the bite!"
Stiles takes a few gasping breaths, and he knows Derek can hear that he's wheezing. "Numbing, huh? Well, that explains why it hasn't been hurting as much as it probably should."
Derek only growls in response, but to Stiles's delirious ears it sounds more concerned than angry.
"Okay, buttercup, simmer down," Stiles says to Derek's pinched expression. "Look, I give, alright?" He holds up his right hand and tries to ignore the blood he can see collecting under his fingernails. "Their teeth grazed me."
"Grazed," Derek scoffs. He grips Stiles's wrist, and, holy crap, he looks pissed. He looks like this scratch on Stiles's palm is enough reason to torch every faery on the planet, and while Stiles highly enjoys that idea, he knows he has to show Derek the wound on his stomach. This'll be fun.
"Hold on, Derek," Stiles rasps, and when did his voice start quitting out on him? Faery poison, honestly. "You said their claws were poisoned, too? Well, you're not gonna like this, but..."
With his left hand (his right is still in the clutches of Derek's monstrous fingers), he gingerly pries his shirt up, new blood sticking to the fabric obnoxiously.
If Derek looked angry before, he now looked downright furious. Like, rip-your-heart-out-through-your-throat furious. Stiles is grateful that the look isn’t directed at him. Unless it actually is and Derek has just had it with Stiles's utter incompetence.
"You're not gonna rip my heart out through my throat, are you?" he croaks.
Derek looks absolutely baffled for a moment, as though he can't understand why Stiles would think he'd be mad at him. Instead of replying immediately, he picks Stiles up and out of the tub before turning off the shower. He grips Stiles tight on the shoulders, forcing him to face Derek completely. "Don't hide an injury from me again, and I won't have to," he growls.
"Right, good, yeah. I'll keep that in mind. No more secrets from Derek, alpha werewolf must know all," Stiles forces out.
Derek grunts approvingly and turns Stiles to face the door, before shoving his back roughly. "Start walking."
"Alright, cool, yeah, through the door. Y'know, Derek, this is a great idea, really good. I love tracking water and blood through my house. It's not like these carpets are gonna have a problem with blood staining them, because they're a really dark color and no one's gonna even notice. These stains won't be a pain to take out or anything. Hey, I think I'm gonna probably die, because-"
"Can you just stop?" Derek interrupts.
Stiles stares at him for a long moment, wide-eyed and tight lipped, before, "I think I'm gonna die of hypothermia if we go outside and I don't change out of these clothes. Because if you hadn't noticed, they're soaked all the way through and I'm actually kind of freezing right now and all I want is to go back in my room and go to bed and where are you taking me anyway?" he says once they reach the stairs.
Derek just looks at him wearily, and says, "I don't understand how you can talk so much when you're supposed to be bleeding to death."
Stiles starts stumbling down the stairs when he says, "Well actually, funny thing, that. Wait, no- it's actually not that funny. But I've noticed that I talk a whole lot more when I'm really sick or when I break a bone and sometimes right before I have a panic attack, I used to get those all the time, and I'm kind of hoping I'm not gonna have one right now because I'm already having a bit of trouble breathing because of this hole in my stomach and I'm actually really freaking out-" He trips on a step, and before he can hit his head on either the floor or the railing, Derek has a strong arm around his waist. The sudden pressure makes Stiles grunt, and he's pretty sure that the blood's seeping out of his shirt and onto Derek's arm now.
"You need to calm down," Derek tells him, and it's said so gently that it leaves Stiles unprepared for being tossed up onto Derek's shoulder.
"Wh- Ow! Hey!" he yelps. "Derek, put me down!"
Derek tightens his hold on Stiles's legs, and grumbles, "Shut up, this is faster." Even though it really is faster, it doesn't stop Stiles from struggling in Derek's grasp. He knows his blood is getting all over Derek's shoulder.
"Derek, you big lug, you have no right to toss me around like some rag doll- Oh my God, it's cold," he gasps when the front door is opened. He shivers involuntarily when the night air reaches his still soaked body. Derek lowers Stiles down his chest as they continue closer to the Camaro, and wraps his arms around Stiles's trembling body wordlessly. Stiles realizes that Derek's trying to keep him blanketed in his warm werewolf arms, and shielded from the chilly breeze. While the thought warms Stiles metaphorically, it doesn't keep him from trembling violently. And he's really grateful for the notion, so he refrains from calling Derek a big warm-hearted puppy in lieu of being dropped on the frosty grass and being left to die.
All of Derek's kind actions dissipate anyway though, with the force he uses to toss Stiles onto the passenger seat. Derek gets into the driver's side, and as soon as he has the car on he turns the heater up as high as it will go. Yet Stiles continues to shake, even as the warm air hits him.
As they get onto the road, Derek pulls out his phone and starts dialing. "Scott", Derek barks into his phone. "We have a problem." Stiles watches Derek's face, trying to guess what Scott's saying based on his expressions. "No, no more faeries. They're all dealt with. It's Stiles."
Stiles is sure Scott's yelling, but he can't hear him. Which is weird, because normally he can at least hear the mumbling sound of the person on the other line. But right now he can only hear Derek. And even then, just barely.
"Yes. His hand and stomach." Silence. "Yes, it's bad. Listen, meet us at the animal clinic immediately." Derek looks over at Stiles then, locking eyes. "Bring a clean change of clothes. Shirt and pants. Maybe jacket." Scott says something, and Derek growls. "Just meet us there. Now." He hangs up, and turns back to the road.
Stiles continues to tremble into the seat, and he figures that he's probably going into shock. "Derek", he groans through chattering teeth.
Derek glances at him. "What's wrong?"
Stiles lets his teeth chatter for a bit, before saying, "How come you couldn't tell where I got bit?"
Derek looks at him fully (or at least, as much as he can while driving), but doesn't reply.
"Couldn't you smell the blood?" Stiles adds shakily.
Derek exhales. "All of you smelled like blood."
"Can't you tell my blood from faery blood?" Stiles asks.
"All of you smelled like your blood," Derek clarifies, frowning. "And you were coated in the scent of venom."
"Oh," is all Stiles says.
He curls up a bit in the seat, his right arm wrapped protectively around his stomach, his right hand clenched tight in a fist. It occurs to him that his trembling hasn't gone down. In fact, it's gotten worse. A particularly violent tremor suddenly rips through him and he gasps quietly.
Derek's hand is placed on his forehead, and it's big and warm and grounding, and Stiles leans into the seat a little, feeling very tired.
Derek says something quietly and Stiles drags his sluggish eyes to look at him. "What?" he says. Derek turns to him and he starts talking again. But Stiles can't hear it. Absentmindedly he notes that his ears feel like they've been stuffed full of cotton. He furrows his brows at Derek and wonders what he's saying.
He looks like he's trying to ask Stiles a question, and is growing increasingly frustrated the longer he doesn't get an answer.
"I can't hear you," Stiles whispers, mostly to himself. But he knows Derek hears it. Derek turns back to the road, and Stiles can't help but notice the way Derek's hands tighten around the steering wheel. He continues to watch Derek, when his eyes begin to drift shut of their own accord.
He only keeps his eyes closed for a few seconds, when a big hand is suddenly grabbing him from behind. He feels himself yelp before he's throwing his hands out and kicking his feet. The hands responsible for his freak out start trying to grab his limbs to calm him down. The hands belong to Derek, who's standing outside Stiles's now open passenger door, and- wait, exactly when did they arrive at the animal clinic? And why hadn't Stiles even noticed when Derek got out? "When did we get here?" he feels himself asking. And, okay, Stiles'd be lying if he said not being able to hear himself speak didn't scare him.
Derek frowns at him and pulls him out of the car.
"What, you're not even gonna try responding?" Stiles asks. "I can't hear anything right now, you could say any offensive thing you want, you could be dishonoring my family or something like that, and I wouldn't even be able to defend myself. This is a total golden opportunity. If I was in your place, I'd be talking all kinds of smack." Stiles smiles to himself, looks up at Derek, and realizes that his lips are moving. "Okay," Stiles mutters, "either you're taking my advice and you're talking crap about my ancestors, or you're trying to say something important."
Derek glances at him, then nods his head forward.
"Scott!" Stiles chirps the moment he notices the McCall van.
Scott pulls into the parking lot sloppily, and gosh he really shouldn't be allowed on the roads.
Scott barrels out of the driver side and starts running right at Stiles, yelling something frantically. At first Stiles is convinced Scott's running at him because he's about to kill him, and really, considering how many attempts are made at his life, it's hard to blame his delirious mind. But he realizes Scott's yelling 'Stiles', right before the clumsy werewolf is crashing into him. He slams into Derek's Camaro obnoxiously, and man he really doesn't have the energy to be bothered that Scott's manhandling him like a worried soccer mom. He just wants to go home and lie down.
But then Scott starts touching Stiles's face and that is actually really obnoxious. He smacks Scott's hands, and snaps, "What?"
Scott starts saying something in his face and all Stiles can think is that he's way too tired to even try reading lips.
"I can't hear you," he whines instead, sagging shamelessly like an upset kid.
Scott looks a little terrified then, when a third hand that came out of absolutely nowhere is pulling up Stiles's soaked, bloody shirt.
"Whoah!" He gapes up at Derek. Derek just stares back, and Stiles looks pointedly at Derek's hand. The one pulling his shirt up. "You haven't even bought me dinner yet!" Stiles says. Stiles looks away from whatever most likely hilarious face Derek's making, and instead at Scott. Scott, who is staring at Stiles's stomach and looks like he might be sick.
Stiles looks down also, and the wound looks way worse than he remembers. There's dried blood sticking all over, and it's all coagulated and nasty, and there's a weird black ooze around the deepest part, and oh God there is just blood everywhere.
"Wow," Stiles gasps. "That doesn't look good."
And then he immediately passes out.
When Stiles comes to, he's on the metal slab in the animal clinic. Oh gross, Stiles thinks, dead things have laid on this.
He looks around and finds Scott and Derek by the cabinet, Derek obviously explaining something important about the mysterious little jar he's holding.
"For the record," Stiles says, before trailing off. He still can't hear himself, but the other two hear him no problem. They whip around at him, like they weren't expecting him to wake up yet. "For the record," Stiles says again, "I don't faint at the sight of blood."
Scott smiles at him, humoring him no doubt, and Stiles can see Derek huff. Whether it's out of annoyance or amusement, though, Stiles can't tell.
Scott starts coming at him, again trying to say something. Stiles squints and mumbles, "Still can't hear."
Scott's face falls, and he looks to Derek for direction. Derek looks Scott in the eye and says something, shaking the little jar in his hand. Probably for emphasis. Scott asks Derek a question, and this time when Derek answers, he's baring his teeth. Scott visibly wilts.
Derek starts stalking around to where Stiles's feet are, apparently taking Scott's actions as some sort of cue. It's then that Stiles realizes he's shirtless and is wearing a clean, dry pair of pants.
"Okay," Stiles says. "Scott, I'm gonna assume you're the one that changed my clothes. And let me just say, I'm really uncomfortable knowing you stripped my unconscious body of any clothing." Scott smacks Stiles's head in response and Stiles smiles. "I knew you couldn't resist me, dude." He sees Scott let out a small laugh and shake his head.
Derek grabs Stiles's ankle and Stiles looks down at him. "What, you want some of this, big guy?" he asks. Derek doesn't even try responding, and instead reaches up and places his hand on Stiles's wound, his palm resting on Stiles's abdomen. It's then that it hits Stiles that his torso is completely numb. From his pelvis to his sternum, he can't feel anything.
In a surge of panic and curiosity, he smacks himself experimentally in the ribs. Nope, nothing. He can't even feel a slight sting. "I can't feel anything," he chokes. He cranes his neck up and looks to Scott, who's standing over him. "Scott!" he gasps, desperately.
Scott starts talking, and Stiles can tell by the look on his face that he's trying to say something reassuring. Obviously he fails, based on how his eyes keep flicking to Derek for help.
Stiles feels a squeeze on his ankle, and he looks down to see Derek grasping it with his other hand. "It's okay", Derek mouths at him. In all actuality though he probably said it out loud. But the look Derek is giving him is so honest and so sure, so open and vulnerable, that Stiles lets himself believe the words. He lets himself believe that everything really is okay. That they can get through this.
Derek squeezes his ankle again and Stiles whimpers, "Okay."
Derek glances up at Scott, and Scott takes Stiles's injured hand. With dread, Stiles notes that his hand is numb now, too. From his fingertips to his elbow, it's all numb.
"Alright, so," Stiles forces out. "How do we intend to fix this?" He looks down at Derek and they lock eyes. They hold for a few seconds. Derek breaks away first, instead focusing on Scott.
He says a few words and takes his hand off of Stiles's stomach. He pulls out the mysterious little jar from earlier, pops the top off, and dips his fingers into the milky substance. He starts saying something to Scott. Explaining what he's doing, is Stiles's guess.
Derek tosses the jar to Scott, and places his hand with the weird potion covered fingers back on Stiles's stomach. Scott lets go of Stiles's hand for a bit and when he takes it again his own fingers are coated in the milky potion.
"Okay, what is that stuff on your fingers? Please don't tell me it's your..." Derek is giving him the scariest glare in existence. "Right, not going there," Stiles mumbles. Derek looks back up at Scott, and Stiles has a moment of self-loathing for being able to read Derek's next words on his lips.
"Three."
Seriously, why does he even stare at Derek's lips so much? He has a serious problem that requires much pondering over.
"Two."
Okay, honestly though, Stiles is freaking out. Because Derek is counting down and usually count downs lead to a whole lot of pain and OH GOODNESS GRACIOUS HERE COMES ONE-
"One."
Stiles tenses up and he watches Derek raise his hand, his nails having turned into claws. Derek slams his hand back down, the claws going right into Stiles's open wound.
Slowly, oh so slowly, Stiles's hearing comes back. And with it, an ear splitting scream. After a few moments of his throat tearing itself up, Stiles realizes the scream is coming from him. But he has no intention of stopping.
He can feel the claws in his stomach, and they burn. It's searing and agonizing, and when Scott stabs his own claws into Stiles's hand, he can't help but break down into sobs. It's pathetic, he knows, but never in his life has he felt pain to this extent. At least, not physically.
His back arches, and it's a subconscious attempt to get away from the terrible burning. "Stop!" he screams through gritted teeth. "Please!"
There's a hand on his shoulder, trying to rub in soothing circles, and Stiles knows it's Scott. "I'm sorry Stiles, I know, I'm sorry, but we gotta, you gotta bear through this." Scott sounds frantic and far away, and it doesn't ease Stiles's grief.
The claws in his stomach start to go deeper, and Stiles lets out a choked, pained shout. "Derek!" He kicks out desperately, and his feet occasionally make contact with either Derek's arms or chest. Stiles doesn't even feel bad, he just wants the pain to go away.
His left hand swings up and finds Scott's shoulder, and he squeezes hard in an attempt to transfer all of his pain through to his grip on the fabric. He can hear Scott mumbling, "I'm sorry, Stiles, hang in there," and Scott tightens his grip on Stiles's hand, but it just makes his claws go in deeper.
Stiles cries out, and he can feel the steady stream of tears rolling down his cheeks. "Stop it," he begs. "Stop it."
The claws in his stomach push further, and he screams through tightly clenched teeth. "Derek!" he forces out. "You're going to kill me!"
He looks down, prepared to berate Derek while looking him straight in the eye, when he finally notices.
His stomach is literally coated in a black slime. It's smeared everywhere and is pooling on the table around him, and it's seriously just gushing out of the open wound.
"Oh my God, what is that?" he squeaks.
"The faery's poison," Derek grunts. "It's mixed in with your blood, and this is the only way to get it out."
Stiles whimpers, and good Lord Derek is wrist-deep in the stuff. Wait, backtrack. Wrist-deep in Stiles's stomach. Oh God. Stiles's head falls back, sweat and tears trickling down his face.
The last thing he hears is Scott yelling Derek's name.