Prompt Post 01
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In retrospect, Stiles probably shouldn’t have tried to pet the cat. All his life, he’s had bad experiences with trying to pet cats - dating back to his Grandmother’s old Persian and the time he’d reached out to stroke its fur and had, in return, gotten a face full of claws. Cats hate Stiles, it’s a fact. He’s learned and relearned that fact countless times.
He should have known better, really. Don’t pet cats. Never, ever pet cats.
“Hey there, kitty,” Stiles says, edging into the alley. The cat stares at him with deep grey eyes, tail flickering.
Stiles kneels down, offering a hand to sniff. The cat glances at his hand and then back up at Stiles, blinking slowly. It doesn’t come closer, doesn’t sniff his hand.
“Aren’t you a pretty cat. Come here, pretty girl.”
Stiles loves cats. If cats loved Stiles, Stiles would have ten cats. In truth, this cat is not very pretty, with its mangy coat and jutting canines, but Stiles isn’t one to judge. It does look sort of like a saber-toothed tiger, though. A very small, ugly saber-toothed tiger. Ugly in a cute way, of course. Stiles shuffles a little closer.
“How about I call you Victor? Victor Creed. Hah.”
The cat looks at him in an irritated sort of way, if cats can look irritated.
“What, you don’t like Victor? Come on, like in the comics. Sabretooth. You know.”
The cat looks away from him, glancing around the alley, tail twitching.
“Aw, come on. Don’t be like that, kitty.”
When Stiles creeps closer this time, hand outstretches, the cat looks back over at him and growls, deeper than any cat Stiles has ever heard (and Stiles has heard the growl from many a cat). It gets up and hisses, hair standing on end. Stiles scrambles away, but only succeeds in falling on his ass.
“Oh my god, cat,” Stiles says. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving, please calm down.”
But the cat just growls louder, tail whipping back and forth. When Stiles moves to get up, the cat lunges, too quick to dodge away from. Stiles feels a sharp, sudden pain in his wrist, and looks down to see the cat latched onto him, eyes wild. Stiles yelps and tries to push it away, but it grips hard with its teeth and claws, scratching him through his shirt.
“Ow, you evil cat,” Stiles grunts. The cat bites harder.
Stiles finally struggles to his knees and fists the cat’s scruff, trying to (gently) pull the cat away.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Stiles yells. “Let me go. Oh my god, don’t bite my face -”
And then the cat releases him and pushes away, shooting off into the alleyway. Stiles watches it disappear around a corner before he breathes, gasping. It’s too dark out to see properly, but his wrist looks bloody and torn, pain lancing up his arm.
Wary of any other vicious cats on the prowl, Stiles drags himself to his feet, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He types one-handedly, sending off a text to Scott.
Just got mauled by extremely angry cat. Will let you know later if I need medical attention. At this point, looking quite likely.
He starts walking. It’s a few minutes before Scott replies, and Stiles stops in the middle of the sidewalk to read it.
jesus. again, stiles?
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It looks even worse in the light. Stiles gags a little when he peels back his sleeve to see it - most of the blood is dried and caked onto his skin, but fresher blood is dripping down his arm and landing on the floor.
Stiles locks himself in the bathroom and rolls up his sleeve, washing his wrist as carefully as possible. The water makes it sting, makes his whole arm start to throb. He winces and brushes his hand gently over the dried blood, scraping it away. When it’s clean, he dries his arm carefully with a clean towel and inspects it.
The cat’s teeth left punctures, holes that look too deep for something a tiny cat could have done. There’s also claw marks raked up his arm and across his belly, red and angry looking. His wrist, beneath the punctures, is bruising, already dark purple and swelling.
Stiles feels sick as he walks to his bedroom, slumping down into his computer chair. He does a few online searches for “diseases you can catch from feral cat bites” and goes to sleep with a strange, queasy feeling in his gut, thoughts of rabies and bacteria circling around his mind. If it doesn’t look any better in the morning, I’ll go to the hospital, he decides, just before drifting off.
--
Stiles wakes up to the darkness of his room, to roaring silence in his ears. It feels like his arm is on fire, pain shooting up his shoulder and climbing up his neck. It’s a nearly unbearable feeling, the heat, like an itch that can’t be scratched, something too deep inside to see. The pain comes in pulses, beats, each one making his whole body shake. He tries to move, tries to call out for help, but he feels paralyzed, limbs locked. He rolls his tongue in his mouth, his saliva thick and sour. He can feel his clothes sticking to him with sweat, his muscles straining against the pain. Breathing hard, Stiles looks down to where his hands are fisted in the bedsheets. It’s dark, so dark in his room, but he can make out the swollen part of his wrist, the bruising. It looks - it looks wrong. With a gasp he unclenches his fists and hauls his arm up, pain sparking behind his eyes.
The bruising is dark, black, reaching up his forearm like a shadow. His veins are dark and thick and standing out. Where the punctures were is just two deep, dark holes, oozing.
Another burst of pain hits him and he drops his arm, drops into unconsciousness.
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It’s his phone that wakes him up in the morning, trilling loudly from somewhere on the floor. Stiles grunts and falls out of his bed, scrambles across the floor with his eyes half-open. He picks it up hastily and slumps against the floor.
“Uh, hello?” his voice is hoarse to his own ears, and he clears his throat.
“Stiles? Where the hell are you? Is something wrong?” It’s Scott.
“Jeez, no, uh. Wait, where am I supposed to be?”
There’s a pause. “School, Stiles. We have a test in like, half an hour. Are you sick or something?”
Stiles opens his eyes and looks over at his alarm clock. Already after ten. Oh shit.
“No, I’m, I’m fine. I’m coming now. Slept through my alarm,” he mumbles. “See you in a bit.”
He hangs up and struggles to his feet, pulling his shirt off as he goes. He turns back to make his bed, only stopping when he sees the trail of blood in his sheets, smeared across his pillow.
“What the hell?”
He lifts up his pillow, trying to figure out how he managed to bleed all over himself last night.
The memories come back to him slowly, easing into his head while he speed-showers. The cat. The - the bite. Last night, when he’d looked at his arm -
He lifts it up, but there’s nothing there to see. No scratches, no bite marks, no bruising. He stands there staring until the water runs cold, which kicks him back into motion. It must’ve been a dream, he thinks, as he gets dressed and rushes out of the house. The whole thing was just a dream. But that doesn’t explain the blood, nor the uneasiness in his belly as he drives to school.
--
He’s almost late to the test, but manages to slide into his seat just as the teacher is about to do attendance. He grins at Scott. Scott doesn’t grin back, though, just frowns at him and leans forward.
“Seriously, are you okay?” Scott whispers.
“Dude, I’m fine,” Stiles says, digging a pencil out of his bag.
“So you survived the cat attack, then?” Scott asks. Stiles goes very still.
It wasn’t a dream, then. Stiles looks down his wrist, turning his arm to try to see if there’s some kind of mark he missed. But his skin is clear, normal. There’s no bite. It makes no sense. He realizes Scott is still waiting for an answer, so he nods.
Scott snorts. “You need to stop trying to pet strange cats, Stiles. You know they don’t like you.”
“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles, staring down at the test in front of him. But the words don’t make much sense, no matter how long he looks, and he keeps glancing at his wrist. In his mind, he can see the bloody and swollen skin, the black bruises all up his arm. It seemed so real, last night. So terrifying.
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I can't wait for more!
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He starts getting a headache long before lunch starts, a dull pain that pulses behind his eyes. The lights in the school seem unusually bright, the sounds of people talking and laughing loud enough to make his ears ring. If he didn’t know better, he would say he’s hungover. But he knows he didn’t drink anything. He would have remembered that.
Rather than heading for the cafeteria, Stiles makes his way outside at lunch time. He walks around for a while, enjoying the relative silence and the breeze, the way the trees smell when the wind blows through them. He props himself up against a wall and sighs, content. The sun is warm where it beats down on him, and he closes his eyes, limbs outstretched.
He’s nearly asleep when he smells something strange - faint, but definitely there. It’s a warm sort of smell, earthy, something Stiles has never smelled before. He can’t even find the words to describe it, to explain the smell in a way that makes sense.
He feels a presence in front of him and opens his eyes. Derek is standing a few feet away, staring at him with wide eyes, looking lost, confused. He can see Derek sniffing the air. Maybe he smells that weird smell, too, Stiles thinks. But then Derek is coming closer, expression suddenly angry, dangerous.
“What the hell happened to you? What did you do?” Derek growls, almost shouts. Stiles raises his hands in a defensive gesture.
“What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything,” Stiles snaps. His mind reels, trying to remember what he might have done this time to set Derek off. Derek’s jaw is clenching and unclenching, his hands keep forming into fists. He can see Derek’s nostrils flaring, like he’s trying to breath something in. Stiles should feel afraid in this position, sitting down in front of an angry Derek, vulnerable, but he feels strangely calm.
Derek looks away suddenly, lips drawn in a thin, angry line. “Tell Scott to come by my house later.”
“Uh, dude, don’t you have a phone? You could have just called. Or texted him or something,” Stiles says. “No need for the middle man. It’s not like I’m invited to your werewolf party.”
Derek glares down at him. “It’s not a party. Scott needs to learn how to control his powers.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says.
He feels hungry, sort of, but the idea of getting up is annoying. He shifts, stretches his arms over his head and yawns. When he opens his eyes, Derek’s face has gone slack and he’s sniffing hard, eyes dark and sort of glazed over. Is he - is he smelling me? Stiles thinks. He self-consciously lowers his arms, draws his knees in close.
“Uh, dude? Are you okay?” Stiles asks, wary. “Cause I’m getting kind of weirded out, just saying.”
Derek looks away again, glaring at nothing. “Just pass on my message, Stiles.”
“Uh, okay.”
And then Derek is leaving, turning a corner around the building. Stiles watches him go. The smell from before - the warm, earthy smell - it fades slowly, like it’s being stretched out in the air, and Stiles stays until it’s gone.
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