Summary: Stiles is always there for Scott and Derek, but what can you do when everything you have done still isn't good enough.
Thanks to VCCV for being my beta, you've been a hell of a lot of help. It's well appreciated. Thanks!
I stirred restlessly, slowly waking. I didn't sense danger. Everything was quiet besides the heavy breathing coming from the body next to me. I pushed myself to sitting position, blinking a few times to refocus on the wall, and tried to figure out where I was. The last thing I remembered was Stiles jeep.
I scanned the room: computer desk, bed, posters, piles of werewolf books. Ah, Stiles' house. I could hear two other heartbeats, the one next to me and one down the hallway. I turned my attention to the one next to me, Scott. I smacked him to wake him up. He let out a whiny groan before his eyes snapped open and his gaze landed on me.
He looked me up and down; his eyes widened, and he looked horrified. Only then did I realize we were both practically naked. "Why am I in my underwear?" Scott squealed. "And why are you just staring at me?" You didn't…did you?" His eyes grew wider and there was a note of accusation in his voice.
"You're really that stupid, aren't you?" I closed my eyes, holding back my growing irritation.
"Oh, my God. You did." Scott squeezed his eyes shut as if he were about to cry, and hit his head against the floor.
"I didn't touch you!" I raised my voice, disgusted at that thought myself.
"Thank God!" He gave a sigh of relief and sat up. It finally dawned on him where we were. "We're in Stiles' house, right?"
"Yeah." My eyes noted the dry, rusty brown puddle on the floor, the smear of that same brown on the door frame and the first aid supplies in a pile next to us. Finally, my gaze landed on the pile of bloody clothes. "Stiles must've stripped us and cleaned us up." I tugged the bandages off my torso and forearm. They weren't of use anymore.
"Where is Stiles?" Scott looked around the room, concerned.
"He's somewhere down the hall." I listened for his heartbeat, and concentrated on pinpointing where he was. "In the bathroom." I frowned. "It's actually kind of weak." I flung the blanket off of Scott and myself, and stood up, Scott not too far behind me. Together, we raced towards the bathroom. The sight we were met with horrified us. Stiles lay face down, four tear marks in the back of his shirt, and a patch of blood slowly engulfing the portion of white fabric.
"Stiles." Scott whispered, voice shaky.
I knelt and gently pulled Stiles up off of the floor and into my arms. "Scott." I turned my head towards him only to find him gone, but a moment later he appeared with the first-aid supplies we'd seen in Stiles' room. Scott sank to his knees on the other side of Stiles. He dropped everything, but the scissors onto the floor. Using them, he quickly cut Stiles' shirt off.
Four deep furrows lay under the material. Parts were freshly scabbing over but in the deepest wounds, blood still sluggishly seeped out. While Scott tended to the claw marks on his back, I held Stiles steady against my chest. That put his blood-soaked forehead right in my vision. I tilted Stiles' chin up, turning his face to mine, and examined the gash on his forehead. The blood contrasted with his fair complexion, but most of it had crusted over by now. I carefully ran my thumb along the wound.
"He hit the toilet on the way down." Scott had paused from dabbing antiseptic on Stiles' back motioning towards the red smear on the toilet seat. "Stiles." Scott looked guiltily between the bloody mark and Stiles before he continued to tend to his back.
I grabbed a damp washcloth and wiped the crusted blood off Stiles' face. The best we could do was bandage him up. Stitches and x-rays would have to be done in a hospital. I couldn't wait for that argument when Stiles woke up.
"We should get him in bed." Every time Scott looked at Stiles, I could smell the grief that swept over him. I understood. I felt the same, though I'm sure if Scott weren't so out of it and sniffed back in my direction…there would be a little more than guilt.
Standing up, I lifted Stiles from the floor and carried him back to his bed. I set him down gently, but I could feel his muscles twitch as his back made contact. He hadn't woken up yet, and at this point, I didn't know how long he'd been out. His body seemed to be working fine, I couldn't see any signs of internal bleeding but even my perception deceived me at times.
"Will he be okay?" Scott's voice came out a bit strained, choking on his words.
"He seems fine, but we'll have to get him to a hospital to make sure." My eyes lingered on the slumbering boy's face. Anger swept over me, not at Stiles or Scott, but at myself. If I hadn't passed out, Stiles wouldn't have been hurt. Hell, if it weren't for me, he wouldn't even have been there. I clenched my fists trying to keep my rage to myself.
"It's my fault, too." Scott must have picked up on my anger. "I should have been awake to help, but I wasn't." He seemed disgusted with himself.
"He should have run." I muttered. "I tired to get him to leave, but he refused."
"It's Stiles. What did you expect?" Scott gave a small, saddened chuckle. "He doesn't quit, and he doesn't get 'no'."
A shadow of a smile crossed my face, but quickly vanished as I leaned in, peering closer at Stiles. I hadn't noticed the bruises forming on him before. I was so distracted by the actual bleeding wounds. There was one on his cheekbone; I figured it was from where he'd hit the bathroom floor. But the ones on his shoulder puzzled me for a moment, and then I remembered the grip I'd had on him last night as he dragged my sorry ass out of danger. My frown deepened, and my fingers lightly stroked the discolored skin. Another thing to feel guilty about. Would the list never end with this boy?
"What are we gonna do when Stiles' dad gets home?" Scott asked quietly. In true fashion, either Murphy's Law was in effect or Scott's voice had summoned the Sheriff.
"Stiles…what the hell?" The Sheriff's voice wavered between worried and confused.
This wasn't good. I pulled my hands away from Stiles, and slowly turned to face the Sheriff. The room already looked like a crime scene: two guys, half-naked, the Sheriff's unconscious and obviously bleeding son.
"Hale?" The Sheriff's eyes widened. And then, there was the suspected murderer standing over him. I wasn't at all surprised when the Sheriff snatched his gun from its holster, aiming directly at me.
Yeah, this wasn't looking good at all.