Fic: Chin Up, Sunshine - Teen Wolf - Gen, Stiles & Scott - 1/1
Title: Chin Up, Sunshine
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Wordcount: ~4000
Summary: Even though he's down and bloody, all Stiles really wants to do is make Scott smile, because if you really care about someone, if they're your family, you only need to make them smile to make things right again. That's what his mother taught him.
Warnings: Spoilers for Season 3A; adult language; some graphic violence on a minor.
A/N: Written for the TWreversebang for GoFishGo's wonderful drawing, HERE. Setting is after Season 3A (the story was written before 3B started), but otherwise rather vague. So sorry for the use of the italics, but I wanted to distinguish the flashbacks properly.
"Chin up, sunshine," she whispered.
Her fingers touched his cheek, making him look up and meet her weary eyes. She was smaller than he'd ever seen her, paler than she'd ever been before, but there was a grin at her lips, and that helped him be just a little less afraid. Even though Daddy wasn't back. Even though everything wasn't really okay. Still, she smiled, because she'd always told him that when you say hello or goodbye, you smile just the same.
So he smiled back at her, for the last time.
He drifted. Which sounded entirely too peaceful to be accurate, because when you drifted off? Yeah, not really peaceful. Just scary. Drifting meant being anchorless. Floating away from the safety of the banks - drifting. Stiles just didn't care for it too much.
So he tightened his fingers, hoping to find something that would keep him from traveling too far, and found one hand was grasping cotton. A shirt, Scott's. If he was holding on to Scott, then he wasn't really drifting, was he?
His head lolled to the side of its own accord, and he forced himself to right it before the tickling sensation of cooling blood reached his eye. He made himself look up, despite the stabbing pain radiating from his temple. When the world stopped spinning, he could focus enough to see:
Yup, he'd been right. Scott. A bit furrier than usual at the moment, his face silhouette by the moon above, but still recognizable as Scott. The angle was funny, and it took Stiles a few seconds of being jostled by the werewolf's quick speed for him to realize it was because he was being carried by his best friend, bridal style. That was just...great. Seriously, because nothing was better for his manhood than being cradled like an infant after having your ass whooped by two idiots.
If it was anyone but Scott doing the carrying, he might have reason to be embarrassed.
Stiles tried to snort at that thought and choked on his own breath, coughing hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. "Jeeze," he managed, his teeth clenched. "'S good thing we're secure in our masculinity."
Even in his own ears, a few of those words came out mangled, but the geist remained. Scott glanced down, a flash of crimson around his irises, then righted his gaze on whatever path was ahead. Not even so much as a smirk on his face.
Huh. "Going..." Stiles blinked, fighting off another wave of dizziness, and then curled one corner of his lips as he remembered what he was going to add. "Going to carry me over the thresh hold?"
Scott didn't even look down this time, but Stiles could see his expression. Still no smile.
Stiles frowned but tried to keep it out of his voice. It and the pain. There was pain, wasn't there? Stiles couldn't really tell, and he figured that had something to do with Scott using his wolfy comforting mojo on him.
Scott picked up speed, the change none too subtle, and it rattled Stiles from his ribs to his eyeballs. He winced - yup, pain was still a thing, supernatural influence or not - and tried to cover it with a soft chuckle.
"Be gentle with me, 's my first time."
Scott slid to a stop, his panting coming out as a thick cloud that hung above him. Another flash of red, but it stayed a bit longer this time, before Scott's eyes became his own again. But Stiles had known him long enough to see the anger there, even without those ridiculous werewolf sideburns to let him know.
"Shut up, Stiles." Scott's expression was hard, unfamiliar attached to puppy eyes, and his concentration was on something else as he shifted Stiles, trying to free his hand enough to reach something. A click on metal sounded familiar; the Jeep's door. They were getting inside.
Stiles opened his mouth, wanting to say something, anything that might cover how it was going to feel to move, to have his anchor let him go, if only for a moment, but Scott cut him off.
"Just...shut up. Okay?"
Good advice, someone in his head said. Stiles wanted to disagree, but it sounded way too much like his dad's voice circling around in there, and his dad usually meant it when he said those words. His dad. Shit. His dad wouldn't be happy about this, and if Stiles couldn't even make Scott smile, how the hell was he supposed to get his dad to.
Shut up, Stiles - he could have used that advice earlier. Some people just didn't have a sense of humor.
"So, let me get this straight - you're knowingly breaking into the home of a guy who sells firearms for a living? Yeah, I can see you thought this through."
For the sake of feigning ignorance of the paranormal, Stiles didn't add that the knuckleheads were also breaking into the home of a werewolf hunter, which was even more dangerous, but he had the sneaking suspicion that these two were on the up-and-up. For starters, he was pretty sure he recognized the big one. Big being a relative term, as they were both testosterone towers topped in beards and leathers coats, one of them a bit thicker than the other, his neck disappearing into his shoulders.
Stiles really hoped he was wrong and that all meatheads just happened to look alike, because if he was right, then the place he recognized said-meathead from was Gerard Argent's side, playing the part of nameless flunky, about a year ago, when old-man-crazy was Number One Villain in Beacon Hills. And that would be bad. Really bad. Because it would mean that these guys were in-the-know and probably aware of the fact that Chris Argent no longer lived in this house. Which meant they weren't two random thieves. Which meant biding time was probably not going to do him a hell of a lot of good. Which meant he should probably run back up the staircase he was currently standing on instead of talking to the bad man on the ground floor.
Said bad man raised his arm a bit, the handgun he was holding to his side more obvious now.
How was it he got into these messes? Oh, yeah. Because he was Stiles. And because, while the rest of the gang was getting ready for battle, he - the human who wasn't a hunter or a druid - had offered to go by the house that had been the setting for more than a couple of his nightmares in order to pick up an Argent family relic that might be of use in their battle with the yet-unnamed fairy asshole currently stalking their favorite banshee.
It was a stone. A piece of rock from the motherland that had been built into a mantle in the house. And, as Deaton had informed Chris, apparently it was old and damned useful.
Stiles' task was to retrieve it while the others worked on putting the pieces of their plan of attack together. Easy. Sure.
Flunky's eyes narrowed. "I know you..."
Stiles swallowed hard, pretending he didn't hear him, and gave his invisible watch a glance. As if it mattered, as if he hadn't been so preoccupied with his task of chipping away the stone that he didn't hear these two breaking into the house, didn't even spot them until he was almost at the foot of the stairs and found himself deer-in-headlights staring down two criminals. As if he hadn't been the one who'd disarmed the damn security system for them. Shit.
But Stiles was snapping out of his shock now and formulating a plan. Bullshit them with a distraction, then run back upstairs. He was pretty sure he'd left the crowbar he'd been using to pry the stone away on the floor up there, and there were plenty of windows with easy access to the outside world, if his memory of Allison and Scott's evenings spent sneaking in and out were accurate. A great plan. Unless Flunky decided to shoot him first.
He took a breath... "And the sheriff should be here in, oh, two minutes or so, so if I were you - well, if I were you, I wouldn't be breaking and entering - but if I were, I'd, you know, scram. Before he gets here."
Flunky didn't seem to hear him. "You're that brat we picked up. The one who's friends with the wolves."
Stiles blinked, soaking in the sound of the man's voice for the first time. It triggered a memory that left his heart beating just a bit faster. The night he was taken at the lacrosse game, the night Jackson 'died'... He knew he'd recognized those faces. Flunky with a gun had been the guy to drive him home that night, after Gerard had given the order. From the backseat, he'd barely seen more than eyes in a rearview mirror, but the guy had cracked a few jokes about his bruises. Then reinforced the hanging threat Gerard had left him with.
Shit.
Stiles forgot his plan and ran.
Scott let go.
The pain came running back, like some writhing, wild beast that just realized it's cage door was open. Stiles tried to catch his breath and lost it again, confused as to why his dull headache was now located in his stomach region. For a moment, he forgot: where he was, why he was sitting in the passenger's side of the car, why he was alone.
But he wasn't alone. Just as soon as the background noise registered as the driver's side door opening and closing, the engine cranking, he felt a clawed hand lay over the netted fingers he'd instinctively clasped over his abdomen.
"Keep pressure on it," Scott said.
What was 'it'? Stiles' brow furrowed in frustration, then he reached a conclusion. "I'm bleeding...Why am I bleeding?"
Scott didn't answer but let out a shallow, anxious breath, and Stiles wondered if maybe this question had already been asked.
The pain was easing back down again, the lion-tamer having returned to his post. The streetlight set skin aglow and he could see Scott's arm still reaching across to hold him up and closed, the corded muscles beneath darkened with little black snakes of agony crawling just beneath the skin. The sudden lack of feeling at his abdomen left him with his head aching once more, and it felt wrong, that numbness, like the time he drank his dad's whiskey bottle dry, just to prove a point.
"I think I'm going to throw up," Stiles mentioned, but he could already taste bile in his mouth. Maybe he'd already done that? "Are we going to Deaton's?"
Scott growled, a low, impatient sound, and turned the wheel hard. Both of them swayed on their seats, as if they were in a boat. "The hospital. You're going to the hospital, Stiles."
Oh, yeah. Because he was a human, not a werewolf, so he didn't need a vet. Stiles gave a short laugh at his joke. "Why are you angry?" he asked, when Scott didn't join him.
"Are you kidding me?" Scott breathed. "Stiles...just..." Scott's voice broke off, as if he couldn't complete the statement, and he stared ahead.
Stiles remembered it now, what he'd forgotten two seconds ago, and he tried to put it together, what happened. "Scott..." His tongue felt swollen in mouth, the words fighting to get around it, and didn't really want to ask, but the question was already in his head. And he was Stiles, so he said it anyway. "What color would my eyes be, if I was a werewolf?"
Scott's were red, again, still ahead, on the road. "Gold, Stiles. They'd be gold."
He ran. Back up the stairs, like one of those friggin' idiots in a horror movie. He couldn't rationalize the move in that very minute, though he knew he'd had a new plan formulating when he'd made it.
But he couldn't think it through, not with all the noise. His heart was pumping in his ears, filling them with too much sound. The crack in the air was dull by comparison, and he didn't register what had caused it at first. For some crazy reason, he thought it was the sound of the bottom step breaking as Thing 1 and Thing 2 both tried to hop on it at once. But his body knew better - he lurched forward, tripping up onto the second floor and landing on his stomach.
It was already dark upstairs, the flashlight he'd been using dropped beside him, along with the small tote bag holding the stone. The stone, their weapon, rolled out partially, looking chalky and weathered, like an old brick, which, essentiality, it was. Stiles stared out at it, at the runic looking symbol carved onto its side, and he had a feeling he might never find out what that stupid chunk of rock actually would do.
Something wet and warm tickled his fingertips and he slid them over, against his body, realizing the pool they were wading in was coming from him. Hot ice shot through his side at the movement, and he whimpered, laying his hand flat again, trying to get a grip on himself.
"Why the hell did you shoot him?" The voice was loud, pitched in panic, and coming closer. It wasn't the one Stiles recognized. "I didn't sign up to kill any kid!"
"He ran," the other man snapped. "And he's not just a kid - he's with those fucking wolves. You want him telling them we're here? Better yet, what if he tells Chris it was us raiding his arsenal? Get your ass up here and help me move him."
"Fine, but... Shit, Mike! You winged him! He's alive...I can't."
Louder thuds, boots on steps, retreating now. Stiles held back a grunt as he pushed his body up onto his elbows.
"Jimmy, I swear to God, you run now, you're not getting a red cent of your cut, you fuckin' coward..." The voice cut off, devolving into bitter curses. It sounded far enough away, far enough to give Stiles time to...to do something.
Stiles slid one knee up, managing to move forward, push himself further away from the voice and the man who owned it. Mike? Oh, Jesus, he was going to be killed by some hunting thug named Mike, who had, what? Broken in to the Argent's house to steal what Chris left behind? And what the hell was Chris doing using this place for storage? People and their goddamn secrets. He probably wouldn't get an answer to those question either.
"Oh, no you don't, you little shit..."
Fingers wrapped around Stiles' ankle, yanking him back down, and he screamed at the pain of hitting the floor again. Scrambling to reach out, his grasp caught on to something, the bag's handle. It still felt heavy, the stone sitting on the hem, being pulled along with him. Some part of him imagined Deaton staring at his watch, annoyed that Stiles wasn't back from his 'simple task' quite yet. He wanted to laugh hysterically at that, but failed when another pull left his face sliding over his own blood, staining him in the red he'd left behind only moments earlier.
The movies lied. They all said there was some blissful numbness that took over after somebody got shot, and Stiles really, really wanted to call someone on their bullshit for that because he was anything but numb. Maybe that was a good thing, though. Maybe that meant he wasn't quite as dead as he thought he was.
He slid further and his shin hit the steps painfully. Mike was pulling him back down the stairs to finish him. Back down...
"Didn't ever learn your lesson, did ya, kid?" Mike huffed as pulled the boy down. The man circled past him. "Never quit playing with those mutts, huh? Old Gerard, he tried to help you, you know. Maybe if he'd let me teach it, the lesson might have stuck."
Stiles raised his head. "What can I say?" He took a deep breath, staring up at the man in defiance. "I'm a...crappy student."
A boot struck him across the temple, leaving him momentarily blind, and he felt himself slip over, rolling onto his side. He lost his balance and the world tilted. The tumble down the stairs was fast, and he was too dazed to feel the impact of every step, but when he hit the ground floor he could have sworn he'd just taken another beating from another crazy old man.
He bit down, hardening his jaw, trying to stop himself from crying out. From crying at all. He didn't need another reminder of how weak he was. How human.
Footsteps again. Stiles was starting to hate the slight squeak of those stairs.
"Gonna put you back in that basement. Don't worry, I'm sure Argent will find you when he comes looking for his weapons..." There was more bite to his voice, hate boiling up from somewhere deep. "Bastard thinks he can just leave the life, cut all of us off and tell us to pack up? Thinks he can make nice with dogs now...We'll show him what he gets for that, won't we?"
"Army of one?" Stiles tried to tack on a chuckle, but he winced instead. Jesus, he just couldn't keep his mouth shut...
"Funny kid. But there's more of us out there, and they don't like it when their fellow hunters betray the cause."
Stiles pushed himself up onto his side, holding his arm tight against his wound. " 'The cause'? Here I thought you were just a greedy thug stealing expensive weapons..."
He expected the next kick, but it still knocked him onto his back. He gasped for breath, wanting to turn over, curl in on himself, but he couldn't. A second later, he realized why. Mike was on the floor beside him, one knee digging into Stiles' sternum. The gun was back in hand again, moving none too fast toward his head. Black closed in around his vision, but Stiles could make out the man's face. He didn't seem to be hesitating, just taking his time. As if murder had to be done properly.
No...no! He couldn't die like this. His dad wouldn't be able to take it. Scott wouldn't be able to take it.
Stiles jerked beneath the man's weight, reaching up to claw at his attacker, but his hand was swatted away. The back of his arm hit something hard, something laying on the floor beside him. The stone. Mike must have knocked the stone down the stairs too. Stiles fingers wrapped around it and he swung.
The sound. The sound was too much. Too loud again. That crack. That squelch.
The body fell over, still managing to hold Stiles down. Still twitching, and Stiles cried out, instinctively swinging the stone again. Instinctively aiming for the head again. And again. And...
Stiles didn't know when he arrived, when Scott burst through the door or what he saw exactly, because the body was moved aside, pushed to the shadows, and he was being lifted up again by his best friend. Not drifting in the black, but anchored to the werewolf and to the voice telling he'd be alright. He'd be okay.
"Chin up, sunshine."
It wasn't Scott's voice, but it put a smile on his face.
It was cold, when he drifted.
He had to focus hard on the television - muted cartoon creatures roaming a post-apocalyptic Earth - hanging from one high corner of the room before he realized he was actually fully awake, not dreaming. Or drifting. Just awake, tired, sore...And in a hospital room, his arm heavy with tape and tubes.
"Stiles?"
His head rolled to one side, and his brow furrowed.
"Scott?" The name came out scratchy and left his throat feeling raw and abused. "Where's...?"
Scott's face brightened slightly. Still no smile at his lips, but something new in his eyes. Relief. Scott had looked anything but relieved the last time Stiles had seen him.
"Your dad? He just stepped out for coffee, like two minutes ago." Scott shook his head, found a foam cup at the side table and pressed its straw again Stiles lips. " One sip - he said you'd probably wake up as soon as he left the room. He's been here all night. I asked Mom to go find him when I saw you opening your eyes. You were just kind of...staring. I guess the drugs are wearing off now."
Stiles tilted his head, frowning at the retreating cup of water. "I was watching TV." He lifted his fingers, waving them dismissively. "Did you guys...Did you get the stone to Deaton?"
Scott blinked, as if he'd been slapped. "You're in the hospital, Stiles."
"Yeah, I figured that out, Captain Obvious. That thing is hunting Lydia. We need to -"
"You almost died, Stiles."
Stiles swallowed hard. He needed more to drink, even if it did make him colder. "You've been through worse."
"Not when I was human." Scott turned away, as something about that statement shamed him, then sunk back into his chair. "Allison's dad...He went after the other guy. I don't know what he's going to do when he finds him, but I don't think any other hunters are going to come here for a while."
"And the guy I killed?"
Scott winced. "Stiles, he shot you."
"I killed -"
"Stiles!" Scott stood up, glaring down at him. "The cops found his body, and even...Even someone like my dad would recognize it as self defense. That guy had a gun and you had a rock... Stiles, if you hadn't killed him, I would have. The pack would have hunted him down."
A chill worked its way down his arms, but Stiles couldn't help that Scott's declaration had felt good. He knew he shouldn't be happy, knowing there were people willing to kill for him. That it should make any sane person afraid. But it made him feel just a bit safer.
"Thanks."
Only a werewolf could have heard the whisper.
Scott ignored it. "If you're feeling dizzy or nauseous, that's normal - Mom said she could get you something for that after the other meds start to wear off. You'll have to keep the IV in since...You lost a lot of blood, but the surgeon said the bullet missed most of your..." The sentence trailed off, and he reached up, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, a grimace at his lips.
Stiles knew that expression, had seen it many times over the years, when Scott was trying to fight off tears. It wasn't exactly a manly Alpha move, but Stiles didn't give a crap, because that look was on his best friend's face.
He reached out, grabbing hold of Scott's wrist. "Chin up, sunshine," he said.
Scott gave one quick, hysterical chuckle, then turned back to Stiles, a small smile on his face. Success!
"I had forgotten...Your mom used to say that all the time." Scott let out a shaky breath. "You're going to be okay."
It wasn't a question, but a declaration, and Stiles was certain it wasn't for his benefit, but he smiled back in agreement. "I'm gonna be okay."