Work Text:
Stiles was sitting on his bed, legs folded up underneath him, towel in his lap. He felt numb and he should be scared because this hadn't happened in months but he just. Couldn't. Feel.
The knife dug into his arm and pain blossomed, sparking to life like a wild fire, blazing through his mind. The blood dripped slowly out of the cut like a leaking faucet, flowing down to the crease of his arm, dripping off his elbow and onto the towel.
He took a deep breath, feeling like he hadn't breathed in ages. The tense knots in his shoulders began to relax, calming him more than any medication.
Another cut and he could almost think clearly, thoughts returning at a slow, steady speed. Stiles could feel himself returning, the overwhelming sadness and anger at being used, thrown away.
He growled under his breath. Remembering the way Scott had told him if he went with Derek, their friendship was done, the way Scott had grabbed Allison's hand, had followed her lead when she tried to kill them.
He remembered Derek's face, expression carefully blank when Stile's had said he couldn't choose. Remembered Derek still protected him from the hunters, even after Stiles inability to choose. Even after Stiles had brought them all there in the first place.
Thinking of Derek made the pain in his arm worse, made the crippling sadness almost overwhelm his anger at Scott, at Allison, at the human race itself. Stiles and Derek had been flirting around each other for the last two months, soft touches, secret smiles, the whole nine yards. And instead of staying with Derek he went home and fell back into his addiction. Derek, who was just betrayed by a pack member. Derek, who just protected him; Derek who was hurt and somewhere with only Isaac to protect them from any threats.
Guilt washed over him and he tossed the knife away in disgust, hands shaking. Stiles hurriedly pressed the towel to his cuts, trying to stop the bleeding. He hissed in pain as the towel caught on the edges of the cuts as he yanked it away and scrambled out of bed. He rushed into the hall, glad that his dad was working (his dad was always working, Stiles barely saw him anymore, another broken part of his life) because he ran into almost everything in the hallway on the way to the bathroom. He opened the cabinet and knocked down his ADHD medicine, the top popping off and pills scattering over the floor. Stiles made a choked noise, dropping to his knees, scrambling to pick it up.
He had to hurry, his pack could be in danger, he should have been there all along, he was fucking selfish, selfish, pathetic, untrustworthy,
"Stiles?"
He jolted at the voice, springing back into the wall and dropping all the pills he'd picked up. He looked up to see Derek standing in the door, eyes trained on Stiles' bloody arm.
"It's not, Derek, I was just, I was coming to protect you I wasn't done cleaning up Derek what are you," Stiles' eyes were wide with confusion and desperation, Derek wasn't supposed to see him like this, no one was supposed to see him like this. He'd done this for years and no one had noticed but here Derek was and
And he could hear Isaac whine, a high pained noise, from down the hall. He probably found the bloody towel. Stiles could play this off as he got hurt in the fight, he could say he had somehow gotten scratched, his jeep cut him up, something, anything to take that stricken look off Derek's face.
"I didn't mean to leave the pack alone, I was just cleaning up, didn't want to make your house smell of my blood, didn't, I didn't mean too. My jeep, the fight, I," he cut off as Derek's body jerked forward, face pained, and he grabbed onto Stiles, pulling him in for a hug, crushing him to Derek's chest. Derek traced a scar on his hip, his first jagged cut when he was twelve. And suddenly he was crying and Derek was crying and Isaac was joining them, arms wrapping around the both of them. They were crouched on Stiles' cold bathroom floor, sobbing and clutching each other, a broken pack.
When they'd calmed down, hours later, Isaac helped him patch up the cuts while Derek cleaned up the mess, haphazardly trying to get rid of the lingering scent of sadness, blood and pain. None of them spoke until they were curled tight together in Stiles' bed, until they didn't know where one of them began and the other ended.
"Never do that again, if you, if you feel the need, call us. Stiles, you're pack. You're not alone, not anymore." Derek whispered into the nape of his neck, fingers softly connecting the freckles on his side. Isaac made a confirming noise, nuzzling further into Stiles’ chest, his fingers lightly wrapped around Stiles' bandaged wrist.
"We'll protect you, whether it's from hunters or yourself. You're ours," Isaac muttered, lips moving over Stiles' skin as he talked. "And we are yours."
Stiles took in a deep breath, smelling an underlining of THEM. Of pack. And even if everything was shit, even if they could die tomorrow and the cuts on his wrists still hurt. Even if all he really has left are the two broken wolves on either side of him. In that moment, he felt okay. He felt like he could sleep without nightmares, and in the morning his ragtag pack would still be there because they were each other’s.
They fell asleep that night, bodies pressed so tightly together as if they could morph into each other, get under the other's skin and get somehow impossibly closer. They fell asleep feeling broken and pained and new, but alive and together and with some small hope of tomorrow.