Breakdown
Title: Breakdown
Writer slythrngodss
Artist dazedrose
Rating: PG
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Summary: When blues singer Derek Hale's angry outbursts get to be too much his manager sends him to Asklepios Health Clinic (AHC) in the hopes that they might help him come to terms with his past. He isn't looking forward to it but maybe a few new friends and an alcoholic writer by the name of Stiles will help him come to terms with that.
Master Post
nbsp;“Derek,” Laura gives her a little brother a tired sigh, “I think it’s time we got you some professional help.”
Derek frowns, the corners of his lips creasing downwards into his trademark grimace, the ones his fans loved so much. He can read the resignation in the lines of Laura’s body: the curve of her spine, the weighted cant of her hips, the brittle dryness of her eyes. He knows that he has put that there, worn her down and tired her out. There is determination in her as well: the set of her shoulders, the steel hardness in the line of her lips, the way she is rooted to the floor pulling energy reserves from the earth. It would be foolish to fight her on this.
“I’ll see whoever you want me to see.” He shrugs. “I trust you.” It’s not like he actually has to talk to whoever she sends him to. It’ll be a waste of money, but they have the money to waste (they had it even before his fame) and it will get her off his back.
“It’s too late for that.” Laura brushes a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. “I should have,” she took a deep breath, “I’ve already called Asklepios Health Clinic they have a place waiting for you--
“No.” This is more than just seeing someone once or twice a week and not talking. This is being locked away like a crazy person. He can’t do this.
“You punched a paparazzo in the face. You threatened another with your guitar case.” Derek flinches as she drags the front page of last weeks Post out of her back pocket. The picture of Derek’s swing connecting with the man’s face rendered in full color. “If you won’t do it for you and you won’t do it for me, do it for your career because otherwise you won’t have one. I have gotten calls from venues. They don’t want you there if we can’t give them proof that their staff are safe from your rages. You want to tour? You want to growl and menace on stage in front of your adoring fans as you curl around that Gibson?”
Derek knows better than to say anything, not when Laura is like this. She hasn’t adjusted well either, and while she doesn’t get loud or violent her voice cuts, and no one’s words hurt like Laura’s words do.
“You’re going to Asklepios.”
AHC is hidden away in the woods of Beacon Hills, looking more like a spa retreat nestled in the hollow between two knolls that have been cleared of trees. Derek has a duffel and his guitar and Laura at his side until he’s officially checked in and they’ve shooed Laura away until it’s time for her to pick him up when all of this is over. It’s just him, his guitar, his duffel, and a beaming orderly that he wants to strangle.
He doesn’t have to share a room with anyone and the walls of his room aren’t a simple sterile white. They’re a cool damp looking blue-grey like fog in fall and his mother’s eyes. He knows better than to punch the wall. He punches the bed instead, the give of the spring under her his fist isn’t as satisfying as the crunch of the wall and the rip of skin across his knuckles but it’s something.
It takes him awhile to figure out what to do after that. They’ve given him time to settle in before taking him on a tour and introducing him to “his team” before letting him meet all the other wayward celebrities and rich housewives and rebellious teens holing up at AHC. He just sits there for awhile not looking at walls the color of his mother’s eyes before pulling out his guitar.
At first he just holds it. Then, he’s letting it out, feelings dancing along the fretboard, words tripping off his tongue. There is no true melody, not yet, this is too raw and fresh and uncontrolled for that.
“I’ve had a mouthful of sky
I’ve got a headful of trees
A thousand miles away is where I’d rather be”
He’s on his way to meet “his team” the first time he sees the boy, eyes red-rimmed, stumbling along with the assistance of a nurse. The boy is a mess, but there is something desperate in showing up to this place trashed that calls to Derek like a magnet. It has nothing to do with pale skin spotted with freckles and moles or the amber of his eyes and everything to do with the way his feet stutter as he walks and the grasp of his long fingers around the nurse’s arm.
His team is spread around the faux living room where they have been waiting for him. Some of them are standing, leaving the couch conspicously empty. Derek slouches onto it, ignoring the urge to spread out and take up as much space as he possibly can-they left the whole thing for him after all.
“Welcome, Derek,” The man in the armchair opposite him smiles dazzlingly at him, his pale face a mask of charm. “I’m Doctor Jonathon Toov and I’ll be your lead psychologist while you’re here. I’ll be working closely with your other therapists and with Dr. Darzi to come up with a full plan of treatment for you, and I will be helping you with your anger management and any other daily issues that might come up.” Derek stares at the man blankly. “I think you’re going to benefit from your time here.” Derek can’t help himself, he rolls his eyes at that. The man probably says it to every one of his patients that rolls in. “The rest of the team is made up of Dr. Marisa Costa. She is a psychologist specializing in trauma and grief counseling.”
The woman smiles at him. She is slender, slick, and pointed, with shiny curls pulled back tightly from her face. Derek thinks she looks kind in a manufactured way. Her hair is the same color as his mothers. He had thought he was over that color, past the resemblence it carries. He sees it everyday on Laura but something about the way this woman’s hair curls sends him back.
Dr. Toov brings him back, “Elizabeth Afolyan, your occupational therapist. She’ll help you with specific techniques to get through your work day.” The dark-skinned woman nods to him from her stool next to the faux fireplace, one foot solidly on the carpet the other on a rung of the stool. “Aidan J. Bierne will be your art therapist. His specialty is music.” The youngest looking man in the room, wearing jeans with his sweater vest gives him a jaunty wave and Derek sinks into the couch. He detests working with bubbly people. “And of course there is Dr. Kama Darzi.” Dr. Toov gestures at the Indian man who has been all but hiding in the corner for the duration of the meeting.
“A pleasure.” The man steps forward smiling silently. “I prefer to be unobtrusive.” The man says to Derek’s look. “I will be evaluating what place medication should have a place in treatment, if it should have a place at all, and I will be making suggestions to Dr. Toov about the specifics of your treatment. We’ll start with an evaluative questionare.” He pulls a folder of papers out of his briefcase.
Derek raises one incredulous eyebrow. “I have to take a test?”
Derek heads to the dining hall after his “test”, a long multiple choice evaluation of his moods and behaviors. From the test he has a feeling that he’ll be diagnosed as depressed but he’s not sure what the rest of it will add up to.
Dinner looks good for clinic food, poached fish in some sort of sauce with what he thinks are green beans and rice. He finds a table that none of the clinic’s cliques have occupied and sits down to a solitary silence filled by the sounds of cutlery and other people’s conversations. It’s almost relaxing. His almost relaxing is interrupted by the dull thud of tray on table, complete with rattling of real metal cutlery.
“I don’t really want company.” Derek glares up at the guy across from him. He’s younger than Derek and black with broad muscular shoulders.
“And I don’t really want to talk.” The guy shrugs as he sits down. “They get on you if you sit alone, something about anti-social behavior.” They eat quietly for awhile. Each of them minding their own business until some doctor that Derek doesn’t know walks past.
Boyd speech is ambling, slow in a way that was so relaxed it had to be practised. “Nod like I said something interesting.”
“Nod? Why not laugh.” Derek raises an eyebrow at the guy, who looks incredulous.
“You don’t seem like a laugher.” Derek snorts and gives the guy his requested nod, which gets him an approving look from the guy. “I’m Boyd.”
“Derek.” It’s then that the boy from before comes in, walking on his own but eyes still red-rimmed, moving like he doesn’t know what proper control of his body is, like he hasn’t grown into his limbs yet. Derek can’t help watching him and the way his hands grip his tray, knuckles white and grasping as he trips to his seat.
“And that’s Stiles.” Boyd smirks knowing and Derek grabs his knife gripping it tight to keep from knocking the smirk from Boyd’s face.
“He’s a repeat offender.”
Derek nods. There’s only one way that Boyd could have known about the repeat offender without talking to Stiles first and the boy came to the place trashed so that was out of the question. “How many times have you been here, then?”
Boyd gave Derek a dimpled smile. “Fifth time.” He scooped up a forkful of green beans. The thought of having to come back to this place made him shiver. He could understand why Stiles arrived red-rimmed and wobbly.
Boyd just chuckles at Derek’s discomfit and continues eating. Derek realizes he’s still gripping his knife and as he lets go it’s clear that he was holding the wrong end. He glances down and sees his hand spotted with blood from the knife’s tiny teeth. He wipes it off on his hand. Boyd pretends not to notice.
At the end of the day Derek ends up back in his room, staring at the walls. He starts to sink into slumber as he sits on his hard mattress but every time his eyes slip halfway closed his sees flames lick up the sides of the rooms.
He pulls out his guitar to make it stop but just ends up swiping at the strings with dischord bouncing around his head. It’s not long before he puts it away and crawls into bed so he can scream into his pillow.
Part 2
Writer slythrngodss
Artist dazedrose
Rating: PG
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Summary: When blues singer Derek Hale's angry outbursts get to be too much his manager sends him to Asklepios Health Clinic (AHC) in the hopes that they might help him come to terms with his past. He isn't looking forward to it but maybe a few new friends and an alcoholic writer by the name of Stiles will help him come to terms with that.
Master Post
nbsp;“Derek,” Laura gives her a little brother a tired sigh, “I think it’s time we got you some professional help.”
Derek frowns, the corners of his lips creasing downwards into his trademark grimace, the ones his fans loved so much. He can read the resignation in the lines of Laura’s body: the curve of her spine, the weighted cant of her hips, the brittle dryness of her eyes. He knows that he has put that there, worn her down and tired her out. There is determination in her as well: the set of her shoulders, the steel hardness in the line of her lips, the way she is rooted to the floor pulling energy reserves from the earth. It would be foolish to fight her on this.
“I’ll see whoever you want me to see.” He shrugs. “I trust you.” It’s not like he actually has to talk to whoever she sends him to. It’ll be a waste of money, but they have the money to waste (they had it even before his fame) and it will get her off his back.
“It’s too late for that.” Laura brushes a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. “I should have,” she took a deep breath, “I’ve already called Asklepios Health Clinic they have a place waiting for you--
“No.” This is more than just seeing someone once or twice a week and not talking. This is being locked away like a crazy person. He can’t do this.
“You punched a paparazzo in the face. You threatened another with your guitar case.” Derek flinches as she drags the front page of last weeks Post out of her back pocket. The picture of Derek’s swing connecting with the man’s face rendered in full color. “If you won’t do it for you and you won’t do it for me, do it for your career because otherwise you won’t have one. I have gotten calls from venues. They don’t want you there if we can’t give them proof that their staff are safe from your rages. You want to tour? You want to growl and menace on stage in front of your adoring fans as you curl around that Gibson?”
Derek knows better than to say anything, not when Laura is like this. She hasn’t adjusted well either, and while she doesn’t get loud or violent her voice cuts, and no one’s words hurt like Laura’s words do.
“You’re going to Asklepios.”
AHC is hidden away in the woods of Beacon Hills, looking more like a spa retreat nestled in the hollow between two knolls that have been cleared of trees. Derek has a duffel and his guitar and Laura at his side until he’s officially checked in and they’ve shooed Laura away until it’s time for her to pick him up when all of this is over. It’s just him, his guitar, his duffel, and a beaming orderly that he wants to strangle.
He doesn’t have to share a room with anyone and the walls of his room aren’t a simple sterile white. They’re a cool damp looking blue-grey like fog in fall and his mother’s eyes. He knows better than to punch the wall. He punches the bed instead, the give of the spring under her his fist isn’t as satisfying as the crunch of the wall and the rip of skin across his knuckles but it’s something.
It takes him awhile to figure out what to do after that. They’ve given him time to settle in before taking him on a tour and introducing him to “his team” before letting him meet all the other wayward celebrities and rich housewives and rebellious teens holing up at AHC. He just sits there for awhile not looking at walls the color of his mother’s eyes before pulling out his guitar.
At first he just holds it. Then, he’s letting it out, feelings dancing along the fretboard, words tripping off his tongue. There is no true melody, not yet, this is too raw and fresh and uncontrolled for that.
“I’ve had a mouthful of sky
I’ve got a headful of trees
A thousand miles away is where I’d rather be”
He’s on his way to meet “his team” the first time he sees the boy, eyes red-rimmed, stumbling along with the assistance of a nurse. The boy is a mess, but there is something desperate in showing up to this place trashed that calls to Derek like a magnet. It has nothing to do with pale skin spotted with freckles and moles or the amber of his eyes and everything to do with the way his feet stutter as he walks and the grasp of his long fingers around the nurse’s arm.
His team is spread around the faux living room where they have been waiting for him. Some of them are standing, leaving the couch conspicously empty. Derek slouches onto it, ignoring the urge to spread out and take up as much space as he possibly can-they left the whole thing for him after all.
“Welcome, Derek,” The man in the armchair opposite him smiles dazzlingly at him, his pale face a mask of charm. “I’m Doctor Jonathon Toov and I’ll be your lead psychologist while you’re here. I’ll be working closely with your other therapists and with Dr. Darzi to come up with a full plan of treatment for you, and I will be helping you with your anger management and any other daily issues that might come up.” Derek stares at the man blankly. “I think you’re going to benefit from your time here.” Derek can’t help himself, he rolls his eyes at that. The man probably says it to every one of his patients that rolls in. “The rest of the team is made up of Dr. Marisa Costa. She is a psychologist specializing in trauma and grief counseling.”
The woman smiles at him. She is slender, slick, and pointed, with shiny curls pulled back tightly from her face. Derek thinks she looks kind in a manufactured way. Her hair is the same color as his mothers. He had thought he was over that color, past the resemblence it carries. He sees it everyday on Laura but something about the way this woman’s hair curls sends him back.
Dr. Toov brings him back, “Elizabeth Afolyan, your occupational therapist. She’ll help you with specific techniques to get through your work day.” The dark-skinned woman nods to him from her stool next to the faux fireplace, one foot solidly on the carpet the other on a rung of the stool. “Aidan J. Bierne will be your art therapist. His specialty is music.” The youngest looking man in the room, wearing jeans with his sweater vest gives him a jaunty wave and Derek sinks into the couch. He detests working with bubbly people. “And of course there is Dr. Kama Darzi.” Dr. Toov gestures at the Indian man who has been all but hiding in the corner for the duration of the meeting.
“A pleasure.” The man steps forward smiling silently. “I prefer to be unobtrusive.” The man says to Derek’s look. “I will be evaluating what place medication should have a place in treatment, if it should have a place at all, and I will be making suggestions to Dr. Toov about the specifics of your treatment. We’ll start with an evaluative questionare.” He pulls a folder of papers out of his briefcase.
Derek raises one incredulous eyebrow. “I have to take a test?”
Derek heads to the dining hall after his “test”, a long multiple choice evaluation of his moods and behaviors. From the test he has a feeling that he’ll be diagnosed as depressed but he’s not sure what the rest of it will add up to.
Dinner looks good for clinic food, poached fish in some sort of sauce with what he thinks are green beans and rice. He finds a table that none of the clinic’s cliques have occupied and sits down to a solitary silence filled by the sounds of cutlery and other people’s conversations. It’s almost relaxing. His almost relaxing is interrupted by the dull thud of tray on table, complete with rattling of real metal cutlery.
“I don’t really want company.” Derek glares up at the guy across from him. He’s younger than Derek and black with broad muscular shoulders.
“And I don’t really want to talk.” The guy shrugs as he sits down. “They get on you if you sit alone, something about anti-social behavior.” They eat quietly for awhile. Each of them minding their own business until some doctor that Derek doesn’t know walks past.
Boyd speech is ambling, slow in a way that was so relaxed it had to be practised. “Nod like I said something interesting.”
“Nod? Why not laugh.” Derek raises an eyebrow at the guy, who looks incredulous.
“You don’t seem like a laugher.” Derek snorts and gives the guy his requested nod, which gets him an approving look from the guy. “I’m Boyd.”
“Derek.” It’s then that the boy from before comes in, walking on his own but eyes still red-rimmed, moving like he doesn’t know what proper control of his body is, like he hasn’t grown into his limbs yet. Derek can’t help watching him and the way his hands grip his tray, knuckles white and grasping as he trips to his seat.
“And that’s Stiles.” Boyd smirks knowing and Derek grabs his knife gripping it tight to keep from knocking the smirk from Boyd’s face.
“He’s a repeat offender.”
Derek nods. There’s only one way that Boyd could have known about the repeat offender without talking to Stiles first and the boy came to the place trashed so that was out of the question. “How many times have you been here, then?”
Boyd gave Derek a dimpled smile. “Fifth time.” He scooped up a forkful of green beans. The thought of having to come back to this place made him shiver. He could understand why Stiles arrived red-rimmed and wobbly.
Boyd just chuckles at Derek’s discomfit and continues eating. Derek realizes he’s still gripping his knife and as he lets go it’s clear that he was holding the wrong end. He glances down and sees his hand spotted with blood from the knife’s tiny teeth. He wipes it off on his hand. Boyd pretends not to notice.
At the end of the day Derek ends up back in his room, staring at the walls. He starts to sink into slumber as he sits on his hard mattress but every time his eyes slip halfway closed his sees flames lick up the sides of the rooms.
He pulls out his guitar to make it stop but just ends up swiping at the strings with dischord bouncing around his head. It’s not long before he puts it away and crawls into bed so he can scream into his pillow.
Part 2