Statistically Speaking

[Or That One Time Everything Is Insignificant Until It Wasn't]

Summary: Statistically speaking he should be dead. Well, that's what he thought anyway. He hadn't actually read it, but he's pretty sure if he had, that's what it would say. (post S2)

Characters: Stiles, Sheriff Stilinski

Genre: Gen

A/N: First of all – just a small shout out to Phoenix – and all who have been following my many wips. I have not abandoned any of them and intend to complete them all, but I just couldn't resist in dabbling in this – I mean Stiles and his father is one of the best and perfectly executed father/son relationships on TV at the moment. Oh the angst. Oh the feely feels.

This is my first TW fic. I have only seen one episode of S2 so far (except for youtube videos and what I've read fic-wise) so inaccuracies may occur. I apologise in advance.

General spoilers for S2

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. The show and characters are not mine. Not for profit. No infringements intended.


Stiles woke to a face full of asphalt and an excruciating arm after a day of insignificances.

Such as an insignificant day at school, full of monotone and glibness, work he could do in his sleep, that resulted in him sitting back on the bench now that both Scott and Jackson were on top form. Which wasn't really a surprise after all. In fact it was insignificant.

Conversation with Scott at lunch had been equally insignificant with Scott moping on about Allison, as usual, and their epic clandestine affair, seemly so preoccupied that he hadn't noticed Stiles had his own equally troubling and distressing issues he couldn't talk about. Like how things were still pretty bad and strained between he and his dad or how they barely talked at breakfast this morning, both going through the motions as though it was a standard day. Because it was. And therefore totally insignificant.

The day had resulted in an impromptu pack meeting that Stiles had found himself attending. He didn't know why of course because anything he suggested was shot down with a scoff, even Scott suggesting that 'you might not get it, Stiles. I mean you're not one of us.' Stiles knew that Scott had meant he wasn't a werewolf but it still stung. He'd left abruptly after that, mumbling an excuse about having to meet his dad and pointedly ignoring the uncomfortable looks of Isaac (not very surprising) and Derek (somewhat surprising) and high-tailed it out of there before anyone could object, his head buzzing with it's insignificant and I'm insignificant.

By the time he was actually driving home he was wound with barely suppressed anger and a burning feeling wrapped around both his heart and lungs after his crap day (or if he was being honest... he's never ending hugely distressful PTSD'ing last few months what with having the crap beaten out of him, being held at gun-point, watching a man die and walking in on a bloody massacre. And lets not forget Kanima juice) of insignificances. If that's what he was calling it. It's not, not really, but everyone was treating it, him, like it was insignificant.

No, it was pretty much significant. Huge, even.

So the anger and frustration of the day might be leaving him just the slightest bit distracted. Not to the extent that he's driving dangerously, because he's not but in hindsight (and after tonight there might be many) he should probably have been more aware of the other people driving around him than he actually was, but he's still quite furious at Scott and worrying his lip at the way his dad keeps looking at him, suspicious and hurt, and he might actually have slipped his belt off courtesy of the fact that his shoulder was still giving him jip from where Gerard 'Prehistoric' Argent had beaten him, and not really taking notice of the way the second car back on the opposite side of the road was flashing it's lights and revving it's engine, obviously frustrated at the fact the car in front was going at a steady pace and obviously ensuring it remained within the speed limit.

In fact Stiles only becomes aware of the drama unfolding when the second car suddenly honks it's horn and Stiles flashes his eyes across at the two of them, registering the erratic driving, the flashing lights, the sudden accelerating and breaking, the noise of revving intermingling with intermittent bouts of breaking and the horn blaring.

"Asshole," Stiles mutters.

It's then that the car starts to break away from the convoy with such a sudden and decisive move, leaving Stiles no time to react except to try and break. The suddenness of it pushes him back into his seat, arms taught against the wheel despite the pain flaring in his shoulder. Even with his automatic emergency break (and his Driver Ed had always said he had immaculate reflexes) he knows he's going to be hit. It's one of those clear moments, even if it's barely seconds, where he's seeing velocity and projectiles before it actually happens.

The driver in front, who Stiles now registers as a woman, must have panicked because instead of breaking she actually speeds up. The second car must have realised it's mistake because it tries to whip back in, and Stiles knows it can be so much worse – it could be a head on hit, but as such the car cuts back in front of the first, slicing in like a shark through water, but not before clipping the Jeep's wing as it did.

The impact throws Stiles forward and his head is hitting glass, body shattering it and tumbling through after, before the car even starts spinning with the hit. His body somersaults neatly over the hood of the Jeep and crumples against the ground.

So that's how he ends up with a face full of asphalt. But he wouldn't know that because he was out before he even excited the windscreen.


Stiles came to with a face full of asphalt. He blinked at it, seeing the shiny granules winking in and out. It took a second longer to realise his arm felt like it had been ripped from it's socket, but if it had he probably wouldn't have felt the excruciating pains firing up and down it, settling in his fingers just to retrace it's path back up to his shoulder.

He swallows against the nausea threatening to make an appearance and tentatively rolls the other side of his body so that he flopped on to his back. His shoulder explodes in white hot poker pain as he did so, his vision blinking out for a few seconds and he's only slightly aware that there's a shriek coming from him, leaving him panting on the floor.

"Oh," he hisses through it. "Bad move." He made a mental note not to try that again.

Lying there he processes that he might actually have been thrown through his windscreen. He can't remember it happening. All he knew was that one minute he was in the Jeep and the next he wasn't. Statistically speaking he should be dead. Well, that's what he thought anyway. He hadn't actually read it, but he's pretty sure if he had, that's what it would say.

He's not entirely sure he's even understanding himself any longer. Was that a bad sign?

He huffs a pained breath through his nose, vaguely remembering that he'd just made a mental note not to move, but he tests himself despite the fear (and clouding confusion) and lifts his head slowly. His shoulder, although not moving, resists the movement and Stiles feels the muscles stretch painfully from the top of his neck and around his shoulder. There might even be some bone moving against bone further down the arm.

"Sweet Jesus..." Stiles manages, a sob finding it's way into his voice, as he scans his surroundings quickly. His shoulder gives out then (but not before processing that he can't see anything except for the one side of the Jeep not actually hit – light still miraculously working and slicing through the darkness – illuminating drops of water) and he drops back down on to the hard and uninviting road miserably.

He's cold and wet and shivering and there's most definitely a broken arm. A concussion too if the blood dripping into his eye and swimming vision is anything to go by.

And it's raining. Which probably explains why he's cold and wet, the rain drops hitting him in the face, mixing with the blood, causing him to try and blink the sting away. But he could also be bleeding out, haemorrhaging on the road with no one to see, blood pressure dropping and body cooling with shock. He could be dying for all he knew.

The sudden thought has him inhaling a painful breath (oh, yeah... why not throw in some broken ribs too) as fear strickens him. It's not because he's scared of dying (of course he is – who the hell wouldn't be?) but he's spent the last year continuously scared of what was happening around him … what could, and most probably would, happen. What had Miss Morrel called it? Hypervigilence. Yeah. None of that was new. No, it was more to do with the fact that if he died, he'd leave his dad all alone. It's the same fear, the same desperation, the same energy that had himself dragging himself across the floor of the station to get to his father, arms shaking, despair wound through his very core, when Matt was stood over his unconscious father. Back then, amidst the fierce need to protect his father, it had been 'please don't. don't take him. I need him.'

It was, quite simply, the same fear of being abandoned, that he might be the one to be doing the abandoning.

And... with the Stilinski's shit luck, it would be his father to find him dead on the road. What with the sparse amount of officers at the moment, thanks to Matt's down-sizing, and his father's hastily re-employment as a result, it was highly likely to happen.

Stiles decided there and then that would not happen and decided he'd have to get to his phone, which he, despite his hammering heart and swimmy vision, vaguely remembers was (or hopes) still in the Jeep (Stiles threw the phone on to the passenger seat ignoring the annoyingly chirpy alarm to alert him that someone had text him. Scott, most probably, considering he'd already ignored the last two).

Ignoring the physical need not to move, Stiles huffs another breath – holds it there in his mouth, cheeks puffed out – as he rolls on to his good? Better? Side and levers himself up, bringing his other arm in, cradling it against his stomach. He lets the breath out slowly and then sucks it back in even quicker through barely parted lips, hissing through the pain. The breaths continue in and out of him, a mixture of pain and adrenaline, just short of full blown hyperventilating.

He's not even sure how he's even standing right now. The sudden altitude has his head dizzyingly bopping on his head and he makes a beeline that really was more of a stumbling zig-zag to the hood of the Jeep. Once there he sags against it, trying to hold himself up with one trembling arm. He dumbly registers that there's no sign of any other car around, and yeah he might have a concussion and things might not be all that clear at the moment – except that he needs his dad to be okay with everything – anger settles in his stomach. He'd been left for dead. It's not like anyone could miss that.

Swallowing down the anger and another surge of nausea, he drags himself around the edge of the Jeep, the metal frame holding him up firmly, securely, responsibly, until he tugs the passenger side open and practically falls face down before sliding the rest of the way, butt first. It jostles his arm some more and causes a pained gasp to fly out of his mouth.

As he tries to calm his breathing and re-compartmentalise his pains he takes a second to look down at himself, now that he wasn't lying flat on his back, and sees that there is blood oozing through his left pant leg. There's a jagged mark through the material from mid thigh to his knee. So, he might actually be bleeding out. His left arm, he also notices, was bent at a ridiculous angle. He blanches at the sight and his breaths, the ones already too fast, speed up, wheezing in his throat.

He reaches out blindly, hand searching for the purchase of his phone with a desperate need to get help and he nearly sobs in relief when he grabs something and snatches it back, hand bloody over the phone. There's a least a few more missed messages from Scott and, quite surprisingly, a missed call from Derek. One from his dad too.

Stiles deletes the messages angrily without even reading them. He didn't want to speak to Scott and despite not wanting to scare him only a few minutes before - which in his concussed and overly-emotional brain he might actually have forgotten – it was his dad, not Derek, he wants.

He wants his dad.

He thumbed through the phone, leaving smudged prints of blood, until he gets to his dad's number. He tries to calm his breathing, level it out, and mask any panic that might still be lingering in him (which, not surprisingly, was a lot).

"Stiles?" his dad greets him on the second ring, voice bright and unconcerned (so maybe Stiles hasn't been out too long). "I tried calling you earlier. Just wanted to let you know that I might-"

"Dad?" Stiles cuts him off. He'd intended to try a calmly tailored voice, a 'Don't freak out, okay?' 'Listen, I'm okay, but...'. What actually came out was a shaky breath, sob stuck in his throat, swallowing up the word. He might as well has cried 'Daddy!'

"Stiles?" his dad asks, voice snapping to attention, all traces of carefree and unconcerned gone. He hears the rustle of papers, of a body moving and he closes his eyes imagining his dad at his desk, surrounded by paperwork, feet on his desk, burger in his hand... all immediately forgotten. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

"I... my Jeep..." Stiles starts, but the sob from before has loosened and now he's finding it difficult to speak between the shuddering breaths and full out sobbing. "It wasn't my fault... he... just came out... nowhere."

"Stiles!" his dad snaps at him, sounding a mixture of anger and fear. Both of which he had wanted to avoid. He really should have called Derek. At least he'd get to him faster. And he might have already been tucked up at home. His Dad would have been none the wiser. "Are you hurt?"

He considers lying, but he has some major boo boos here and he misses his mom and he doesn't want Derek, and what was the point of calling his dad again?

"Stiles?" his dad asks urgently.

"My arm... my leg. Kinda bleeding here..." Stiles tries before another round of sobs overtake him. "It hurts, dad."

"I know, son," his dad tries to soothe, although his tone does nothing to soothe him. His dad sounds scared. He's scaring his dad. "Where are you?"

"I don't know," Stiles confesses, heart constricting. He's in the middle of nowhere, broken limbs and bleeding profusely, and how the hell was his dad supposed to find him.

"Stiles!" his dad barks at him and Stiles jumps at the ferociousness of it, jarring his body and causing his head to ache, ears buzzing with the noise. He's terrified now because his dad is panicking and this wasn't supposed to be happening.

"Don't shout," Stiles pleads as his dad's panic leaches into him and seizes him. He feels the rushed breaths increase once more. A sob rips through him leaving him even more breathless. "It's not my fault."

"I'm sorry," he hears his father try and level his breathing in his ear. "Just stay calm okay, kiddo. I need you to stay calm for me. Can you do that?"

"I'm trying," Stiles tells him honestly. He bites down on his lip to try and help.

"Okay, that's good Stiles. That's really good."

He knows his father is making a great effort to keep his voice calm for his sake just as he was making a great effort to calm his breathing so that he doesn't asphyxiate on his own paralysing fear and pain.

"You're doing really good, Stiles," his dad's voice is rich and warm in his ear. Stiles closes his eyes and breathes it in. Breathe in. Breathe out. Rich and warm. Breathe in. Breathe out. "That's it, Stiles. In and out. Just like that."

After a few minutes of some rather immaculate lamaze breathing – his dad should seriously consider teaching this shit for real (it's not like he hasn't had the practice) – he hears his dad's voice in his ear again. "Stiles?"

"Hmm?" he asks, eyes closed and breathing deeply, imagining the pain was fading away. Mind over matter.

"I know you're scared, but I really need you to tell me where you are," his dad reminds him. "I can't help help you if I don't know where you are. What can you see kiddo?"

Stiles hasn't a clue what road he's on. He should, but he doesn't and he tells his dad exactly that along with here he was headed (home) and the fact he'd passed a funny shaped bush sometime before that. "You know?" Stiles asks as though his dad does. "The one that looks like a rabbit?"

"A squirrel," his dad automatically corrects.

Stiles almost sobs in relief again.

"Rabbit," he huffs out painfully. It was a debate that they had many times before and he really hopes they can do it again but he doesn't say it loud because he's only just calmed enough to stop shouting at him and he really doesn't want to go through all of it again. Not fun.

He hears his father moving again, what sounds like fingers clicking urgently, hushed voices as his father barks out orders and there's no hint of panic or fear, just military precision. His heart swells with pride and he remembers, as a kid, why he'd loved visiting his dad at the station, trussed up in his uniform, badge shiny and bright in Stiles awe filled eyes.

"You're the king of the castle," an eight year old Stiles giggled as his dad swung him around his newly acquired office.

Nowadays they were lucky if there was even a passing acknowledgement at breakfast. What with his father's shifts and Stiles own unusual hours and wolf-keeping, they could sometimes go days without seeing each other. Like ships in the night.

"Stiles? Are you still with me?"

"Huh? Dad?" Stiles asks, suddenly realising his dad has been talking to him. He must have lost some time, blinked out on his dad, because there was an undertone of worry to his father's voice.

"Are you okay?"

It's laughable really. They've already concluded that he's not.

"Yeah. Just cold and wet and hurting," despite the words there's not a trace of sarcasm there. "But I'm okay... I'm sorry for freaking you out."

"You can apologise later, okay?" his father states and Stiles finds himself nodding slightly even though there was no one to see. "But for now I need you to hang up the phone."

"What?!" Stiles shouts, body jarring with shock and he hisses against the pain. "No... I need you to stay on the phone with me. What if you can't find me? What if no one can see me. I'm... I'm scared, Dad."

He knows he sounds like he's pleading but he really doesn't understand why his dad wants him off the phone.

"Stiles," his father sighs in frustration. "You called me on the office phone. I need you to disconnect so that I can call you back on my phone. Helps already on the way. I'm leaving too. I promise I'll call you back."

"Promise?" Stiles asks, sounding all of eight again.

"I promise," his dad tells him firmly. "Just as long as you make sure to answer. You'll do that, Stiles? Right?"

"Y...yeah. I will," Stiles assures him, voice shaky.

"I'll be there before you even know it," his dad tells him before he's even asked. "I'm leaving now, so hang up so I can call you back already."

Stiles terminates the call, and clutches the phone in his right hand, counting out the seconds until his father calls him back, breathing in and out. When he does, the rich and warm voice from before fills his ear again smoothly. Rich and warm. In and out. Rich and warm. In and out.



A/N2: This was going to be a one-shot but I wanted to get this up before I go away for a week. I wasn't sure if I could get everything up before I left, so I decided to to make a two-shot instead. Hopefully I will have the second part up soon after I return.

Also... for the other wips. I intend to take notes on the others. I am actively working on them. Just wanted to let everyone know as I couldn't personally answer all the guest responses.