New Teen Wolf Fic: Except What Has Been Forgotten, Rated R, 15/?
Except What Has Been Forgotten, Part 15
by Suz
Thank you to the terrific rhiannonhero :) Feedback would be wonderful :)
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14.
*
Stiles had a pounding headache, no doubt because the rest of the group was doing exactly what he'd asked - they were telling him everything.
It was taking a long time. And it wasn't absolutely everything that'd happened, he was sure, because they could only tell him what they knew, as well as some moments being much too personal to share. Allison hadn't turned up at all, Scott - and even Derek - being strange and hesitant about it. It quickly became evident why when he found out how and why her mom died and the things that'd happened afterward.
It was so much to take in. No wonder Previous Stiles had found it so hard to cope. Being caught inbetween werewolves, lizards and hunters. Watching his best friend having to deal with this huge and sudden change in his life. Stiles being asked to cut someone's arm off (Stiles didn't know what was more disturbing - Derek insisting, or Stiles apparently actually being ready to do it). Derek being 'killed' right in front of them. Being trapped in the school with a murderous Peter. Lydia being attacked and going missing. Jackson being used as a weapon for a personal vendetta. Being paralysed - multiple times, apparently - and being forced to watch someone get squashed to death right in front of him (Dad had pulled him to his chest upon hearing that, calling him an idiot for never telling him the truth and having to deal with it alone).
Having to help someone else who'd been paralysed, keeping Derek afloat for two hours while the kanima kept them penned in (Stiles couldn't imagine how terrifying that must've been. Not just being trapped in the pool with no way out, but knowing that if he didn't keep going, if he messed up, he'd be personally responsible for someone dying).
Dad, who'd seemed so much better with everything as they'd left the house this morning, was right back at square one. "The attack on the precinct?" he asked, disbelieving. "All those people, good people, dead because of some...teenager with a grudge?"
Didn't make any sense to Stiles, either.
"Matt was crazy," Scott announced, surprising no one. "But in the end I...almost felt sorry for him."
"That makes one of us," Stiles snorted, then rolled his eyes at the look Scott gave him. "Come on. Crazy or not, tragic past or not, I'm sorry, there's no excuse for killing a bunch of innocent people or hitting them over the head with a gun like-"
Stiles hadn't thought the situation could possibly get any worse - paralysed on the floor next to Derek, kanima Jackson watching over them, their deaths no doubt imminent and Dad chained up next to the cells, with no way of escaping.
Of course, just because life liked kicking him in the ass, the situation did get worse. Exponentially worse. Main power cut out and Stiles barely had time to ask what the hell was going on when bullets - not werewolves, or kanimas or anything supernatural but real, human bullets - started bursting into the building. Matt yelled something - at least this wasn't part of his plan, but that meant something else was going on and seriously, his life sucked - and though most of the bullets weren't making it into the room he and Derek had been left in, Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, wincing, tensing up the few parts of his body that he could, just waiting for a stray bullet to get lucky.
"Stiles," Derek said next to him when there was a pause in the gunfire, "breathe."
He hadn't even realised that he'd clamped his mouth shut but he followed the instruction instinctively, heaving in a breath.
Just in time to suck in a lungful of smoke from one of the smoke bombs someone had so thoughtfully provided.
Managing to keep his spluttering down to a minimum of coughing - he really didn't want to draw attention to their location; the gunfire had drawn Jackson away now but gunfire also meant people with guns - he could've cried with relief when Scott came running into the darkened room.
Derek immediately ordered Scott to get Stiles out of there - Derek was totally getting a bag of Stiles' favourite donuts if they all managed to get out of this without dying horribly - but all thoughts of donuts were pushed immediately out of his head as Jackson started chasing them. Them. Scott and a Still-Paralysed-And-Thus-Even-Less-Help-Than-Usual-Stiles. He made random noises of fear and protest as he was hoisted from one room to the next - thank God for werewolf strength - certain Jackson was about to reach them at any moment, and then finally, finally they made it through a door that even Jackson's kanima strength couldn't seem to get through.
Scott left him in an interview room eventually and Stiles couldn't blame him - there was still God knew what going on out there, no time to get Stiles to real safety - and he had no intention of staying where he'd been put, anyway. Dad was out there with werewolves, kanimas and people with guns, with even less of an idea of what was going on than Stiles had.
His mostly-useless body was slowly starting to come back on-line - fancy werewolf healing processes, whatever. He still couldn't stand but he shimmied down from the chair Scott had left him in and flopped onto the floor (he was going to have some very interesting bruises later, to match the ones Matt had probably left on his neck). Slowly dragging himself through the building on mostly-numb arms was a singularly terrifying experience, knowing he'd have no defense against anyone or anything who decided he was inconveniently in the way of their feet. He didn't stop, couldn't stop, Dad, forced himself to pass the bodies of men and women he'd known for years (Frank had convinced Dad that a boy Stiles' age should have the jeep; Susan had once kicked his ass at softball - only once, because he'd always made sure he was on her team, after that).
Finally, finally - seconds, minutes, hours later - Stiles could see the holding area as he slowly pulled his body around the corner, see Dad, but Matt was there Matt was there with a gun, hitting Dad with it and as Dad crumpled to the floor, unconscious, the terror took over completely.
Stiles stopped breathing.
Dad was laying there, helpess, just as Stiles was laying here, helpless, and he tried to stretch, tried to reach, tried to move but he was never going to get there in time and Matt was going to kill Dad.
Derek suddenly stepped into the room, roaring.
Air rushed back into Stiles' lungs.
Derek was a dick but he'd never let anything bad happen to Stiles, not if he could help it, and Stiles knew with a certainty borne of experience that he wouldn't let this happen, now.
Stiles had a moment of doubt when the kanima appeared, but then Matt ran off and it was full-on werewolf versus kanima time. Stiles would've appreciated the epic fight a lot more under any other circumstances, but Derek was kind of getting his ass kicked and fear was starting to strengthen its hold again. When it looked like Derek was staying down, the kanima focused on Mrs McCall, who - Stiles had totally forgotten was there. He vaguely remembered seeing Matt talk to her briefly before Derek had turned up, but it so hadn't been his focus. She was safe, at least, behind the bars, and then Scott leapt into the room, attacking and surprising the kanima. It took off and Derek suddenly sprung up, chasing right behind it.
Stiles witnessed the incredibly awkward moment when Mrs McCall saw what her son really was. He would've had a lot more thoughts about the meaning and consequences of it if he hadn't been so worried about Dad. Scott didn't say anything, simply leaving silently, probably thinking his mom was safest for the moment locked up in the cell. He was probably right.
He started moving again, focusing on dragging himself forward. It was starting to get a little easier.
"S-Stiles?" Mrs McCall asked when she noticed, voice thick with terror and tears. "Are you...what's...Scott was a...thing."
He said nothing - what could he possibly say right now? - but eventually realised that Scott's mom had pulled herself together enough to start encouraging him, giving him words of support and it actually helped, a little. He let out a huge sigh of relief when he finally reached Dad, lifted a shaky hand to feel the solid pulse throbbing in his neck. Even managed to produce a single relieved chuckle. Dad was okay. Dad was okay, and if anyone came back to finish him off, they'd have to get through Stiles to do it.
Putting as much of his body between Dad and the door as he could, Stiles finally let his mind run free on to something else, because if he kept focusing on everything that'd happened since Matt first pulled the gun on him, he was probably going to end up a sobbing mess on the floor.
"Okay, Mrs McCall," he told her, tipping his head back to glimpse her tear-stained face through the bars, "we're gonna hope that Scott or someone comes back ASAP to get us all out of here. But failing that, this is what we're gonna tell the cops."
"Stiles?"
They were all staring at him with concern - all of them, which considering there were eight people standing or sitting around him at the moment was more than a little disconcerting. Their concern definitely made sense, though, considering the tears that'd suddenly flooding his eyes.
Jesus. That'd been...
"Stiles?" Dad asked gently.
Oh, God. He was so, so glad that Dad was okay. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Stiles wiped a hand quickly across his eyes, well aware that he had an audience. He didn't think for a second that any of them would judge him for it, but it still left him feeling much too exposed. "That was..." he sniffed, unable to explain the level or intensity of emotion he'd felt. "The shittiest memory by far. By light years." That still didn't do it justice.
Spying movement from the corner of his eye, he glanced up to see Erica and Boyd looking at each other sadly, knowingly. It didn't make any sense because, as far as Stiles could tell, they hadn't even been there. Which meant...they were thinking of something else. A different memory. And whatever it was, Stiles didn't want to know, he did not want to-
Pain blossomed across his face and Stiles didn't think it was going to stop, didn't think it was ever going to stop. He didn't know how it was possible, how Gerard could just keep hitting him over and over, without getting tired. He'd started off on Stiles' face but had quickly moved on to whichever part of the body he could reach. Stiles knew already he'd have bruises coming up all over - if he got through this, if he actually lived through this because Gerard was clearly just as fucking cuckoo as his daughter - and he couldn't do anything, couldn't do anything except lay there and take it, feeling as useless as he had on the floor of the precinct with no idea, no freaking idea what he was even doing there.
Gerard stopped at some point and Stiles still lay there, just taking the opportunity to breathe, tasting blood and snot and tears. Focusing fuzzily on Boyd and Erica, still gagged and hanging from the ceiling, he realised they were deliberately trying not to look at him, like what was being done to him was something terrible to look at.
Which was ridiculous. There were the ones being tortured, being electrocuted and they felt bad for him.
"Quite the collection, aren't they?" Gerard asked, studying Erica and Boyd, rubbing his left hand over the knuckles of his right. "My granddaughter caught them for me," he said proudly, and Allison? It was only now Stiles realised that Erica and Boyd were riddled with holes - Boyd especially. "I think she may be my greatest creation yet," he continued. "Might even give Kate a run for her money. We already know she's willing to sleep with a werewolf," Gerard said, in something like twisted glee. "Soon she'll take after her aunt in every possible way."
Stiles couldn't even fathom the level of grossness that implied, and stared at him in shock. "Dude," was all he managed, eventually. "You are fucked. In the head." Seriously, with Matt and Gerard to deal with, they were getting the crazy from all sides.
Gerard actually laughed at that, laughed (which to Stiles' mind, only proved his point). "The greatest of humanity is never appreciated in its own lifetime. Fortunately," he said, "I intend to have a very long lifetime." He bent over Stiles again and Stiles couldn't help it, he cringed away as Gerard finally explained what Stiles was doing there in the first place. "I have a message, Stiles. For Scott, for not keeping his word. You're going to deliver it."
There was no possible way this was going to be good. "I could recommend something a little more secure. UPS? Carrier pigeon?" He received a punch to the stomach for that one, leaving him folded up on himself, gasping for breath. His body was going to be nothing but agony for days. "What?" he finally managed to heave out. "What is it?"
Gerard just smiled down at him psychotically, rolling up his sleeves. "Oh, it doesn't come with words."
"Fuck!" Stiles exclaimed, jumping up from the sofa, pushing past anyone in the way to escape somewhere, anywhere, because Dad had been right - how the hell had he done this?
He might have heard someone say something about giving him space, he wasn't sure and didn't really care, intent on reaching the stairs that led out of here, that led away but then Scott was there - cheating werewolf superpowers - familiar arms wrapping around him, holding him close and Stiles tried to break free and Scott just kept telling him that it was okay, it was okay, whatever it was they'd get through it but Stiles already knew that Scott had never really understood, had never been broken and defeated in the same way that Stiles had.
"I can't," he tried to say, "I can't," but he couldn't even manage that, his throat swallowing up the words as it tightened, closer and closer and then Scott was gone, gone, someone else was there, a familar warm hand on the side of his neck.
Stiles snapped his eyes open.
He held it together.
He held it together until he brought Dad home from the hospital, resting in bed with a bandaged arm and irritable as hell. Held it together until he'd let the others know it was fine, until Scott finally left to go home. Held it together until the familiar sound of Dad snoring echoed through to where he stood, waiting on the other side of Dad's bedroom door. Held it together until he got into his own room, closed the door, and fell to his knees.
And then he couldn't stop shaking.
He'd been doing better - better - since the treaty, since the Alpha Pack told Derek he was effectively on probation and they'd be back to check-in at some distant point in the future. As the summer passed in a haze of Scott and Jackson and lacrosse (and, okay, avoiding Peter, but Stiles was a pro at that now), Stiles thought it might even get good. Derek was off bonding with Erica and Boyd or whatever it was he was doing to fix things, so he wasn't having to deal with supernatural stuff very often. He was still having nightmares sometimes and it only stung a little when he saw Lydia, but apart from the occasional weird occurrence - this was their lives, after all - it was nothing like the relentless crushing grind of the first four, five months after Scott'd been turned.
And then Dad pulled over a drunk driver. Who had a gun.
They'd gotten lucky, really lucky. It was effectively just a flesh wound, Dad's own quick instincts stopping him from gaining a worse injury, but it didn't seem to matter. Stiles was gasping on the floor of his bedroom anyway.
It was really fucking ironic that, after everything they'd been through, Dad had been hurt on the job by some idiot who drank too much and owned a gun license. It wasn't the first time Dad had been injured, not by a long shot, but it was the first time he'd been hurt on the job since that night at the precinct with Matt and, evidently, Stiles couldn't cope with it at all anymore.
Stiles knew what was happening, could feel his breaths growing tighter and tighter, shorter and shorter, managed to push himself back until he leaning against a wall, tried to take control the way he'd taught himself over long experience, but it didn't seem to be working. His head was growing lighter and lighter and Dad had almost died, Dad had almost died and someone was suddenly kneeling in front of him, the shock forcing a small amount of oxygen into his lungs.
He didn't know what Derek was doing there - he'd told them he was fine, fine - but he tried to bat him away, get him to leave but he couldn't say anything, couldn't even really breathe and it was so familiar, too familiar and then Derek leant in close, silently placing a hand on the side of Stiles' neck.
And Stiles could breathe.
Sucking in huge, heaving gulps of air, Stiles decided just to be grateful as the blackness that'd been etching into the edges of his vision disappeared. He was still panting hard, albeit slower and Derek was still touching his neck, staring intently into his eyes. Stiles stared back because he was stunned that it'd worked, stunned that Derek would do it at all, even if he was technically pack. He'd thought it was only physical pain, that it didn't even work on humans but it didn't matter because he could breathe, he could breathe and Derek already knew, Derek could plainly see what'd been happening, was the only one who could see what'd been happening and maybe that was the reason he said,
"I'm...usually b-better. At hiding it."
Stiles didn't talk about it. Stiles never talked about it. It was embarrassing and humiliating, but Derek already knew, Derek already knew and it was nice having someone who knew, even if it was accidental, even if it was Derek.
Slowly sliding his hand away - Stiles just barely managed to stop himself from asking for it back - Derek nodded once, tightly, like he understood. He seemed to wait until he was sure Stiles was breathing normally, and then he was over by the window in the blink of an eye.
Stiles had so many questions. How did it work? Why had he done it? Why had he come there at all? Questions he'd probably be too embarrassed to ask later. But he didn't ask anything at all, a mixture of humiliation and shock rendering him mute.
Instead, Derek was the one who spoke. "I'm not one for talking," he said, something that was obvious to anyone who'd existed ever. "But if you want to talk while I don't say much at all..." He paused, hesitating. Found the courage to say whatever it was he wanted to say. "I wouldn't mind."
Derek left, then, out the window like it was his own personal Werewolf Catflap (Wereflap?) and Stiles just sat there stunned, back pressed against the wall, breathing easily for the first time in months.
TBC
Next Part
by Suz
Thank you to the terrific rhiannonhero :) Feedback would be wonderful :)
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14.
*
Stiles had a pounding headache, no doubt because the rest of the group was doing exactly what he'd asked - they were telling him everything.
It was taking a long time. And it wasn't absolutely everything that'd happened, he was sure, because they could only tell him what they knew, as well as some moments being much too personal to share. Allison hadn't turned up at all, Scott - and even Derek - being strange and hesitant about it. It quickly became evident why when he found out how and why her mom died and the things that'd happened afterward.
It was so much to take in. No wonder Previous Stiles had found it so hard to cope. Being caught inbetween werewolves, lizards and hunters. Watching his best friend having to deal with this huge and sudden change in his life. Stiles being asked to cut someone's arm off (Stiles didn't know what was more disturbing - Derek insisting, or Stiles apparently actually being ready to do it). Derek being 'killed' right in front of them. Being trapped in the school with a murderous Peter. Lydia being attacked and going missing. Jackson being used as a weapon for a personal vendetta. Being paralysed - multiple times, apparently - and being forced to watch someone get squashed to death right in front of him (Dad had pulled him to his chest upon hearing that, calling him an idiot for never telling him the truth and having to deal with it alone).
Having to help someone else who'd been paralysed, keeping Derek afloat for two hours while the kanima kept them penned in (Stiles couldn't imagine how terrifying that must've been. Not just being trapped in the pool with no way out, but knowing that if he didn't keep going, if he messed up, he'd be personally responsible for someone dying).
Dad, who'd seemed so much better with everything as they'd left the house this morning, was right back at square one. "The attack on the precinct?" he asked, disbelieving. "All those people, good people, dead because of some...teenager with a grudge?"
Didn't make any sense to Stiles, either.
"Matt was crazy," Scott announced, surprising no one. "But in the end I...almost felt sorry for him."
"That makes one of us," Stiles snorted, then rolled his eyes at the look Scott gave him. "Come on. Crazy or not, tragic past or not, I'm sorry, there's no excuse for killing a bunch of innocent people or hitting them over the head with a gun like-"
Stiles hadn't thought the situation could possibly get any worse - paralysed on the floor next to Derek, kanima Jackson watching over them, their deaths no doubt imminent and Dad chained up next to the cells, with no way of escaping.
Of course, just because life liked kicking him in the ass, the situation did get worse. Exponentially worse. Main power cut out and Stiles barely had time to ask what the hell was going on when bullets - not werewolves, or kanimas or anything supernatural but real, human bullets - started bursting into the building. Matt yelled something - at least this wasn't part of his plan, but that meant something else was going on and seriously, his life sucked - and though most of the bullets weren't making it into the room he and Derek had been left in, Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, wincing, tensing up the few parts of his body that he could, just waiting for a stray bullet to get lucky.
"Stiles," Derek said next to him when there was a pause in the gunfire, "breathe."
He hadn't even realised that he'd clamped his mouth shut but he followed the instruction instinctively, heaving in a breath.
Just in time to suck in a lungful of smoke from one of the smoke bombs someone had so thoughtfully provided.
Managing to keep his spluttering down to a minimum of coughing - he really didn't want to draw attention to their location; the gunfire had drawn Jackson away now but gunfire also meant people with guns - he could've cried with relief when Scott came running into the darkened room.
Derek immediately ordered Scott to get Stiles out of there - Derek was totally getting a bag of Stiles' favourite donuts if they all managed to get out of this without dying horribly - but all thoughts of donuts were pushed immediately out of his head as Jackson started chasing them. Them. Scott and a Still-Paralysed-And-Thus-Even-Less-Help-Than-Usual-Stiles. He made random noises of fear and protest as he was hoisted from one room to the next - thank God for werewolf strength - certain Jackson was about to reach them at any moment, and then finally, finally they made it through a door that even Jackson's kanima strength couldn't seem to get through.
Scott left him in an interview room eventually and Stiles couldn't blame him - there was still God knew what going on out there, no time to get Stiles to real safety - and he had no intention of staying where he'd been put, anyway. Dad was out there with werewolves, kanimas and people with guns, with even less of an idea of what was going on than Stiles had.
His mostly-useless body was slowly starting to come back on-line - fancy werewolf healing processes, whatever. He still couldn't stand but he shimmied down from the chair Scott had left him in and flopped onto the floor (he was going to have some very interesting bruises later, to match the ones Matt had probably left on his neck). Slowly dragging himself through the building on mostly-numb arms was a singularly terrifying experience, knowing he'd have no defense against anyone or anything who decided he was inconveniently in the way of their feet. He didn't stop, couldn't stop, Dad, forced himself to pass the bodies of men and women he'd known for years (Frank had convinced Dad that a boy Stiles' age should have the jeep; Susan had once kicked his ass at softball - only once, because he'd always made sure he was on her team, after that).
Finally, finally - seconds, minutes, hours later - Stiles could see the holding area as he slowly pulled his body around the corner, see Dad, but Matt was there Matt was there with a gun, hitting Dad with it and as Dad crumpled to the floor, unconscious, the terror took over completely.
Stiles stopped breathing.
Dad was laying there, helpess, just as Stiles was laying here, helpless, and he tried to stretch, tried to reach, tried to move but he was never going to get there in time and Matt was going to kill Dad.
Derek suddenly stepped into the room, roaring.
Air rushed back into Stiles' lungs.
Derek was a dick but he'd never let anything bad happen to Stiles, not if he could help it, and Stiles knew with a certainty borne of experience that he wouldn't let this happen, now.
Stiles had a moment of doubt when the kanima appeared, but then Matt ran off and it was full-on werewolf versus kanima time. Stiles would've appreciated the epic fight a lot more under any other circumstances, but Derek was kind of getting his ass kicked and fear was starting to strengthen its hold again. When it looked like Derek was staying down, the kanima focused on Mrs McCall, who - Stiles had totally forgotten was there. He vaguely remembered seeing Matt talk to her briefly before Derek had turned up, but it so hadn't been his focus. She was safe, at least, behind the bars, and then Scott leapt into the room, attacking and surprising the kanima. It took off and Derek suddenly sprung up, chasing right behind it.
Stiles witnessed the incredibly awkward moment when Mrs McCall saw what her son really was. He would've had a lot more thoughts about the meaning and consequences of it if he hadn't been so worried about Dad. Scott didn't say anything, simply leaving silently, probably thinking his mom was safest for the moment locked up in the cell. He was probably right.
He started moving again, focusing on dragging himself forward. It was starting to get a little easier.
"S-Stiles?" Mrs McCall asked when she noticed, voice thick with terror and tears. "Are you...what's...Scott was a...thing."
He said nothing - what could he possibly say right now? - but eventually realised that Scott's mom had pulled herself together enough to start encouraging him, giving him words of support and it actually helped, a little. He let out a huge sigh of relief when he finally reached Dad, lifted a shaky hand to feel the solid pulse throbbing in his neck. Even managed to produce a single relieved chuckle. Dad was okay. Dad was okay, and if anyone came back to finish him off, they'd have to get through Stiles to do it.
Putting as much of his body between Dad and the door as he could, Stiles finally let his mind run free on to something else, because if he kept focusing on everything that'd happened since Matt first pulled the gun on him, he was probably going to end up a sobbing mess on the floor.
"Okay, Mrs McCall," he told her, tipping his head back to glimpse her tear-stained face through the bars, "we're gonna hope that Scott or someone comes back ASAP to get us all out of here. But failing that, this is what we're gonna tell the cops."
"Stiles?"
They were all staring at him with concern - all of them, which considering there were eight people standing or sitting around him at the moment was more than a little disconcerting. Their concern definitely made sense, though, considering the tears that'd suddenly flooding his eyes.
Jesus. That'd been...
"Stiles?" Dad asked gently.
Oh, God. He was so, so glad that Dad was okay. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Stiles wiped a hand quickly across his eyes, well aware that he had an audience. He didn't think for a second that any of them would judge him for it, but it still left him feeling much too exposed. "That was..." he sniffed, unable to explain the level or intensity of emotion he'd felt. "The shittiest memory by far. By light years." That still didn't do it justice.
Spying movement from the corner of his eye, he glanced up to see Erica and Boyd looking at each other sadly, knowingly. It didn't make any sense because, as far as Stiles could tell, they hadn't even been there. Which meant...they were thinking of something else. A different memory. And whatever it was, Stiles didn't want to know, he did not want to-
Pain blossomed across his face and Stiles didn't think it was going to stop, didn't think it was ever going to stop. He didn't know how it was possible, how Gerard could just keep hitting him over and over, without getting tired. He'd started off on Stiles' face but had quickly moved on to whichever part of the body he could reach. Stiles knew already he'd have bruises coming up all over - if he got through this, if he actually lived through this because Gerard was clearly just as fucking cuckoo as his daughter - and he couldn't do anything, couldn't do anything except lay there and take it, feeling as useless as he had on the floor of the precinct with no idea, no freaking idea what he was even doing there.
Gerard stopped at some point and Stiles still lay there, just taking the opportunity to breathe, tasting blood and snot and tears. Focusing fuzzily on Boyd and Erica, still gagged and hanging from the ceiling, he realised they were deliberately trying not to look at him, like what was being done to him was something terrible to look at.
Which was ridiculous. There were the ones being tortured, being electrocuted and they felt bad for him.
"Quite the collection, aren't they?" Gerard asked, studying Erica and Boyd, rubbing his left hand over the knuckles of his right. "My granddaughter caught them for me," he said proudly, and Allison? It was only now Stiles realised that Erica and Boyd were riddled with holes - Boyd especially. "I think she may be my greatest creation yet," he continued. "Might even give Kate a run for her money. We already know she's willing to sleep with a werewolf," Gerard said, in something like twisted glee. "Soon she'll take after her aunt in every possible way."
Stiles couldn't even fathom the level of grossness that implied, and stared at him in shock. "Dude," was all he managed, eventually. "You are fucked. In the head." Seriously, with Matt and Gerard to deal with, they were getting the crazy from all sides.
Gerard actually laughed at that, laughed (which to Stiles' mind, only proved his point). "The greatest of humanity is never appreciated in its own lifetime. Fortunately," he said, "I intend to have a very long lifetime." He bent over Stiles again and Stiles couldn't help it, he cringed away as Gerard finally explained what Stiles was doing there in the first place. "I have a message, Stiles. For Scott, for not keeping his word. You're going to deliver it."
There was no possible way this was going to be good. "I could recommend something a little more secure. UPS? Carrier pigeon?" He received a punch to the stomach for that one, leaving him folded up on himself, gasping for breath. His body was going to be nothing but agony for days. "What?" he finally managed to heave out. "What is it?"
Gerard just smiled down at him psychotically, rolling up his sleeves. "Oh, it doesn't come with words."
"Fuck!" Stiles exclaimed, jumping up from the sofa, pushing past anyone in the way to escape somewhere, anywhere, because Dad had been right - how the hell had he done this?
He might have heard someone say something about giving him space, he wasn't sure and didn't really care, intent on reaching the stairs that led out of here, that led away but then Scott was there - cheating werewolf superpowers - familiar arms wrapping around him, holding him close and Stiles tried to break free and Scott just kept telling him that it was okay, it was okay, whatever it was they'd get through it but Stiles already knew that Scott had never really understood, had never been broken and defeated in the same way that Stiles had.
"I can't," he tried to say, "I can't," but he couldn't even manage that, his throat swallowing up the words as it tightened, closer and closer and then Scott was gone, gone, someone else was there, a familar warm hand on the side of his neck.
Stiles snapped his eyes open.
He held it together.
He held it together until he brought Dad home from the hospital, resting in bed with a bandaged arm and irritable as hell. Held it together until he'd let the others know it was fine, until Scott finally left to go home. Held it together until the familiar sound of Dad snoring echoed through to where he stood, waiting on the other side of Dad's bedroom door. Held it together until he got into his own room, closed the door, and fell to his knees.
And then he couldn't stop shaking.
He'd been doing better - better - since the treaty, since the Alpha Pack told Derek he was effectively on probation and they'd be back to check-in at some distant point in the future. As the summer passed in a haze of Scott and Jackson and lacrosse (and, okay, avoiding Peter, but Stiles was a pro at that now), Stiles thought it might even get good. Derek was off bonding with Erica and Boyd or whatever it was he was doing to fix things, so he wasn't having to deal with supernatural stuff very often. He was still having nightmares sometimes and it only stung a little when he saw Lydia, but apart from the occasional weird occurrence - this was their lives, after all - it was nothing like the relentless crushing grind of the first four, five months after Scott'd been turned.
And then Dad pulled over a drunk driver. Who had a gun.
They'd gotten lucky, really lucky. It was effectively just a flesh wound, Dad's own quick instincts stopping him from gaining a worse injury, but it didn't seem to matter. Stiles was gasping on the floor of his bedroom anyway.
It was really fucking ironic that, after everything they'd been through, Dad had been hurt on the job by some idiot who drank too much and owned a gun license. It wasn't the first time Dad had been injured, not by a long shot, but it was the first time he'd been hurt on the job since that night at the precinct with Matt and, evidently, Stiles couldn't cope with it at all anymore.
Stiles knew what was happening, could feel his breaths growing tighter and tighter, shorter and shorter, managed to push himself back until he leaning against a wall, tried to take control the way he'd taught himself over long experience, but it didn't seem to be working. His head was growing lighter and lighter and Dad had almost died, Dad had almost died and someone was suddenly kneeling in front of him, the shock forcing a small amount of oxygen into his lungs.
He didn't know what Derek was doing there - he'd told them he was fine, fine - but he tried to bat him away, get him to leave but he couldn't say anything, couldn't even really breathe and it was so familiar, too familiar and then Derek leant in close, silently placing a hand on the side of Stiles' neck.
And Stiles could breathe.
Sucking in huge, heaving gulps of air, Stiles decided just to be grateful as the blackness that'd been etching into the edges of his vision disappeared. He was still panting hard, albeit slower and Derek was still touching his neck, staring intently into his eyes. Stiles stared back because he was stunned that it'd worked, stunned that Derek would do it at all, even if he was technically pack. He'd thought it was only physical pain, that it didn't even work on humans but it didn't matter because he could breathe, he could breathe and Derek already knew, Derek could plainly see what'd been happening, was the only one who could see what'd been happening and maybe that was the reason he said,
"I'm...usually b-better. At hiding it."
Stiles didn't talk about it. Stiles never talked about it. It was embarrassing and humiliating, but Derek already knew, Derek already knew and it was nice having someone who knew, even if it was accidental, even if it was Derek.
Slowly sliding his hand away - Stiles just barely managed to stop himself from asking for it back - Derek nodded once, tightly, like he understood. He seemed to wait until he was sure Stiles was breathing normally, and then he was over by the window in the blink of an eye.
Stiles had so many questions. How did it work? Why had he done it? Why had he come there at all? Questions he'd probably be too embarrassed to ask later. But he didn't ask anything at all, a mixture of humiliation and shock rendering him mute.
Instead, Derek was the one who spoke. "I'm not one for talking," he said, something that was obvious to anyone who'd existed ever. "But if you want to talk while I don't say much at all..." He paused, hesitating. Found the courage to say whatever it was he wanted to say. "I wouldn't mind."
Derek left, then, out the window like it was his own personal Werewolf Catflap (Wereflap?) and Stiles just sat there stunned, back pressed against the wall, breathing easily for the first time in months.
TBC
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