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Stiles discovered his actual dream career senior year of high school when he saved Danny Mahealani’s life.
Now, to be fair, and Stiles was totally keeping count, that was not the first life he’d saved, and Scott owed him at least three life debts from before he turned all wolfy. His experience saving said lives and doing all of the other crazy shit he’d done since his second semester of sophomore year did bring him the calm he needed to assess the situation in front of him and act accordingly, though.
Stiles had never seen Danny as anything but a completely healthy person. He was impressive on the lacrosse field and, when Jackson left and Danny gave up on playing a sport he didn’t actually like, the volleyball court. From elementary school on, Danny missed maybe one day of class a year due to illness, which was impressive considering the germs children carried. He wasn’t top of the class like Lydia or Stiles, but he was a strong student in his own right.
He’d dated a demoted Alpha werewolf and then broke up with him. Stiles had a lot of respect for Danny, okay? And maybe a bit of a baby crush, but that was neither here nor there because he had no time for a steamy romance right now. He was too busy saving lives on the weekends. Which, brought him back to Danny.
Except this wasn’t a weekend, it was a Thursday. Admittedly it was on the wrong end of the evening and near pitch black outside, but usually the supernatural baddies only struck during important lacrosse games and exam days, so Stiles hadn’t expected anything on a bland Thursday in November. Especially not something human.
He’d actually managed to pin down Scott and weasel a game night out of him for the first time in what felt like years, so Stiles was riding off of a best friend bonding time high as he pulled into the gas station to fill up the tank so that he didn’t have to do it in the morning before school.
The place was deserted, as expected for Beacon Hills at near eleven PM. The overhead lights for the pumps were dim and pathetic, and one half of them were actually burnt out. Of course, that was the pump he pulled up to, and he cursed as he shut the car off and used his phone to illuminate the screen as he shoved bills into the feeder and selected regular fuel. He could have backed out and pulled into a different pump, but he’d already parked, it was late, and even he could admit he was ready for bed.
The convenience store was gearing up for the late hour, and the cover of darkness gave Stiles a good view of the illuminated inside. He readjusted his grip on the pump’s hose and was glad for the lack of light so he could ignore, just for a moment, how little his cash went when filling up his tank. There was an assumedly bored worker behind the register, and a few hints of movement in the aisles, but other than that it was quiet.
The fuel hose jumped in his hand, and Stiles sighed. That was not going to get him into next week, so he’d have to dip into his savings again for gas money.
Movement caught his eye as he fumbled to tear his receipt from the return, and Stiles watched with growing horror as he saw vividly now two figures standing at the register, one holding a gun at the attendant, and the attendant leaning back with their hands up.
Stiles fumbled with his phone, dialing 9-1-1 before he could think about it.
“9-1-1 What is your emergency?”
“I’m at the CoGos on Martin and someone is holding up the attendant. There’s two people, one has a gun, I can’t see if the other person does.”
“Are you in a safe location?”
“Yeah, yes, I’m at my car at the pumps. I don’t think they saw me. There’s a car parked right out front, California license plate DLX2562. It’s a Mazda, I think? I’m pretty sure it’s theirs, it’s the only other vehicle here.” Unless they shared the bike chained up by the entrance, but that was probably the worker’s.
A shot rang out, and Stiles cursed.
“Are you alright?”
“There was a shot, I can’t—” Stiles crawled out from where he’d ducked behind the pump. “I can’t see the attendant anymore; they might have been shot. The robbers are coming out, that is definitely their car shit shitshit.”
Stiles ducked behind the pump as the glass doors of the convenience store slammed open and the two figures ran out, something rectangular, the money box probably, in one of their hands as they went for the car. Stiles vaguely registered talking in his ear.
“We are sending a deputy and ambulance to you. Are you safe?”
Stiles watched the Mazda speed away and exhaled. “Yeah, I’m fine, I need to see if the attendant is okay. My name is Stiles Stilinski, tell my dad I’m fine, but I need to check on them.”
Stiles ran for the store as soon as he knew the car was far enough away not to spot him, phone held tightly in one hand. He crashed through the doors and ran for the counter, shoes marking up the linoleum as he came to an abrupt halt. Danny was bleeding out on the tile, and he was deathly pale and gasping for breath as he held his side with blood-stained hands that shook.
Stiles immediately stripped his hoodie off; he had to stop the blood flow first and foremost. He was on his knees at Danny’s side and balling up the fabric to press against his wound in a second.
“Hey Danny boy, it’s Stiles. You’re gonna be okay, an ambulance is on its way,” Stiles started babbling as he batted Danny’s ineffective hands away and pressed down against the blood-soaked uniform shirt on Danny’s torso. The wound seemed to be closer to his hip than his middle, which meant it may have missed hitting his intestines, which was a good thing.
He reached for Danny’s wrist with his free hand next, to check his pulse. He counted to thirty in his head, one Mississippi two Mississippi, and tried to regulate his own breathing to the counter. The pulse was weak, but still there. Stiles glanced down when his knee bumped something as he shifted his stance. His phone was on the floor next to him, screen dark. He didn’t know if the call was still going through to the dispatcher, but he didn’t have the time to spare thinking about it.
“Danny, you can’t die from a gunshot wound when you’ve slept with a werewolf,” Stiles declared, and tried to pretend his hands weren’t slipping on his hoodie material because it was getting soaked. “Danny, come on, wake up,” he pleaded, eyes flying over Danny’s face, searching for a twitch of recognition. He checked his pulse again, another thirty seconds, no change.
“Danny, can you respond to me?” Stiles asked, practically yelled at him, because he could hear sirens approaching now, which was great, but he needed to make sure Danny would survive the next minute, because he’d already lost a staggering amount of blood and that was not a positive sign.
Danny’s eyes were barely open, and when Stiles leaned over him to force his lid back, the pupils were dilated, eyes glassy and unfocused. Stiles cursed again, slapped at Danny’s feverish cheek that was soaked in sweat, but Danny still didn’t respond to his name being repeated every three seconds, and the action only resulted in blood streaked across his cheek.
Stiles checked his pulse again. Still weak, but no weaker than before. He dropped Danny’s limp wrist and forced more pressure onto the wound with both hands.
“I’m just going to keep annoying you, Danny, until you speak up.” Danny was still breathing loudly from his mouth, the breaths labored but not wet like a lung had collapsed or there was blood in his throat. Hopefully that meant no internal bleeding. Hopefully.
“Danny, they’re almost here, I can hear the ambulance. Don’t give up Danny, you’re gonna be fine. They’re gonna fix you right up, and you’ll be back as the volleyball team’s setter or whatever in no time.” Stiles closed his eyes, God there was a lot of blood, and gritted out between his teeth, “Daniel Mahealani hear me you will not die today.”
Stiles reached out again to check his pulse, and another hand met him halfway. He hadn’t even realized the paramedics had made it inside. Red and blue light reflections slashed across the floor.
“Keep pressure on the wound,” he was instructed by the paramedic's terse voice, so he did.
“His name is Danny. Mahealani. He was shot approximately, uh, seven minutes ago. Wow, you guys got here pretty fast.”
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” another EMS declared as they reached Stiles’ side, and he let them take over applying pressure to the wound as he stood on shaky legs, snagging his phone from the floor lest it get trampled on, and stepped back.
“Stiles!”
Stiles whipped around as his dad jogged through the busted-open doors, and he was caught in his father’s arms immediately, his dad not caring that his son was covered in blood. They’d both seen worse.
“It’s Danny,” Stiles exhaled the words, feeling the panic begin to settle in now that he no longer had to be in charge. His father kept him standing as they moved out of the way of even more paramedics and EMS who were working to get Danny up on to a stretcher.
His dad flagged down Parrish and told him to contact Danny’s parents and have them meet him at the hospital.
“The shooter!” Stiles blurted as Jordan jogged back to the cruiser, and Stiles gripped his dad’s wrist tightly. “Did you get them? The shooter?”
His dad nodded. “Yeah, caught ‘em just before we got here. They’re not getting away with this.”
Stiles exhaled sharply, feeling relief, but his eyes didn’t leave Danny as he was wheeled quickly to an ambulance and loaded on. Stiles couldn’t tell, it was too dark, but he thought Danny’s mouth might be moving, which would be a good sign if he was cognizant. Or it could be the worst sign and mean he’d gone completely into shock and he felt no pain because his body was shutting down.
“Hey, hey, Stiles.”
Stiles hadn’t realized he’d started hyperventilating until his dad, forced them to make eye contact and his breath stuck in his throat.
“Danny will be fine, they’ll take care of him. You did a good job, son.” His father hugged him again, and Stiles nodded against his dad’s shoulder and felt the knot in his throat tighten.
“Sheriff.”
Stiles sniffled and pulled himself away from his dad, rubbing his (fuck, blood stained) sleeve over his face to erase the stress tears. One of the paramedics, the one who’d taken over Stiles’ position, was the speaker. “He’s going to Beacon Memorial. He’s awake, but lost a lot of blood. If you could inform the family—”
“Already did,” his dad assured. “Thank you.”
Their eyes switched over to Stiles, did a sweeping assessment of him, and then nodded tersely. “You did good.”
Stiles coughed the sob out of his throat. “Just good timing,” he replied, used to making up excuses for how he ended up in horrific situations.
A hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed, and Stiles caught their eyes. “You probably saved his life,” the paramedic said, voice low. “Will you be okay?”
Stiles nodded slowly, and he felt his dad’s hand raise and cup the back of his neck and give it a comforting squeeze. “I’m fine,” he assured them. He glanced at his dad, gave him a fleeting smile, and then looked back to the paramedic. “I know him from school,” he explained. “So it’s a bit, um, personal.”
The paramedic seemed surprised. “You were very calm despite that.”
Not my first rodeo, pal.
“Yeah,” Stiles replied lamely.
The first ambulance had already screamed off, but the second was idling, waiting for its paramedic to come back. Dimly, he realized the second ambulance was probably for him.
“That your Jeep?” the paramedic asked, jerking their head in the direction of Stiles’ vehicle, and Stiles and his dad nodded. “Don’t drive it home. You may feel okay now, but it’s safer for you to not put yourself under any kind of stressor for the rest of the night.”
“I’ll call Scott, he can come and get me,” Stiles told his dad, who nodded. And then maybe he could have him get info from his mom on Danny’s condition. She had still be working when Stiles left the McCalls’.
The paramedic left them alone after that, to talk to someone else Stiles hadn’t noticed. It seemed they’d amassed a bit of a crowd, despite the hour.
His dad sighed. “I have to get back. We’ll need your statement on what you saw, but considering you gave a pretty detailed account to the dispatcher, we can wait until tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Ugh, school.
“I’m really proud of you, Stiles,” his father reinforced before leaving him to go back to the station. “Maybe I should be upset over the fact that you were able to stay so calm because I know why…but you did really good. You saved that kid, son.”
Scott ran over to the gas station (werewolves) and drove Stiles and the Jeep back to the Stilinskis’ and demanded he stay the night.
Scott shoved him towards the bathroom, telling him he’d bring him a change of clothes. Once the door shut behind him, Stiles hesitantly took a look in the mirror. He looked…normal. That was kind of scary. He stripped out of his clothes quickly and balled them up, wondering if it was even worth it to try and remove the blood stains on his sleeves and knees. He’d abandoned the hoodie to Danny and didn’t even want it back if it was possible.
There was blood caked under his fingernails, and his hands and wrists were stained pink, but the rest of him looked perfectly normal. There was a bit of red around his eyes, but that was all.
Was it okay, to feel normal? He’d been through so much supernatural chaos that dealing with a gunshot wound seemed like a splinter in comparison. He’d been praised for reacting the way he had, but he didn’t really feel like he’d done anything spectacular. He’d just followed his instincts and done what the internet told him to do in these situations, because of course he’d researched how to deal with gunshot wounds. It was almost his job, at this point. Shit pay, though.
Maybe it took a different kind of person to do that, but to Stiles it was the obvious move.
The two teens both passed out on the couch after Stiles returned from his shower, skin scrubbed raw, and explained what had happened, only waking up when Scott’s phone rang with his mother’s ringtone at around four in the morning.
“I know I should probably let you both sleep, but I know you’d want to know. Danny is going to be fine.”
Stiles released the breath he’d been holding since the call connected and collapsed against the cushions. “Thank God,” he groaned.
“I can’t give you details because that is private information, but he is out of surgery and sleeping it off. And Stiles, the paramedics seemed very impressed with how you handled everything yesterday.”
“I’m an old hat,” Stiles responded with a wave of the hand.
“Dude, if it were me, I would have frozen,” Scott said. “Don’t put yourself down like that.”
“It’s not like I knew it was Danny until I was in there,” Stiles argued. “I would have helped anyone; it could have been anyone.”
“I’m still proud of you, Stiles. And I’m sure Danny will want to thank you when he gets up.”
Stiles groaned. “That I don’t want. I’m just glad he’s okay.”
Scott continued to give him a look, even after Melissa hung up. Neither of them could get back to sleep, so they decided on an early breakfast of cereal and eggs before Scott ran to his house to change and get his backpack.
His dad got home around six and hugged him tightly.
“Come by the station after school to give your statement. Whenever Danny wakes, we’ll have a deputy get his account, but it’s all pretty cut and dry. The robbers confessed, they had no choice, we had all the evidence. They’ll be tried likely with attempted murder on top of everything else.”
Stiles nodded. “Good. They deserve it. Seriously, who does mundane stuff like rob gas stations in Beacon Hills?”
His dad rolled his eyes. “I wish it was just mundane, but we’re too special for that.”
Stiles stared down at his hands, picked at a hangnail. “Hey, Dad?”
“Hm?”
“Was it really that surprising? What I did?”
John Stilinski exhaled harshly and rubbed a hand over his son’s head. “For you? No. You’ve been a healer ever since you were young. You’re a problem solver.”
Something clicked in Stiles’ brain, just then. “Not a protector?”
“Protector of my diet,” his father joked. Stiles gave him a look, and his father sobered immediately. “Son, you’re both. You have a lot of talent, and a lot of inner strength. You use it for the good of others, and that is what makes me proud of you.”
Stiles’ phone beeped, alerting him he had to leave for school or he’d be late.
“You okay to drive?” his dad asked.
“Yeah,” Stiles assured him, and he hugged him once more. “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll see you this afternoon. Have a good nap.”
Stiles arrived to school early, bypassed his normal route to his locker, and knocked on the door frame of the guidance counselor’s office.
“Oh, hello! Do you need something?” the woman at the desk asked. Stiles glanced down to read that her name plate said Ms. Kennedy.
“Yeah, sorry, I wanted to make an appointment with you? About after-school plans?”
“You mean college?”
“Yeah, sort of. Do you know anything about EMT training?”
The woman glanced off into space, like she was thinking, before she shook her head. “Not much, but I can gather some information for you. When is your free period?”
“Six.”
“Stop by then and we can discuss what I find, okay?”
Stiles smiled back at her. “Great, thank you.”
She tapped her nameplate and beamed. “It’s just my job.”
Stiles was starting to think his dad might have been on to something.
Danny did thank him, a week later when he was allowed visitors in the hospital and Stiles figured it was a decent amount of time to wait before visiting. He and Danny weren’t close, especially since they no longer played on the same sports team, but that distance seemed inconsequential now.
There were no awkward pauses or rolled eyes from Danny. He’d invited Stiles in with a smile, and Stiles took the seat next to the bed.
“Healing well?” Stiles asked.
“Yeah.” Danny ducked his head, and Stiles braced for it. “Surprisingly well. They said it was a bit of a miracle, the bullet only grazed my intestines so the surgery was easy, it was the blood loss that was bad. Hemophilia runs in the family.”
“Oh,” Stiles said on an exhale. That would explain why Danny had lost so much blood. It was because his body didn’t have enough proteins to stimulate clotting at a normal rate.
“So it’s good you stopped for gas that night. I know this is probably par for the course with you and your creatures of the night,” Danny said with a hand wave, eyes sparkling with mischief, “but thank you anyway.”
“Thank you,” Stiles replied with a grin, poking Danny in the arm, “for putting up with Jackson all those years. That’s a feat worth praising.”
Danny snorted a laugh. “Nah, that was easy. He was in to me long before he met Lydia, and you know how she had him wrapped around her finger. All I ever had to do was blink.” He batted his eyelashes for emphasis.
Stiles was not even surprised anymore.
“Just a heads up,” Danny added, before Stiles stood to leave, “A reporter was in here a couple days ago and I told him the whole story, so there might be an article or two with your face on it floating around.”
“Good, I can use it as proof of my prowess when I apply for my EMT training after graduation.”
Danny raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised, but a smile was on his face. “I’ll be your reference any time. I’ll even throw in a picture of my wicked scar.”
How many gunshot victims have you helped now? Derek texted him, out of the blue, later that night.
I have given up on keeping a list, Stiles replied.
lol, Derek said, and Stiles laughed aloud in response.
Ditching the traditional college education and deciding to become a paramedic was the best money-saving idea Stiles had ever had. The entirety of his training would cost him a single semester’s worth at any college, and that was before subtracting financial aid and scholarships. His (and his father’s) pockets were crying in relief.
UCBH offered an EMT course that started in September, so Stiles had a nice full summer of fun to enjoy before he started up schooling again. Plus, he could continue to live at home, saving even more money. The only thing he needed to do before he was qualified to start training was get his CPR certification. Luckily, the American Red Cross was taking over the fire hall for the month of July to do just that, and Stiles was certified in a few days.
The first month of training wasn’t even actual training. It was a separate preparation course which consisted of hours of science class. Biology, anatomy, physiology, the whole nine yards. Stiles had a fair bit of knowledge in this field, and an even fairer bit of practical knowledge, but it was still interesting to learn all of it from the perspective of the person who is going to solve the issue with the biology, anatomy, or physiology.
While all of his friends went off to college and could create their own schedules, Stiles was working on a high school schedule still, normal hours for class, and then spending the evening doing homework. He couldn’t wait until October when the real classes would begin, and he would get the opportunity to go on ride-along shifts and really learn. He had already gotten Melissa to get him in contact with Beacon Memorial’s ambulance team so that he could complete his required shifts at the hospital closest to home.
Preparation course completed, Stiles feeling full in the brain with all of the technical terminology he’d ingested, he was lounging in front of the television the afternoon before actual training was to start. Suddenly, a large gift bag floated in front of his vision, and Stiles tipped his head back to see his upside-down father, lips pursed, the gaudy bag with tissue paper sticking out hanging from his fingertips.
There had been a day, mid-summer, that Stiles had fought with his father. It was a stress-induced argument; neither of them had been having a good day, and words had been spoken that cut them both deep.
Stiles’ father had watched him grow up with the knowledge that one day his son would stand where he stood, perhaps even at his side. John was Stiles’ hero, and after his first career day had declared he wanted to be nothing but a police man, like his dad.
But times changed, people changed, and though it wasn’t personal, John still felt hurt by the sudden and abrupt change in his son’s plans.
Stiles was upset because his dad clearly was. And despite his assertions that it really was his father’s influence that brought him to this path, they seemed to fall on deaf ears and it infuriated him.
Things had been tense since then, but they were slowly getting better, and even though neither of them had expressly apologized, they had made it up to one another in their own way with small gestures.
Stiles took the gift bag from his father, gaze flicking down to it, then back at his dad. “What’s this?”
His father cleared his throat. “There’s a required uniform for when you do ride-alongs.”
His dad must have seen the list of things Stiles needed to acquire. He’d gotten a packet of information in the mail from UCBH a few days ago. Stiles beamed at his father and quickly turned back to the package, ripping out the tissue paper draped artfully over the top of the clothing items he needed. Much gentler, Stiles pulled out a wrapped package of a crisp white polo shirt, followed by a pair of black slacks that looked exactly his size. Beneath that was a rectangular shoe box that Stiles peeked in to and saw nice all-black sneakers with the comfort soles on the inside. And lastly, a much smaller box sat on the bottom of the bag, and Stiles could tell thanks to the clear plastic covering of the box that it held a wristwatch.
Stiles threw himself over the back of the couch to embrace his dad, and neither Stilinski let go until their eyes were dry.
Though the uniform didn’t get any use for a while, Stiles broke in the shoes within the first week of classes, and he only took his new watch off for showers (though he didn’t need to because it was waterproof!).
He made friends with his course-mates and they got together on Tuesdays at the student community center to quiz each other and gripe about stupid shit like how the price of parking on campus was ridiculous.
October bled into November with the belated arrival of fall colors to the trees and a brisk breeze to the air. Stiles did his first ride-along shift. It lasted twelve hours and within that time he traveled to and from the hospital eight times and assisted three at-home patch jobs. Stiles didn’t do much of any hands-on work, especially considering EMTs weren’t qualified to give medicine intravenously, let alone a trainee like Stiles. But he did help a kid through an asthma attack, babbling about his best friend Scotty and how he battled with it as a kid. And he held gauze to an old woman’s head after they’d been called when she fainted and hit a table on the way down. She’d squeezed his free hand and answered all of his questions even after shoving a flashlight in her face.
He watched someone die on his second ride-along, and he spent the rest of the evening staring at his father’s alcohol cabinet with sudden clarity.
Stiles had lost a lot of people in his life. An unfair amount, many would say. But there was something different about watching the life get snuffed out of someone’s eyes as you’re observing chest compressions and coming to the realization that you have no idea who they are, what their story is, or was, and who, if anyone, would mourn them.
He realized that that was going to be the hardest part for him, in all this. He could be calm and collected, follow the steps, crunch the numbers in his head, and (eventually, once he was certified as a paramedic) administer the correct dosage of medication. But he would never know the story of the people he was destined to fail.
Not a single EMS he spoke to hadn’t lost people on the job, despite doing all they could to stop it, and they all talked about how it was a personal difficulty you would have to overcome yourself. It was inevitable.
November made way for December, and suddenly the NREMT was upon them. The certification exam didn’t scare him, it was what came after that did. He would be able to apply in Beacon County as am EMT and start work come January. It all felt like it happened too fast, but when he expressed his feelings to his course friends, they all just stared at him with wild eyes, red rimmed from studying for long hours, clearly feeling differently.
Stiles took the exam the week before Christmas and got his results back on the 20th. He passed, which wasn’t surprising to anyone who knew his determination, but the email he received with his grade made it all real.
Congrats on passing, Derek texted him on Christmas Day.
Happy birthday, Stiles shot back with a picture of his and his dad’s sad Christmas tree decked out with every ornament Stiles could possibly fit.
Derek sent back, a few hours later, a picture of him in a Santa hat, frowning, as he stood in front of a large nativity scene on the steps of some church. There was no explanation, but Stiles laughed, because he understood it anyway.
He scheduled his appointment for fingerprinting for his mandated background check. He had a brief jolt of fear that Scott’s dad would have tainted his record, because he was that much of a vindictive douche, but it came back clean, Cleaner than he was in reality, but the nice people of Beacon Hills didn’t need to know that. Everything he did was for the safety of the average citizens, of course.
They just needed broken bones splinted, and EpiPens distributed, and assistance onto gurneys. And a few people needed CPR, but Stiles had vowed to do everything he legally could to revive those patients, and with that thought in his brain he managed to pull it off.
Eight months passed this way. He started getting bi-weekly paystubs sent to his email and money in his account, which was very welcome. He worked just as insane hours as his father always did, except that his shifts were often 12-hour long ones. He did see Melissa, more, and kept Scott in the loop with her crazy hospital stories. He offered himself up for the shit shifts because some of his coworkers had partners and kids and probably wanted to see them at times other than three in the morning.
The summer was no longer a time of relaxation but one of heatstroke and drowning and bonfire and firework burns and, notably, a child stuck in a storm drain. And those were the G-rated incidents.
His dad had asked him when he was going to continue on with his studies and sign up for the paramedics’ course at UCBH, now that he had over six months of EMT practice under his belt, the mandatory minimum. And Stiles hesitated. He liked being an EMT. He liked the people he worked with and felt a rush each time he flipped the sirens on and sped off in the ambulance.
There was a part of him that felt stifled, because he wanted to do more, learn more, be better. He didn’t have doctor aspirations or anything, but he wanted more. He would make (slightly) better pay, and he would be the one barking orders, which he liked.
But he was really enjoying himself right now. And that security was something he didn’t want to lose yet. Also, he was a bit nervous about working full time on top of part-time advancement schooling. So when the September course deadline expired, and the January one was on his heels, he chose to wait and let nature take its course.
A wendigo blew through Beacon Hills the next month, and Stiles was the one on the call.
His ambulance was the only one to arrive at Beacon Memorial with a live victim, Stiles pumping their lungs full of air the entire drive back.
“Not today, not today, not today,” Stiles kept repeating to himself, under his breath. There had been zero supernatural attacks in almost two years, and now he was at a completely different angle than before. He couldn’t help with the fighting, but there was a snowball’s chance in hell that he wasn’t going to keep this kid alive until they got to the hospital.
He squeezed the air pump so tightly that his knuckles went white, and he had to force back the trembling he felt in his fingers.
“Not today,” he hissed, and then suddenly the kid’s chest jack rabbited up and sucked in air all on its own. Stiles pulled back, removing the air pump, and praised the big man in the sky.
Eight injured victims, four of them with fatal wounds, three dead, five survivors.
“What is going on?” Derek asked, bypassing a greeting when Stiles picked up his phone less than an hour after changing out of his bloody uniform and forcing food into his stomach to settle its rolling.
“Wendigo,” Stiles admitted, because there was no use in lying, and he’d vowed not to hide things from Derek.
“Are you safe?”
“As I can be.”
“Did you—”
“Liam is already tracking its scent. Scott is driving down as we speak, or he’s probably already at his mom’s. We’ll take care of it. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“What do you know?”
Stiles rubbed a hand over his face and sighed heavily. “Not much. I haven’t even seen Dad yet to get any information from him or to him. This is different from that time with the kid. It got eight people before the police arrived and then ran off. Not sure what they were all doing, but it was a group of kids, high school and college, maybe. My guess is it was planning to kill them, then snatch their bodies to save for later.”
Stiles recalled the gruesome image of one of the victim’s innards on the ground.
“So this was planned,” Derek surmised, which Stiles assumed as such.
“Thankfully they’re as easy to kill as me, but they’re still fucking strong.”
“Scott’ll allow that?” Derek asked
Stiles gritted his teeth. “It’s the only option. It killed three people today, and maybe more if the others don’t recover. And we have to do it soon, ‘cause it’ll just get angrier the longer it goes without food.”
“Did you eat? After your shift?”
The concerned tone Derek’s voice used threw Stiles for a loop, and it took him a moment to respond. “Yeah. Even managed to keep it down. Derek, I’m gonna go meet Scott and try and end this tonight.”
“Let me know—”
“Derek you’re eleven hours away by plane. We can handle this. Thank you for being concerned, but you can’t just portal over here to help. Trust me, I’ll end this. I almost lost a kid today, and I am not about to let some cannibal break my streak.”
Stiles had yet to witness or fail to prevent a death since his second ride-along while still in training. He was proud of that, though he was probably the only one keeping score, and even the supernatural wasn’t going to ruin this for him.
Sixteen hours later, Stiles’ father lowered his shotgun after loading three rounds into the head of the now deceased wendigo that Scott and Liam had been fighting a losing battle with.
Stiles bent down to retrieve the shells from the grass and spat on its body. “Do no harm, bitch.”
Stiles celebrated one year as an EMT at the end of January. His dad and Melissa took him out to dinner to celebrate at one of the nice sit-down restaurants in Beacon City. It even had low mood lighting, which didn’t apply to this evening, but the single flower in a skinny vase next to a flickering candle was a nice touch to the table.
“Stiles, you have all of the ER nurses buzzing about you,” Melissa said with a chuckle, lips against the rim of her wine glass. This was her second glass of the night, and she was already acting tipsy. His father was the driver of the group, so she didn’t have to be sober, but seeing a slightly inebriated Melissa McCall for the first time was quite amusing.
“What for?” his father asked, eyes narrowing at his son, and Stiles held his hands up in innocence.
“I didn’t do anything, I swear!”
Melissa waved her hand about, close to smacking his dad in the face, and Stiles moved his hands to smother the snorted laughter that escaped. “No, nothing bad, John. They’re just very impressed with how you handled that overdose patient last week.”
Ah, yes. Stiles could still smell the vomit on his shoes even after several cleanings. It wasn’t unusual for people in ambulances to upchuck, but usually they were prepared with a little blue baggie with a plastic ring around the top keeping it open to hand over.
There had been no expecting an unresponsive man suddenly waking, throwing himself over the side of the gurney, and letting out everything in his stomach over Stiles’ feet.
“Jenna told me you talked him back to life,” Melissa added with a wink.
That was something Stiles had heard a few times, actually. He had always been a talker, this was not new information, but he had developed a compulsive need to talk to the people experiencing various medical emergencies throughout the entire ride to the hospital.
“He was unconscious, not responding, his heart rate was all over the place, said Jenna. But Stiles just said, ‘You need to wake up so we can get that shit out of you,’ and then thirty seconds later he did.”
It was more like fifteen, but Melissa hadn’t been wrong with his statement.
“He still needed a stomach pump at the hospital,” Stiles pointed out. “And his toxicity levels we in no way diminished by him leaving his stomach behind. In my shoes.”
“Then Jenna told me,” Melissa carried on, apparently not finished with her extolling of Stiles’ employment exploits, “that a few months ago when she and Stiles were on call for a heart attack victim, he revived her before the defibrillator even hit her chest!”
Stiles sighed into his forkful of pasta.
“And then there was the wendigo victim. You apparently just told him not to die.”
“I say that to everyone,” Stiles replied with an eye roll. “Sometimes they need to hear it.”
“People are allowed to praise you, Stiles,” his dad admonished him with a soft slap on the back of the head. “You do really good work.”
“Are you still thinking of doing further training?” Melissa asked, no longer giggling, but with a soft smile on her face and rosy cheeks.
Now with a year under his belt, Stiles was more inclined to further his studies, less afraid of the huge workload he would be facing. “I’m thinking about it. Maybe not until September, though. And I’ll have to do part-time, so I can keep working, which means it’ll be another year after that that I’m even able to take the exam to certify.”
“Well, whenever you’re ready, I already have a few names of staff who will write you a letter of recommendation for UCBH.”
“Really?” Stiles questioned, spine straightening as he perked up.
“I told you, the ER nurses were impressed. You’re the only new EMT who hasn’t lost anyone on your watch. That doesn’t go unnoticed, Stiles.”
“I’m probably due,” Stiles joked.
His father hit him again, a little harder this time. “Don’t joke like that.”
Stiles deflated, a little. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“Maybe it is just luck,” Melissa told him, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “But you’re still great at what you do.”
Stiles assumed that the first year must have been his honeymoon period, because almost immediately after that day, it was like the entirety of Beacon Hills made it a mission to be the one to die on his watch.
“Seven. Seven. It’s only Thursday!” Stiles shouted.
“Mhmm.”
“Derek, please pretend to be sympathetic.”
“Stiles, your job is to save people from injury. You have one of the highest percentage rates of being in contact with people close to death, besides nursing home employees. This should not shock you.”
“It’s normally like maybe one a week that I’m actually afraid won’t make it, not seven in four days.”
There was shuffling on Derek’s end of the line. “Do you think it’s something…unnatural?”
“No,” Stiles said on an exhale. “I think I’m just attracting it. Like a death magnet.”
“May be the Nematon,” Derek offered, and, well.
Stiles hadn’t thought about the Nematon in a long while. He tried to forget the majority of junior year, but Derek might be on to something. Even if the Nematon was inactive, it still had an effect on Stiles in the past, and since Stiles was still kicking himself, he was active.
“Maybe. I’ll ask Deaton.”
“There’s something else bothering you,” Derek said, and Stiles sighed loudly.
“How can you tell, you’re not even in the United States.”
“I’m in Hawaii, actually,” Derek admitted.
Stiles pulled his phone back from his cheek, noted the time, and scowled. “Derek, it’s three in the morning where you are, I thought you were in Europe. You know, ahead in time! Why didn’t you tell me to call at a reasonable hour? I can make accommodations too!”
“You’re deflecting,” Derek sang.
Stiles wished Derek was there in person, so he could smack him.
“And I’m hanging up,” Stiles mockingly sang back, “and you can call me back in six hours. No, ten.”
“Won’t I be interrupting your birthday celebrations?”
“I’m saving up on everyone’s guilt of doing nothing this year so that we go all-out next year for my twenty-first,” Stiles explained. “So, no.”
“Then I’ll call you later,” Derek promised. “Talk to Deaton, if you are really worried. But I think you’re fine, Stiles. Yes, maybe you had seven close calls this week, which is odd, but you delivered seven living people to the hospital anyway.”
Stiles went to work with a smile on his face for the first time in four days. He decided not to call Deaton.
Nothing good lasts forever, but good is also subjective.
Stiles and his dad pulled up to the house at the same time, exchanged curt nods as Stiles ran into the house, his partner for the day Lindsay at his back.
The victim was in a crumpled heap on the floor, a pool of blood spreading out from around their middle.
There was another person in the house, a young girl, and she had a gun held limply in her right hand, lowered down at her waist.
Stiles knew the deputies were right behind them, so he didn’t fear for his life, despite feeling off balance at the sight. She wasn’t aiming at them, so Stiles and Lindsay got to work, rolling the victim onto their back to assess the damage.
The person was shirtless, so there was nothing hiding the hole in the center of their chest where the bullet was still clearly lodged. Stiles pulled the kit of supplies close, and he and Lindsay did what they could to stop the bleeding until the gurney was rolled in.
The victim had a highly elevated pulse and was unresponsive, dragging in wet breaths.
“I think his lungs are collapsing, we need to get him out,” Lindsay spoke aloud his thoughts, and they were immediately on the move.
The ambulance screeched as they hit the streets, dodging cars, and Stiles swayed with the motion.
“Single gunshot wound to the chest, victim is unresponsive, internal bleeding and collapsed lung are almost sure, will be inserting a chest tube to try and reinflate,” Stiles relayed to the team back at the hospital.
“ETA?”
“Seven minutes, coming in from the north,” Stiles responded into the radio.
He reattached the comm to its base and let Lindsay’s directions lead his hands as he passed her what she demanded.
Something felt off, to Stiles, just like it had in the house. His brain was buzzing, but his lips were glued shut, like if he opened his mouth, the truth would spill out and he didn’t want to say it.
And then that something off, something odd suddenly hit him: the girl with the gun. She had been naked.
Stiles had sworn to do no harm, so he helped Lindsay insert the necessary chest tube, to inflate the collapsed lung, and wrapped a blanket further around the victim’s shoulders and over their legs, to help with the shock.
“He’s crashing,” Lindsay shouted, and Stiles could feel no pulse when he searched for it.
“Asshole,” Stiles spat, releasing their hand. “You’re gonna breathe,” he insisted, as they began to resuscitate them. “You’re gonna live. Because I’m not going to let that kid become a murderer. And neither. are. you!”
When they got to the hospital, the gurney was wheeled away from Stiles, off to the ICU, and he collapsed into the closest chair, exhaustion making his legs go weak.
Lindsay stayed at his side and rubbed her hands over his shoulders. “That was fucking horrible,” she admitted. “But you did good.”
Stiles knew he did, was proud that he had, because today was probably the true test of his resolve. If he would help someone regardless of their story, he had to help them despite their story.
“I saved a child rapist today,” Stiles admitted as soon as Derek picked up. “He was shot. That girl just defended herself, and he almost let her—” Stiles couldn’t finish his sentence, words choking his throat.
Derek didn’t say anything, just let Stiles huff wetly over the line for a few minutes until he was able to calm down. Then he responded, “He would have deserved it. But she wouldn’t have.”
“Derek, what’s the difference between me killing a supernatural baddie and a human one?”
“It was self defense,” Derek answered immediately, like he knew exactly what Stiles was thinking about.
Stiles held his breath, counted to seven, and exhaled. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” Derek replied, but Stiles couldn’t tell if he was lying or not.
“Can you tell me about your day, then? Or, how was Montreal?”
Stiles curled into a ball on his bed, phone on speaker next to his face, and he closed his eyes and let Derek’s voice wash over him.
It was the dog two months later that made Stiles realize that something was going on with him.
As good of an EMT as Stiles was, he had no abilities regarding the proper medical procedures for non-humans. So when he heard the squealing of tires in the street outside of his dad’s house and then the gunning of the engine, he popped his head outside to investigate and stopped short when he realized there was a large dog lying still in the middle of the road.
Stiles looked around, but there were no other cars on the road, so he ran off of the porch, shoe-less, and knelt down next to the wounded animal.
It was letting out sharp, high-pitched whines as its chest heaved, and though Stiles couldn’t see any visible bleeding, it was obvious the dog had been hit by whoever must have been speeding.
Stiles hovered his hands over its back, brushed fingers over its legs, at least two of which were clearly broken, and cupped the dog’s neck to test if it had snapped. It felt intact, which meant Stiles would be able to move the animal without immediate threat of death, but the dog’s breathing patters suggested internal damage, so he had to be very careful.
He couldn’t let the dog stay in the middle of the road as long as it was possible to move him, so Stiles darted into their open garage to pull out a dusty and slightly moth-bitten tarp they’d used forever ago. He dragged the tarp onto the road and carefully lifted the dog onto it so that he could drag it the rest of the way off the street and into their driveway.
Once the dog was out of danger of getting run over, Stiles risked the minute to run into the house, grab his phone and car keys, slipping his feet into his father’s abandoned loafers near the front door.
Stiles dialed the number for the animal clinic without looking at his phone, putting the call on speaker as he knelt once more next to the dog to feel out its injuries.
When the call connected, after the automated message regarding appointment scheduling, Stiles immediately started speaking. “My name is Stiles. I have an injured dog here. Looks female and well taken care of, might have run off from home. Pretty large breed. She was hit by a car. Some of her legs are broken, and there’s no external bleeding.”
“Okay, Stiles.” Deaton’s voice washed over him, and Stiles felt his shoulders ease, just a bit. “I’ll be expecting you whenever you arrive. Drive quickly, but gently. I’ll meet you out back.”
“Got it. Be there in fifteen.” Or less, if Stiles could help it. He was used to driving the ambulance during emergencies, and had the ability to bend traffic laws and move cars with lights and sirens, but he didn’t have that luxury today.
Getting the dog into his Jeep was going to be a challenge. Stiles knew he could lift her, despite her weight, for the ten seconds it would take to get her in. He just didn’t want to risk any further injury.
He pushed everything aside in the back of the trunk, piling it into the passenger side after lowering the minuscule back seat, and then tugged the tarp as close to the Jeep as possible.
The poor animal was still whining, but her eyes were open now.
Stiles brushed his fingers down her head gently. “It’s gonna be okay,” he told her, and then bent at the knees and braced for the weight. He shoved his hands under the tarp and lifted. He got her into the Jeep as gently as he could, but his arms felt like jell-o when he extracted them. Maybe he should ask Derek for some workout routine recommendations.
The poor girl stared up at him, though Stiles wondered if she was really seeing anything or if she was in too much pain. “Shh,” he hushed her, another gentle caress. “You going to be okay,” he assured the dog, but really assuring himself.
He was sure he looked ridiculous as he jumped out of the car once he parked at the back of the clinic, as instructed, where Deaton was waiting: too-small shoes, sweat pants, and a scrub shirt that he’d borrowed from the hospital once and had yet to return because it was actually pretty comfy.
It was much easier getting the dog out of the car with Deaton’s help, as well as one of his vet techs at the ready.
Stiles stood back, biting on his fingernails, and watched the two seamlessly check over the dog, temporarily splinting the broken legs, and prepping the x-ray machine to check for internal damage.
“The hit must not have been too hard. The leg fractures were probably caused when she was thrown and fell, but-”
The dog suddenly started seizing out of nowhere, and Deaton ran for his medicine cabinet.
“Help hold her down, if she has internal damage this might exacerbate the wounds,” the vet tech ordered Stiles, and he always listened to orders from professionals.
Stiles placed one hand over her two front legs, fingers wrapping around the paw joints, to settle the leg jerking. The other he used to lightly apply pressure to the dog’s flank. Stiles fell into work mode automatically, and started babbling. “Calm down, little one. Let’s work this out.”
“She’s not breathing!” Stiles faintly heard, but he concentrated on staring into the dog’s eyes and giving her his full attention.
The jerking was slowing down, but Stiles doubted that meant anything good.
“Come on, don’t let some reckless driving jerk take you away from your family. You’re clearly well loved. You just have to make it through this.” The dog made a choking noise. “Breathe.”
“Stiles.” Deaton raised a syringe in the air, and Stiles moved when Deaton gestured for him to. Reluctantly taking his hands away from the dog, he found his fingers to be shaking.
“Pulse is back!”
Deaton faltered, a flicker of a smile of relief ghosting over his face, and he set the syringe aside. Instead, he grabbed a different injector and pressed that needle into the thick part of the dog’s thigh.
(And that was another great thing: Stiles no longer was afraid of needles. Apparently, exposure therapy worked for him. It might be another hurdle to cross when he was the one stabbing people, but he would get there when he got there.)
The jerking came to a stop. The dog’s eyes were closed, but she was breathing again.
“Were you about to…?”
Stiles looked up at the vet tech’s incomplete question. Though she didn’t need to finish her sentence for Deaton to understand, because he was nodding.
“I’m surprised that she recovered from a seizure like that. In my experience, the animal often comes out brain-dead and unresponsive, so it is the right thing to do to put them down. Perhaps this dog just has a disorder which was triggered by the pain.”
Deaton didn’t sound convinced by his own words, but maybe that was because he was staring at Stiles the whole time, like he was being judged.
“So she’ll live?” Stiles asked, feeling a spark of hope.
“We’ll have to monitor her, its unclear. But you were right, she is a well-kept dog, so she may have a chip. If so, we can reach out to her owners and consult them about next steps.”
“You were really good with her,” the vet tech praised him, a slightly flirty tone in their voice.
“Stiles is an EMT,” Deaton explained, before Stiles could open his mouth. “Actually, Stiles, can I have a word with you, very quickly.”
Deaton’s tone garnered no argument, so Stiles stepped into the hallway after him. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure… Stiles, I’ve heard from Scott that you are very good at your job, and that you’ve never failed to resuscitate.”
“It’s not just me, the whole team is great,” Stiles corrected, because without the guidance of the paramedics and other emergency response crews he would have never had as much success, he was sure.
“On the job, have you felt any surges of exhaustion?”
“I’m always exhausted after a shift, Deaton. Did Derek say something to you?” Stiles asked. “Because I know I had told him some stuff, but I didn’t really think I had supernatural issues.”
Deaton stared at him in silence.
Stiles winced. “Should I have said something?”
“Stiles, you will recall, as loathe as we may be to, that you have been used as a channel for deadly magical energy.”
Stiles shut down in a second. “You’re right, I am loathe to recall it. Can we not—”
Deaton held up a hand. “I don’t mean to upset you Stiles, I’m simply explaining my thought process. You have been touched by magical energy several times over the last few years, and it is often the situations we find ourselves in where our true abilities are brought to the test. Think of Lydia’s abilities. They were latent, until they were activated.”
His conversation with Derek had brought up that word, too. Activated. “The Nematon,” Stiles blurted. “I thought, maybe, something was going on, but it’s dormant now.”
“I don’t think the Nematon is causing any trouble now,” Deaton assured him. “And Stiles, from what I can tell, there is no trouble to be found here.”
“Sure, but what does that make me, if people don’t die under my watch?”
“You’re not made into anything, Stiles. You are as human as I am. But humans have strength as well. All it takes is the knowledge to cultivate it. You have that in spades, and, as stated, you have interacted with a lot of spiritual energy during important growing periods of your life.” Deaton gave him a rare smile. “Stiles, there is nothing wrong with you. You just may have some tricks up your sleeve.”
Stiles tried not to shudder at the choice of words.
“I’ll let you know if anything happens on my end, and you do the same,” Deaton instructed, and then left him in the hall.
Their conversation took probably too long, and Stiles felt a bit guilty he had stolen Deaton’s time when there was a suffering animal who clearly needed it.
Deaton hadn’t denied that Derek had been in contact with him, which meant he most likely had been. But if Deaton had had any real worries, he would have addressed them before now.
Saved a dog today, Stiles messaged Derek before he drove back home.
When he pulled into the driveway, there was a message waiting for him. Outsourcing? Times must be tough.
Stiles snorted. “Asshole,” he muttered fondly. It got hit right outside my house, took it to Deaton.
Stiles took a deep breath before he admitted the second part. He thinks something is up too.
Stiles kicked off his father’s shoes and winced as they peeled away from his feet. He’d definitely have blisters tomorrow, ow, ouch, he should have spared the twenty seconds to get his own shoes.
His phone dinged, and Stiles paused his quest for the hidden snacks in the kitchen to look at it.
Maybe you’re a necromancer lol, Derek joked.
Stiles tripped on nothing while standing still, and his head spun.
Holy shit, he typed with blurry vision, i’m a necromancer.
Stiles that was a joke.
I DON’T THINK IT IS
Stiles took the stairs two at a time, grabbed his own shoes, and then was back in the car in record timing.
Despite his status as a drifter, Derek still had ownership of the apartment building downtown, and he still kept the loft for himself. (Though he had yet to come back and use it, which Stiles would never admit he was sad about.)
Stiles had a copy of the key, because of course he did. He could even get into Lydia’s house (not that he would on threat of his life).
Derek had turned one of the unused rooms on the second level into a study, collecting some of the less secret items from the Hale vaults and storing them there instead. This meant Stiles had a wealth of books to look at, and he was ready to go on a reading binge.
His phone rang on the way there, and he put it on speaker. “Yeah?”
“Stiles.” Ooh, that was Derek’s upset voice. “You didn’t answer my text.”
“I didn’t even see you sent one,” Stiles admitted. “I’m driving to yours, to try and get some information.”
“Stiles, I was joking.”
“I don’t think it’s much of a joke, Derek,” Stiles reiterated. “I thought maybe I was just a really good EMT, but my spark apparently wants me to reanimate the dead,” he grumbled.
“You are a really good EMT,” Derek huffed. “I heard you were accepted for the paramedics’ course in the fall.”
“My dad is horrific at staying quiet,” Stiles grumbled. “I was going to tell you myself.”
“That isn’t something just anyone can get in to, Stiles, it’s impressive. He wanted to brag. We had no doubt, of course.”
“That’s such a Dad line,” Stiles said, disgusted. Derek’s laugh cleared that disgust away in a second.
“You’re right, but so was he.”
“Not if some magic juju makes me good.” Stiles pulled into Derek’s parking space and shut off the car.
“So in that same respect I am weaker because I am a Beta and no longer an Alpha?”
“What? No, Derek, Jesus. You’re much stronger than you were as an Alpha.” And better, he mentally added.
“Exactly.” Derek sounded smug. “Who you are, what you can do, it’s all a part of you. It’s what you do with what you’re given.”
“Sounds like expert advice,” Stiles responded, voice soft, after a few quiet moments passed.
“It was given to me by an expert,” Derek admitted, and Stiles smiled to himself. He was really glad that Derek had gone through therapy, for Derek’s sake.
It was even better than he got therapy far away from Beacon Hills so that it didn’t exacerbate the probable trauma. Or Mexico, he guessed. Too much shit went down in Mexico.
“I have to go, My train is leaving soon. But text me.”
“I will,” Stiles promised, and wondered how much farther away Derek’s train was taking him this time.
The call disconnected, and Stiles dragged his feet the entire way up to Derek’s loft.
He texted his dad, explaining his absence from the house, giving the briefest of descriptions, and then readied himself for an evening surrounded by books.
Honestly, after over a year of practical application, Stiles was looking forward to learning something again. He’d thought that the learning would be more towards his paramedic certification, but needs must.
Derek’s loft, though nicely organized and full of interesting books he hadn’t realized were available to him at any time, provided zero clarity.
Stiles really hated waiting on Deaton to give the explanation he needed. The man took as much time as he possibly could before things all went to shit to given an explanation. And yeah, it always turned out okay in the end, the information usually giving them the key to solving the mystery, Scooby Doo, but it was like Druids moved at a snail’s pace.
In lieu of any actual information (because Stiles had learned sophomore year never to trust the internet for correct supernatural details), Stiles tried to figure out what he was doing, subconsciously, to magically revive people.
He didn’t think he was doing anything special. He worked his odd-hour shifts, went home, ate, slept, sometimes even he and his dad would be home at the same time and not have to do either of the two aforementioned activities and would hang out, and then he’d get meals with his friends and coworkers a few times a month. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He didn’t feel any different when he was working. Deaton had mentioned exhaustion, but he couldn’t differentiate a feeling of bone-deep tiredness from working for twelve-straight hours from a supposed expelling of energy from his core, or something else as ridiculous.
Derek sent him a photo of some gorgeous skyscraper in Thailand at the end of his shift one day, a few weeks later, while Stiles was trying to determine if his hands always shook after delivering someone with horrific injuries to the hospital, or if it was a side effect of forcing life.
Stiles had always thought necromancy was something dark and horrific, like reanimating an army of the dead to fight against the forces of good. Clearly the power had latched on to the wrong host.
Bangkok looks amazing, Stiles replied to Derek’s photo.
His response was a second photo, and this one gave him a minor heart attack before his brain caught on to what he was seeing. Said skyscraper must have an observation deck with a glass floor, because the photo was a landscape selfie of Derek, eyes squinted against the sunlight, lying on his back with the city skyline spread out far beneath him.
Bit of a back ache, but breathtaking, was the photo’s caption.
Stiles bit his bottom lip as he replied, a pillow under the tailbone, then you can get your Bangkok on
Derek sent back a winky face emoji, and Stiles had the irrational urge to burst into tears.
Wait, if Derek killed him via text, could he revive himself?
Maybe Stiles should ask Deaton to hurry it along before his hand was forced.
It only took him another week to cave.
Work had consisted of domestic violence calls, accidentally cut off fingers, “frequent fliers” aka fakers, and passed-out drunks at all hours of the night. Oh, and the woman with the vibrator stuck up her ass. Yeah. It was one of the most irritating weeks of Stiles’ EMT life so far. Plus, he’d also had to fork over a fair amount of his savings for the paramedic course to secure his spot, so his stomach was a bit too empty for his tastes. Which he didn’t have the money to satisfy.
“So I know it’s not your job anymore, since you’re not an emissary, but I could really do with some explanations or hints, anything you’ve got,” Stiles begged Deaton.
Deaton’s glare only intensified. Stiles understood his irritation. Stiles also hated shoving thermometers into people’s nether regions, but at least the dog was less likely to scream bloody murder.
Yeah, that had been an interesting shift.
“I am working, Stiles, at my actual job, which you helpfully reminded is not doing your research.” He pulled the thermometer, er, out, and checked its readings and marked it down on a chart. “His owner will be back in in a minute. You can wait in the office for me if you want to talk, but I have nothing to share.”
The office was a supply closet with a computer, and Stiles had had multiple nightmares involving getting locked in there and suffocating, so he chose to pass.
“Just…give me a call, sometime soon. Please?” Sties tried to pour all of his desperation into his voice. Maybe Deaton would pity him.
“Oh my!” said a scandalized voice, and Stiles turned to see a very pinkly-dressed curvy woman in the doorway, one manicured hand over her mouth.
Stiles read back his last statement in his head and recoiled violently. He didn’t want to chance a look at Deaton as he dashed from the room in a speed walk.
I MADE SOME LADY THINK I’M DESPERATE FOR DEATON DICK, Stiles texted to Derek, and his phone started buzzing a second later with a call.
“What did you do?” Derek accused, a bit of a growl in his voice.
Stiles made it outside of the clinic and leaned against the Jeep, willing the cool spring air to zap the heat from his face. “Miscommunication, that’s all. I’m just getting antsy, Derek. I hate waiting for an answer to pop up.”
“Maybe there is nothing.”
“No, there’s definitely something,” Stiles assured vehemently. “We got called to the prison yesterday. This guy was stabbed several times and I think someone took the shiv to his neck because that was bleeding too. He was basically dead when we arrived, but I just joked about this not counting as furlough and the dude survived. Derek, Jenna is starting to suspect… I’m fine with saving lives, but I need to know really how… Where are you now?”
If Derek was surprised by the abrupt subject change, he didn’t show it. “New York, so no you didn’t wake me. I’m actually waiting in line for my dinner takeout.”
Stiles knew New York had been the last place Derek had lived with Laura before she came back to Beacon Hills and he followed, so he was curious as to why he would go back there, if he was traveling literally everywhere but where he had bad memories.
“Where are you eating?”
Derek mumbled something.
“Where?”
Derek sighed, like Stiles had caught him with his hand in the cookie jar but was unapologetic about it. “Shake Shack.”
Stiles threw his head back with a laugh, and a dog started barking at him as it was dragged into the clinic by its cussing owner. He unlocked the Jeep and closed himself inside so that he didn’t look like some crazy who liked to hang out at animal clinics.
“It’s a New York staple,” Derek defended. “And their milkshakes are really quite good.”
“Never been. To Shake Shack or New York, so I wouldn’t know,” Stiles replied, laughter in his tone.
“I’ll take you some day.”
Take him. Yeah, sure. Stiles was down, so down.
“Maybe after I finish my paramedics’ course I can take some time off, join you on your wandering.”
“I think Beacon Hills can handle itself if you do,” Derek teased gently. He said something else that Stiles didn’t catch, but then there was some shuffling, so Stiles assumed that meant Derek’s order had been finished.
Derek continued, “I mean, unless you’d rather Deaton take you.”
Stiles felt his face go red hot for several reasons. One, because ew, Deaton could be his dad. Two, Derek was joking over a potential sexual situation. Three, Derek had put himself into that potential sexual situation.
“I’d never do that to you,” Stiles joked back, but he probably failed to hide the fact that he was feeling a bit overwhelmed, going by the higher pitch of his voice.
“Deaton will find something soon,” Derek responded in a placating voice. And maybe he’d misinterpreted Stiles’ emotions to mean he was worrying again. Which he was, but Derek was really good at distracting him from worries.
Stiles’ phone started beeping, and he looked at it to find his dad was calling. “Hold on, Derek, my dad is calling, I’ll be right back.”
Derek hummed his acknowledgement, and Stiles swapped the call.
“What’s up, Dad?”
“Stiles, the station just received a call about a blue Jeep loitering in the animal clinic’s parking lot with a suspicious individual hanging around.”
Stiles winced. “Um, I’m just about to leave, I swear. I was just popping in to see if Deaton had figured out anything.”
His dad sighed.
Stiles had filled his father in on his hunch after the dog incident fully after his failure at Derek’s loft. His dad had been understandably concerned, but knew logically at the end of the day that Stiles was in no current danger, so it was best to just wait until the answer presented itself to them.
Neither Stilinski was great at waiting when they could potentially solve a problem on their own, but this was out of reach for either of them.
“He is probably reaching out to his Druid contacts. It takes a while to get information from a wide network of people sometimes, especially when you can’t be open about it. The more you bother him, the longer it will take.”
Stiles whined like a toddler. “I know,” he exclaimed on an exhale.
“Have you told Scott yet?”
Stiles pursed his lips and said nothing.
“Right,” his father followed up with, understanding the silence. “Better not to worry him when the territory is maybe safer than before.”
“I’ll tell him once it’s all figured out, I swear.”
“Stiles, I trust your judgement. It’s hard enough for Scott being away from his pack for so long. He calls Melissa every week to complain, like this hasn’t been the way things have gone for nearly two years.”
“But he’s so stoked to be at school,” Stiles further explained. “There’s no programs here that fit his needs. Summer break is soon, then he’ll go back to normal, and I’ll tell him.”
His phone beeped, reminding him he had another call waiting, and his stomach acted like a tumbleweed in his gut.
“Uh, Dad, I’m gonna go, um, take care of that loiterer. I work nights for the next three days, so—”
“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, then.”
When Stiles got back to Derek’s call after starting the drive home, there was a significant amount of background noise on Derek’s end. “Dude, where are you?”
“Walking back to my hotel,” Derek replied, and Stiles could picture his eye roll.
“How’s that shake?”
“Malty.”
Stiles chuckled.
“Well, pour one out for me. It’s a full moon tonight and that seasonal pod of pixies is back in town. I could really do with a single night shift where someone doesn’t call in swearing they must have been drugged because they were hallucinating tiny people on their evening run.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”
Derek must have kept his promise, because the evening was pixie free and Stiles convinced the ambulance driver of the night to go through In ‘N Out for milkshakes between calls.
Stiles sent Scott a picture of said milkshake, because he felt guilty about hiding things from his best friend.
Dude, don’t tell my mom, Scott texted back less than a minute later, never mind the fact that it was a weekday at one-thirty in the morning. She’ll be pissed you didn’t bring her one.
My lips are sealed, Scotty boy. Around this milkshake straw. Mmm.
Stiles used the next call directing them to the scene of a car accident to distract himself from imagining Derek’s lips wrapped around a straw and licking whipped cream from his lips.
“It’s not necromancy,” Deaton declared on the front steps of the Stilinski house, a thin binder tucked between his chest and an arm.
It had only been five days since the…incident, so maybe Stiles’ desperate pleading had paid off. Or maybe the scandalized woman reamed Deaton out for not treating his young man better.
He shuddered at the image.
Stiles invited the man in and asked if he wanted anything to drink. Deaton declined, but did take a seat in the living room when offered.
“So, not necromancy, which means it’s something else.”
Deaton passed over the binder, and when Stiles flipped it open, it had a measly three pages in it. Stiles raised a judgmental eyebrow.
Take it or leave it, said Deaton’s return glance, and Stiles tightened his fingers around the binder.
“A cousin, so to speak, of necromancy is the rarer animancy. Rather than manipulating people in death, you are manipulating people in life. It is a very specific type of Druidic ability.”
“So I’m a Druid?”
“No, you’re an animancer.”
“More like an Animaniac,” Stiles mumbled, staring down at the meager information in front of him. “What is this from?”
“Historic records of past animancers. Many of them used their abilities as healers, but all of them grew up knowing or living with Druids, so their experiences are likely to be different than yours in technique.”
The second page had a block of text that told the story of one animancer who could never work unless they had total silence and were the only one around. They would literally breathe life back into the ailing person using the silence that surrounded them. The earliest form of mouth-to-mouth.
How they could do that, Stiles had no clue. That certainly was not his way of doing things. Not that he knew what his was.
“There has never been a case of an animancer reviving someone who has been dead for over an hour. In fact, animancers seem to only be able to use their abilities when they have had contact, however their technique calls for, with them alive.”
Stiles flipped back to the first page, skimming it, and then skipped to the third, which detailed its connections to Druidic power.
“So where did you find this stuff?” Stiles asked, snapping the binder closed, a sense of relief falling over him like a comforting hug. “Did one of your Druid friends have the info?”
“The Hale vault.”
Stiles’ head shot up. “But Malia isn’t due home for summer break for another three weeks.”
Deaton just smirked.
Slowly, realization dawned on Stiles, and he didn’t know whether or not to be elated, terrified, pissed, excited, or all of the above.
He went with a mutual anxious.
“Animancy is a pure act,” Deaton spoke, pulling Stiles out of his thoughts. “It does not take life away from someone else or yourself—” Stiles hadn’t even thought of that, and he was glad he hadn’t or he might have quit his job immediately, “— it just works with the energy you harness to tether their lives back to earth. It does not stop death, but it can delay it.”
“Great.” Stiles choked on the word. “Thanks Deaton, I really do appreciate it. And, uh, sorry for,” he winced, “before.”
“I understand desperation, Stiles.”
Stiles shook Deaton’s hand and watched him walk to his car across the street from the window of the front door. He would be sure to follow clinic office hours strictly from now on, as a thank you. Except in cases of emergency, of course.
Stiles looked over to the binder, still innocently sitting on the couch, and felt his heart skip a beat.
He’d gotten no texts, but that wasn’t unusual, and Stiles hadn’t had anything interesting to share. But now…
As he’d promised himself and his dad, he called Scott and gently broached the news to him, explaining his experiences and then finally what Deaton had found.
“That’s pretty cool, Stiles. It’s like fate! You became an EMT to help people and then your inner magic went, ‘Okay sounds good,’ and adapted!”
Scott was really good at seeing the whole of a picture and putting a positive spin on it, and Stiles was grateful for it right now.
“I still don’t know how I do it, though. All these other animancers had different techniques. I’ve been trying to figure it out, but I don’t feel like I do anything different. There’s definitely no physical manifestation of my ability, like a shifter.”
“Maybe…maybe it’s something you do a lot, so you don’t even realize you’re doing it?”
Suddenly, Stiles recalled Melissa months ago saying, “Jenna told me you talked him back to life.”
“Scott, you are amazing,” Stiles declared, and he bumped his fist against the wall because he couldn’t bump it against Scott’s, but the feeling was there. “I have to confirm it, my guess, but thanks buddy.”
“Anytime! Oh, also, Derek said he’s back! He wanted to let me know so that I didn’t freak out when I get home if I sensed someone in the territory who wasn’t normally. I guess he’s planning to stick around a bit.”
Stiles felt his mouth go dry. “Yeah, guess so,” he choked out, because he suddenly lacked words. Despite the fact that he probably used babbling to revive people with Druidic magic. “I gotta split, but stay true, Alpha.”
Scott groaned, and it fueled Stiles, the anger. “Please stop saying that every time we talk.”
“I refuse,” Stiles declared, and promptly hung up.
Stiles snagged the binder and flipped it open, but a creaking noise disrupted his reading. He grinned.
He quickly made it up the stairs in record time and then hovered in his bedroom doorway.
Derek grinned at him from his desk chair, lounged back with his arms behind his head.
“You need me for something?” Stiles asked, a bit breathless.
“Nah,” Derek shook his head and sat up, feet planted firmly on the ground and elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward slightly. “Thought I’d go back to basics.”
Stiles glanced at his open window. “Clearly.”
Derek gestured with a wrist snap to the binder that Stiles forgot he was holding. “So you got it.”
“Thanks to you,” Stiles replied, inching into the room. He pointed at Derek with the binder. “I should have figured a way into the Hale vault myself.”
“Sorry,” Derek said with a shrug. Then, he quickly reached out and tugged Stiles even closer, using the binder to pull him in. “Only Hales allowed.”
Stiles held up his free hand and examined his fingers, wiggling them. “And I’m lacking in a nice wolfy manicure. Just reanimation powers for me.” Stiles clicked his tongue, and shook his head. “Sucks. Even if we did marry, I’d still need you.”
Derek stood abruptly, and suddenly they were nose to nose, the binder the only separation between them. Stiles swallowed thickly. Derek tracked the motion of his throat with his eyes.
“I won’t marry a man who’s never been to Shake Shack,” Derek murmured. Stiles could feel his breath wash over his cheeks as he spoke.
“But will you date one?” Stiles questioned, voice so soft it came out in a whisper.
Derek kissed him instead of providing an answer, but that was pretty much just as good.