Stiles Stilinski (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wannabebatman) wrote2014-08-13 02:19 pm
wannabebatman) wrote2014-08-13 02:19 pm
(no subject)
In hindsight, this wasn't his smartest idea ever. Not the rescue op; that was pretty genius, if he did say so himself. A loud conversation with Scott in his bedroom while half the Alpha pack was home about Isaac being hurt in the woods, some BS about Derek being missing, Scott running off towards the preserve...half an hour later, every Alpha they'd seen enter the house that day was gone again. At that point, Stiles and Alison broke in the back door to see what was happening, along with a totally not hurt Isaac. It was pretty brilliant, and actually worked. They found Boyd and Erica, bound with wolfsbane and silver, bruised and barely breathing in the basement, broke their bonds and hauled them upstairs. It was so easy. He couldn't stop being surprised about that.
Too bad they hadn't counted on the twins. Two alphas, lying in wait for this very reason. Just in case. They jumped the bunch of them at the top of the stairs, Isaac dumping the much-larger Boyd on top of Stiles to take the brunt of the attack. Alison made hauling the mostly-unconscious Erica while working a crossbow one-handed look almost effortless, and Stiles was trying to drag Boyd towards the door, but Isaac could only hold two of them off for so long. As he went flying into the wall, Alison made the door, and Stiles had to make a choice. It was stupid, made no sense at all, was based entirely on a dumbass idea and desperation. Grabbing one of Alison's silver arrows, he dumped Boyd back on the recovering Isaac and told him to leave. He didn't stop to see if Isaac listened, because if he stopped he'd have to think about what he was doing, running past the two snarling werewolves and yelling anything he could to get them to follow. He just wasn't planning on both of them actually following him.
He almost made it. All those layers of his working in his favor for once. They'd grab him, he'd wriggle out of another layer of clothing. Coat, hoodie, flannel... he was at the back door when they finally grabbed him for good. His resistance bought the rest of them maybe five minutes at most, but hopefully that was enough for Scott to make it back. Not that he could think or worry, after everything went black.
When he finally came to, with the worst migraine and blurry vision, Stiles was alone. Down in that same basement they'd just grabbed the others from. Alone was probably good, but being tied to a chair? Probably less good. Yeah, not his smartest idea ever. All he could hope was that Scott and Derek had managed to get the three alphas into the trap in the woods, and that the others had actually made it to the clinic. And maybe that this was just a concussion, and not actually brain hemorrhaging. He couldn't think beyond that. Probably a good thing, because nothing good was coming of this.
Too bad they hadn't counted on the twins. Two alphas, lying in wait for this very reason. Just in case. They jumped the bunch of them at the top of the stairs, Isaac dumping the much-larger Boyd on top of Stiles to take the brunt of the attack. Alison made hauling the mostly-unconscious Erica while working a crossbow one-handed look almost effortless, and Stiles was trying to drag Boyd towards the door, but Isaac could only hold two of them off for so long. As he went flying into the wall, Alison made the door, and Stiles had to make a choice. It was stupid, made no sense at all, was based entirely on a dumbass idea and desperation. Grabbing one of Alison's silver arrows, he dumped Boyd back on the recovering Isaac and told him to leave. He didn't stop to see if Isaac listened, because if he stopped he'd have to think about what he was doing, running past the two snarling werewolves and yelling anything he could to get them to follow. He just wasn't planning on both of them actually following him.
He almost made it. All those layers of his working in his favor for once. They'd grab him, he'd wriggle out of another layer of clothing. Coat, hoodie, flannel... he was at the back door when they finally grabbed him for good. His resistance bought the rest of them maybe five minutes at most, but hopefully that was enough for Scott to make it back. Not that he could think or worry, after everything went black.
When he finally came to, with the worst migraine and blurry vision, Stiles was alone. Down in that same basement they'd just grabbed the others from. Alone was probably good, but being tied to a chair? Probably less good. Yeah, not his smartest idea ever. All he could hope was that Scott and Derek had managed to get the three alphas into the trap in the woods, and that the others had actually made it to the clinic. And maybe that this was just a concussion, and not actually brain hemorrhaging. He couldn't think beyond that. Probably a good thing, because nothing good was coming of this.
no subject
Yeah, what his dad should and should not know is so not a fight they're having anytime soon. Stiles has that fight with himself often enough as is. In the one hand, knowing something would maybe keep his dad safer on those weird calls that Beacon Hills tended to get too many of. On the other, he'd ground Stiles permanently for all the risks he'd taken. And besides, Stiles knows better than anyone; knowing more just means more can happen to you. The weird and the horrifying finds you that much faster.
But the funny thing is, he doesn't blame Derek for any of it anymore. He blames Peter some, for starting all this and sucking Scott and Derek into it. He blames the Argents for being so bugfuck crazy, all of them, even the ones he doesn't dislike as much as the others. He understands maybe better than Derek does that none of that is his fault. They just...got sucked into this mess. Maybe it would be easier if he did blame Derek and cut all ties. He can't do that, though. Definitely not anymore.
Picking up the book, Stiles holds it over his face, eyes not quite focusing on the words. "You're exhausted, too," Stiles points out, clearly too tired for French existentialism. "But you're here taking care of me instead of resting. Who's taking care of you?" He wouldn't even have said anything if he weren't so tired, but he is--and for once, he's not really thinking.