“Except for you, Stiles. What do you turn into?”
Post-2.10 AU, Stiles has an Allison-type meltdown: Stiles could handle the revelation that his best friend had spent the past month lying to his face, using him as a game piece for Gerard’s benefit; could handle losing Derek to Peter’s manipulations in almost the same way he lost Lydia, the werewolf now a shell of his former self; Stiles could even handle being useless and so very human in the middle of a war that no one could ever hope to win. But when the doctors come to him, tell him they’re not sure when his father will wake up after the attack at the station, Stiles loses the ability to handle any of it at all. Completely alone and with no one to trust, the compassion he has left becomes a deadweight. And while sarcasm may have been his preferred method of defense, he didn’t grow up the son of a sheriff without learning his way around a gun.
The knife is in his hands before his mind can acknowledge the silver glint on the table beside him. It’s against Derek’s neck before he can realize that if Derek were fighting back, he’d be thrown into the floor by now. It’s drawing blood, tiny little rivulets from barely pierced flesh, before he can remember that Derek’s only response will be to stare blankly at the wall ahead.
“I swear to holy hell, Derek,” he hisses against raised stubble, eyes burning, wet and threatening to leak tears that might scar his skin, “If you’re with Peter and Scott’s working with Grandpa Argent, and the two of you leave me here in the middle, alone, I’m going to fucking lose it.”
A hand touches his hip, grasps lightly, but Derek says nothing. The same nothing he’s been saying since Peter fucked with his mind, since he shut everyone out. And Stiles’ got no idea what that asshole said, but it toyed with something inside of Derek that was already breaking.
“My dad, he got hit pretty bad at the station,” Stiles sniffs, the knife dropping from his hand with a clatter against the cement floor. He shifts to straddle Derek’s thighs, the creaking chair echoing in an empty warehouse that Stiles remembers full of voices. The hand on him falls away and Stiles wraps his arms tightly around Derek’s shoulders, nosing at the line of blood along Derek’s throat. “They don’t know when he’s gonna wake up.”
He feels the damp trails like flames singeing down his cheeks, and clutches tighter at Derek’s unresponsive body.
“Don’t be an asshole,” he growls, anger trickling in to replace the hopelessness numbing every nerve ending. “Out of all the times to be an asshole, this is the worst, man. Don’t do this.”
Derek remains quiet, still.
Stiles digs his nails in deep, feeling skin give under the cotton of Derek’s t-shirt, and lets himself feel helpless for what he tells himself will be the last time.
[I actually accidentally published a trial version of this yesterday instead of deleting it from my drafts, and didn’t realize until hours later, so if you see it, please ignore it/delete it/stop reblogging it! Thanks! :) ]
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