18There was a strained, hollow, anguished silence that permeated the waiting room, the room which was stained with the scent of the human pack-mate. The very blood in the werewolf's veins burned with the tortured suffering of loss.
Stiles…
Then there was oh-so glorious, heart wrenching sound.
With a faint, quivering, wet tremble, Stiles' heart weakly resumed its fluttering, shaky beating; like the shaking of water from the down on an angel's wings, dull thumping was the sign of a miracle, the cure to despair. Down the hall the two present Betas of the pack came to life once again, where before they had waned, covered in the haze of death that held them, numbing their cores, thickening their throats and burning their eyes. It wasn't a pretty, happy, cliché moment of celebration, it was a release of tension, of vigil, that set their skin jumping, hearts racing, breath coming in choked sobs of relief, an ugly, messy grief of what could have been – what could still be – and they barely kept themselves from howling out that agony of it. This feeling of loss, even as they didn't lose that which was precious to them, what they loved and held dear, a piece of themselves, they could have, it had been so close. Oh, so, so close.
I'm trying, I'm trying, that strained, wet stuttering said. I'm fighting, I'm fighting.
I'm here, I'm here, it reassured, weak and tired, on the cusp of everything. I'm alive, I'm alive.
The veil of death, the mist of iron tang and emptiness, began to lift and abate.
Visibly, Derek gasped in air, his lungs jerking and spasming just like the rest of his muscles did, skin quivering with the need to Change and holding it back, swallowing the need to rip, and tear, to bleed an enemy that he could not touch. He swallowed back the triumphant terror that tried to howl from his throat in signal to their enemies – to the world, that their Stiles lived, that he had conquered death – and tried to calm the rapid, angry beating of his heart, to support both himself, and the panicked liberation of the storms eye his pack had just stepped out of, with that one miraculous sound.
With slow, deep, somewhat shaky breathes, he eased himself back to standing, joints aching with his forced humanity, his control, he stood, trying to be firm, to be solid; a wall holding back the tide, a dam keeping the river from drowning those that lived in the den below.
As soon as he made it to standing – to anything other than shattering – his shivering, frightened, so very young pack-mates stood on stumbling, numb, shaky limbs and huddled in close to him, hands reaching out almost without thought to touch. Although the two boys who crowded both together and against his left side only sought comfort from their Alpha, from the suddenly clarity of mortality, they also gave strength, gave Derek what he needed to cement himself more into the here and now, instead of the all-encompassing, smothering, silence of before.
Shaky, almost Changed hands gripped at his arm, his side, his shirt, seeking, searching for solace. He lifted his left arm and turned just enough to grab both of his young Betas and pull them to him, his Alpha instincts giving out the aura of comfort, of home, of safety, of pack that they hungered for in their anxiety, a rumbling, sub toned hum started in his chest, at a decibel unnoticeable to human ears. Despite the burning ache that started up in his guts at the action, he encircled them with both arms, drawing them closer as they gripped at him, pressing in close to catch his scent. He took a moment to breathe them in, how alive they were, though afraid and hurting, something inside easing as they gave matching whining groans back at pitches too high for the human range.
The present pack members took a minute to enjoy and fully comprehend the steadying beat of the human's heart as Derek's hand gripped the back of the two teenager's necks rhythmically, sending pulsing waves of relaxation, comfort and calm through their tensed, frantic bodies. The gasping sobs from Isaac began to quiet into little whines of unhappiness and fear, his glowing eyes going from burning with grief to simmering with unhappiness, muscles twitching and jerking as he pressed his side against Scott, and his face and front against the older man, hands clutching into the fabric that crossed his Alpha's shoulder blade, and chest respectively. The elder Beta's lips were quivering and his breath hitching with soft, harsh grunts of distress, eyes burning saffron with the almost loss, tears burning over his eyes and trailing over his grimacing features, his muscles were rock hard with tension, but his skin shivered and jumped with his heart, his hands and grip mirroring the youngest werewolf.
Part of Derek was relieved at their normal pack behavior, at the closeness that was what pack was meant to be, but the majority was so angry, so horrified, so tired, because it had taken something so terrible to bring them to this point.
Only the two of them, out of the entirety of the pack, only two so were this close in this moment to what it was to truly be pack, and it likely wouldn't last.
He felt selfish for enjoying their need for comfort, for taking comfort from them when he knew it was he that was the cause of this entire disaster in the first place.
If only he'd listened to Stiles, let him come in the first place, they could have planned the raid out. If only he had trusted the pack with Stiles' secret so they would have known not to leave him to his pain. If only he were better, a better person, a better werewolf, a better Alpha…
With a careful, deep, centering breath that drew in the comforting, strengthening scents of his two present Betas, he carefully tried to take a step back, loosening the grip he had on the back of their necks, only to get a reaction he definitely hadn't expected.
Isaac gave a low moan of alarm, fingers scrabbling against his flesh through the fabric of his slightly bloodstained shirt, butting his head back against Derek's hand before pressing against the older man's chest, his own chest heaving, eyes wide and dry, quivering with something beaten and afraid of abandonment. Scott gave the mournful, almost silent whine of the distraught, grip almost painful against his flesh, curling up closer to the elder werewolf, hitching his shoulders with harsh breaths, eyes flickering to and from burning and despair, dipping his forehead against the Alpha's shoulder and almost trying to arch his back into the older man's reassuring hand. Seeking more contact with the comfort his Alpha radiated.
Swallowing a mixture of happiness and uncertainty, the bittersweet of their desire for his comfort, for his presence, and the fact that they sought this from the one who was the reason for their grief, the one who was the instigator of their pain in the first place, he sighed. Carefully, he gripped the back of their necks once again, gently situating them against his sides in a way that would allow them all to keep contact as he began to guide them towards the end of the hall where his Mate lay fighting – and winning, gods he was winning – for his life.
At the confused, worried whines that greeted this motion, he started up a reassuring rumble in his chest, relieved when they began to move with him, the younger werewolves meeting their hands together against his back, tangling – mangling, really – his t-shirt in their mingled hands, gripping both each other and his flesh rather uncomfortably. He didn't begrudge them though, as they shivered under his arms, breathing harsh, eyes barely glimmering this side of humanity as they held back the wolf.
As one, they walked towards the frail life of the weakened human in their pack.
They walked as Pack.
When they reached the room that housed the struggling, strengthening heartbeat and looked through the thoughtlessly unblocked window into the E.R. room, Derek felt himself draw in a sharp breath, felt Scott choke back a wordless cry, one that would have been senseless, but held infinite meaning, and listened to Isaac moan and breath through his nose harshly. The damage… oh Stiles…
Deep gashes covered his arms, quickly covered by pressure bandages by one nurse, as another hurriedly prepared stitching utensils for the doctor who had forcefully dragged their human pack-mate back from death's door. Against the pale white sheets, Stiles looked like a ghost, the pallor of his skin blending with the starched sheets and the red stain still seeping from his arms spreading slowly outwards. A nurse rushed into the room through the open door with several blood bags to set up a transfusion, to replace the teenager's blood, the scent of which coated the halls nauseatingly, causing bile to sting the back of the Alpha's throat. Doctors and nurses surrounded the bed methodically hooking him up to various medical instruments while the one nurse moved to hook up the blood transfusion.
Derek shuddered as he watched the scene unfold, grip tightening on the teenagers' necks in response to their own reactions to his disquiet. His mind struggled to reconcile the image of Stiles laying half dead, features limp and elastic on the hospital bed with the smiling energetic face that Stiles so often wore. Derek turned his face away from Stiles unable to watch anymore, burying his nose first into Scott's hair for a moment, before doing the same to Isaac, trying to smother the smell of almost-death with the scent of his living, breathing pack. Straightening a bit from the slouch he'd unconsciously fallen into, he felt his back crack with how stiff his muscles had gotten, taking steps back from the window, eyes closed, he tightened his grip on the two for a moment, before shifting his hands to their shoulders despite their whining.
He wanted to stretch and flex his aching claws from their position, but remained firmly in place.
Taking deep, even breathes, which his Beta's unconsciously mimicked, he tried to force the image of the weakened, pale Stiles from his mind.
After he had regained something like control, Derek quietly dropped his head between the two teenagers who were leaning on him for support, their wide eyes staring in pale horror through the window, he flexed his grip on their shoulders for a moment to get their attention.
"Thank you," Derek said softly, deep and hoarse, a lower rumble of wolf hidden behind his calm, comforting, thankful tone. "Thank you for finding him. You saved him."
The two huddled closer after a moment of shock, wide eyes turning from Stiles to himself before they glanced at one another, brows furrowing ever-so slightly before they almost tried to burrow beneath his skin. With the exhaustion that was creeping up his bones from the linoleum floor, he took the few steps needed to lean back against the wall, his Betas clinging like burrs to his sides, slowly starting to relax their defensive, wounded, frightened posture to stand straighter, although they kept their grip on him strong and immovable.
The next ten minutes were horribly endless and stressful, none of them took their eyes from the human teenager who was only a matter of feet from them. Twice – gods, once was too many times – Stiles heart had slowed down dangerously though it never fully stopped again. About fifteen minutes after Derek had arrived and had his world destroyed and shakily rebuilt within a matter of minutes, Boyd and Erica showed up with the sheriff in tow.
Everyone held back to allow the sheriff some space as he went to look in on his son, his face was stony and pale with worry. The look on his face shifted the minute the doctor walked up to him to explain the situation, for a moment his features went slack with shock, then swiftly passed through confusion on to horror, before finally settling on one of grief and unspoken agony. It was a face that aged a decade in the minute long phone call it had taken to tell him he was needed at the hospital. To tell him his son may be dying, had nearly done so already.
The self-loathing that swam in his dampened eyes was a mirror to Derek's own.
They both felt responsible.
Erica and Boyd hung back uncertainly as they caught sight of how close Isaac and Scott were to their gruff Alpha, their own distress hung heavy on their features, and Derek let out that comforting, sub-vocal hum of comfort as he looked at them, inviting, but not ordering them to come and take their own comfort from the closeness of pack. They hesitated for a moment, taking in the way that both of the other werewolves were turned into the older man and the exhausted contentment that they were emanating, before glancing at one another, coming to a decision.
They approached and Erica folded herself to floor, pressing against Isaac and Derek's legs, curling her hands behind one of each of their knees as Boyd went to the Alpha's other side, pressing his side into Scott's back, shoulder pressed to Derek's arm for a moment, before the hand that was hidden by Scott's body reached over to snag onto the back of the older werewolf's shirt. The older man got the feeling that this shirt was either going to be the keepsake that spoke of what they could be, or would get thrown in the trash for the same reason. It was with a mixture of melancholy and joy that he felt his other two Betas calm some and lean more heavily against their pack-mates.
This could… this could be something, and he wanted it to be, to give them this all the time, but…
Stiles…
The doctor looked tired and everyone did their best to ignore Stiles' blood on the gloves and sleeves of his scrubs. Oh, God, the smell. He looked from one face to the next, pausing for a moment to take in the odd sight of a bunch of teenagers crowding together against a twenty-something, the girl sitting comfortably on the ground, pressed against two others like it was the most natural thing in the world, before he turned again to the sheriff, looked into his eyes with weary sadness, and stepped towards him.
"Your son is stable, Sheriff, but he has lost a lot of blood. Our main concern at this point is brain function. Your son's heart stopped and it took us four and a half minutes to resuscitate him. There's a chance that it caused his brain to go long enough without oxygen that permanent damage was caused. I'm sorry, but we won't know for sure until he wakes up. You are welcome to go in when you are ready, just let the nurses clean up a bit, please. Please use the Nurse Call button to get ahold of someone if he wakes up and we can come assess any issues."
The sheriff didn't miss the distinct, "if," he wakes up. Neither did Derek and the rest of the pack. They knew that he was just meaning at the time being, really, but it sounded so much more final than that, and it caused another raise in tension in the pack. The sheriff steeled his shoulders, face set and weary, before he reached out to shake the doctor's hand.
"Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for what you've done for my son."
Then the sheriff trudged past the doctor and into the room holding his only family in the world, his son, no mind to the nurses who were still puttering around cleaning up and checking vitals. As he walked he seemed to be slowly crumbling inwards and the second he was through the door he stumbled into a chair, sitting almost like a puppet with the strings cut. The pack slowly followed him into the room, Erica standing and curling into Isaac as they walked in.
They settled themselves into the room, Boyd moving to get a chair and – surprisingly – shoving Derek down into it on the other side of Stiles bed before standing to his side, hand curling over his shoulder and the other's moved to make themselves comfortable. Erica and Isaac settled themselves on the floor at Derek's feet, both with one arm wrapped around one of the older werewolf's legs, and the other clutching each other's hand. Scott shifted to his other side, letting Boyd have his spot, curling one hand over Derek's wrist, his opposing arm wrapped around his stomach in self comfort. The Alpha found himself absently petting his sole female Beta's hair with his free hand, giving that comforting rumble again when she pressed her face to his knee for comfort, the action mirrored by Isaac as they all stared towards Stiles' limp form.
It wasn't long before Lydia and Allison finally arrived as well, and after a glance through the window, struggling with crumbling features at the sight of their friend, they commandeered some chairs from outside to bring into the room to set themselves up in vigil as well.
Allison brought hers over to the side with the pack, settling down next to Scott, and their hands automatically gravitated towards each other, the werewolf standing just a bit straighter with that little boost of support from his girlfriend.
Lydia, on the other hand, set her chair next to the sheriff's – no, Mr. Stilinski, Stiles' dad, he wasn't the sheriff in that moment – and met Derek's eyes with her own, the message of support being needed on both fronts coming across and being accepted. Mr. Stilinski needed just as much comfort as anyone else, more than anyone else. She rested her hand on Stiles' father's, and the man gripped it without looking over, and unconscious plea for comfort, for support.
Derek felt awful, felt his heart trying to seize in his chest, but had to forcibly calm himself when his pack shifted anxiously at the change in atmosphere, and he started the gentle rumble again to calm them.
This was all his fault, all the pain that his pack was going through, he'd caused this. All the pain that the most important man in Stiles' life was going through, the man who had raised the teenager he was in love with… it was all his fault.
Scott watched the sheriff as he slowly grasped his son's hand, movements slow and stiff, age that he had no right to resting heavily on his shoulders, wrinkling his brow and graying his features with grief. The sheriff's hand shook when it met with cold, clammy skin, curling carefully around his son's fingers, as if he would crumple from the slightest movement.
"Why, Stiles?" He asked in a broken whisper, picking up his son's hand carefully to press it against his lips, and then his forehead wearily. "What drove you to this?"
There was aching silence, only broken by the steady, if slow, beat of the unconscious teenager's heart, a paltry comfort.
The pack didn't quite know what to say, couldn't quite speak even if they did. After all, most of them had no idea what was going on either. Derek slowly looked around the room with tired, sad eyes at his family, breathing in the combined scent of them, tainted only by their confusion and pain, the sadness and almost-heartbreak. Almost-death.
His eyes settled at last on the pale body that they were all here for, he studied him as he always did. He didn't look like Stiles, his skin waxy and haggard, his skin almost had the unmolded sheen of clay. Stiles didn't smell right. He didn't smell like Stiles. He didn't look right or smell right or feel right. He smelled like medicine and illness, like pain and weakness. Derek had never seen the hyperactive teen so still, not even in sleep – which, he'd been witness to a number of times – and that scared Derek.
He concentrated on the soothing beat of Stiles' heart and the steady, if shallow rise and fall of his chest, the rasp of oxygen passing through the tube in his nose, and the wet-dry click of his throat as he swallowed. Even the high pitched beep of the heart monitor eased Derek's mind; anything was better than the screaming of electricity as it shot through his Mate's body, than the harsh thump of his body jumping on the bed as his heart failed to restart. Anything was better than that silence. Staring at the boy in front of him, at the boy – god, he was so young – Derek built up the courage to finally admit what was on his mind. He took a deep breath of the combined scents of his pack, took in the feeling of their presence, of the feeling of pack, that he was ultimately about to tear apart – had already started to, with the very act that had brought them together – so that he could give them reason, could tell them of his failure and make them understand that none of this was on Stiles.
It was his fault.
"It's my fault."
It was Sheriff Stilinski who looked up at Derek, not the grieving father, and there was something almost sharp in those eyes, seeking a target just as much as the wolf within Derek did, and waited for him to explain.
Demanded it of him.
Derek didn't want to lose this solidarity that they'd somehow created in this moment, because he was weak, but he'd done enough to these people, caused them enough pain, and he owed it to Stiles to at least try to fix this.
So, in the sterile white hospital room, staring at his half dead Mate, voice soft and stilted, hoarse and a little broken, Derek shared with the pack and with the father of the young man he loved, the struggle Stiles had been fighting. He told them how he found out about Stiles cutting and how he had agreed to keep it secret. He told them about removing dangerous items from the house – something that caused some recognition in Sheriff Stilinski's eyes, some deep sadness. He spoke of the long nights he and Stiles had spent in each other's arms as Stiles fought the urge to break open his own skin.
Throughout it all, his audience remained quiet except for the occasional sharp inhalation, and his pack tightening their grip on whatever body part they had their hands on. Derek finally looked up from where he had been staring into Stiles' face, as if his salvation lay there, unaware of how obvious his own quiet despair was, how deep they could see it ran, despite how well he contained it, and into the eyes of the man across from him. He was silent but there were tears in his eyes as he stared back at Derek, there was so much sadness, so much regret and pain, such age behind the elder man's light blue eyes that the Alpha werewolf felt his tongue begin to feel even more heavy in his mouth, his throat thick.
His hand that was in Erica's hair was still stroking, and she nuzzled into it tearfully, but he was too focused on the weary parent before him to really notice, just continued his subconscious comfort. Isaac's cheek was rested on his knee, and he stared dolefully up at his Alpha, eyes wide and wet as he swallowed whimpers of concern and unhappiness. Boyd had clenched his jaw, deep, dark chocolate eyes soft and sad as he stared at the human laid out on the bed before him, an understanding of some sort in his gaze even as he gripped the elder werewolf's shoulder tightly in support. At some point Allison had shifted close enough to grip his hand instead of Scott's, and her eyes were wet and overflowing, lips quivering and hand shaking in his grasp, which he squeezed in absent comfort. Scott was staring at Stiles' unconscious face with something like heartbreak, eyes filled with agony and self-recrimination, his hand had at some point shifted so that it was on Derek's shoulder, and he leaned on it for support against his own inner turmoil. Lydia stared at Stiles, her grip on his father's hand tight and fragile, her features somehow blank and covered in abject despair, tears running unchecked over her soft cheeks.
Derek took a deep breath – he could do this, he could, he had to finish this now, or he never would, and he'd fall inside his shell and be unable to, just like he couldn't express himself to Stiles, causing all of this to happen – feeling like he was breathing through lead and water, and then spoke his next words to the sheriff, to the father.
Please, forgive me.
"Sir, I made the choice to protect Stiles on my own," I failed all on my own. "I was arrogant in thinking that I would be able to protect him without you and the rest of his friends, without anyone. Today that arrogance almost killed him. It still might," Derek's voice quivered and almost broke but he kept going, this time addressing the entire room again. If he stopped then, he'd never start again, because he was a coward. A weak, useless coward. "If Stiles and I had trusted you, confided in you, then this would never have happened. Instead of me being the only one looking out for him, he would have had his whole family, all his friends, and you could have protected him when I failed," fail, all I do is fail. I'm a failure, everyone I love I fail. They all die because of me. It's only because of Scott and Isaac that I haven't lost him yet. God, I'm so sorry. "I'm sorry. I could have stopped this. If you guys had known, if I'd told anyone else," this he directed only to the pack, because they would lose him too, could have lost him because of their Alphas idiocy, his failings. "Then you never would have left him alone after what happened earlier."
Derek's gaze had been drawn to the ground, his guilt felt like it was crushing him, he wanted to shrink in on himself and disappear, but he kept his shoulders straight for the two hands that gripped him as support, even if he didn't recognize it in that moment.
Scott tore his gaze from Stiles to squeeze the shoulder he was gripping, standing up straight to take his weight off of the older man, trying to be reassuring but unsure if he was succeeding. Everyone was looking either at Derek or at the sheriff as they waited for some kind of response, all faces were a different mixture of unhappiness and pain.
When no response was forthcoming, Derek said in a voice so quiet it was barely audible to the human on the other side of the room, barely squeezing the words out of his tight throat, his heart pounding with anguish and resigned despondency. "If you want me to, I will leave your son's life," he'd have to leave town, but really, there wasn't anyone who wanted him there anyway, especially after what he'd done to Stiles. "I completely understand if you don't want me to be a part of it anymore. But before I go, I need you to understand that what your son did was not done out of weakness. He is one of the strongest people I have ever met, and I know he will continue to grow stronger. He loves you and wants to make you proud. Please let any anger you feel over what Stiles did fall on me and not him, it's not his fault. He has enough on his shoulders already."
He was met with silence for several seconds, and the Alpha werewolf felt his heart break just that little bit more, if it were at all possible.
Derek stood, ignoring the sounds of distress from his young pack as he did so, their hands reaching for him as he stepped away and up to the the side of the bed and reached out towards his Mate's face, hesitating a moment before he gently stroked Stiles' pale cheek with his thumb. He leaned down and placed a light kiss on the boy's forehead, taking a deep breath to catch a hint of the teenager's true scent beneath it all – all of the pain, the anguish, the almost-death, and the weakness of his human body – and then, fighting back the emotion threatening to spill over, beginning to pull his shields around himself again, to pull back into his emotionally stunted shell, he turned to leave the room and Stiles behind forever.
To leave Beacon Hills behind him. He was destroying this town just by living in it.
Maybe he was cursed.
"So do you," he heard from behind him as he was only a few steps from the door, his whole body feeling heavy and exhausted, guts churning with the burn of the almost-healed.
Derek halted at the sound of the sheriff's voice, hesitant and unsure of what he'd heard, but didn't face him.
"I… don't understand, sir," he managed haltingly, voice quiet, half inside his shell already, half terrified by the agonizing hope that was blooming in his chest.
The sheriff stood, giving Lydia's hand a squeeze of gratitude as he did so, deep, intelligent eyes locked onto the oldest werewolf in the room, as he moved towards Derek.
"You said my son had enough on his shoulders already, and I don't disbelieve you. Your shoulders seem to have just as much if not more on them," he glanced at the teenagers that had decided to seek solace in the twenty-something year old man before him, at the tearful, despondent, pained looks on those faces, and saw beneath to the affection, the care they had for this man who seemed to be in love with his son. No, more than any assumption on his part, it was downright obvious now that he thought to look for it. "I wish you and Stiles had come to me with this sooner, before things got this bad, but I understand why you didn't, how you could feel you could handle this, the two of you. You never could have known it would come to this," there was pain and knowledge in his eyes as he turned to look at his son, laying on a hospital bed, reflecting his mother in his pale visage. "I understand the arrogance of not thinking about your choices, automatically thinking that you know best because it involves the person you care most about in this world," he looked back at Derek, eyes full of wisdom and exhaustion, as well as a love, a melancholy that reflected back from the werewolf's eyes. "I know what it's like to make the wrong decision, too."
Derek faced the sheriff fully then, not quite knowing what to think of the sheriff's response, but part of him understanding that maybe he didn't need to.
"Regardless of whether or not you made the right call, I can see that removing you from my son's life would only cause him pain. From the sound of it," and God be damned if it didn't hurt that he didn't see his own son's struggle, didn't know. "He has too much pain in his life as it is. I won't add to it," Not anymore, he promised. I won't let this happen again. The sheriff took a deep breath and looked around the room, eyes catching every young, tearful pair in the room. "However, I am sick and tired of all the secrets being kept from me. I hope this was the worst of them," this had better not be some kind of teenage sex ring or something, because God help him if it was anything like that he was going to shoot someone. Where was Mr. McCall when you needed him? He had so much tension built up he would like to take a crack at the bastard. "Regardless, I want to know. If any of you intend to remain at my son's side you are going to tell me what has been going on for the past year. All of it."
Scott cleared his throat and softly asked, voice a tad rough with emotion, and mildly, strangely distorted, "Would you believe me if I said it was werewolves?"
The sheriff sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes in a very practiced motion at his son's best friend's words.
"Scott, this is hardly the time for jokes," he said even as he turned around to look at Scott. Or at least who he thought was Scott. Where Scott was most certainly supposed to be.
Where Scott had been standing, there now stood a much hairier version of the Scott he had known for years, his brow ridge something you might see from that vampire show from a few years back. Bunny something. Bunny? No, that wasn't right, Bucky? No, no, Bambi? Whatever, that didn't matter, this was…
The sheriff couldn't seem to string enough words together in his mind to respond. His mouth gaped open and closed as he tried to formulate some kind of response while he took a quick step backwards in shock, stumbling a bit only to be steadied by the younger man beside him.
The grotesque Scott rapidly shifted back to regular Scott – the Scott he'd watched grow up next to his son, the adopted child he'd never asked for but ended up attached to anyway – and the teenager rushed towards the sheriff, hands fluttering in front of him uncertainly.
"Sir? Are you alright? I'm sorry, that was really sudden," Jesus, Stiles' father thought. This kid needs to get out more. How can he still look like such a puppy faced twelve year old? "I should have eased you into it a bit more. I know it's a lot to take in. You're right though. You needed to know and we've been lying for far too long."
The sheriff wasn't looking at Scott anymore, though. He was looking around the room at the rest of the teenagers, understanding slowly working across his features. Isaac would have sworn he could hear the gears turning in his mind – it was so much like Stiles' think face that he almost gaped at the sheriff – as he tried to decide if every single person in the room was a werewolf. His gaze finally landed on Stiles and a look or horror crossed his face.
"Stiles isn't a werewolf," Scott quickly assured him, hands fluttering again without a task, as if trying to sooth something. "Neither are Lydia or Allison."
Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat to speak, his voice rather bemused, filled with confused, dumbfounded seriousness.
"The rest of you are though? Every single one of the rest of you are like Scott?" Small nods came from the wolves, Erica and Isaac had shifted so that they were pressed against Boyd's legs as they had been Derek's, though he was standing, and had a hand on both of their heads, fingers entwined in their hair. "How exactly did my son become involved with werewolves?"
The sheriff listened in silence as Scott quickly told him about Stiles' adventures with wolves that had started with a silly – stupid – notion to look for a dead body, having to remind him to slow down several times. Finally he got to the events of that day.
It took surprisingly little time, considering how fast Scott was talking.
"– And then we decided to attack the Alpha Pack ourselves! We told Stiles not to come but, of course Stiles followed us anyway. Actually, he pretty much saved our lives. We were all but beaten and then he stopped the Alpha Pack almost singlehandedly with a little help from Lydia –" said girl cleared her throat delicately, a single brow raised from where she was sitting, holding Stiles' hand delicately in her own, softly petting the back of his hand. "– Sorry, more than a little help. One of the werewolves tried to attack Stiles though and Derek got in the way. He moved, like, freaky fast, too. Derek got hurt worse than usual, like way worse – I mean, she stuck her hand through him! – and then we had to take him to Deaton –"
"Deaton? The vet?" The sheriff interrupted, rubbing his thumb and forefinger into the corner of his eyes, before squeezing the bridge of his nose.
He could practically hear the migraine cackling on its way behind his eyes.
"Yeah, he knows about us. I'm not really sure why or how. I'd tell you if I could but he's a bit of a mystery to us too. Well, to me, anyway," said when he felt the stares on the back of his skull, which he rubbed abashedly. "I just know he always helps us out. Anyway, Stiles told us he'd meet us at Deaton's and we left with Derek. We just… I… we… left him there…" Scott sounded anguished, face scrunching up, shoulders hunching, previously busy hands wrapping over his stomach for comfort, as he thought about what had happened because of the pack leaving Stiles alone earlier.
Because he'd left him alone.
Derek spoke up from the doorway where he had been lurking, voice soft and steady, eyes closed as he spoke.
"When I came to in Deaton's office, I told the pack they needed to find Stiles. I knew he would blame himself for my getting hurt, and that he was in danger. I tried to find him myself but I couldn't even get off the table," the self-disgust he felt at that was saturating his words as he spoke them, and he grimaced at his weakness. "Isaac and Scott found him and brought him here."
"So, that's it then, huh?" The sheriff muttered mostly to himself; well… werewolves. "It certainly clears everything up," boy, did it. "Werewolves. I did not see that one coming."
Thank god it hadn't been some kind of sex/drug ring. This was so many times better than having to deal with anything like that.
Werewolves.
Jesus.
A nervous laugh rang through the room as the pack finally relaxed. The sheriff wasn't trying to shoot them or drive them out of Stiles' room, so all in all telling the sheriff had gone much smoother than they ever would have thought. No one really knew what to say after that so instead everyone settled in to wait for some movement from Stiles. Derek came fully back into the room and, after receiving a brief nod from the sheriff telling him he was welcome, he pulled his chair right up next to Stiles and sat down, his pack circling him against to touch, take, and give comfort. There was a relief he felt at the contact that he could never describe, could never begin to explain, but he took some respite from the unearthly weight that had settled on his chest with their touch.
He took Stiles' hand in his carefully, gently – he was more fragile than ever – and he, like the rest of the room, waited.
Please wake up.
Six hours later the room was mostly empty, but not for lack of trying on the teenagers' part; the sheriff and the Alpha had practically had to shove them out the door telling them to go home, eat, and for god's sake, bathe. The sheriff and Derek were then only two still there. Sheriff Stilinski had insisted Derek go too, but Derek steadfastly refused, because it hadn't been an order, and he needed to be near Stiles more than he needed to eat anything.
No matter how much his internal organs still ached with lack of fuel to heal entirely.
When they were alone the sheriff glanced at Derek and asked, "So how long have you been in love with my son?"
Derek stared at him with wide eyes, jaw loosening to gape a little at the blunt question.
Was this where Stiles got it?
"Don't act so shocked," the sheriff rolled his eyes and raised a brow. "You weren't exactly being subtle. You haven't let go of Stiles' hand in hours. You look at him with nothing but love in your eyes, like he's your world, even though you clearly try to let it not show. It was pretty obvious that being a werewolf wasn't the only thing you were hiding."
"I didn't know if it was my place to tell you," Derek responded sincerely, a sense of relief flooding over him. It felt nice to have a responsible adult in the know. Well, one without guns. Or well, wolfsbane, at least. "Stiles was worried you wouldn't approve."
"Why would he think I wouldn't approve? I would never have a problem with him being gay," even if he had denied the very idea of it, not that long ago, now that he thought about it.
Derek looked embarrassed, ducking his head slightly in a way Papa Stilinski decided was a bit endearing, and reminded him that he'd watched this kid grow up some as well. "Actually, he was more concerned with the fact that I was a suspected murderer on the run from the law at one point."
"Oh," right. "That. Well, maybe I would have had an issue before you told me everything else, but now I finally have the whole story. It seems pretty clear that you're not who I thought you were."
Which was a huge relief really. It was stressing to think that this town had a could-be murderer.
Derek looked relieved and a brief smile crossed his face as he looked back down at Stiles, gently stroking the back of his hand that wasn't covered in tape or needled.
"Derek," the sheriff continued, face serious, and thoughtful. "I know you blame yourself for this," god knows we all blame ourselves. "But you need to understand something. If you hadn't chanced upon my son that day and found out what he was doing, we would never have ended up sitting in a hospital at his bedside," Derek flinched at the words but the sheriff continued. "We would have instead been sitting around a coffin," at that, Derek lifted his head again to look at Sheriff Stilinski. "Maybe not today, maybe not in the near future, but it would have happened. He would have gone too far, and no one would have known to look for him, or thought anything was wrong. Derek if you hadn't known his secret, there would have come a time when things got bad enough in his life for him to lose control like this. Only no one would have known about it," he emphasized again, leaning forward and staring hard into the young man's stormy eyes. "He would have died all alone in his Jeep if you hadn't known to tell the others to find him."
Derek didn't answer, but it was clear that he was taking the sheriff's words to heart. A little piece of his guilt flaked off.
Another half hour passed in companionable silence and Derek had soon volunteered to go get some coffee for them both. Then, as the sheriff sat alone at the side of his son's hospital bed, he noticed the first flickering signs of consciousness. It was small at first, just a finger twitching, and the sheriff almost convinced himself he had imagined it. Then Stiles had blearily opened his eyes, squinting at the light above him, tongue running over severely chapped lips. Sheriff Stilinski sat frozen, afraid that if he moved he might break the spell. Stiles slowly turned his head and with a confused look he whispered hoarsely, almost inaudible, "I was expecting to see mom."
Sheriff Stilinski gave a choked sound that might have been a laugh of relief but was more realistically a cut off sob, and launched out of his chair and threw his arms around Stiles. He eased his grip quickly when he heard the slight hiss of pain Stiles let out but he stayed sitting on Stiles' bed with his arms around the boy.
His boy. His baby boy.
Oh god, he'd almost lost him.
"No, Stiles, you're not dead. You gave it a good try but you pulled through. Don't you ever do that to me again," there were tears in his dad's eyes, and Stiles could feel his hands shaking as they rubbed at his shoulders gently.
Stiles wrapped his arms around his dad as best he could with all the medical instruments attached to him and he buried his face in his dad's broad shoulder, tiredly feeling his eyes fill with tears. He'd really wanted to hug his dad lately, and it was perfect. Probably a bad way of getting one, but, he wouldn't argue with it right then and there.
"I'm so sorry, dad. I never meant for it to go so far."
"Yeah, son, I know. It's just a good thing you have an entire werewolf pack to protect you."
Stiles stiffened instantly, heart pounding.
Wait… What?
"Umm… What are you talking about?"
Sheriff Stilinski smirked just a bit into his son's temple as he spoke. Little twerp had that coming.
"Scott told me everything. From what I hear, I raised a damn fine hero," he sobered a bit and the amusement slipped from his face. "I said some pretty terrible things to you when you kept lying to me. I still don't appreciate the lying, but I should never have said the things I did. I'm sorry, son. I'm proud of you and I always will be."
Stiles smiled brighter than he had in a long time. If this was a dream, he really didn't want to wake up, because his dad was warm, and just as comforting as he'd been when Stiles would have a nightmare when he was ten. They were silent for a minute and then Stiles broke the quiet.
"So, werewolves? Of all the things you thought I was keeping from you did you ever think it was werewolves? Because if you did, seriously, kudos dad."
The sheriff and Stiles looked at each other and both started laughing, soft and tired and affectionate, full of aching love and a lot of guilt from both parties.
"No," definitely not. "On my list of things you might be hiding werewolves wasn't even a thought."
So glad it wasn't an illegal drug ring.
Stiles' laughter tapered off and Sheriff Stilinski turned to see what he was looking at. Derek stood in the doorway, holding two coffee cups, beaming at the two of them laughing together, eyes tired and affectionate, full of warmth and softness. Oh thank god, Stiles thought. He still looks at me like that. He still loves me. I didn't ruin it. Thank god. Of course as soon as he saw them looking at him he stopped smiling and tried to pull off his tough werewolf persona again, ducking his head a little abashedly, a light flush on his cheeks that took yeas off the chiseled planes of his features.
That only made Stiles and the sheriff start laughing again.
Sheriff Stilinski stood up then, after a moment of wistful thoughtfulness, and clapped Derek on the shoulder.
"I'm going to go find a nurse. They wanted to be told when Stiles woke."
He took the coffee from Derek's hand and gave him a look as he left that clearly meant, 'I am leaving to give you two a moment alone before the others find out he's awake. Don't waste it.'
It also contained a little 'Touch him inappropriately and I will end you.'
Maybe he should consider keeping the sheriff away from Mr. Argent.
Just for safety's sake.
Stiles stared at Derek for a moment and then dropped his gaze to look at his bandaged arms. His voice trembled as he murmured, "I'm sorry."
Derek had the boy wrapped in his strong arms in an instant; careful to be gentle, to not hurt him any farther than he already was, to show he cared.
"Don't say that. Please don't say that," he whispered into the boy's hair, taking a deep breath, glad that some of the scent of weakness had abated. "You aren't the one who failed."
Stiles pulled back to look at Derek through watery eyes, staring into those tired, sorrowful, love filled eyes. He was so warm…
He really loved Derek.
"But I promised not to do this anymore. And not only did I cut, I almost killed myself doing it! I can't believe I was so stupid."
"No one blames you, Stiles. You were hurting and scared. You reacted the way you've been conditioned to react. I didn't expect years of habit to disappear in just two months. I shouldn't have, and you shouldn't have expected that either."
"I should have been strong enough to resist it."
Derek had to struggle not to growl in frustration at the boy, and unconsciously started up the hum he'd done for the pack, unnoticing of how the stiffening of the teenager's shoulder slowly eased.
"Stiles, please give yourself more credit. You are strong. You saved all of us. Just because you have a moment of weakness does not make you a weak person. If I was half as strong as you are I would be the Alpha that I want to be. The Alpha that I struggle towards being. I see in you a strength I could never even hope to attain. You are my strength. I can't even begin to express how terrified I was when I thought I might lose you."
How shattered he had felt, how hollow.
Stiles searched Derek's eyes for some sign that he was lying but all he saw was sincerity and love. And exhaustion, god did the Alpha look tired, like he needed to sleep for a week and eat a whole farm, he really should make the werewolf go and get something to eat and he was going to say something but… Then Derek was leaning in towards him slowly and he gently pressed his lips against Stiles, as if scared to break him. His lips were soft and warm against Stiles' cold, chapped lips. Stiles smiled against him and returned the tender kiss as best he could with so little energy and a returning lethargy that had receded with the adrenaline of being alive, of seeing his dad before him, of looking into Derek's eyes and finding love.
Derek pulled away first to the protests of Stiles, even if it was almost mumbled and his eyes were barely focusing on the werewolf. Derek smiled at him, a slightly amused tilt to his lips and brow, before he took his hand and explained.
"The pack is almost to the door."
As he spoke the words, the door was flung open by Isaac who came bounding in and straight up to Stiles' bedside. He grinned from ear to ear and wriggled in place for a moment like an overexcited puppy before he sat down on the edge of the bed.
"You have no idea how good it is to see you awake! We were so worried!" he exclaimed, excitement and joy, worry and concern and sadness all wrapped around him as he spoke.
The rest of the pack had squeezed into the room too by then, crowding around both he and Derek while Scott made his way to the front of the pack. He approached Stiles quietly and hugged him tightly, being careful of his damaged arms. Scott and Stiles shared a moment of silent communication where Stiles apologized with his eyes and Scott made it clear that he was just glad he was okay and then apologized himself, not enjoying the shock and confusion in Stiles' eyes as he looked at him.
He felt rotten.
What kind of friend was he that his apologies just shocked Stiles?
There were a lot of hugs that night and a lot of tears shed. The doctor came in to check on Stiles and declared him to be fine, but he had to take it easy for at least a week, and have the bandages on his wrists replaced often, and he had to be careful of the sutures. The nurses came in a few times to try to ask the pack to leave, but it was pretty clear they had no intention of going. Lydia had merely raised a brow and tossed her hair as if to say 'Excuse me?' and they'd left it at that.
The pack just stared at them as if they were crazy, and turned back to cuddling any part of Stiles or Derek they could get their grubby little hands on. And, man, Erica could be really handsy when she felt like it. Isaac pretty much cooed at the wounded human teenager and kept his huge, watery blue eyes on him the entire time. Boyd stood a near silent vigil at Derek's back, his gaze on Stiles and Erica and the pack soft in a way that the human had never seen before. Scott was earnestly trying to describe some game that they were totally going to dominate while Allison rolled her eyes.
Morning found them asleep and scattered around the room, mostly in some haphazard puppy pile that made Stiles concerned for Isaac's ability to breath. At some point in the night Derek had crawled onto the bed with Stiles and Stiles' head was resting comfortably on Derek's chest.
This was good. This was nice.
This was pack.
Time passed, and Stiles was cleared to leave the hospital with 'Very Specific Instructions' that he was so going to follow if the look in Lydia and Erica's eyes was anything to go by; he did not want that kind of torture. The things those two bombshells could come up with would probably drive him insane, and ruin what little social life he had.
Eventually, his arms healed, leaving behind far more scars than he liked, these ones much deeper and darker than he could stand, and not just because they were ugly and made his arms ache like he had a chainsaw going hard at his wrists. He hated them for the weakness they reminded him of and for the look that crossed Derek's face sometimes when his eyes fell upon them. Derek told him he was beautiful – eyes soft and sad as he said this, but still full of that all-consuming love – and that his scars just proved how strong he was.
They were his hurdles, and he didn't need them anymore.
Wolves didn't need hurdles, and the pack would carry him if he needed to jump over anything, would assist him with any challenge he tried to undertake.
Once Stiles had his strength back, Sheriff Stilinski insisted on improving his self-defense skills and the two spent long hours sparring, and Stiles wished he'd never agreed, that he could just sleep in on the weekend. Though he was rather surprised at how in shape his dad was, considering the fact that he wasn't supposed to eat junk food and his cholesterol was monstrous, his dad was pretty fit, as much as he really didn't want to think about it.
Derek often showed up to help and then he would stay for dinner, sometimes cooking, and he was a rather surprising connoisseur of the kitchen, although the steak really wasn't a surprise. The three would spend hours laughing together, he and his dad prying the werewolf further out of his solitary, lonely shell to remember what it was like to have family, and the sheriff would smile every time he saw Stiles reach for Derek's hand or Derek staring at Stiles like he was the best thing that ever happened to him. And a lot of confusion was usually present, too, but Stiles did that to everyone.
He was a force of nature.
Or, well, ADHD, really.
Every night, Stiles and Derek would share a loving smile as Stiles marked another day free of cutting on The Calendar that his dad had picked up, just for that.
There were still struggles, there always would be, but there was the pack, and there was Derek who gave Stiles strength. Stiles gave what strength he could right back to them and together they fought the monster of addiction that had tried to take Stiles away.
This was a war that Stiles was so very glad he didn't have to fight on his own anymore.
He wasn't alone, he was happy.
Life was getting good.
AN Tori: The story is over but we will be adding an epilogue soon that will lead into the sequel.
AN Cher: I'm so done with this. I keep like, almost tripling the size of the previous chapters, and I fear carpel tunnel's wrath. And a loss of what little sanity I have left.
AN Tori: She has no sanity.
