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Another week, another monster tango, and Stiles was seriously contemplating starting a Yelp account, solely to leave a scathing review of this godforsaken town. He’d title it something like 'Not suitable for human beings' or 'Perfect for those who enjoy tangoing with death'.
He was single-handedly going to destroy Beacon Hills' already minuscule tourism sector.
This evening’s uninvited party-crasher was a feral Alpha with a mug almost as ugly as Peter’s, and that… Well, that was a feat in and of itself.
Seriously, what about Beacon Hills was so freaking interesting to everything that goes bump in the night? Why the hell did they all wind up here? Did the town possess a supernatural magnet or something? Because it sure fucking felt that way.
Anyway, Stiles didn't have the time to unravel the mysteries of the supernatural migration patterns right then. He had more immediate concerns, like staying alive and preferably keeping himself in one piece in the process.
The odds, as they stood, seemed... somewhat in their favor. Derek and Erica, as per usual, were a force to be reckoned with, fighting like a well-oiled machine, using the rough forest terrain of the preserve to their advantage, and Scott… Scott was trying his best. So far, he seemed the most injured, his shirt now more red than white, and more hole than fabric, displaying the unmarred skin underneath. Oh, the perks of lycanthropy.
As for Derek and Erica, they were a bit better off, though not entirely unscathed. He was able to make out a few flesh wounds on them from his less-than-comfortable perch against a tree. Stiles himself had been a bit roughed up when he involuntarily shoulder-slammed a boulder, and the spot already felt like it was going to turn into one hell of a bruise. But, at least no one had lost their head yet (literally or figuratively), and Stiles definitely counted that as a success.
Stiles kept observing the fight, feeling like his limbs had turned to jelly, adrenaline-fueled panic crawling up his spine. His trusty metal bat felt heavy in his hand, his grip on it wavering as his fingers tingled with exhaustion.
Not that he’d actually done much in the last half hour except for running for his life and being tossed around like a rag doll. Super productive, Stiles. Hard work, indeed.
Of course, he had attempted to throw himself into the fray, get in a good whacking and all that, but let's just say that tripping over a tree root had earned him a stern growl from Derek, demanding he evacuate the 'claw zone' immediately. Yep, that’s right, Stiles was put into time-out because he couldn’t watch his step. Talk about embarrassing. Maybe he should consider switching out his bat for a gun. At least then he wouldn’t feel so utterly useless.
Now normally, he’d put up a fight, or any fight to be precise, especially if Derek was concerned. But right then, he felt more like a microwaved marshmallow than the tenacious, bat-wielding boy who ran with wolves. So he’d rolled his eyes and caved, banishing himself to the safe zone.
Leaving the frenzy was at least good for one thing—checking if his medical equipment was still a go or if it had been roughened up along with Stiles. Not that a broken insulin pump would be an immediate threat to his life—just to his dad’s wallet since the stuff wasn’t cheap, even with their fancy medical plan. But, it would certainly be a major pain in the ass. Because if something got dislodged or broke, he'd have to manually manage his blood sugar until he could get it replaced. It had happened before, and it hadn't been a pleasant experience, not only because he loathed needles but also because ADHD and type 1 diabetes were an unholy union that turned him into a forgetful, hyperglycemic mess. And keeping track of his blood sugar levels was somewhat crucial to his continued survival.
Plus, having to explain to his dad that he'd somehow destroyed his medical equipment (again) while fighting monsters that didn't exist was a conversation he'd rather avoid. He could already imagine how that would go: 'Hey, Dad, you know that expensive insulin pump I need to stay alive? Yeah, I kinda broke it while whacking a werewolf with my baseball bat. No biggie.' Yeah, he’d really rather not.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to since all of it was in order. His CGM was still sticking firmly to his arm, and the cannula to his stomach. The pump was up and running, and the tube connecting it to the cannula was free of any kinks. Crisis averted, at least on the diabetes front.
Now, if only his knees had received the memo about avoiding catastrophic collapses.
Just as he contemplated inventing a crush-resistant, werewolf-proof case for the pump, said knees sent a distress signal, urging him to slide down the tree before he ended up flat on his face, again. His mouth was still tingling from that embarassing faceplant, reminding him of that one time he’d crammed it chock-full with three packs of Pop Rocks. Alas, it wasn't caused by popping candy but rather… Ant pee. On his mouth. Ew.
But now that he was thinking about it, his mouth and lips weren’t the only parts of his body prickling, no, his whole body tingled and shook, almost in sync with his erratic heartbeat. Stupid adrenaline, couldn’t it just stick to the good stuff? The stuff that actually helped him survive? Nope, it just had to throw in the 'impending heart attack' feeling because who didn’t love a good panic session? Well, certainly not Stiles.
Speaking of panic sessions, Scott chose that very moment to fly past him, or at least that’s what it looked like when his best friend’s body crashed into a nearby tree with a resounding thud. Stiles couldn't help but freak out for a moment before Scott popped back up, perfectly fine, like he hadn’t just momentarily turned into a werewolf missile. Seriously, could he not do that?
“You okay, man?” Scott asked before Stiles could even open his mouth. Stiles gave him a weak grin and a shaky thumbs-up, and Scott was off to throw himself back into the frenzy before he could even think about returning the question. Not that he could ask, considering that adrenaline had turned his brain into mush.
Stiles decided to shift his focus to stifling the panic gripping his chest, trusting that the three werewolves had the situation handled and that he wouldn’t immediately die if he didn’t actively pay attention to the happenings around him.
So, for a while, he sat there, leaning against the tree, one hand on his carotid artery, feeling the thump-thump of his blood. But then, he sensed somewhat of a shift in the air, and his attention snapped back to the spectacle before him. His senses were right, the fight was reaching its peak, and he watched in awe as Erica, agile and fierce, leaped onto the back of the massive beast. Her claws dug into its skull, giving Derek the perfect opening for the final, decisive blow. The sight of Derek's muscles rippling as he extended his arm back, then finally swiping a clawed hand across the Alpha's throat, was both terrifying and impressive. And kinda sexy. And that was totally beside the point.
The beast collapsed like a sack of potatoes, and Erica howled in triumph. Stiles had half a mind to join in as well. Victory at last!
But his happiness was short-lived. As the adrenaline began draining away, Stiles felt a strange sensation washing over him—weakness, dizziness, and disorientation—all rolled into one neat ' Oh God, please, no ' package.
Scott's concerned voice penetrated the fog in Stiles' mind. “You don’t look so good,” he said, flaunting his keen observation skills.
Stiles grunted, trying to dismiss the notion, but truthfully? He felt like he’d been run over. Twice.
Forcing his eyes open (apparently, he had closed them at some point?), he squinted in confusion as he was confronted by not one but two Scotts. Wait, when did that happen? Had he inadvertently stumbled into some bizarre parallel universe? He blinked, trying to focus on the real Scott, but they both stubbornly remained in his line of sight.
His mind swam, struggling to process what was happening. “Why’s there two of you?” Stiles slurred, his words slow and muddled as if he were in a dream. Wait, maybe he was dreaming. He certainly felt like he was floating.
And just when he thought things couldn't get any weirder, two Dereks materialized in front of him. “Two what?” they grunted.
Stiles’ poor heart skipped a beat at the sight—two sourwolves, both brooding and mysterious. A dream come true, perhaps?
A thought wormed its way into Stiles' bewildered mind—maybe this second Derek was the nicer version, the one who'd spare him from wall collisions and excessive growling. Not that he minded the growling, really, it was sort of a turn-on (not that he'd ever admit that out loud), but growly Derek seemed to take pleasure in pretending Stiles didn't exist. Derek two, though? A glimmer of hope.
“Oh, hey, Derek two,” he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching, "D’you wanna go on a date? Derek number one doesn’t like me much." He chuckled, though it sounded more like a feeble wheeze.
“Did he hit his head?” Derek number something grunted.
Stiles couldn't help but pout. There went his hopes and dreams.
“He smells weird,” Erica chimed in with her usual bluntness.
Scott took a whiff and cursed under his breath. “He smells like... insulin. Like way too much of it.”
"Uh-oh, Houston, we have a problem," Stiles joked weakly around his numb and tingly mouth, his vision now an abstract watercolor painting, shapes swimming together. One Derek, two Dereks, a blob of color. "Someone... someone pass me the Pop Rocks, please." He tried to laugh, but it came out more like a slurred mumble.
"I got him," the Dereks spoke in unison, their voices eerily synchronized. Two Dereks, one voice. How confusing.
The Dereks acted quickly, hoisting him up with strong arms (just two, Stiles verified), and placing him on his feet.
“Can you stand?”
“Uh-huh.”
Stiles’ eyes rolled back, his legs gave out, and the world fell away.
Stiles groaned as he slowly came to, realizing with exasperation that he was in god-forsaken Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. Again. Seriously, this was becoming too much of a normal Wednesday afternoon for his liking.
He glanced around the sterile room, trying to gather his wits as he attempted to recall the events that led him here. But nope, the memories eluded him. It was like trying to reassemble a jigsaw puzzle. With all the pieces upside down.
His head hurt as if someone had split it with an ax—wait, was that what had happened? Nope, definitely no ax-wielding murderer. That would be very unusual, even for his life, and he’d remember it for sure. Did a truck run him over? Possible, but way too simple. Maybe it was an amnesia-inducing, soul-sucking monster? A dementor? Did those exist?
Thankfully, someone entered his room then, however, not so thankfully, it was his dad. Not that Stiles didn't want him here, he just hated seeing his old man so worried.
"Hey, Daddy-o," Stiles said with a weary smile, "did I make it into the record books for most hospital visits in a year yet?"
His dad approached, his concerned frown easing a bit. "Not yet, but you're gunning for it, son. Though I'd really prefer you to break some other kind of record. How are you feeling?”
Stiles shrugged nonchalantly, instantly regretting it as pain shot through his skull like a lightning bolt. "Oh, you know, just like I tried to headbutt a moving train."
His dad nodded in mock seriousness. "And how'd that go for you?"
"Let's just say the train won,” he said. "But seriously, what happened?"
His dad grimaced, clearly worried about Stiles' memory lapse. “Your insulin pump malfunctioned, somehow. It just… kept pumping insulin into you.”
“Oh, wow.” Stiles grimaced. “Hypoglycemia? That’s a new one.”
Giving him a tense smile, his dad leaned against the wall, gaze never leaving Stiles. "You scare the hell out of me sometimes, you know that?"
Stiles sighed, guilt washing over him. If his dad knew only half the things he got up to every week, he’d probably have a heart attack. “I know, Dad. Sorry," he finally said, though he knew those words wouldn't ease his dad's anxiety in the slightest.
The older man's expression softened, and he moved closer to the bed, reaching out to ruffle Stiles' unruly, growing-out hair. The gesture hurt his head, but Stiles leaned into it, craving that bit of comfort. Sadly, it was over too soon, and he almost pouted. Almost.
"Scott's waiting outside.” The sheriff patted his shoulder and made his exit, muttering something about coffee and visiting Melissa.
Not two seconds later, a full head of curls appeared in the doorway, and Scott, wide-eyed and grinning, came inside.
“Hey, dude!” His best friend beamed, coming to a halt next to the bed, probably trying to keep himself from jumping onto Stiles like the overly excitable puppy he was. “You’re awake!”
Stiles grinned, the sight of Scott's perpetual excitement immediately lifting his spirits. "Hey, buddy," he greeted him warmly, "Yep, I'm back from my unplanned, insulin-powered nap."
“Sugar crash, huh? That’s a new one.”
“Tell me about it.”
Curiosity flickered in Scott's eyes as he leaned in. "So, what's the last thing you remember?"
Stiles furrowed his brows, ransacking his memory for clues. "Uhm, Erica jumping on the Alpha's back, I think?"
“Uh-huh.”
Suddenly, Stiles was hit with a bolt of suspicion, sensing there was more to the story than he remembered. "Wait a minute," he said, eyeing the werewolf suspiciously, "What happened after that?"
"Nothing," Scott replied innocently, but his eyes showed a mischievous glint.
"Oh, God. What did I do now?"
A devilish grin spread across Scott's face. "Well, you might have done something... bold."
"Define bold in the context of my actions."
“You may have asked Derek on a date," he said, trying to stifle his laughter.
Stiles felt his heart stop, then accelerate at an unhealthy pace. "I what ?!" He choked. No way. There was no freaking way he’d done that. What in the ever-loving hell had possessed him to say something like that?
“Well, Derek two. You saw double.”
Stiles slumped back into the pillows, contemplating whether he could ever convince his dad to pack up and leave this cursed town. "Fuck my life," he mumbled under his breath.
And as if the universe delighted in tormenting him, Derek Hale, the perpetually annoyed, brooding, and sexy Derek Hale that he’d asked on a date before freaking collapsing, stepped into the room, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but there.
"Speak of the devil," Stiles muttered, smirking up at Derek, hoping his crimson blush wasn't glaringly evident. Not that it mattered, though, because there was no way to top the stunt his hypoglycemic self had pulled. He had officially reached the maximum level of embarrassment with Derek.
“So,” Scott said, cutting through the awkward silence that had settled in the small room, “My mom told me to check in with her—”
“Don’t you dare, Scott.”
"Just for a sec."
"Scott!" Stiles shouted after his friend, but it was too late. The traitor had vanished, leaving Stiles alone with his humiliation and an Alpha werewolf who looked like he wanted to claw his way out of the room.
"Let's just pretend it never happened," Stiles blurted out, attempting to salvage what was left of his dignity. "I mean, seriously, we don't have to talk about—"
Derek cleared his throat, putting an end to Stiles' desperate rambling. "Actually, I... I wanted to ask if the offer still stands," he said, his usual aloof demeanor wavering ever so slightly.
Stiles' brain experienced a sudden Arctic freeze, leaving him momentarily speechless. There was no way he heard that right. "What offer?" he finally managed to ask, his voice an octave higher than normal.
Derek looked a tad awkward, scratching the back of his neck. "Of a, uh, date," he replied, sounding surprisingly human and, dare he say, vulnerable.
And there they were again, the Pop Rocks, making him erupt in tingly sparks all over. But this time, it wasn’t because of the hypoglycemia.
Stiles couldn't help the massive grin that spread across his face. “Hell yeah.”