[ he means the hospital gown. he looks small and pale in it, like the removal of the nogitsune had taken something essential along with it. or maybe just a lot of blood. ]]
I can never tie them properly. My ass is always cold.
[ his mouth quirks up, but his joke-cracking is visibly strained, his fingers curled tight against his palms so that they can't shake. he remembers when he was little it was his mom where he is and him in the chair. he remembers meeting scott, the only other kid who hung around the hospital as much as stiles did. ]
[ he bounces a couple of times, bare feet swinging over the edge of the bed. he doesn't know how to tell scott the news. still hasn't really processed it himself. it's like his brain doesn't know how to. every time he tries to think about it, really think about it, he ends up pondering something inane, like the way the framed photograph of a windmill in a field of flowers has been hung crooked. but they took him off his adderall for the blood tests, so maybe it's just withdrawal. ]
So uh, things aren't looking good. I mean, whether it was the nemeton, or— or not, just, you know, a hereditary thing. It's really... it's really happening.
[ his voice breaks indelicately on that last thing, which is awful, scott doesn't deserve to have to deal with this. he wanted to be calmer. ]
[ stiles' attempt at a joke is weak, maybe, but scott's attempt at offering some kind of encouraging response — a laugh, even just a small smile — falls even flatter, and the only thing he really manages is a slightly apologetic look. even that barely shows through the concentration and concern clouding his expression.
scott helps. that's what he does; he finds a way to help, and he does it, but this isn't that easy. he can't make it easier for stiles to say what he needs to say. he can't undo the last few weeks, the nogitsune and the tests. he just has to sit, and wait, leaning forward on his knees in a gesture that should be relaxed, but it's not — the line of his shoulders is tense, and the way his thumbs shift tightly over his own knuckles as he clasps his hands in front of him gives it away.
when stiles' voice breaks, so does scott's restraint. he releases his own hand to reach forward and take stiles', and he wishes the gesture was gentle, soothing. wishes he could take this kind of pain as easily as he can take the purely physical. instead his grip's firm, matching stiles' own efforts to keep himself steady. ]
You're okay. [ it doesn't sound like a lie, and he repeats it, this time with a bit more accuracy: ] You're going to be okay. [ there's a beat of silence, eyes on stiles', and his gaze is the same as his voice. worried, confident. sorry. ] There's still plan B.
[ there's a dark joke in there, somewhere, but he isn't really in the state to sell it. ]
[ scott grabs him, and stiles grabs back immediately, stomach flipping, clutching at scott's hands with an intense kind of relief. his best friend has always been the steadier of the two of them, and he's only grown into that with the whole alpha thing, and stiles couldn't ever admit it but he's so freaking thankful to have that. ]
[ his dad... his dad's like that, too, usually, calm under pressure, but he hasn't been handling it well lately. which, stiles gets it — this is the second family member he's had to watch like this. stiles had been young when his mom was sick, and he doesn't really remember a time before it, but his dad did. his dad does. ]
Yeah, pff, whatever, right? We've handled worse than this. I'll be fine.
[ he puffs his cheeks, but like his jokes, his self-assurance needs a lot of work right not to be believable. he wants to be okay. he wants everything to be okay. but he's — not really a natural optimist. ]
But uh... Scott, buddy. Are you sure you're willing to risk that?
[ he thumbs over scott's fingers, glancing down, lashes clumping damply. right now he actually can't stop thinking about that stupid story peter told them, about derek's teenage girlfriend. but not for the obvious reasons, not out of fear for himself, or not wholly. ]
If I— if you do it, and it doesn't work. You won't ... be the true alpha anymore.
[ scott probably always knew, on some level, that he was taking it for granted. that stiles would always be there with a (probably insensitive) joke, refuse to be dragged down, keep their heads above water. even if he hadn't, it'd been thrown into stark relief when that started to change; sometime around the kanima, and gerard. outside the club, on the bench on the field.
he'd told stiles it was okay, then. that it was okay if he couldn't handle it. and he'd meant it. scott didn't expect him to be okay with any of it. somewhere around there he'd learned to pick up the slack himself, knew it wasn't fair to make anyone else do it for him if they had any choice.
but now stiles is dying and he's talking about scott, about alphas and risk. there's a twist of guilt somewhere in the grief and affection that's already at odds, and scott slides one hand out of stiles' cold grip to squeeze his shoulder, shifts it to the side of his neck a moment later, thumb stroking over his jaw. it's almost steady, but there's something worrying about the gesture, like if he lets go, stops actively touching, stiles will be gone. ]
I have to. [ it's resolved, sure. not just that, of course; scared, because his best friend's dying. because if this doesn't work, he'll be dead because of him. ] But you have to be sure, too. It isn't—
[ easy? he'd almost killed stiles on purpose, his first few shifts. but he hadn't had any guidance. this would be different. if anything, there's a reluctance based on the fact that stiles has always been stiles, still human despite everything. scott doesn't know what to read into that, exactly — just knows that it's important, somehow. ]
[ he says it quickly, interrupting, like he's trying to tear off a band-aid. ]
You think I don't know? I know.
[ he may not have been in the bathroom crying with scott, and he may not have been right there with him when he got the bite, but he's been there for practically every other thing. read more about werewolves than even they could ever practically use. watched scott break out of duct tape and rope, claw through furniture, leap fences. and at the time it was just this cool thing, you know, something to be a little jealous of, his best friend getting superpowers and kinda leaving him in the dust. (except he hadn't, not really. scott had never once left stiles behind.) stiles had never really empathized. but with the possibility on the horizon, you know, he's getting a little nervous, trying to imagine what it'll be like for him, how he'll do. ]
I want to.
[ because he doesn't want to die. he especially doesn't want to die slowly, lingeringly, losing his mind and forgetting how to have normal emotional responses, forgetting the names of the people around him, forgetting where he is, broken down to the component parts of his psychology — he's seen it up close and it still haunts him. ]
[ his smile tugs, unhappy, trying to reassure without actively lying. ]
[ he doesn't answer right away, leaves a few heavy seconds between them as he watches stiles. the small signs of fear, exhaustion. vaguely wonders if stiles aged overnight, or if maybe he just hadn't been looking close enough to see it before — both, probably. but then he nods gently, once, lips pressing together in determination to keep his emotions in check as much as in an effort to commit to the decision, look like he's sure of it. ] Okay.
[ the fear's not even close to gone, but there's no hesitation in the confirmation. it's not until after that he falters, slightly, brows furrowing as he tries to make the transition from concept to reality, and scott can't help a brief, distracted glance around the sterile room. he's not even looking at it, really; just remembering where they are, what it represents, and there's an almost misplaced, childish concern in his next words. ] We shouldn't— [ except that's too assertive, gets undercut a second later. ] Should we do it here?
[ stiles shakes his head, fervent. that's not even a question. if he's going to die, then he's not going to die in a hospital bed. ]
No. I wanna be at home.
[ the comfort of his bedroom, even if he feels like he's grown out of it lately. stiles slips forward, bare feet on the shitty pile of the hospital room carpet, reaches back with a wince to try and tug the gown closed. standing up seems to make everything abruptly real, but in a good way. he's not just going to accept bad news. he can and will do something about it. ]
[ if he can find his jeans. ]
Dude, where are my clothes.
[ they're not in the side drawers, or the cramped and sterile ensuite bathroom. stiles is pretty sure he might have to do a lydia and go running around town with his bits out. ]
[ there's something equally reassuring and hopeless in seeing stiles stir to life, because it's stiles, restless and aggressive; the problem is that he's still wearing that gown, still in this damn room. it's distracting enough for scott to miss a beat at the question. ]
What? [ another pause while he focuses. ] I mean— yeah. [ except he doesn't actually have to. he knows where they are because he saw his mom take them from the room, like washing stiles' clothes could somehow fix any of this. but he stands and heads over to the door, pauses with a: ] Wait here.
[ as if stiles is going anywhere. he's back less than a minute later with stiles' clothes, taken from where melissa's left them at the front desk (still unwashed, which is better; he'd rather have stiles' scent than the starch of detergent). it's hard to drag his eyes away from stiles once he hands them over. it's not like they really need any modesty at this point, but the gown makes it feel like he's looking at a vulnerability. he ends up staring at a wall instead, slightly awkward and withdrawn. ] We can take my bike.
[ meaning the jeep isn't here. the sheriff had driven it home, though scott couldn't really say why. maybe he hated the sight of it outside the hospital. ]
[ maybe he didn't think stiles would be needing it. or maybe he thought stiles might try and — run away from this (which, isn't that exactly what he's doing?) he grimaces, shoves his legs into his briefs and then his jeans, tugging them up his thighs. scott isn't looking — he's not like, turning his back, it's more like locker room courtesy, where you don't stare at another guy's junk, pay attention to something else while they flash skin beside you. stiles has never actually been great at that, but scott's okay, scott doesn't leave him feeling weird or uncomfortable as he swaps the gown for his tshirt. ]
Thank god.
[ stiles balls up the offending clothing and tosses it onto the hospital bed, toeing into his shoes and shoving his feet past the heel. ]
Okay.
[ stiles claps his hands against his thighs, shoulders bunched. he's so intensely nervous that he's gone past it and into aggressively ready. the infamous stiles stilinski swandive into stupid danger. it had gotten scott bitten in the first place, and now here's the payoff. ]
Okay. Bike it is. Let's go, before someone comes to check on me.
[ which, now there's the obvious dilemma, and he looks from the door to the window. ]
[ scott's expecting the change of clothes to bring this back round to something normal. and it does, sort of, except when he looks back to stiles, the shadow of wrong is still there. in the way scott can feel the tension thrumming off of him, see the darkness under his eyes from the lack of sleep and the worry.
the realization causes a brief hesitation, but then he's catching up again, following stiles' gaze towards the window. and this is easy, isn't it? getting into trouble. any other time scott might actually argue against breaking the rules so flagrantly. this time he just runs with the idea, steps over to the window and forces it open with a low whine of the gently warped frame.
there are some bushes that'll demand slightly awkward footing, but it beats being on the fourth floor (for stiles' sake, anyway), and his bike's just a few yards away in the neighboring lot. there's a quick glance back, then: ]
Come on. I'll close the window behind us.
[ not that it'll keep anyone from noticing stiles is gone, but maybe they'll at least waste time searching the hospital if the window's not the obvious exit. ]
[ stiles thinks about it, stuffs the hospital gown in the trash, leaves the few things his dad had brought him. maybe it'll just look like he's gone for a walk. and then out the window it is in a clumsy jump. ]
[ he's had worse falls, and he doesn't injure himself (pretty ironic though, right, if he broke something while he was at a hospital.) but the impact of the ground shudders through him, makes him realize how brittle he feels. obviously the nogitsune didn't exactly keep his body in tip-top condition, and stress and insomnia's done the rest. stiles remembers watching his mom wither away. it makes his stomach clench tight, thinking about it. ]
[ but there's no time to wallow. adrenaline is already pumping through his system as he moves fast, hoping nobody else is watching from the windows of the rooms facing this way, watching he and scott jailbreak. ]
[ he's laughing by the time he reaches scott's bike, wheezing and hysterical. this could be the last time a sprint ever winds him, he thinks, doesn't know whether the emotion that follows is glee or fear. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ex_question191) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
knottinghill2014-02-13 12:29 am
no subject
[ he means the hospital gown. he looks small and pale in it, like the removal of the nogitsune had taken something essential along with it. or maybe just a lot of blood. ]]
I can never tie them properly. My ass is always cold.
[ his mouth quirks up, but his joke-cracking is visibly strained, his fingers curled tight against his palms so that they can't shake. he remembers when he was little it was his mom where he is and him in the chair. he remembers meeting scott, the only other kid who hung around the hospital as much as stiles did. ]
[ he bounces a couple of times, bare feet swinging over the edge of the bed. he doesn't know how to tell scott the news. still hasn't really processed it himself. it's like his brain doesn't know how to. every time he tries to think about it, really think about it, he ends up pondering something inane, like the way the framed photograph of a windmill in a field of flowers has been hung crooked. but they took him off his adderall for the blood tests, so maybe it's just withdrawal. ]
So uh, things aren't looking good. I mean, whether it was the nemeton, or— or not, just, you know, a hereditary thing. It's really... it's really happening.
[ his voice breaks indelicately on that last thing, which is awful, scott doesn't deserve to have to deal with this. he wanted to be calmer. ]
no subject
scott helps. that's what he does; he finds a way to help, and he does it, but this isn't that easy. he can't make it easier for stiles to say what he needs to say. he can't undo the last few weeks, the nogitsune and the tests. he just has to sit, and wait, leaning forward on his knees in a gesture that should be relaxed, but it's not — the line of his shoulders is tense, and the way his thumbs shift tightly over his own knuckles as he clasps his hands in front of him gives it away.
when stiles' voice breaks, so does scott's restraint. he releases his own hand to reach forward and take stiles', and he wishes the gesture was gentle, soothing. wishes he could take this kind of pain as easily as he can take the purely physical. instead his grip's firm, matching stiles' own efforts to keep himself steady. ]
You're okay. [ it doesn't sound like a lie, and he repeats it, this time with a bit more accuracy: ] You're going to be okay. [ there's a beat of silence, eyes on stiles', and his gaze is the same as his voice. worried, confident. sorry. ] There's still plan B.
[ there's a dark joke in there, somewhere, but he isn't really in the state to sell it. ]
no subject
[ his dad... his dad's like that, too, usually, calm under pressure, but he hasn't been handling it well lately. which, stiles gets it — this is the second family member he's had to watch like this. stiles had been young when his mom was sick, and he doesn't really remember a time before it, but his dad did. his dad does. ]
Yeah, pff, whatever, right? We've handled worse than this. I'll be fine.
[ he puffs his cheeks, but like his jokes, his self-assurance needs a lot of work right not to be believable. he wants to be okay. he wants everything to be okay. but he's — not really a natural optimist. ]
But uh... Scott, buddy. Are you sure you're willing to risk that?
[ he thumbs over scott's fingers, glancing down, lashes clumping damply. right now he actually can't stop thinking about that stupid story peter told them, about derek's teenage girlfriend. but not for the obvious reasons, not out of fear for himself, or not wholly. ]
If I— if you do it, and it doesn't work. You won't ... be the true alpha anymore.
no subject
he'd told stiles it was okay, then. that it was okay if he couldn't handle it. and he'd meant it. scott didn't expect him to be okay with any of it. somewhere around there he'd learned to pick up the slack himself, knew it wasn't fair to make anyone else do it for him if they had any choice.
but now stiles is dying and he's talking about scott, about alphas and risk. there's a twist of guilt somewhere in the grief and affection that's already at odds, and scott slides one hand out of stiles' cold grip to squeeze his shoulder, shifts it to the side of his neck a moment later, thumb stroking over his jaw. it's almost steady, but there's something worrying about the gesture, like if he lets go, stops actively touching, stiles will be gone. ]
I have to. [ it's resolved, sure. not just that, of course; scared, because his best friend's dying. because if this doesn't work, he'll be dead because of him. ] But you have to be sure, too. It isn't—
[ easy? he'd almost killed stiles on purpose, his first few shifts. but he hadn't had any guidance. this would be different. if anything, there's a reluctance based on the fact that stiles has always been stiles, still human despite everything. scott doesn't know what to read into that, exactly — just knows that it's important, somehow. ]
no subject
[ he says it quickly, interrupting, like he's trying to tear off a band-aid. ]
You think I don't know? I know.
[ he may not have been in the bathroom crying with scott, and he may not have been right there with him when he got the bite, but he's been there for practically every other thing. read more about werewolves than even they could ever practically use. watched scott break out of duct tape and rope, claw through furniture, leap fences. and at the time it was just this cool thing, you know, something to be a little jealous of, his best friend getting superpowers and kinda leaving him in the dust. (except he hadn't, not really. scott had never once left stiles behind.) stiles had never really empathized. but with the possibility on the horizon, you know, he's getting a little nervous, trying to imagine what it'll be like for him, how he'll do. ]
I want to.
[ because he doesn't want to die. he especially doesn't want to die slowly, lingeringly, losing his mind and forgetting how to have normal emotional responses, forgetting the names of the people around him, forgetting where he is, broken down to the component parts of his psychology — he's seen it up close and it still haunts him. ]
[ his smile tugs, unhappy, trying to reassure without actively lying. ]
I'm sure.
no subject
[ the fear's not even close to gone, but there's no hesitation in the confirmation. it's not until after that he falters, slightly, brows furrowing as he tries to make the transition from concept to reality, and scott can't help a brief, distracted glance around the sterile room. he's not even looking at it, really; just remembering where they are, what it represents, and there's an almost misplaced, childish concern in his next words. ] We shouldn't— [ except that's too assertive, gets undercut a second later. ] Should we do it here?
no subject
No. I wanna be at home.
[ the comfort of his bedroom, even if he feels like he's grown out of it lately. stiles slips forward, bare feet on the shitty pile of the hospital room carpet, reaches back with a wince to try and tug the gown closed. standing up seems to make everything abruptly real, but in a good way. he's not just going to accept bad news. he can and will do something about it. ]
[ if he can find his jeans. ]
Dude, where are my clothes.
[ they're not in the side drawers, or the cramped and sterile ensuite bathroom. stiles is pretty sure he might have to do a lydia and go running around town with his bits out. ]
You can sniff them out, right?
[ he considers a lassie joke, passes on it. ]
no subject
What? [ another pause while he focuses. ] I mean— yeah. [ except he doesn't actually have to. he knows where they are because he saw his mom take them from the room, like washing stiles' clothes could somehow fix any of this. but he stands and heads over to the door, pauses with a: ] Wait here.
[ as if stiles is going anywhere. he's back less than a minute later with stiles' clothes, taken from where melissa's left them at the front desk (still unwashed, which is better; he'd rather have stiles' scent than the starch of detergent). it's hard to drag his eyes away from stiles once he hands them over. it's not like they really need any modesty at this point, but the gown makes it feel like he's looking at a vulnerability. he ends up staring at a wall instead, slightly awkward and withdrawn. ] We can take my bike.
[ meaning the jeep isn't here. the sheriff had driven it home, though scott couldn't really say why. maybe he hated the sight of it outside the hospital. ]
no subject
Thank god.
[ stiles balls up the offending clothing and tosses it onto the hospital bed, toeing into his shoes and shoving his feet past the heel. ]
Okay.
[ stiles claps his hands against his thighs, shoulders bunched. he's so intensely nervous that he's gone past it and into aggressively ready. the infamous stiles stilinski swandive into stupid danger. it had gotten scott bitten in the first place, and now here's the payoff. ]
Okay. Bike it is. Let's go, before someone comes to check on me.
[ which, now there's the obvious dilemma, and he looks from the door to the window. ]
no subject
the realization causes a brief hesitation, but then he's catching up again, following stiles' gaze towards the window. and this is easy, isn't it? getting into trouble. any other time scott might actually argue against breaking the rules so flagrantly. this time he just runs with the idea, steps over to the window and forces it open with a low whine of the gently warped frame.
there are some bushes that'll demand slightly awkward footing, but it beats being on the fourth floor (for stiles' sake, anyway), and his bike's just a few yards away in the neighboring lot. there's a quick glance back, then: ]
Come on. I'll close the window behind us.
[ not that it'll keep anyone from noticing stiles is gone, but maybe they'll at least waste time searching the hospital if the window's not the obvious exit. ]
no subject
[ stiles thinks about it, stuffs the hospital gown in the trash, leaves the few things his dad had brought him. maybe it'll just look like he's gone for a walk. and then out the window it is in a clumsy jump. ]
[ he's had worse falls, and he doesn't injure himself (pretty ironic though, right, if he broke something while he was at a hospital.) but the impact of the ground shudders through him, makes him realize how brittle he feels. obviously the nogitsune didn't exactly keep his body in tip-top condition, and stress and insomnia's done the rest. stiles remembers watching his mom wither away. it makes his stomach clench tight, thinking about it. ]
[ but there's no time to wallow. adrenaline is already pumping through his system as he moves fast, hoping nobody else is watching from the windows of the rooms facing this way, watching he and scott jailbreak. ]
[ he's laughing by the time he reaches scott's bike, wheezing and hysterical. this could be the last time a sprint ever winds him, he thinks, doesn't know whether the emotion that follows is glee or fear. ]