Chapter Text
Stiles could never really decide if losing his mom to cancer at the age of thirteen was better or worse than, say, the age of three. At thirteen he had gotten more good years with her than some other unfortunate kids did with their parents. He had been old enough to remember how sweet her perfume smelled, how warm her hugs were, the way she packed his lunch for school with extra Oreos, and how bright her laughter was when Stiles did something funny.
Then again, if Stiles had been three he wouldn’t have known what it meant when she got tired, when she lost her hair, when she winced as she shifted on the couch. If Stiles had been three instead of thirteen he could have lost his mother without ever truly understanding the painful reality of cancer. Cancer could have been the dark angel that took his mother away; the ugly thing that people would have explained to him years later, as if being older made something like that more understandable.
Instead, cancer was the living, breathing monster that made his mother wilt away right before his very eyes, while Stiles watched and despaired. He could even remember the exact day she got too weak to even squeeze his hand back. Stiles had decided right then and there that if cancer was something he could see, then it was something he could fight. He decided that he would do whatever it took to try and prevent anyone, three or thirteen, from having to go through what he and his dad and his mom had gone through.
So Stiles made perfect grades in high school, joined a few teams and clubs, and polished his college applications to a brilliant sparkle. He got into Stanford pre-med, then he got into their medical school, then he landed a prime residency spot in San Diego on a prestigious hospital’s oncology ward. He made it into the research field and he devoted himself to cancer research. He became the youngest person to single-handedly develop a ground-breaking cancer research drug for pain management that also helped the body in restoring the immune system.
None of it was enough. He wanted perfection. He wanted a cure. Stiles lived in his laboratory. He breathed his research and he ate it for breakfast. His Dad called every week at the same time and they had the same conversation. Most of his friends worked at the hospital that housed his lab and they were the only ones who refused to let him sink down too far into the spiral of madness.
Scott, an ER doctor, would drag Stiles to ballgames on the weekend. Lydia, a neonatal nurse brought over movies and popcorn on Sunday nights. She also brought Stiles groceries a lot, like he wasn’t capable of feeding himself. He just really hated cooking for one was all?! They all appreciated his humor and his inability to be quiet, especially if he was talking about his work. Even better they understood that sometimes Stiles just needed to be left alone with his research.
Logically, most of the time, Stiles understood that curing cancer was a big undertaking, an undertaking that had been an ongoing project, for a lot of scientists, for decades now. But, Stiles needed to believe that every experiment, every possible new drug, every test in the right direction, and every new sliver of gained understanding could only help.
He tried to live his life as best he could. He tried to have fun and, to his EMT friend Danny’s endless amusement, go out on a couple of dates with cute guys. But most of the time they got tired of his talking, or his obsession with work, or his secondary obsession with comic books. They eventually figured out that Stiles spent more time in his lab, on his work, than he did outside of it and they all eventually left. Stiles decided that being alone at twenty-nine wasn’t so bad. Maybe he’d be able to cure cancer by thirty.
After a particularly dismal day in the lab Stiles did the unexpected and called it an early night. He shut down the lab, dropped by the maternity ward to chat with Lydia about their Lord of the Rings marathon movie night on Saturday, and then began the short walk from the hospital back to his apartment.
Stiles pulled his jacket up around his neck as the wind blew. San Diego had been unseasonably cool heading into October. Stiles was glad he had thought to bring his jacket to work this morning because his threadbare Avengers t-shirt he had chosen to wear under his lab-coat today would have done nothing against the chill.
Stiles was passing across the mouth of the alleyway beside his apartment building, thinking about the immortality of elves of all things, when he heard a whooshing noise and a grunt. He looked into the alley, the glow of the street lamps casting an eerie orange light into it, and saw a man on his knees on the ground and another figure running the opposite direction out of the alley.
Stiles thought this an extremely odd picture until he tore his gaze back to the man on the ground. He was looking at Stiles with an odd mix of pain and confusion, like he couldn’t understand what Stiles was doing there. Stiles thought he saw the man’s eyes flash red, but he quickly decided it was a trick of the light. He was about to continue the last leg of his walk home, when the man finally fell forward.
Stiles gasped and started sprinting forward the minute his brain finally realized what he was looking at. A lethal black arrow was protruding from the man’s back. Stiles had just witnessed a man being shot in an ally with an arrow. Who shoots someone with an arrow?!
Only his expert medical skills managed to keep him calm and focused as he sunk to the ground next to the guy. Stiles placed his hands lightly on the man’s back and said, “please don’t move, I’m a doctor and I’m going to get you some help.”
Stiles could feel the strangers shallow breathes from where his hands rested lightly on the guys back. Stiles could now see that the guy’s eyes were still open and that meant he could hear Stiles.
Stiles tried to make his voice soothing, “I’m going to call an ambulance, ok? Please just try to breathe and don’t move.”
Before Stiles could reach for his phone the guy moved up to his knees again quickly. His body size and frame matched Stiles’ own closely but Stiles felt small in comparison to this guy’s presence filling up the alleyway. Stiles jumped when a hand suddenly gripped his wrist. He looked down at his wrist and back to the guy with the arrow sticking out of his back.
The guy finally found his voice, pitched low from the stress of pain, “do not call an ambulance, I’m fine.”
Stiles could easily find issues with the statement, “um, don’t freak out, but you have an arrow sticking out of your back, ok? I’m a medical doctor and that is not fine.”
The guy shook his head, “lucky me that I managed to get shot in front of a doctor…”
Stiles looked in the direction that he saw the shooter running, “yeah, about that…”
The guy gripped Stiles wrist tighter, “he’s gone and he’s not coming back, ok? Now, I need you to pull this arrow out of my back.”
Stiles tried to pull his hand away but the guy had a firm grip, “what?! No! I’m not yanking that thing out of your back! It needs to be inspected and possibly surgically removed to prevent further tissue and nerve damage!”
Stiles waved his free hand around for emphasis. The guy looked unimpressed. This close up, Stiles could tell that the dude’s eyes were a blue-green color and not red. Those not-red eyes were staring Stiles down hardcore right now and seriously, what was happening?
“Trust me when I say that the nerve and tissue damage isn’t going to get worse, ok?” The guy’s voice sounded strained, like he was holding on to consciousness.
Stiles tried again, “I’m going to call an ambulance, just let go of my hand.”
The guy just squeezed Stiles’ hand until he was sure the bones rubbed together, he winced and the guy repeated his statement, “Pull the fucking arrow out.”
Stiles swallowed around the bundle of nerves in his throat. He was obviously dealing with a crazy person. If he didn’t remove the arrow then they would stay at an impasse in this ally forever and no one would be ok. If he yanked the arrow out there was a good chance the guy would pass out and maybe Stiles would have a chance to get an ambulance here to help the maniac before he bled out in the street.
Stiles took a deep breath and nodded his head, “ok, I’m going to pull it out. Hold still. Try not to break my wrist.”
The guy nodded and hung his head between his shoulders. He still had a death grip on Stiles wrist and one supporting his weight on the ground. Stiles spread his knees to put more power behind the pull. He placed his hand on the arrow, squeezed to test his grip, and then took a deep breath before he jerked his hand upward.
Stiles heard the skin tearing around the arrow. He heard the squelching of the blood and muscle. It was disgusting, but he had seen and done a lot worse. To his credit, the guy kneeling on the ground didn’t break Stiles wrist or cry out. Stiles heard a gasp and what sounded suspiciously like a low growl.
Stiles threw the arrow away behind a dumpster and immediately attempted to shove the guy’s jacket and shirt up to see how bad and deep the wound was. Stiles saw a nasty bruise and no wound. It was gone. He knew that the arrow had to have left something that should have needed immediate and intense medical attention. But, Stiles didn’t even see a scratch. The guy stood up and rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly before he straightened his clothes and turned to face Stiles.
Stiles could only stand up and gawk as the guy tried for a small smile that Stiles thought felt just as unnatural as it looked, “thanks.”
Stiles just raised an eyebrow, “thanks?”
The guy shrugged, “yeah, thanks.”
Stiles threw his hands in the air, “Oh my god! No! I just pulled an arrow out of your back! A back that, I might add, is remarkably healed now, not two seconds later!”
The guy shrugged again, “I can’t really explain that, so I’m not going to try. I think you just need to forget what you saw here.”
Stiles laughed, his voice strained, “forget what?! I don’t even know what I saw! I’m a doctor and I have absolutely no explanation for what just happened! And who in the hell shoots someone in an alley way like a freaking animal?!”
The guy’s mouth quirked up at that, so something Stiles said must have been amusing to him. Stiles couldn’t figure out what though. Now that Stiles had a really good view of the guy, and no one’s life was in danger, he could clearly see how hot the guy was. Who would want to shoot someone that good looking?
The guy barked out a laugh and shook his head, “um, thanks, I guess?”
Stiles found himself at a loss for words again when he realized that he must have said at least a part of that last thought out loud. Please just let lightning strike him now. This was why he buried himself in his lab. He hadn’t ever been good at talking to good looking people. It had taken him three months to even look Lydia in the eyes. But, hey, they were friends now
Stiles smiled sheepishly and tried to sound professional again, “Look, regardless of what I did or did not see, you should go to a hospital.”
The guy shook his head, his expression grim once more, “I don’t do hospitals and I’m wasting time here. I need to leave the area before that hunt… guy who shot me does decide to come back.”
Stiles thought of something, “You need to call the police!”
The guy turned to walk away out of the mouth of the alley and around the corner. He called over his shoulder, “the police can’t help me.”
Stiles moved forward to follow the guy down the block if he had too. The police could be helpful; Stiles’ dad was a sheriff for fuck’s sake. Stiles had the statement on the tip of his tongue, but when he rounded the corner of the alley the guy was gone. Stiles looked both ways to be sure, but there wasn’t a trace of Mr. Tall-Dark-Brooding-Asshole.
Stiles shook his head and decided that his Hippocratic Oath could only apply to those people who needed, wanted, or asked for help. Not psychos being shot in allies for likely nefarious reasons. Stiles wanted to just crawl into bed and die of exhaustion.
In the morning Stiles went back to the ally to see if he could convince himself one way or another that last night had actually happened. He didn’t see a trace of blood on the ground or a scrap of fabric or a wallet. It wasn’t until he searched behind the dumpster that he was rewarded for his efforts. His hand gripped the arrow and he held it up triumphantly in the daylight. Stiles noticed the dried blood that clung to the tip of the slender weapon. He wasn’t sure what made him take it to work with him. But, he decided that he’d like to take a look at that blood underneath his microscope.