Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. No infringement intended

A/N: Sorry for the delay. Work and RL take up so MUCH time.

This is basically just an entire chapter of shocky!stiles and TLC

Chapter 9

Stiles is left a disorientated, confused, shivering and wet mess.

In the chaos happening in the halls below, Melissa is able to discreetly bundle him into an exam room and perform a quick ECG. Derek isn't entirely sure how accurate it will be with the fine tremors that ran up and down the boy's body.

Melissa hums, trying to soothe Stiles distress, even more palpable in his confused state, and clucks over the strip of results that she pulls from the machine.

"There's a little arrhythmia," she says, helping Stiles to put his shirt back in place. Derek wasn't really surprised. The slight off beat rhythm had been there since Stiles had come to on the roof but he wasn't sure what else he should be looking for. "Which is to expected, considering what's just happened," she adds reassuringly at the Sheriff. Stiles makes a weak attempt at trying to sit back up, but his arms waver beside him, hands clenching the sides of the exam table in a death grip. The Sheriff immediately steps back in beside his son, offering him a secure arm around his shoulders and back. Stiles, as though his strings had just been cut, promptly sags into his dad's side. "I can't see anything that would indicate immediate health risks."

Derek sighs in relief. Stiles had been through enough without having too much complications to deal with.

"We'll set up another test once everything's died down, okay sweetie?" Melissa says to Stiles, wrapping a blanket around his still damp form.

Stiles blinks sluggishly from where he's still pressed against his dad's side and nods, although his eyes roam the room, his focus glazed and hardly there.

The cacophony of outside filters into the room as the others bundle in, McCall the loudest of them all.

"Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?" he barks loudly, Scott hot on his heels, eyes blazing angrily.

Stiles shrinks back, hand clutching at his father's shirt.

"I promise I'll tell you later," Melissa says, hotly, shaking her head. "Now is not the time."

With the chaos still happening within the hospital – bodies strewn, the injured still to be tended to, the police needed to help maintain the situation – it's clear that Melissa, the Sheriff, Parrish and McCall are needed here.

"Derek," Melissa orders. "Take the kids back to mine," she says, stepping back over to Stiles, placing a cooling hand against his forehead. "Get some fluids into him. Something to eat if you can. Myself, the Sheriff and Raf will come when we can. I'll try and get some supplies for Stiles before we leave."

"Dad?" Stiles croaks, bewildered. Despite the constant, spiking confusion, he's still manages to wade through it, looking up at him with clearly hurt-filled eyes.

"Just for a little while, bud…" the sheriff says, raking a hand through his son's hair. "I'll meet you there."

Just as quickly as the cognizant episode appears, it filters away, and Derek finds his SUV crammed full of teens with varying emotions. The scent, to his senses, is overwhelming, dark and bitter, heavy against his tongue. Grief settles over all them. Anxiety lingers underneath it – Derek would have missed it against the others varying emotions, if it had not been for the fact that Derek was already familiar with Stiles own chemo-signals.

Stiles is in the back, Lydia pressed against him. His face lays against the cool glass, puffs of breath fogging it up intermittently, eyes blinking open and closed, breaths hitching every now and then. Lydia laces their fingers together and Derek can see from the rear view mirror that Stiles doesn't react to it, merely remaining lax in her hold, letting her manipulate his fingers until it's clasped in hers.

Scott and Kira have also managed to squeeze in the back, although it's difficult, with Scott in the middle so, Derek suspects, that he can reach Stiles. Derek sees that he has his arm across Lydia's shoulder, hand resting at the back of Stiles neck.

Isaac, the tallest of everyone, sits in the front quietly, stewing in his own grief.

"Allison saved us," he mutters. "She knew how to save us."

Derek eyes snap to the back again but Stiles remains lax against the window, not even reacting to their fallen friend, despite the others visible flinches.

Kira and Scott fall into a hushed conversation, Derek can tell so as not to disturb Stiles, but Derek cam still hear it, Isaac too.

"You don't have to," Scott says quietly.

"I can't…" Kira says, shaking her head. "I just feel like it's…"

"It's not your fault," Scott interrupts her.

"Apart from my foxfire accidently kick-starting it all," she sighs bitterly.

"It's not your fault," Scott repeats.

"Can you drop me off at home," Kira says more loudly, leaning forward towards Derek. "I need to speak to my mom."

Derek nods watching as Kira leans across the seats, planting her hand over Lydia's and Stiles clasped ones.

"I'm sorry, Stiles…" she whispers.

They deposit a still hardly there Stiles on the couch.

Isaac slumps in the armchair, ignoring Derek, Lydia and Scott as they move around Stiles.

Scott disappears upstairs in search of a change of clothes as Lydia re-wraps the blanket around his shoulders.

"Hey," Derek says, crouching in front of Stiles from where he's sat at one end of the couch.

Stiles glazed eyes look around him dazedly.

"Hey," Derek repeats, hooking a finger under the pale boy's chin and forcing his gaze to lock on him. "We need to get you into some warm and dry clothes," Derek says. Stiles blinks at him but still doesn't respond. "Then you can lie down and sleep."

Scott re-appears with a set of soft track-suit bottoms and a light green shirt and a hoodie. Stiles is malleable enough for Derek and Lydia to strip him from his clothes and into the clean set, blinking sluggishly and wavering between them, until Derek tries to get him to lie down.

"Don' wanna sleep," Stiles protests, weakly fighting the hands that are pushing him down. "Can't."

"Just try," Derek says. Stiles shakes his head, then stops as though the motion hurt, slumping sideways anyway. Derek makes quick work at getting him into a more comfortable position, pushing a cushion under his head, and lifting the teen's legs on to the remainder of the couch.

Stiles turns and locks eyes with Derek, blinking determinedly. Derek sighs, recognising it for what it was, even in the midst of a shocky Stiles, the familiar stubbornness he was usually accustomed to.

Derek leans against the side of the armchair that Isaac is now curled up in and stares back as Stiles continues to blink at him, refusing to look anywhere else. They stay like that until the gaps between the blinks increase, minutes passing, and his breaths slowly even out.

Stiles comes to sometime later. He has a faint memory of Derek ordering him to sleep.

In fact he hardly even remembers anything clearly since the white room, just befuddled flashes of lying on a wet floor, Melissa examining him, latching on to his father and Scott's dad yelling angrily.

Rubbing his aching head he realizes he must have fallen asleep, or at least passed out, considering now he's lying on Melissa's couch with a comforter thrown over him. The other occupants of the room are all still asleep, Isaac and his longs legs curled awkwardly into Melissa's favorite armchair, Scott and Lydia slumped against the side of the couch he's on, Lydia's head resting on Scott's shoulder.

"Hey," he hears. Looking up he finds Derek in the kitchen doorway. "Heard you awake."

"Miss me?" Stiles croaks, voice feeling dry and unused.

"Surprisingly yes," Derek says.

Stiles blinks in surprise before giving Derek a weak smile.

"C'mon…" Derek says, helping Stiles to sit up and manoeuvre off the couch so as not disturb Scott and Lydia.

"Can't believe two werewolves are sleeping through my awakening," Stiles says, dragging the comforter with him and wrapping it around his body. "Thought they'd be awake by now."

"They're exhausted," Derek says, planting a hand against Stiles neck and squeezing gently. "You all are."

Derek sits him at the kitchen table and makes him a drink a tumbler of water. Stiles sips it slowly, feeling its contents swirl in his stomach.

"Have that for now," Derek tells him. "There's some Gatorade you can have later. Ready for something to eat?"

Stiles eyes widen, nausea rising and he shakes his head, blanching when he spots the remains of several sandwiches.

"I can't," he protests. "I'll be sick."

"You need to eat something."

"I can't," Stiles says again, eyeing the empty plates, half eaten sandwiches and the obvious crust left behind from one sandwich that Stiles knows was Scott's. "Not that. It's too much."

It's a sandwich, Stiles tells himself – cheese and tomato by the looks of it – it shouldn't be too much but the mere thought of the bread and cheese and acidity of the tomato makes him want to projectile vomit right there and then.

"I know," Derek says, pushing a bowl in front of him. "That's why I made you soup instead."

Stiles eyes the bowl wearily. It looks innocent enough but even the watery chicken broth unsettles and churns his stomach.

"You need to rehydrate and eat, Stiles…" Derek shakes his head at him, before waving his mobile at him. "Besides, Melissa text me to remind you that she's not against using a feeding tube," Derek frowns at the idea. "And I think she was being serious."

Stiles winces at the thought because he knew Melissa would do it, if it meant keeping vital fluids down.

"Okay," he sighs dejectedly. "I'll try."

He doesn't even manage half a bowl before his stomach spasms and he ends up dry heaving over the sink. And Derek's right there, beside him, rubbing his back with his palm.

"It's okay," he says quietly when Stiles heaves turn into wet sobs. "It's over now."

"It's not," Stiles whispers. "It's not okay."

Stiles awakes abruptly, his whole body violently flinching itself to consciousness.

He can't remember falling asleep or even returning to the couch.

His arm is outstretched and clasped in someone's hand and something sharp is being pressed against his skin. For a second Stiles thinks it's him – void – who's staring back, touching him and making him bleed.

Stiles shrieks in terror, wrenching his arm free and dragging it away, feeling something hard and sharp scratch at the back of his hand. He cries out again, flinching into the back of the couch and hitting out violently when the hands come back and try to touch him again.

"Hey, hey…" a familiar voice says, pulling the other figure away and replacing it with its own. "It's okay. You're okay, Stiles. You're safe."

It takes him a second to realise it's Derek who's in front of him, touching his arms, keeping him in place, and the figure standing above him is Deaton, not Void, concern etched into his usually impassive face.

"Whaa…" Stiles slurs, words heavy against his tongue, heart beating wildly against his chest.

"Sorry… Sorry…" Derek murmurs, catching Stiles face and errant gaze between his hands. "We should have woken you up first."

"What's goin' on?" Stiles asks, pulling away from Derek's hands and cradling his arm against his chest.

"It's my fault," Scott says apologetically, appearing beside Deaton – Lydia and Isaac in tow. "You were deep asleep. I tried to wake you up, but well… I thought with how dead to the world you were…" Scott says and then winces at his choice of words, shrugging helplessly. "That we could do it without waking you up."

"Do what?" Stiles asks, disturbed he'd been so deeply out of it that anything could have happened.

"It's just an I.V." Deaton says.

"No," Stiles eyes widen, turning both accusatory and panicked as he looks at Derek. "I ate, Derek. I don't need that."

"It's not…" Derek starts to shake his head.

"I promise I'll eat more," Stiles pleads at him. "I promise."

"That was a feeding tube that we were talking about," Derek says, slowly taking Stiles hand and laying Stiles arm out again. "This is just an I.V."

"Where's Melissa?" Stiles mumbles quietly, eyeing Deaton suspiciously.

"They'll be a little while yet. Melissa called and asked Deaton to come and start the I.V…" Derek continues, nodding at Deaton to come closer. "It'll help to make you feel less crappy."

"Or look less like your dying," he hears Isaac butt in.

"Isaac!" Lydia angrily glares, thumping him on the arm.

"Well, look at him," Isaac waves at them. "He doesn't look any better. Does he?"

Stiles can only imagine what he looks like. The last time he'd spotted himself in the mirror he'd been accosted with a worrying pale and grey pallor and dark circles around his eyes.

"No offence, Doc…" Stiles mutters, eyeing Deaton again. "But you're not going to sedate me or, you know, shoot me up with wolf lichen again?"

"That was unavoidable," Deaton says instead, shaking his head.

Stiles harrumphs at that, but could only agree, it had probably saved Scott's life at the time and no one could deny that it had given them all some time to regroup.

Instead of waiting for an actual answer from the frustratingly enigmatic man, Stiles turns an expectant look towards Derek, worrying his lip with anxiety.

"Just fluids," Derek tells him, rubbing his thumb over the back of his hand and wiping the small smear of blood that was still there. "And antibiotics. You're running a low grade fever."

Stiles grumbles in disgruntlement but can't help but feel soothed by Derek's ministrations.

"Some painkillers too," Deaton offers, sliding down on his knees by Derek's side. Stiles hardens his eyes at the man. "Nothing too strong," he hastily adds.

He lets Derek offer his arm to the older man, succumbing to a calmness he didn't know Derek possessed.

True to Deaton's words, the painkillers were not too heavy, and he dozed naturally and lightly from post-nogitsune trauma, as opposed to a drug induced slumber.

He was surprised at how easily he let himself sleep, and even more surprised that it wasn't marred by dark images, thoughts and memories, but thankfully he slept nightmare free.

Somewhere between nap four and nap five, Chris had arrived and had taken residence in the armchair, Isaac now sitting at his feet.

Stiles watches the two sitting quietly together, Chris nursing a coffee in one hand, looking as though he was in need of something stronger. He idly rested a hand on top of Isaac's head, running his fingers through the younger man's soft curls as he sniffled his misery beside him.

Stiles knows he should slither off the couch, drag himself to Chris' feet and beg for forgiveness.

His daughter was dead.

Because of him.

It's not, Stiles had said, It's not okay.

It will never be okay, he thinks bitterly.

It wasn't something that was easily forgivable but here the man was sitting in the same room as him while Stiles slept soundly and looking at him with only pity in his eyes instead of the hatred he knew he was entitled to.

"Go back to sleep," Chris says instead of the fire and brimstone and a hail of bullets he deserved.

"When did you get here?" Stiles asks. His voice was loosening up now, feeling less strangled in his throat. But just the sight of Chris threatened to tighten it all over again.

"About half an hour ago," he says, turning away and staring into the coffee. "Parrish dropped me off. Melissa seemed to think I shouldn't be alone."

"Allison would want you here," Lydia says appearing from the kitchen, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. "She'd want us all here together."

She curls down by the side of the couch and takes Stiles hand in hers, careful not to disturb the cannula and wires disappearing into his hand. Scott follows her out of the kitchen a beat later, gently lifting Stiles feet and tucking himself under them before resettling him into place. Derek leans against the kitchen doorway and watches.

"She would," Chris agrees, and then, almost as an afterthought, he added. "She knew the risks. She knew what could happen."

"She was a warrior," Derek says.

"I miss her," Isaac admits.

"I love her," Lydia whispers softly.

"She loved us all," Scott tells them.

Stiles feels tears prickle his eyes as shame engulfs him. He shakily uses his free hand to wipe the wetness away, but when it came to it he couldn't bring himself to take his hand away and see the sorrow and grief on his friend's, and Allison's father's, faces.

"I'm sorry," is all he has left to give.

When the others finally turn up, Stiles is free of the I.V, for now at least.

Melissa has changed into fresh scrubs. Stiles knows this because he can vaguely remember seeing splashes of red across her old ones. His dad is sans jacket and McCall has lost his lanyard and FBI badge, suit crumpled and dirty, smears of blood across his white shirt.

"He had the IV?" Melissa asks Derek before she even greets anyone.

Derek nods.

"You've been drinking? Had something to eat?" she asks, turning her attention to Stiles. She presses her hand across his palm and he can't help but lean into it. Guilt flares because she shouldn't be prioritising him over everyone else. He doesn't deserve this type of attention.

Stiles nods into her hand, eyes tearing up again.

Melissa has more bags of fluids in her hand and she spots him eyeing them.

"Later, sweetie…" she reassures him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "We'll do it later, okay."

"Hey, kiddo…" his dad says, dropping heavily onto the couch beside him. "You doing okay?"

"Hmm," Stiles affirms, letting his dad pull him into his side.

"I know now is still not the best time," McCall says, shrugging his suit jacket off and laying it over the back of the couch. "But I need some answers."

Scott scowls, marching up to him.

"You're damn right it's not the best time," he snaps. "Allison is dead. Stiles nearly died tonight. We're grieving!"

"Kitchen. Now!" Melissa orders angrily.

Stiles hears them bickering quietly from the kitchen. Rubbing his head tiredly, pressure building behind his eyes with the voices, he sighs wearily into his dad's side.

"You want to go upstairs?" his dad whispers down at him, tucking his head against him, hand covering his ear. "Take a break from everyone?"

"Yeah…" Stiles shakily nods, feeling inexplicably emotional again.

His dad helps him upstairs to Scott's room, at Stiles preference, and assists him on to the bed. It's a bit of a tight squeeze but his dad manages to perch on the side of the bed, arm wrapped around Stiles, body pressed against the length of him.

"I know it doesn't feel like it, kid…" he dad says against him, fingers brushing though his hair, nails scratching gently against his scalp. "But it will get better. Things don't always stay bad."

XXX

tbc