Chapter Text
It hurt. Everything fucking hurt.
It’d been what, a month since her death? A month. Everything was still as raw as it was the moment Stiles had found out, and he felt more alone now than he’d ever been in his entire life.
When they’d got the call, Scott was over and they were messing around playing video games; Stiles dominating Scott as usual, because he’s the bomb, and Scott calling out foul play as usual, because he’s a sore loser. (See: that one time Jackson challenged him to a bowling match and Scott declared his faux brilliance at it – tsch – moron.)
They were in between levels, and Stiles was wrestling the packet of Extra Cheesy Doritos from its place half-under Scott’s bum when Scott’s phone rang. Scott fumbled with one hand down the side of the sofa for it and shoved a handful of Doritos in his mouth with the other. He brushed the screen of his phone on his sweatpants, looked at the screen, and crinkled his face in confusion.
“What?” Stiles asked, trying to sneak the packet from his best friend’s grasp whilst said best friend’s concentration was elsewhere. Hey, nobody ever said he wouldn’t play dirty.
“It’s an unknown number,” Scott replied, and pressed the answer button. “Hello? It’s Scott.” His brows pushed low down his forehead as he listened.
Stiles decided against protesting the idiocy of answering unknown callers (he’s watched The Ring okay, he’d never take any chances like that) in favour of successfully nabbing the Doritos packet from Scott. He held it up triumphantly and did a little victory hip thrust before going to gloat in Scott’s face but he stopped.
His best friend looked like he had stopped breathing, his tanned face unmoving and shocked. Stiles dropped the Doritos and spoke. “Hey,” he poked him. “Hey!” Another poke. Then a shake. “Scott!” He shook him roughly.
Something in Scott’s face had changed, like he’d just realised where he was or who he was with. He tilted his head shakily in Stiles’ direction and finally his wide-eyed stare locked with Stiles’ own.
“Who was it, Scott?” Stiles probed a little gentler but just as impatient.
“I-it was Isaac. On Mr-” Scott drew in a staggered breath, “Mr Argent’s phone. He said,” Stiles noticed Scott was eerily still as if he was caught in a daze. “Allison’s in hospital.”
“Holy shit is she, is it -” Stiles’ jaw was open and he was now sat up straight, Doritos strewn across the floor, forgotten. His mouth couldn’t form the rest of the sentence he was trying for, so he shook Scott again.
Scott was still looking at Stiles, but he wasn’t seeing him.
“It’s really bad, Stiles.” Scott half-whispered, his voice cracking and he blinked, his shiny eyes closing as his face scrunched up with pain.
Stiles’ mind went overboard and all his thoughts bellowed loudly at him so he couldn’t do anything but grip tightly onto his legs and wait for everything to calm down. He needed to breathe, slowly. It was not the time for a panic attack; he needed to… What did he need to do… Something… Phone.. Allison. Allison!
“Shit!” he scrambled to his feet, pulling on Scott’s arm and when he didn’t move, leaned close to his face.
“Scott she’s not dead, she’s in hospital, we need to go! We need to go see her and find out what’s going on!” Scott was starting to respond, but not as quickly as Stiles would’ve liked, as he needed to, so “Ow!” Scott flinched back, clutching his cheek where Stiles had slapped him.
“We need to leave now Scott.” Stiles was already out the door, keys to his jeep in hand. By the time he’d started the engine Scott was running out towards him, jacket half on after being hastily grabbed on his way.
Stiles glanced at Scott for a long moment, chewing his inner cheek. Then he revved up the engine and drove.
Once in the hospital, Stiles followed Scott running madly through the corridors, barely stopping to bypass Melissa as she told them the room number.
They halted outside Allison’s room, taking in the scene that lay before them through the transparent plastic panelled window. Chris and Isaac were huddled together on the far side of her bed, Chris desperately clutching onto her hand and looking imploringly into her half-closed eyes whilst Isaac mumbled what Stiles assumed were prayers as he rocked back and forth slightly, with a wide-eyed panic Stiles had not seen on him since the days before his father was institutionalised.
Scott stumbled inside the room, barging open the doors and collapsing to his knees on the opposite side of the bed to Chris and Isaac, not once taking his eyes off Allison.
Stiles tried to follow, he really did, but he found his legs were stuck in place. He couldn’t move. The situation was all too familiar and he felt heavy. The energy drinks he’d downed earlier came back to hit him with vengeance. He was feeling sick and woozy and couldn’t think – everything drowned out in white noise and a voice in his head that was screaming at him about how Allison was in there, dying, and there was nothing he could do to help her.
Fucking waste of space.
All you do is bring misery to people.
Never there for people when they need you most.
Mom… Now Allison.
Failure. You’re a-
Stiles heard the padding of bare feet approaching rapidly down the hallway. He lifted his head up and saw Lydia Martin, unusually dishevelled red hair tangled and messy, the edge of her blouse a little torn, and heels not on but in her hand, running towards him. He saw sudden movement out of his peripheral vision and looked into Allison’s room again to find Chris, Isaac and Scott all standing in alarm and looking back and forth from Allison to the heart monitor.
Stiles felt Lydia getting closer as he saw the screen flash red and a loud alarm beeped inside the room, echoing down the halls. He felt disconnected from his whole body as nurses and doctors rushed out of nowhere, completely bypassing him, pushing Isaac and Scott out of the way, and having to physically tear Chris back a few steps. They surrounded Allison’s hospital bed, talking to each other and readjusting and switching cables and leads and tubes and other equipment and Stiles just watched it all. Lydia, after being pushed back down the hallway by the doctors, flew towards the door, hand on the handle when there was a low beep and the alarms stopped ringing. No. Stiles’ heart skipped a beat and his stomach dropped as he saw the heart monitor go from drawing steady heartbeats to a straight, dead, line. He felt even dizzier than before and his vision started to blur and brighten. Allison. Everything was excruciatingly bright. Dead. He barely saw Chris collapsing to the floor, half clutching the bed. Never coming back. He blinked, only just making out Isaac’s low-crouching figure and Scott’s tear-stained face; pain written all over it, mouthing ‘Allison’. She’s not here. He hardly felt Lydia clinging onto him, almost pulling him to the floor as she put all her weight on him, grasping his shirt like it was her lifeline and screaming. She’s wont ever be here. He heard the screaming. She’s dead. Lydia’s wretched, agonizing, broken sobs shaking both their bodies, her angry screeching of Allison’s name and curses for leaving her, harmonizing with the sound of a throaty, choked, raw release of pain from Chris were the last things Stiles heard before he slumped against a wall and the world became black.
She’s gone.
“Hey.” A rough voice stirred Stiles awake.
Stiles groaned.
“I uh, are you done?” Stiles opened one eye, and then blinked, testing out the light levels of the room. He brought his hand up to his neck, rolling his head to the side till it clicked. “Ugh. Remind me to never fall asleep down here ever again.” Stiles dragged his gaze up to look at the figure standing before him, holding a big basket of wet clothes.
Well shit.
The man raised an impressively thick eyebrow, staring at him, and Stiles realised he’d said that out loud. Fuck.
Stiles stumbled for words as he eyed the newcomer top to toe. From the rugged black hair on his head down to his chiselled cheeks rife with stubble, to the broadness of his shoulders to the tightness of his shirt to the way it clung on to his arm muscles to the form-fitting jeans he was wearing and the space below the belt buckle right down to his scuffed shoes. “I- I- I mean yeah sorry I sorta fell asleep, figured no-one would be down here this time of night, so…” He slowly hopped down from the top of tumble dryer he was sitting on and opened it. He started pulling his clothes out and shoving them into the basket he’d brought down with him.
“Morning.” Mr Model-face corrected after a short silence, during which Stiles had collected all his clothes and stood up, ready to go.
“What?”
“It’s 1:15am. Morning. You’ve been sleeping for an hour and a half. At least, as far as I know, that’s when I got down here.” He walked past Stiles and dumped his clothes into the dryer, starting it and turning around to stare at Stiles.
“You- you’ve been watching me sleep for an hour and a half?” Stiles blurted, instantly feeling over self-conscious and flushing slightly, mouth agape.
“I was reading whilst waiting for my clothes to wash and didn’t see the point in waking you up until it was necessary.” The dark mysterious man shrugged and Stiles closed his mouth.
“Oh. Well thanks I guess. Haven’t really slept in a while.” Giving the stranger a small smile, Stiles turned to leave, but then “I’m Stiles.” He adjusted the basket so it was leaning against one hip and he held out his free hand. “From the 3rd floor.”
After staring blankly for long enough to make Stiles’ arm ache and for him to feel incredibly awkward, the black-haired figure shook it, and spoke. “Derek. Derek Hale. Visiting my sister Laura on floor 4.”
“Laura has a brother?” Stiles wondered aloud, and then yawned.
“No I said she’s my sister because I’m her cousin.” Stiles blinked.
“I said I was her brother, didn’t I?” Derek glared.
“Alright Sourwolf, calm down, I’m not really thinking straight right now if you couldn’t tell. I-” Stiles was cut off by another yawn. “I’m really just in need of a big ol’ bed right now.” He fanned in front of his mouth, mouthing apology.
“Sorry, I’m tired too. I tend to snap at people when I’m not fully awake. Goodnight then, Stiles.” Hmm.Stiles. It sounded good when Derek said it. Wait, what? Sleep. Sleep Stiles. Elevator, upstairs, back to apartment, and bed. Now.
Stiles mumbled a goodbye and shuffled to the elevator doors, stepping inside. He watched Derek lean against the dryer, pull out his book and continue reading. He looks peaceful when he reads, Stiles thought lazily, and then the doors closed, blocking his view.
He reached his flat and collapsed into his bed, carefully avoiding waking Scott who was asleep on the sofa. Derek Hale. Huh. Stiles started making plans on how to ‘bump into him’ again but then stopped. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that I bump into guys who are hot as heck and talk to them when Allison is buried 6ft underground and is lying dead and she’ll never get to flirt with anyone or be happy ever again. She did not deserve that fate, and why the hell do I think I deserve better than her? I can’t do this. Not now. It’s not fair.
He kicked off his shoes and jeans, pulled his shirt over his head and fell back into bed sideways, wrapping his duvet around him and curling up, deciding to stay away from Derek and focus on making sure Scott and the rest of his friends were happy. Everybody had been hibernating for too long. A whole month is too much time to waste. He needed to get everyone doing stuff again.
With this new plan in mind, Stiles drifted off to sleep.