[ So, when Stiles was sixteen, he imagined he was going to die of something supernatural. Being involved with werewolves on a day to day basis ended with more brushes with death than Stiles could actually count, and considering how hard he tended to throw himself into these situations, he'd be shocked otherwise.
Which is why when he started to get sick, it hit him hard and fast, four years later. Twenty years old and laying in a hospital bed is not where Stiles had seen himself in life--twenty years old and signing his will and testament, seeing the lines in his father's face get heavier by the day, watching Scott trying to hold it together as he lost pounds ad pounds of weight, went back to the buzzcut under chemotherapy, and lost most of his energy to do, well, anything. Sarcomatic colon cancer was what he'd gotten, what he'd spent hours researching, the five percent chance of inheriting his mother's disease that he was unlucky enough to make. Stiles isn't surprised, if you'd ask him--he's always been that kind of unlucky.
It's getting to the point where his doctors are saying he's not going to survive. He's been doing nothing but sleeping, lately, and every time he wakes up, someone new is in the room, looking as bone tired and heartbroken as anything, and every time he tries to crack a joke or a comment, it just gets worse. Stiles probably looked like that at his mother's bedside, he realizes, and the thought makes the guilt in his head pound. He can't die, not to something stupid like this, he has people to be there for--his dad needs him.
He's weak and exhausted but awake, late at night with the moon barely filtering through the curtains, and waiting. Something's changed considerably in his relationship with Derek Hale since they first met; there really aren't a lot of words for it. Scott had been busy with Allison and Isaac one summer and Stiles started showing up at the loft, until before his diagnosis he found himself scurrying home to make curfew with a red mouth and a grin up to his cheeks. They'd become allies, friends , something more than that, something he hadn't been able to tell Derek and then he got diagnosed, and that was the end of that.
Until today, maybe. Stiles has made a decision, a decision he hates, but a it has to be done.
The world hasn't seen enough of Stiles Stilinski yet. ]
I just woke up so I'm not sure this is coherent but here HAVE ALL MY FEELINGS.
[ It's one thing to lose everything-- everyone-- you care about in a flash. It's another thing entirely to watch them decay right in front of you.
The wolves, of course, had been the ones to notice the sickness setting in first. It had struck Derek like a fist to the gut, the scent of copper and rot and something too sweet, but he'd seen it hit twice as hard in Scott and Isaac. They'd smelled it on Gerard, smelled it on the animals that came in and out of Deaton's clinic over the course of four years. The recognition of illness, of something wrong with the body, had been hard to cope with.
Having to watch Stiles slowly wither away had been worse.
Maybe it would've been easier, if the alpha and the boy with the wolfheart hadn't spent nights up talking, researching. Hadn't saved one another countless times. Hadn't become something more than friends, and he wasn't stupid enough to miss the change. Not when visits to the loft had him more at ease, had him honestly smiling like he hadn't in over ten years. Stiles had taken the so-called spark that Deaton had encouraged from day one and pushed it into Derek's chest, made him feel something again other than the slow burn that he'd felt since he lost his family.
So going in to see Stiles, filtering in amongst his countless visitors, had him clutching at a spark that was starting to flicker out. It was new, but it was dying with the smartmouthed boy that had forced his way into the supernatural, and he wasn't about to lose something that had become so integral to his life. Not after everything they'd been through, and sure as hell not like this.
The presence of the moon, nor the late night, will stop him from seeing Stiles. Painful as it is to see what cancer and chemo have done to him. With Melissa in the know, he can slip into the hospital room without recourse, and he closes the door softly behind him. Footfalls ever silent, he walks around the bed, moving to stand at the head of it.
Not once since Stiles was moved into permanent care has he willingly sat in one of the chairs that they've moved in. It feels too much like resignation. ]
[ He's just sort of listlessly staring off into the distance when Derek first comes in, not noticing his silent footsteps until he's standing near him, and he lolls his head across the pillow to look at him, eyebrows raising as he gets a good look at the alpha. He looks...sad, even sadder than he always did--most people couldn't read anything besides flatness to Derek's expressions, but Stiles knows better than anyone, knows the weight of the guilt that he carries in tune with Stiles' own. It twists something in his heart and he pulls his lips up in a small, crooked smile. ]
Don't look so down, it's not like I'm dead yet. [ The stupid snarky comments are his default, like they've always been, and Stiles slowly pulls himself up to a sitting position, putting his weight on weak arms and scooting upwards just a little to look at him better. He can do it himself, but it's getting harder and harder by the day--even just sitting up for a few minutes is exhausting. But he's not giving up, no matter how fucking frustrating it is to lose his range of movement, to be reduced to throwing up chemo drugs and sleep twelve hours a day. It's not him, it's never been him, and all he can think of is how strong his mother was when she went through this, and how much he admired for it. How he could never be like that.
His brows knit together again, and he looks at Derek with something meaningful in his eyes, something he can't hide behind a comment. How sorry he has he has to watch this. How sorry he is for what he's about to ask him to do. ] At least sit on the bed before I get jealous of the ability to stand?
[ The fact Stiles doesn't jump means one of three things, in Derek's mind: he's gotten used to his sudden presence (unlikely), he was waiting for him to show (probable), or he's too tired for it now (unfortunately likely). Inclining his head slightly in response to the smile, an obviously wolfish tilt, he closes his eyes and lets a tired chuff leave him. Not quite a laugh, but not quite an admonishment. Stiles' jokes about the sickness spreading through him have never been funny to him, but he hopes that he can change that. Do something.
Shoulders drooping a little, he opens his eyes again to look at him, watching as he moves to sit up. If there's anyone that's figured out how to read him, the subtle shift in expression and posture, it's been Stiles. Nowadays, he can't hide exhaustion or guilt or, yes, an obvious sadness when it comes to him. So when it's just the two of them in the dark of the hospital room, he doesn't bother with the walls he's built up around him. They don't do him much good, anyways. Not when Stiles managed to slip through cracks he couldn't smooth over with distance ages ago.
But in that look, he catches what he doesn't say, and the corners of his mouth twitch a little. Not up, but down, in the more honest smiles that he only reserves for the quiet moments between him and his. Even if he's tired, and hurting over all of this, he still has the energy and will to give Stiles the slight, if melancholic, smile before he moves to sit at the edge of the bed. ] If that's what you want.
If being sick makes you obey every order I give I should've done this ages ago. [ A small laugh escapes him and he looks down at his hands, fisted together tightly in his lap. ] It's like my personal make a wish.
[ He falls quiet after a second though, giving a cough that sounds a little bone rattling. He constantly feels like he swallowed sewer sludge lately, and there's no way to get it out--even just his breathing is thick and exhausting, and he slumps over as Derek sits down, keeping the nausea and exhaustion down as best as possible. It'd be so easy for him to move on and put this conversation off for another day, but it has to happen--god only knows how many days he has left, anyway.
Taking in a slow, measured breath, he starts talking, because that's what Stiles has always done. ] My dad cried today. [ It's not how he wanted to start, but he'll go with it. ] I heard him. I mean, he was in the hallway, and he was talking to Ms. McCall, and--y'know what he said? [ He swallows. ] I lost everything.
[ It had hurt so bad--all Stiles could do was lay there, dosed up on pain medicine, and listen to the sounds of his father, the strongest bastion in his life, his rock when his mom had died, finally break down into pieces. I don't have any reason to live anymore. It wasn't fair, wasn't fair to his dad, to anyone, to Stiles and his shitty fucking luck, and he had to try and fix it, even with the one thing he'd been fighting getting all his life. ] I can't just...I can't just let that happen to him.
[ He turns his gaze up to look at Derek, apprehensive and upset and worried, but from under the dark circles that look like bruises, there's a familiar glint of his old spark in those whiskey brown eyes. ] I want you to do it.
[ Despite everything, he still manages to roll his eyes at him like old times. But he can hear how deep the laugh, the cough, how every breath draws from him. They hurt, and he hates that something like his laugh will wind up hurting him, or his breathing will force out coughs. That jackrabbit pulse of him has been slowly fading, and though he could still identify it as distinctly Stiles, it's harder and harder to hear it across the hospital without straining his senses.
Waiting for him to get his thoughts together, to find his words, he tips his head towards him further. It's always been habit to angle towards Stiles when he listens, even if it started out subtle. There's just been something about him from day one that's caused him to turn his focus wholly on him. Even if it means inserting himself into Stiles' space, which has just become more and more natural since the day they met.
He bows his head, closing his eyes and exhaling heavily. The words are just further confirmation to the sadness that has weighed heavy on the sheriff, has weighed heavy on all of them. But to watch his son succumb to the same thing that took away his wife...
Looking up at him from beneath his brow, the slivers of moonlight filtering in reflecting and causing clear green to filter briefly into red, he watches him closely. These days, it's been hard to catch that spark in Stiles' eyes. But when he sees it, he doesn't have to ask what he means. His jaw works a little, as if readying fangs-- the bite has been there, for the human members of the pack, and he's never had to outright voice the offer. But here, he's been so close to saying it.
[ He watches Derek's reaction, him working his jaw, and it doesn't come off quite like Derek might be thinking it does. Rather, it's more of "I can't believe I have to bite this idiot of all people", and he turns his gaze down and looks into his lap, focusing on his fidgeting hands, and keeps trying to talk. He's exhausted and the heavy conversation is taking just as much of a toll as anything else--his heart's beating in his ears, loud and thundering with his nerves and his guilt and the extra exertion at just being. ] Its's dumb, and kinda selfish, I guess, but I'm...not ready to die. [ His voice cracks. ] I don't want to die. My dad--my dad, we already had to watch it once, and he doesn't deserve that, I shouldn't have to hear my dad talking about not having anything to live for, anymore, he's my dad, he just doesn't do that--
[ Taking in a deep, shuddery breath, Stiles turns his gaze onto Derek for a moment, and the spark's gone, replaced by vulnerability, fear. He's twenty years old and he looks like he's twelve again. It takes a few seconds for him to swallow down the panic, because it's going to send him into a fit of pained coughs again, and Stiles swallows, shaking his head to pinch the tears from his eyes. ] There's no guarantee I'll live through this either, is there?
[ Something in his chest clenches as Stiles' voice cracks, as he listens to his words. And it just adds to the hurt of having to watch his deterioration, smelling the sickness get worse and worse. This is not where Stiles belongs, doped up on medication and sleeping until he just... doesn't wake up one day. The Stilinskis don't deserve more loss, not after everything that they've already been through. And a selfish part of him says that he doesn't deserve it, either. Not after losing his parents, his sister.
So he meets Stiles' eyes easily, despite the way the spark's been drowned out. Underneath sickness and medication, he can smell the fear. And while fear is a part of humanity, something that Stiles carries with him but pushes through, this is not one he can fight. Not now.
Bowing his head closer to him, he bumps their foreheads together, bringing his hand up to frame his neck gently. He thumbs at his pulse, rubbing gently at smooth skin in reassurance as he looks at him. But there's nothing predatory, just something deep and sad, from watching so much loss and death. ]
No, there isn't. Not... not with how sick you are. [ His eyes drop from Stiles', and he purses his lips into a thin line. ] But I'm not ready for you to die, either.
[ Swallowing down the faint flutter of butterflies in his chest--it's amazing, how Derek's had such a sway over him that he can still get that warmth punched into his chest, even if nothing'll ever come of it, if he dies, he won't ever get to tell him about it, either. If Stiles survives this--survives the bite, which sounds so surreal in his head, maybe he'll find the courage to make up for a million different things he didn't do before he got sick. That's probably in his top five.
He takes in another slow, shaky breath as he brings his forehead close to look at him, Stiles draws his mouth shut, steeling his shoulders the best he can and nodding against his forehead. He's so tired, he can feel his eyes drooping, and he leans into him a little as he talks. ] Hey, what's one more near death experience, right? At least this one has a guaranteed cure instead of an expiration date.
[ A hand comes up, thin and pale and attached to an IV, and presses over Derek's on his pulse. ] It's gonna be okay, big guy. [ Just like his mom always said. It's gonna be fine. She was so strong. ] Stilinskis don't die that easy.
[ Taking Stiles' weight as he leans into him, he brings his eyes up again to watch him. The dark bruises around his eyes, the way already fair skin has gone staunch white, the exhaustion despite so much sleep... He wants to curl his fingers into him and pull the cancer out, even take it from him so that he doesn't have to fight to just stay awake, nevermind survive.
An unsteady laugh slips its way out of Derek, humorless and tired, and he pretends not to see what's happened to Stiles' hands as he presses one against his own. Not when he's seen them in constant motion for years, fanned out and balled into fists and flying across keys. That isn't Stiles, that's a ghast. ]
No, no they don't. [ He tips his head up, pressing his lips against the top of Stiles' head softly. It's a lingering gesture, as he takes in a deep breath as if to steel himself as well. Because if he doesn't survive the bite-- ] Ready?
[ Stiles looks up at him from under his brow, as his heartbeat practically triples from the nerves and there's a moment of his familiar, vibrating energy under his skin. This is it, this is literally his last chance--he's going to die, either by wasting away slowly in this stupid bed and having to watch, or out of his body forcibly rejecting the werewolf bite and everything that comes with it.
Or, there's the fifty fifty shot that he survives.
He pulls his hand away from Derek's slowly, fixing him with a look, and swallows the lump in his throat. ] If--If this doesn't work, it's not your fault, okay? Don't you dare think otherwise, or I'll haunt your ass.
[ That wasn't what he meant to say, but he knows. He knows guilt and pain and suffering better than anyone in their group, knows how it drapes on Derek just like it does him, until it's suffocating. ] And I'm--doing this because I trust you.
[ Now that his brain's decided to get everything out, Stiles nods, imperceptibly, forcibly shutting his mouth. Do it. ]
[ This has to work. The bite has to take. Because Derek is tired of losing people that he cares about, and somehow Stiles got so deep under his skin that he doesn't want to actually think about what would happen if he was gone. Not when he'd saved them all so many times, helped them sort through dangers and puzzles, kept him grounded. If he's willing to take the risk that comes with the bite...
Caught, but not looking away, he just nods his head once. It's no promise, because there's no way that he can control the weight of his guilt, but he swallows it down now. Hopefully it doesn't come to that.
But Stiles saying that he trusts him, he closes his eyes and holds onto that. If anything, he can keep that, can focus on it as he feels his fangs extend. When he opens his eyes again, they've bled into red, and he shifts his hand down to push the collar of his hospital shirt out of the way. Letting him brace for only a moment, he bows his head and sinks into the meat of his shoulder. ]
[ There's a moment of searing pain and his body arches, he sees white, and then after that, there's nothing.
He doesn't come to for almost two hours as his heart monitor continues to beat, steady in the night despite Stiles' stone cold posture. He barely moves in the two hours, except for a thin stream of black that drips out of his nose--it could be his body rejecting the bite, or the bite rejecting the cancer. Whatever it is, he's eerily still until, finally, his eyes snap open and he takes in a gasping breath. The color's mostly returned to his cheeks--started to about ten minutes ago, and he looks from left to right in a quick, jerky movement, then down at his shoulder, where the mark's still bright red, unable to heal while his body's still trying to force out the cancer.
His first words are, naturally, very Stiles. ] Oh my god.
[ For two hours, Derek stays seated on the bed in the hospital room. He should get up, tell Melissa that Stiles is taking the bite, that she needs to be ready just in case. But he doesn't move, eyes flicking from Stiles' face to his heart monitor and back at random intervals, reaching his hand up to swipe his thumb beneath his nose to wipe away the dark oil that signals rejection.
He hopes, with every fiber of his being, that it's the cancer being pushed out.
Very nearly jolting, he braces his hand against his upper arm to make sure he doesn't whip himself out of bed by accident. Considering it's Stiles, and he suddenly has some of his strength back, it's incredibly possible. But relief settles over him, because he's conscious, and he isn't bleeding black or puking it up. ] Jesus, Stiles.
[ Which was a smart move, because Stiles suddenly having actual control over his limbs makes Stiles move them. When he jerks forward he gets tangled up in the sheets, and if it wasn't for Derek's hand on his arm, he'd be on the floor.
Staring at him with huge, bambi brown eyes, he gets hit with the first wave of senses, smell, something sickly sweet and then something that has to be Derek, a woodsy flower and leather and petrichor and about a million other things at once--he can smell the night nurse's coffee from down the hall, jesus, hear the sound of the nurses walking around and he shakes his head to try and clear it away.
Holy shit, he's alive. That's the first thing that hits him, like a freight train. He can breathe again, and it doesn't feel like his lungs are on fire. Like he could get up and run and jump around, play lacrosse, like he could sit up for more than ten minutes at a time. The force of it, the realization, that he's going to be okay, that his dad'll be okay, hits him so hard it brings tears to his eyes, and he's torn between a smile and aching relief, unbelievably vulnerable and thrilled and terrified all at once. ] Oh my god.
[ Those stupid bambi eyes are what kill him a little, but Derek's too overwhelmed with the sense of relief that he feels a rush of warmth instead of something sinking like he has since Stiles' sickness started to set in. Instead of saying anything for a moment, he just-- he watches him, as he takes in his newfound senses and his renewed strength.
The cancer isn't completely gone, not with such strong traces of the scent still lingering on him, but it's progress. It's something. Stiles is alive and he's not wasting away in a goddamn hospital bed. His expression breaks out into a smile, something honest and real in response to the torn one on Stiles' face.
He brings his hands up and cradles Stiles' face in his hands, sweeping his thumbs under his eyes and across warmed cheeks, almost as if he could wipe away tears and the dark rings that had become a permanent mask for so damn long. ] Welcome back.
[ It changes to reflect Derek's after a minute, all teeth, so bright he has to close his eyes and tilt his head into his hands, like he's fighting off the tears in his eyes before he pulls them open again. It's obvious he can't just get up--his strength isn't coming back that quickly, and he's going to be cleaning up gross black werewolf vomit for forever, but it doesn't matter, because Stiles is on his way to a cure, and fast.
There's a new instinct to press their foreheads together, and he does, even if it's just for a few minutes before he pulls away, looking around and sniffing at the air. ] How do you guys even stand this?! Jesus, I think I can smell my neighbors bedpan. Eugh, oh my god.
[ He even makes an exaggerate gesture of plugging his nose. Someone's enjoying having his strength coming back. ]
[ Already, even under the sickly sweet smell that's been haunting Stiles for months now, he can smell the juniper twist just beneath his skin. It's not so much that he's been scentmarked by it, now, but more that it's finally sunken in. He breathes it in, even if that means there's the overwhelming sterility and wrongness of the hospital all around them.
Drawing his hands back as Stiles breaks contact between their foreheads, he starts to laugh at him as he complains and plugs his nose. Simply because he can laugh again; tired as it is, it's still honest and quietly happy. ]
We learn to filter it so we're not overwhelmed, but we're not completely in the dark.
That sounds unnecessarily complicated. I'd like my humanity back now please. [ He's joking, at least, and even if Derek's laughing at him, he's still laughing, and that's the kind of sound Stiles wants to hold onto forever after the past year.
Letting go of his nose, he turns his hands over in his lap, looking at them--if he were a badass, he'd yank out the needle of the IV, but the idea makes his stomach churn and he just lets it go, curling his fists instead and watching his veins slowly filtering black at his wrists, pushing the cancer out of his system. It's slow and probably going to take forever, but it's such a wondrous thing that he wants to stare, try to take in about suddenly being one of the lycanthropes after all. ]
Sorry, no refunds or exchanges. [ Well, Derek is laughing at him and simply laughing, the weight of death and worry and guilt lifted away from his shoulders for a day. (He ignores the fact that there could very well be technical exchanges, given that an alpha can take a beta, because he doesn't really like that thought generally. Now? Even less.)
Raising a brow as he watches the black in his veins, he chuffs something soft before he reaches a hand out to set over where the needle is taped in place, overlapping and hiding it away from sight for a moment. He slips the fingers of his other hand down, using the first to take the edge off and to keep Stiles from feeling and seeing it as he peels the tape away and pulls the IV out. ]
Guess I'll get used to it. Might as well enjoy the supernatural perks in the meantime. [ Stiles doesn't watch as Derek pulls the IV out, because he would honestly probably throw up if he did, and instead watches Derek's face instead. His sharpened senses can pick up on so much more than before--the sound of his breathing, the smell of Derek and then something else, that smells like the air after a storm, overwhelmingly of relief. That's what they meant by the smelling emotions thing, probably, and Stiles makes a mental note to coerce Scott into sharing this with him later through Titanic or something.
As the IV finally comes out, he reaches over and quietly covers Derek's hands with his own. It's not the biggest gesture or anything, but he's okay, his pulse rushing under his fingers instead of staggering along, and he'd like to show that to him--remind him that it's okay now, that it's gonna be okay. The cancer's still being pushed out of his body--he keeps sniffling black goo, which is disgusting--but it's going. It's not like Gerard. It's working. ]
We'll help you figure it out. [ Smoothing his thumb over where the IV had been in his vein, Derek lets his veins fill with black for a brief moment. At least it'll help ease some more of his pain, on top of the sting from the needle, but as Stiles covers his hands he flicks his eyes up to him. Pale and clear, he searches his face for a second, and he sees something in him that draws him back, brings the heavy weight of guilt (and the air after the storm being filled ever so slightly with smog).
But he turns his hands over, curls his fingers with Stiles' as his eyes drop down again to look at them. There's color in Stiles' skin again, something that soothes the alpha an exceptional amount. Enough that maybe the smog fades as he bows his head forward, pressing their foreheads again and closing his eyes. ]
I regret everything. [ No, he actually doesn't, and it's obvious in the crooked quirk at the corner of his mouth. ]
[ He doesn't complain much when Derek shifts into his space; rather, Stiles just looks at him from under his dark eyelashes, mouth shifting into a small grin to match Derek's. He's happy, he's alive, he can make stupid comments without the twist of dark humor on the side, and, well, he wasn't exactly planning on becoming a werewolf, but he'd take it over being dead anyday. Still graduate college. Still have a life.
Just turn into a rage monster every once in a while.
But Stiles is starting to think that he won't have a lot of trouble finding his anchor, anyway. He finds where their fingers are twined together and responds, crooning. ] Noooo you don't, because you literally cannot imagine your life without me. I'm a gift like that. [ He is teasing. Really. ]
You're like a fungus. [ Except he doesn't argue the rest of it, doesn't say that he could actually imagine his life without Stiles. Because Derek has lost everyone that he's ever cared about-- lost the girl he first loved, lost family and pack because of the woman that swooped into his life after his eyes bled blue, lost his sister and his uncle in one strike, lost more and more pack-- and yet somehow, somehow, Stiles had managed to weasel in under his skin. Into his bloodstream.
And he never wants to imagine losing him, too.
He opens his eyes again, looking back at those damn, bright amber eyes, and everything in him softens. Because there's life in them again, that intelligent spark is back, that fire that makes Stiles who he is. ]
I'm an edible fungus, thanks. [ That was an awful joke, Stiles. But also kind of true. In this metaphor, he's the good fungus, not the disease causing kind, thank you. Which could really put him on this whole other tangent of why do we eat fungus, anyway, and you know what, he's just going to stop that train of thought before it derails completely.
The little grin widens into something bigger, more honest, and he sniffles a little, unable to hide the happiness on his face. And for just a second, those amber brown eyes flash, like he's trying to figure out how to make it work--but instead of going gold, they're bright red. ] Just now I'm a deliciously edible fungus with sharp claws and big nasty fangs.
[ That was a terrible joke, yeah. But Derek still laughs, abrupt and in that way that clearly says why did you say that. He doesn't need to know what Stiles' thinking to know that his brain has gone off on a completely different tangent, but at least he comes back to him intact from it.
Raising his eyebrows against Stiles', the alpha lets his own lopsided smile widen, straighten a little with the corners of his mouth quirking downward in honesty. Relieved, content, happy, it all suddenly fades in the face of surprise when Stiles flashes his eyes. He's expecting something gold, goldenrod or ochre or almost bronze.
What he gets is red, and whatever he has to say in response is derailed for a moment. When it comes back, he's looking at Stiles oddly, and the joke isn't quite there as it should be. ] You tasted like teenager.
[ Stiles blinks. ] What? Is something wrong with my face?
[ Absently, he does pull away from Derek a little and reach up to touch his own face, feel his nose--he comes away with another line of fresh black goop and mutters ] Oh, ew, disgusting. [ Before wiping his hand off on his hospital sheets. That must have been it. ] How long is this going to go on?
And for the record, taking a bite out of the meat of my shoulder is totally not taste d' Stiles, okay. [ He reaches up and rubs the bitemark, which is still there, waiting to heal while his body's still trying to push out all of the cancer. ] Your palate's just off.
[ Sure, that was it Stiles. Derek watches him, before bringing his hands up to cup his chin in one of them. The other reaches to brush away the rest of the black goop, unfazed by having it on his fingers. But he follows Stiles' lead, brushing it off on his hospital sheets but not quite pulling away from where he's touching the new wolf. ]
A while. Week, at least. [ He scans his face, before his eyes drop down to the bitemark on the meat of his shoulder. It causes his skin to bristle a little, almost like a chill rushes up the back of his neck, and he has to push down a sudden impulse that hits him. (Nevermind that it's hit him before, but he's ignoring that, too.) ]
What would you suggest for taste d' Stiles. [ His tone is dry, but he looks up from under his brow at him, brow raising slowly. ]
Ew, awesome. I'm like a freakin' Exxon oil penguin. [ He sniffles again and lets Derek wipe away at his face, not really complaining at his tactility--something he's more or less used to at this point--even if it does give a chance for his mind to water. All things considered, he's not feeling particularly...obedient, or any different than usual. Even as Derek flickers to look at the bite, he just follows him down instead. The wound's kind of disgusting and he manages a - ] Jesus, ew.
[ Before pulling his face away to let Derek. Yeah. Stick to the wound examining. He does wiggle his eyebrows when Derek looks at him again, though, and grins. ] Probably something that doesn't involve flesh wounds.
Better than Gerard. At least we know that you'll actually stop leaking oil. [ Or so Derek is hoping. He's certain that if his eyes are flashing red, though, that he'll heal just fine and he'll stop oozing black bile once the cancer's out of his system. The wound'll heal when he gets the majority of his sickness out, but for now... well, they should probably clean that and bandage it up. ] We'll get Melissa to come patch you up.
[ Going from his lingering confusion to amusement again, he lets red flare into his eyes. It's not meant to be aggressive or commanding, but... something else entirely. A response to his wiggling eyebrows. ] Noted.
Please don't ever compare me to Gerard ever again. Like ever. [ Shudder. That's a gross though. Scott's mom, however, isn't, and he looks at the intercom beside his bed for a minute, hand creeping over to find the remote for it.
He hesitates on pressing the button when Derek flashes his eyes at him though, and Stiles can't help the affectionate look on his face in return. ] Ooh, terrifying. Totally waiting on you to get a taste of this delicious buffet of teenagedom here. [ He gestures up and down his body, and wipes his nose for emphasis. That was sarcastic. ]
[ Which is also kind of totally a front for how many thoughts that kicked up, and yeah, when Stiles isn't leaking black goop and healing from what's basically his deathbed, he's going to act on that. Probably. Maybe. If he can get his courage up. He's still hesitating over the button, though, like waiting for something to happen. ]
[ Amusement in every line of his face, he tries not to laugh at him in response to his reaction. Not that he can blame him, given how disgusting Gerard is in general, nevermind when he's oozing black everywhere. At least Melissa is an adequate distraction, even as he watches him with red eyes.
The amusement shifts into a return of affection, an interesting contrast to those alpha reds of his. But their eyes aren't always in challenge or aggression, aren't just exclusive to the negatives. He feels such a fierce warmth towards Stiles, which surprises him more and more every day. ]
I'll take a raincheck for when you're better. [ Rising from his seated position, he bows his head in towards Stiles and presses his lips against the top of his head, brief but softer than the first he left before issuing the bite. The red fades from his eyes finally, and he moves to turn towards the door. ]
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I woke up this morning and thought hm. How do I want to break Snow today.
Which is why when he started to get sick, it hit him hard and fast, four years later. Twenty years old and laying in a hospital bed is not where Stiles had seen himself in life--twenty years old and signing his will and testament, seeing the lines in his father's face get heavier by the day, watching Scott trying to hold it together as he lost pounds ad pounds of weight, went back to the buzzcut under chemotherapy, and lost most of his energy to do, well, anything. Sarcomatic colon cancer was what he'd gotten, what he'd spent hours researching, the five percent chance of inheriting his mother's disease that he was unlucky enough to make. Stiles isn't surprised, if you'd ask him--he's always been that kind of unlucky.
It's getting to the point where his doctors are saying he's not going to survive. He's been doing nothing but sleeping, lately, and every time he wakes up, someone new is in the room, looking as bone tired and heartbroken as anything, and every time he tries to crack a joke or a comment, it just gets worse. Stiles probably looked like that at his mother's bedside, he realizes, and the thought makes the guilt in his head pound. He can't die, not to something stupid like this, he has people to be there for--his dad needs him.
He's weak and exhausted but awake, late at night with the moon barely filtering through the curtains, and waiting. Something's changed considerably in his relationship with Derek Hale since they first met; there really aren't a lot of words for it. Scott had been busy with Allison and Isaac one summer and Stiles started showing up at the loft, until before his diagnosis he found himself scurrying home to make curfew with a red mouth and a grin up to his cheeks. They'd become allies, friends , something more than that, something he hadn't been able to tell Derek and then he got diagnosed, and that was the end of that.
Until today, maybe. Stiles has made a decision, a decision he hates, but a it has to be done.
The world hasn't seen enough of Stiles Stilinski yet. ]
I just woke up so I'm not sure this is coherent but here HAVE ALL MY FEELINGS.
The wolves, of course, had been the ones to notice the sickness setting in first. It had struck Derek like a fist to the gut, the scent of copper and rot and something too sweet, but he'd seen it hit twice as hard in Scott and Isaac. They'd smelled it on Gerard, smelled it on the animals that came in and out of Deaton's clinic over the course of four years. The recognition of illness, of something wrong with the body, had been hard to cope with.
Having to watch Stiles slowly wither away had been worse.
Maybe it would've been easier, if the alpha and the boy with the wolfheart hadn't spent nights up talking, researching. Hadn't saved one another countless times. Hadn't become something more than friends, and he wasn't stupid enough to miss the change. Not when visits to the loft had him more at ease, had him honestly smiling like he hadn't in over ten years. Stiles had taken the so-called spark that Deaton had encouraged from day one and pushed it into Derek's chest, made him feel something again other than the slow burn that he'd felt since he lost his family.
So going in to see Stiles, filtering in amongst his countless visitors, had him clutching at a spark that was starting to flicker out. It was new, but it was dying with the smartmouthed boy that had forced his way into the supernatural, and he wasn't about to lose something that had become so integral to his life. Not after everything they'd been through, and sure as hell not like this.
The presence of the moon, nor the late night, will stop him from seeing Stiles. Painful as it is to see what cancer and chemo have done to him. With Melissa in the know, he can slip into the hospital room without recourse, and he closes the door softly behind him. Footfalls ever silent, he walks around the bed, moving to stand at the head of it.
Not once since Stiles was moved into permanent care has he willingly sat in one of the chairs that they've moved in. It feels too much like resignation. ]
uuuugh weeps
Don't look so down, it's not like I'm dead yet. [ The stupid snarky comments are his default, like they've always been, and Stiles slowly pulls himself up to a sitting position, putting his weight on weak arms and scooting upwards just a little to look at him better. He can do it himself, but it's getting harder and harder by the day--even just sitting up for a few minutes is exhausting. But he's not giving up, no matter how fucking frustrating it is to lose his range of movement, to be reduced to throwing up chemo drugs and sleep twelve hours a day. It's not him, it's never been him, and all he can think of is how strong his mother was when she went through this, and how much he admired for it. How he could never be like that.
His brows knit together again, and he looks at Derek with something meaningful in his eyes, something he can't hide behind a comment. How sorry he has he has to watch this. How sorry he is for what he's about to ask him to do. ] At least sit on the bed before I get jealous of the ability to stand?
hhhnghfff
Shoulders drooping a little, he opens his eyes again to look at him, watching as he moves to sit up. If there's anyone that's figured out how to read him, the subtle shift in expression and posture, it's been Stiles. Nowadays, he can't hide exhaustion or guilt or, yes, an obvious sadness when it comes to him. So when it's just the two of them in the dark of the hospital room, he doesn't bother with the walls he's built up around him. They don't do him much good, anyways. Not when Stiles managed to slip through cracks he couldn't smooth over with distance ages ago.
But in that look, he catches what he doesn't say, and the corners of his mouth twitch a little. Not up, but down, in the more honest smiles that he only reserves for the quiet moments between him and his. Even if he's tired, and hurting over all of this, he still has the energy and will to give Stiles the slight, if melancholic, smile before he moves to sit at the edge of the bed. ] If that's what you want.
Re: hhhnghfff
[ He falls quiet after a second though, giving a cough that sounds a little bone rattling. He constantly feels like he swallowed sewer sludge lately, and there's no way to get it out--even just his breathing is thick and exhausting, and he slumps over as Derek sits down, keeping the nausea and exhaustion down as best as possible. It'd be so easy for him to move on and put this conversation off for another day, but it has to happen--god only knows how many days he has left, anyway.
Taking in a slow, measured breath, he starts talking, because that's what Stiles has always done. ] My dad cried today. [ It's not how he wanted to start, but he'll go with it. ] I heard him. I mean, he was in the hallway, and he was talking to Ms. McCall, and--y'know what he said? [ He swallows. ] I lost everything.
[ It had hurt so bad--all Stiles could do was lay there, dosed up on pain medicine, and listen to the sounds of his father, the strongest bastion in his life, his rock when his mom had died, finally break down into pieces. I don't have any reason to live anymore. It wasn't fair, wasn't fair to his dad, to anyone, to Stiles and his shitty fucking luck, and he had to try and fix it, even with the one thing he'd been fighting getting all his life. ] I can't just...I can't just let that happen to him.
[ He turns his gaze up to look at Derek, apprehensive and upset and worried, but from under the dark circles that look like bruises, there's a familiar glint of his old spark in those whiskey brown eyes. ] I want you to do it.
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Waiting for him to get his thoughts together, to find his words, he tips his head towards him further. It's always been habit to angle towards Stiles when he listens, even if it started out subtle. There's just been something about him from day one that's caused him to turn his focus wholly on him. Even if it means inserting himself into Stiles' space, which has just become more and more natural since the day they met.
He bows his head, closing his eyes and exhaling heavily. The words are just further confirmation to the sadness that has weighed heavy on the sheriff, has weighed heavy on all of them. But to watch his son succumb to the same thing that took away his wife...
Looking up at him from beneath his brow, the slivers of moonlight filtering in reflecting and causing clear green to filter briefly into red, he watches him closely. These days, it's been hard to catch that spark in Stiles' eyes. But when he sees it, he doesn't have to ask what he means. His jaw works a little, as if readying fangs-- the bite has been there, for the human members of the pack, and he's never had to outright voice the offer. But here, he's been so close to saying it.
Please, take the bite. I can't lose you, too. ]
You've thought it through.
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[ Taking in a deep, shuddery breath, Stiles turns his gaze onto Derek for a moment, and the spark's gone, replaced by vulnerability, fear. He's twenty years old and he looks like he's twelve again. It takes a few seconds for him to swallow down the panic, because it's going to send him into a fit of pained coughs again, and Stiles swallows, shaking his head to pinch the tears from his eyes. ] There's no guarantee I'll live through this either, is there?
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So he meets Stiles' eyes easily, despite the way the spark's been drowned out. Underneath sickness and medication, he can smell the fear. And while fear is a part of humanity, something that Stiles carries with him but pushes through, this is not one he can fight. Not now.
Bowing his head closer to him, he bumps their foreheads together, bringing his hand up to frame his neck gently. He thumbs at his pulse, rubbing gently at smooth skin in reassurance as he looks at him. But there's nothing predatory, just something deep and sad, from watching so much loss and death. ]
No, there isn't. Not... not with how sick you are. [ His eyes drop from Stiles', and he purses his lips into a thin line. ] But I'm not ready for you to die, either.
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He takes in another slow, shaky breath as he brings his forehead close to look at him, Stiles draws his mouth shut, steeling his shoulders the best he can and nodding against his forehead. He's so tired, he can feel his eyes drooping, and he leans into him a little as he talks. ] Hey, what's one more near death experience, right? At least this one has a guaranteed cure instead of an expiration date.
[ A hand comes up, thin and pale and attached to an IV, and presses over Derek's on his pulse. ] It's gonna be okay, big guy. [ Just like his mom always said. It's gonna be fine. She was so strong. ] Stilinskis don't die that easy.
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An unsteady laugh slips its way out of Derek, humorless and tired, and he pretends not to see what's happened to Stiles' hands as he presses one against his own. Not when he's seen them in constant motion for years, fanned out and balled into fists and flying across keys. That isn't Stiles, that's a ghast. ]
No, no they don't. [ He tips his head up, pressing his lips against the top of Stiles' head softly. It's a lingering gesture, as he takes in a deep breath as if to steel himself as well. Because if he doesn't survive the bite-- ] Ready?
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Or, there's the fifty fifty shot that he survives.
He pulls his hand away from Derek's slowly, fixing him with a look, and swallows the lump in his throat. ] If--If this doesn't work, it's not your fault, okay? Don't you dare think otherwise, or I'll haunt your ass.
[ That wasn't what he meant to say, but he knows. He knows guilt and pain and suffering better than anyone in their group, knows how it drapes on Derek just like it does him, until it's suffocating. ] And I'm--doing this because I trust you.
[ Now that his brain's decided to get everything out, Stiles nods, imperceptibly, forcibly shutting his mouth. Do it. ]
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Caught, but not looking away, he just nods his head once. It's no promise, because there's no way that he can control the weight of his guilt, but he swallows it down now. Hopefully it doesn't come to that.
But Stiles saying that he trusts him, he closes his eyes and holds onto that. If anything, he can keep that, can focus on it as he feels his fangs extend. When he opens his eyes again, they've bled into red, and he shifts his hand down to push the collar of his hospital shirt out of the way. Letting him brace for only a moment, he bows his head and sinks into the meat of his shoulder. ]
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He doesn't come to for almost two hours as his heart monitor continues to beat, steady in the night despite Stiles' stone cold posture. He barely moves in the two hours, except for a thin stream of black that drips out of his nose--it could be his body rejecting the bite, or the bite rejecting the cancer. Whatever it is, he's eerily still until, finally, his eyes snap open and he takes in a gasping breath. The color's mostly returned to his cheeks--started to about ten minutes ago, and he looks from left to right in a quick, jerky movement, then down at his shoulder, where the mark's still bright red, unable to heal while his body's still trying to force out the cancer.
His first words are, naturally, very Stiles. ] Oh my god.
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He hopes, with every fiber of his being, that it's the cancer being pushed out.
Very nearly jolting, he braces his hand against his upper arm to make sure he doesn't whip himself out of bed by accident. Considering it's Stiles, and he suddenly has some of his strength back, it's incredibly possible. But relief settles over him, because he's conscious, and he isn't bleeding black or puking it up. ] Jesus, Stiles.
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Staring at him with huge, bambi brown eyes, he gets hit with the first wave of senses, smell, something sickly sweet and then something that has to be Derek, a woodsy flower and leather and petrichor and about a million other things at once--he can smell the night nurse's coffee from down the hall, jesus, hear the sound of the nurses walking around and he shakes his head to try and clear it away.
Holy shit, he's alive. That's the first thing that hits him, like a freight train. He can breathe again, and it doesn't feel like his lungs are on fire. Like he could get up and run and jump around, play lacrosse, like he could sit up for more than ten minutes at a time. The force of it, the realization, that he's going to be okay, that his dad'll be okay, hits him so hard it brings tears to his eyes, and he's torn between a smile and aching relief, unbelievably vulnerable and thrilled and terrified all at once. ] Oh my god.
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The cancer isn't completely gone, not with such strong traces of the scent still lingering on him, but it's progress. It's something. Stiles is alive and he's not wasting away in a goddamn hospital bed. His expression breaks out into a smile, something honest and real in response to the torn one on Stiles' face.
He brings his hands up and cradles Stiles' face in his hands, sweeping his thumbs under his eyes and across warmed cheeks, almost as if he could wipe away tears and the dark rings that had become a permanent mask for so damn long. ] Welcome back.
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There's a new instinct to press their foreheads together, and he does, even if it's just for a few minutes before he pulls away, looking around and sniffing at the air. ] How do you guys even stand this?! Jesus, I think I can smell my neighbors bedpan. Eugh, oh my god.
[ He even makes an exaggerate gesture of plugging his nose. Someone's enjoying having his strength coming back. ]
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Drawing his hands back as Stiles breaks contact between their foreheads, he starts to laugh at him as he complains and plugs his nose. Simply because he can laugh again; tired as it is, it's still honest and quietly happy. ]
We learn to filter it so we're not overwhelmed, but we're not completely in the dark.
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Letting go of his nose, he turns his hands over in his lap, looking at them--if he were a badass, he'd yank out the needle of the IV, but the idea makes his stomach churn and he just lets it go, curling his fists instead and watching his veins slowly filtering black at his wrists, pushing the cancer out of his system. It's slow and probably going to take forever, but it's such a wondrous thing that he wants to stare, try to take in about suddenly being one of the lycanthropes after all. ]
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Raising a brow as he watches the black in his veins, he chuffs something soft before he reaches a hand out to set over where the needle is taped in place, overlapping and hiding it away from sight for a moment. He slips the fingers of his other hand down, using the first to take the edge off and to keep Stiles from feeling and seeing it as he peels the tape away and pulls the IV out. ]
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As the IV finally comes out, he reaches over and quietly covers Derek's hands with his own. It's not the biggest gesture or anything, but he's okay, his pulse rushing under his fingers instead of staggering along, and he'd like to show that to him--remind him that it's okay now, that it's gonna be okay. The cancer's still being pushed out of his body--he keeps sniffling black goo, which is disgusting--but it's going. It's not like Gerard. It's working. ]
You're not rid of me yet, Hale.
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But he turns his hands over, curls his fingers with Stiles' as his eyes drop down again to look at them. There's color in Stiles' skin again, something that soothes the alpha an exceptional amount. Enough that maybe the smog fades as he bows his head forward, pressing their foreheads again and closing his eyes. ]
I regret everything. [ No, he actually doesn't, and it's obvious in the crooked quirk at the corner of his mouth. ]
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Just turn into a rage monster every once in a while.
But Stiles is starting to think that he won't have a lot of trouble finding his anchor, anyway. He finds where their fingers are twined together and responds, crooning. ] Noooo you don't, because you literally cannot imagine your life without me. I'm a gift like that. [ He is teasing. Really. ]
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And he never wants to imagine losing him, too.
He opens his eyes again, looking back at those damn, bright amber eyes, and everything in him softens. Because there's life in them again, that intelligent spark is back, that fire that makes Stiles who he is. ]
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The little grin widens into something bigger, more honest, and he sniffles a little, unable to hide the happiness on his face. And for just a second, those amber brown eyes flash, like he's trying to figure out how to make it work--but instead of going gold, they're bright red. ] Just now I'm a deliciously edible fungus with sharp claws and big nasty fangs.
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Raising his eyebrows against Stiles', the alpha lets his own lopsided smile widen, straighten a little with the corners of his mouth quirking downward in honesty. Relieved, content, happy, it all suddenly fades in the face of surprise when Stiles flashes his eyes. He's expecting something gold, goldenrod or ochre or almost bronze.
What he gets is red, and whatever he has to say in response is derailed for a moment. When it comes back, he's looking at Stiles oddly, and the joke isn't quite there as it should be. ] You tasted like teenager.
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[ Absently, he does pull away from Derek a little and reach up to touch his own face, feel his nose--he comes away with another line of fresh black goop and mutters ] Oh, ew, disgusting. [ Before wiping his hand off on his hospital sheets. That must have been it. ] How long is this going to go on?
And for the record, taking a bite out of the meat of my shoulder is totally not taste d' Stiles, okay. [ He reaches up and rubs the bitemark, which is still there, waiting to heal while his body's still trying to push out all of the cancer. ] Your palate's just off.
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A while. Week, at least. [ He scans his face, before his eyes drop down to the bitemark on the meat of his shoulder. It causes his skin to bristle a little, almost like a chill rushes up the back of his neck, and he has to push down a sudden impulse that hits him. (Nevermind that it's hit him before, but he's ignoring that, too.) ]
What would you suggest for taste d' Stiles. [ His tone is dry, but he looks up from under his brow at him, brow raising slowly. ]
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[ Before pulling his face away to let Derek. Yeah. Stick to the wound examining. He does wiggle his eyebrows when Derek looks at him again, though, and grins. ] Probably something that doesn't involve flesh wounds.
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[ Going from his lingering confusion to amusement again, he lets red flare into his eyes. It's not meant to be aggressive or commanding, but... something else entirely. A response to his wiggling eyebrows. ] Noted.
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He hesitates on pressing the button when Derek flashes his eyes at him though, and Stiles can't help the affectionate look on his face in return. ] Ooh, terrifying. Totally waiting on you to get a taste of this delicious buffet of teenagedom here. [ He gestures up and down his body, and wipes his nose for emphasis. That was sarcastic. ]
[ Which is also kind of totally a front for how many thoughts that kicked up, and yeah, when Stiles isn't leaking black goop and healing from what's basically his deathbed, he's going to act on that. Probably. Maybe. If he can get his courage up. He's still hesitating over the button, though, like waiting for something to happen. ]
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The amusement shifts into a return of affection, an interesting contrast to those alpha reds of his. But their eyes aren't always in challenge or aggression, aren't just exclusive to the negatives. He feels such a fierce warmth towards Stiles, which surprises him more and more every day. ]
I'll take a raincheck for when you're better. [ Rising from his seated position, he bows his head in towards Stiles and presses his lips against the top of his head, brief but softer than the first he left before issuing the bite. The red fades from his eyes finally, and he moves to turn towards the door. ]