gladdecease: (Default)
gladdecease ([personal profile] gladdecease) wrote2016-01-03 10:39 pm

thing the forty-fourth [wip amnesty 2015 part 5]

Two ancient TWoof tumblr drafts. Pretty aimless, the both of them.

One afternoon Stiles walks into his room to find four werewolves waiting for him.

He throws his backpack onto the bed, says, "No," and turns to leave. Derek's on him instantly, one hand too tight at the crook of his arm, the other pushing back on his shoulder, keeping him in the room.

"Keep your voice down."

"No," Stiles repeats, pulling free of Derek's grip. "We have already had that conversation: in my house, I have the last say, and I say I want you out." Turning to the others, uncomfortably hovering in the background, he adds, "No offense, Boyd, I've got nothing against you, and Isaac? You didn't do anything to me Scott hasn't tried a dozen times. But you - " Stiles has to choke back a little bit of rage when he looks at Erica, which is a new and unfamiliar feeling. "You knocked me out with a part of my car, and then threw me in a dumpster. I'm not exactly feeling warm fuzzies towards you."

"A dumpster?" Derek asks flatly.

Erica shrugs apologetically, but her smile is too self-satisfied for Stiles to buy it. "You said you wanted him out of the way." Rolling his eyes, Derek huffs a sigh. And his lips twitch up into something not unlike a smile, oh, that son of a bitch is enjoying this.

"And you," Stiles says, returning to the point at hand, "Derek, man, I don't even know what you'redoing. Clawing Scott up at the ice rink? What's that supposed to accomplish, huh? I mean, besides completely alienating the both of us, in which case, hey, mission accomplished!" He smacks Derek's shoulder twice, fake smile plastered across his face. "Now get out of my house."

The first thing Scott notices upon waking up is pain, so much so it's a miracle he was ever asleep. His stomach is twisting into knots so tight it's tearing itself apart, taking other organs with it in the process. And somebody must've shoved glass through his eyes because that's the only reason he can think of for why it feels like something sharp is lodged in his brain and everything looks so bright when there aren't any lights on.

It hurts just to whimper, his throat is so sore.

"Easy, easy," someone hushes, low and gentle, but the sound is like a bass subwoofer dialed all the way up, the way it vibrates through his bones and makes his ears throb. Scott moans, curls away from the noise, but the pain doesn't go away.

"Here," the same voice says, and it takes Scott a minute to focus enough to see the cup held in front of his face. He breathes in slowly through his nose and is momentarily overwhelmed by the acrid scent of antiseptics. It doesn't seem like that's what's in the cup, though, so he opens his mouth and lets them pour in what turns out to be ice chips. The cold is a sharp relief, and as it melts it soothes the pain in his throat. He swallows a second mouthful gratefully, but is refused a third.

"We have to be careful," the voice warns, taking the cup away. "Too much too quick could make you sick again."

His head has cleared up enough to recognize the voice: Dr. Deaton. That explains the antiseptic smell; Scott is in the backroom of the vet's office.

"What..." he croaks out.

Dr. Deaton puts a hand on his shoulder. "Don't speak, not yet. You tore up your throat screaming before I could get a strong enough sedative in you."

Scott persists, managing a raspy "Why...?" before he starts coughing.

"Why aren't you healing?" Dr. Deaton asks. Still coughing, Scott nods weakly. "You are healing, Scott. But very, very slowly, and from a lot of damage." He waits until Scott stops shaking with every breath before he asks, "Do you remember what happened?"