Chapter Text
“Seriously, Stilinski? We have work to do. Get your head in the game.”
Stiles registers that Jackson is talking to him without really giving a crap about the words coming out of his mouth. His eyes and the majority of his vast stores of static energy remain focused exclusively on the huge window looking out on the street. “Dude, did you just see that?!”
From the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Jackson blowing out a huge breath with a great deal of disdain. “See what? My spazz-tastic partner completely zoning out and ignoring the fact that we still have two more pages to finish and an entire diorama that is still eighty percent incomplete? ‘Cause yeah. I saw that.” Jackson chuckles to himself and Stiles rolls his eyes.
“You’re not funny—just stop. Seriously, a guy just ran past here with actual blood on his face. You’re telling me you didn’t notice that?”
“Not like it’s any of my business. Come on. We have a project to do.” Most of the blood’s draining from Jackson’s face, and Stiles watches him focus on their History report through narrowed eyes.
“You’re shitting me right now.”
Jackson jerks like he’s been slapped and stares at Stiles.
Black outrage boils in Stiles’s chest, and he pushes up from the table and stands over Jackson, trying his best for the “better give me some answers now” old-timey Western stance that is so absolutely his father, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his chin down, covering his neck. “What do you know, Jackson?”
Jackson goes paler and bends back over his work again, mouth thinning out. “’S not my business. It’s not yours either, okay? Just…just leave it alone, Stiles.”
“Leave it alone? Really? There’s somebody running around bleeding out there and I’m supposed to leave it alone?” Stiles can no longer contain his arms and he tries to make Jackson understand just how outrageous he’s being via spastic flailing, but apparently it doesn’t take.
“You’re a hundred-and-twenty pound freshman with ADHD and a terrible arm—what are you gonna do?”
Stiles feels his lip curl in disgust and he grabs his things off the table and shoves them into his backpack as quickly as he can. Jackson looks up in outrage and opens his mouth, presumably to protest, but Stiles cuts him off before he can even get started. “I’m gonna call my dad and find that kid and I’m also going to complete this little transaction via email because I seriously cannot stand to be in the same room with you, you utter and absolute douchewaffle.”
He has his bag snugly strapped on and he’s halfway out of the door before he hears it—”Who the hell do you think you are? Superman?!” Jackson’s voice cracks.
He turns back and eyes Jackson over his shoulder, unable to resist, and in his deepest and most gravelly voice, he calls, “The over-grown Boy Scout? No, Whittemore. I’m not Superman. I AM THE NIGHT!” A sizzling screaming dose of adrenaline zings out from his brain and shoots out, consuming his limbs, and as he leaps over the front steps and runs down the walk, he can’t help but break out into a huge grin as he finishes the line…”I am…THE BATMAN!”
He’s not completely insane—as he runs, he tugs his phone out of his pocket and dials his dad’s cell phone. He’s only supposed to call for emergencies and he’s pretty sure this counts. Once he hears a breath on the other side, Stiles starts rattling off information, breathing hard but not slowing down. “Hey Dad love you yes I’m safe injured person I’m in pursuit blood on the face no idea how it happened I’m about three blocks North of the Whittemore residence and I have a visual on the victim, definitely male white roughly 5’7’’ blonde curly hair can’t see his eyes from here I’ve seen him somewhere before though I think maybe we have school together, oh shit he’s hunched over on 8th by a blue house and rosebushes, requesting medical personnel and/or a car to pick up victim and self, 10-9?”
To his father’s credit, he doesn’t even seem surprised. “No, no, 10-4, son, I’ll be there in five, 10-0 proceed with caution seriously Stiles you don’t know if it’s his blood stay on the phone with me okay and I take it you’re done with your project?”
“Not even close, Whittemore wanted me to ignore the bleeding guy, he doesn’t seem aware of me I’m going to approach be quiet Dad.”
Stiles slows down maybe four houses away from the crouched figure, and Stiles sees that the dude is completely flagged—he’s just curled in on himself, panting on the sidewalk. His shoulders are shaking and Stiles can here whimpering from here, but before he can move closer a shadow bursts out of the streetlights. A car speeds up on the sidewalk and almost runs the guy over; then a dark figure tears the door open right beside the kid, cursing and snarling, and his first thought is “monster” before he realizes the thing’s too humanoid to be anything but a man, and even after he gets it he can’t help but see the dude as inhuman. He/it’s screaming at the boy, yelling incoherent things laced with malice and drawing back, fist in the air.
Stiles is moving before he can really comprehend anything, yelling into the phone “Dad 10-66 10-66 I know you’re stepping on it but step harder seriously full sirens-and-lights routine I need you here right now” and pushing himself harder than he knew was possible, breathing hard and throwing all of his energy into his legs, flinging himself forward—
But he hears a wet crunch and a scream is ripped from his throat because that sounds like a special-effect this can’t be real and he stumbles and trips over sideways, landing half in the bushes and getting covered in bramble scrapes because seriously fuck rosebushes and he tastes raw panic and the cloying scent of roses basically fucking envelopes his head but the kid, he’s on the ground in the fetal position and the man is kicking the shit out of him, literally stomping a foot down on him oh god and there’s a cracking sound that sucks all the air out of the world and Stiles is running again, flinging himself at the monster, grabbing one of the arms it raises, pulling down as hard as he can, abruptly forgetting any and all self-defense training his dad’d given him, forgetting all the warnings about people that’re hyped up on adrenaline because his own adrenaline is singing in his veins, drowning out rational thought and then an elbow’s catching his ribs and a fist is slamming into his cheek and he’s dropping, oh god he’s dropping and the monster is still screaming and kicking the guy on the ground and Stiles can’t let him, can’t, he drags himself over and throws himself on top of the boy, the shuddering crying boy who’s been all but silent as this gibbering beast beats the hell out of him, and then there’s a foot pressing on his back, pressing him on the kid, and then he feels something wet land on the back of his head and oh hell no did this motherfucker seriously just spit on me—
And then there are lights, lights other than the glaring amber streetlights that make it hard to tell colors, lights that are blue and red and white and Stiles is crying and crying out, he’s yelling “Dad over here Dad please Dad” and all the sound comes back into the world and he has no idea how he missed those blaring-ass sirens and then he hears his dad roaring like a goddamn lion—
“GET ON THE GROUND. BACK AWAY AND GET ON THE GROUND. I WILL SHOOT.”
Stiles has never been more grateful to hear his father’s voice, but the kid under him flinches and he whispers, “No, don’t freak out, it’s okay, we’re safe now, my dad’s got our backs, don’t freak out,” and then the pressure goes off his spine for a brief second before slamming back down on his ribs and jagged stabbing pain slices into his side and he jerks convulsively, gasping inward so hard he almost doesn’t hear the shot.
But ‘almost’ isn’t ‘doesn’t’, and ohhh he’s gonna feel so bad about this later but the blackness calls to him and he fades away.
When he opens his eyes again, he’s in an ambulance and his dad’s staring at him, his mouth a jagged slash and his blue eyes wide and…oh god…wide and…and streaming, his dad is crying, oh god his dad is crying and Stiles cannot deal with that, absolutely cannot, a huge bubble full of pain and panic wells up from the center of his chest and grows and grows and grows until he’s sobbing, harder and louder than anything he can remember, because he’s only ever seen his dad cry four other times and all of those times it was because of his mom and Stiles never ever wanted to see his dad with that look on his face over him and then his dad is slinging an arm over him and they’re both just crying, just for a minute before Stiles bites it back to ask a question.
“Dad, did you kill him?”
His dad pulls back and looks him full in the face. “I don’t know yet.”
Stiles feels the blackness creeping into his vision but he shuffles and scuffles until he’s got a firmer seat in reality. He tries to sit up but his dad puts a firm hand on his chest.
“Don’t, kiddo. The fucker was wearing steel-toed boots.”
Stiles nods and starts to relax before trying to bolt up again, and once again his dad pins him down. “Dad, what happened to that kid?! Who was that? Is he okay?!”
His dad stares at him then, basically freakin’ aghast. “Stiles. Do you mean to tell me that you threw your body over this guy to protect him and you have no idea who he is?”
Stiles can’t tell if Dad’s about to hug him or yell at him. All he can do is nod.
His father stares at him the rest of the way to the hospital like he can’t believe he’s real.
Stiles can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.
Isaac wakes up, and the world is pain.
He has no idea where the hell he is but it’s somewhere cold and there’s beeping. Lots of beeping.
It hurts to force his eyes open. And not the normal hurt. It doesn’t hurt because he wants them to stay closed.
It hurts because they actually physically hurt, and that sucks a lot, because that means that he’s gonna have to lie to Ms. Morrell again.
He forces them open and tries to force himself up, to force himself out of bed, to force himself to his closet so he can get ready for school, but his eyes open on the wrong thing.
It’s really very white, and he’s in a hospital, that much is obvious, and his bed is sitting up so he can see most of the room and there’s a kid from school, the really hyperactive guy who’s on the lacrosse team with him, he’s sitting there staring at him, Isaac doesn’t like it when people stare, and the beeping speeds up. Isaac shivers and the shiver feels like he just broke a million things at once, and the guy’s up on his feet and at his bedside very very suddenly.
“Thirsty, dude?”
Isaac opens his mouth to say no, but he realizes at that moment that opening his mouth cracked his lips and yes, he is very very thirsty. He nods a little, sort of, but his neck’s not very cooperative—that’s when he realizes he’s in a neck brace.
The boy’s holding a cup to his lips, and Isaac sort of starts to freak out because the guy doesn’t know how fast he drinks, he could easily be drowned, but then “I did this for my mom a lot don’t worry just look at me and when I need to move it away close your eyes or look away, okay?” and Isaac stops his internal babble and complies.
While he’s drinking, he looks the boy in the eyes, hardly registering the minute scratches that pepper the left side of his face. Those eyes are amber in the light coming through the window, huge and basically glowing, they’re really pretty, and he’s looking at Isaac in the worst way imaginable—like he’s afraid of him. Isaac can’t stand it, and he’s still thirsty but he looks away.
“I’m Stiles, by the way. Stiles Stilinski. From lacrosse?”
Now that he says it, Isaac’s brain finally clicks on and he smiles a little, strained but there. “Yeah. You keep me company on the bench, right? Ten numbers above mine.” Stiles starts to smile back, but Isaac watches his eyes light on the curves of his own face, and then trail down to his neck and Isaac moves his eyes down his own body and apparently he broke his arm? “By the way, what the hell happened to me?” Isaac looks back at Stiles and his pale face is infused with raw panic and then Isaac remembers.
He remembers the third time in his entire life he’s done more than sit and take it, remembers twisting around in his father’s grip and somehow managing to wriggle out of it, remembers the taste of blood in his mouth. He remembers the solid steel glint in his father’s eye, the one that whispered ‘murder’. He remembers, for the first time in years, his fight-or-flight reflex kicking in—get the hell out of here or I’m gonna die—and he didn’t die, he ran, and he heard his father screaming up the street at him but he just ran, ran, ran, until his lungs burned too much and he had to stop, had to stop or burst and then when he stopped he started crying and he couldn’t stop that—
And Stiles’s eyes are watering, and he’s shaking, and why the hell is he crying? and then his memory catches up all the way and he remembers someone on top of him, someone who smelled like Camden’s old incense, that Sandalwood stuff, telling him that they were safe and they were okay…
And the shot.
Isaac is suddenly shaking, and Stiles seems hypnotized, he’s moving closer and Isaac grabs his hand with his good arm, the one with the single broken finger, and grasps Stiles’s forearm because if he doesn’t hold onto something he’s going to drown, he’s going to get sucked under and he’s going to drown—
And Stiles apparently gets it, because he reaches his other arm, the one Isaac doesn’t have in a death grip, tentatively around Isaac’s shoulders, and Isaac finds himself leaning as much as he can into it and curling Stiles’s arm to his chest.
“Is he dead?”
The long silence and tightening arms are answer enough.