Back On Your Feet
Stiles had thought that getting rid of the splint meant that he wouldn't look like an invalid anymore but he was wrong. It took him a whole day to even learn how to use his left leg again but even then he wasn't able to completely rely on it holding his weight.
So even though he had laughed at the supposedly magical healing powers of the ointment Jordan had given him, he applied it religiously every night before he went to bed. To his amazement, the pain and soreness really did vanish. His leg didn't hurt now as much as it just felt stiff.
That shouldn't really be possible. The doctors had told him that pain was unavoidable. Since he had applied the ointment for the first time, though, he hadn't been feeling any of it anymore.
Maybe he really was a poster patient that demonstrated how far medicine had come.
"It smells weird," Scott commented the first time he smelled it on Stiles.
Stiles assisted with fixing the railing he had destroyed, not so much because he felt guilty but because it was a project between him and Scott and he really needed one of those.
"Like something drooled on you," Isaac added.
And Isaac. A project between him, Scott and Isaac. Because it seemed that Scott couldn't do anything without Isaac anymore. Ever since Scott and Allison had changed their relationship status to "it's complicated" Isaac had become Scott's shadow. He had clung himself as tightly to Scott as he had to the idea that he now had a chance with him.
"You know what's even weirder?" Stiles asked, putting away the hammer he was needlessly holding. He wasn't doing any of the work anyway. "The scar left from the surgery. It looks like it's over a year old already."
Scott cursed quietly as he hit his thumb again, throwing away his own hammer that had dared to hurt him, and sucked on the bruised digit. He was lucky his bruises faded quickly or else all his fingers on his left hand would be blue and purple by now.
"Well, what ingredients are in it?" Isaac asked while petting Scott sympathetically on the shoulder. "What does the label say?"
"It doesn't have one. Actually, it looks kind of homemade."
"The hell?!" Scott exclaimed. "Let me see it! Do you have it with you?"
Stiles rolled his eyes. "Yes, Scott. I always carry around my whole medicine cabinet. Do you need a pill of Adderall too?"
Both Scott and Isaac looked at him with a grim expression, not falling for it.
"Fine," Stiles sighed. Then he went to rummage around in his backpack until he found the small jar with the blue lid. Scott and Isaac abandoned their work and gathered around Stiles, eyeing the jar curiously.
When opened. a slimy, silvery substance was revealed.
Scott actually dared to dip one finger in it, scooping out a glob of the ointment.
"Oh, wow, that tingles. But not in a bad way."
With furrowed brows, Isaac did the same. He held up his finger, the tip coated in the silver colored ointment. He seemed to wait for something. When his frown deepened, it was clear that whatever he had expected to happen hadn't happened. "No, it doesn't. At least, I don't feel it."
Alarmed, Scott used his other hand and tried it again.
"Oh my god. You're right! But hey, my other hand does still tingle a little bit! Why?"
While the three of them were staring at Scott's hands like he was about to do a magic trick that they didn't want to miss, the answer struck Stiles suddenly.
"Because while the finger on your left hand is hurt, the one on the right isn't," Stiles said in amazement. "Maybe it really has magical healing powers."
"And how do we test that theory? Scott and I heal too quickly on our own."
Stiles rolled his eyes and pushed up the sleeve of his hoodie to his elbow. "It's just a little sacrifice for a man but a big step for science. So, one of you needs to get their claws out and scratch me."
Isaac's eyes were so wide, they were nearly bulging out of his head. He looked scandalized at the prospect of hurting Stiles.
"You're kidding, right? Do you know what'll happen to us if someone was to come out now? Peter will claw out my eyes, probably. And Malia..."
Just as he said that, he began scanning the area hastily for another member of their pack as if he expected that the mere mention of their name would make them appear.
"Use your hearing. You'd know if they were near. Don't be such a coward. It's for science, Isaac! Just think if Armstrong had been hesitant. He didn't say "Oh no, I can't go outside on the moon! It's a little moist outside and I forgot to use my extra-strong hairspray today! I can't ruin my hair-style for this!" No, he didn't say that. Instead, he went outside and explored!"
"Can it be moist in space?"
Both Stiles and Isaac looked at Scott like they couldn't believe he had really just asked that question. Their judgemental expressions were causing him to blush slightly, and so he cleared his throat and volunteered for the task Isaac was still hesitant to agree to.
Just so Isaac wouldn't worry too much, Stiles conjured up a few sparks that were supposed to do the work for them so no one would get suspicious at the lack of hammering noises.
Stiles had been training to lift things for a week now, with Derek watching over him so he wouldn't destroy something else or hurt himself.
Moving around objects was no problem for him anymore. He just needed to be aware of what the sparks were doing or else they would just act on their own accord.
"Are you sure they can do this? Calcifer one and two can't even hit the nail," Isaac noted critically, never letting the sparks out of his sight.
The two hammers were floating in the air as if a ghost was holding them. One other spark was in charge of getting the nails, while another was holding up the wood. As Isaac had mentioned, the hammers were hitting the wood inches away from the nail, just making noise instead of fixing the damage.
It would do for now.
Stiles just shrugged. "Remember, Scott. Just a scratch."
Scott nodded, wearing a serious expression, as he extended his claws and raised his hand for the strike.
Stiles closed his eyes in anticipation, not so much because he was afraid, but because he thought it might be easier to suppress the reflex to move out of harm's way.
Before something could happen, though, they were interrupted by Isaac cursing.
Stiles wasn't sure what the danger was since he only just opened his eyes again at that moment. His sparks had gotten alarmed by the change in his heartbeat and headed straight toward the source of his turmoil, though, before he was even aware of what was happening.
At first, he heard a muted thump, immediately followed by the anguished scream of somebody.
Then he registered that Jackson was lying on the ground, right next to the steps to the porch. Right above him was a floating hammer that was still trying to hit him. The werelizard appeared to have been hit once already - probably the hit that had knocked him down to the ground.
"Stilinski! Do something!" Jackson screamed, rolling around on the ground to avoid getting hit again by the still attacking tool.
Stiles snapped out of his silent amazement at the surreal scene before him then and stepped into action. He stretched out his hand in the direction of the floating hammer and beckoned it to return to him.
Obeying to his silent command, the tool abandoned its pursuit of Jackson and flew toward Stiles. Unfortunately, it still seemed to think that it needed to attack and defend, which was why it hit him right in the stomach and sent him falling backward.
He crashed into the already damaged railing and since its planks were not nailed into place yet, he broke through.
With a low groan, he landed on soft grass, the breath knocked out of him.
His stomach felt like it had jumped into his throat.
There certainly was no need for Scott to scratch him now. His whole body felt like a giant bruise to him and he was sure he had at least a dozen of little splinters in his arm from where it had been dragged over the surface of the rugged wooden plank.
"That's it! You're dead!" Jackson announced, full of rage, already making a bolt for Stiles.
He never reached him, though, because Scott got in his way and held him back as best as he could.
Meanwhile, Isaac was helping up Stiles, brushing debris from his shoulders and back and grimacing in sympathy.
"Stop it! He didn't mean to!" Scott hissed but Jackson was unwilling to calm down, it seemed.
Naturally, the commotion they were causing had alarmed the others as well, and soon Derek lunged at both of his fighting betas, throwing Jackson off of Scott, and pinned him face first on the ground, the werelizard's arm painfully twisted in a firm grip to his back.
"I'm no handyman," Peter said, far too casual for that situation, "but the porch looks even worse than before. I think you're doing something wrong."
It did look worse. Before only three of the horizontal bars were broken and only a small part of the banister was missing. Now, the whole length of the banister had broken apart with the latest impact it had taken, causing all the bars to have fallen down as well. Only the pillars at the corners were still standing.
"Now," Derek growled, still pinning Jackson mercilessly to the ground, "Can someone explain to me what the fuck happened?"
Stiles grimaced. "I might have accidently - totally accidently, really - hit Jackson with a hammer. Well, it wasn't really me. I mean, I didn't even see Jackson! The hammer just attacked him -"
"It was totally your fault!" Jackson snapped, his voice slightly muted from the way his left cheek was pressed to the ground. "Or what, are you saying we're being haunted and the first evil thing that happens are floating hammers?!"
Derek's glare, that had been directed at Jackson since he had stepped out of the Hale House, now shifted its focus to Stiles.
"Why was the hammer floating?"
The seriousness with which he delivered that question was almost comical in that situation. His completely grave and dry tone would have been more appropriate if he had asked a serial killer why they had committed all those murders.
Stiles bit his lip, knowing there was no way he could talk himself out of this. "It was trying to repair the porch?"
The annoyed huff Derek let out was not enough of a statement to accentuate how pissed he was at Stiles, so he immediately let go of Jackson to even further drive that point home. All the while glaring at Stiles.
Jackson brushed off the dirt of his shoulders, his icy gaze fixated on Stiles as if he hoped he could set him on fire if he only stared hard enough.
The object of the hostile attention shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "Look, I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention to what the sparks were doing, then Isaac got startled, which in turn startled me and ... well, the sparks thought you were a threat, I guess. It shouldn't have happened and - hey, does your head still hurt?"
"What the - of course it still hurts! I got knocked down by a freaking hammer! What the fuck do you think it...," Jackson trailed off his angry rant when he noticed the eager glint in the other teenager's eyes.
Next thing he knew, Stiles stood in front of him with a jar of something funny smelling in hand, applying some of it on the growing bump on his forehead.
"Now it doesn't hurt anymore, does it? So stop whining."
He then proceeded to use it on himself, choosing one of the bigger scratches on his palm for it.
Only seconds after applying the ointment, the scratch started to tingle, then it closed. Eventually, it disappeared completely, leaving his skin completely unblemished.
"It really works!" Scott breathed out in fascination.
They shared a quick glance, a grin spreading over their faces.
Stiles' glee at the new-found healing ointment was short, though, because the jar was snatched out of his hand in the blink of an eye.
"Where did you get that from?" Derek asked with narrowed eyes. He took a quick sniff of the ointment, squinting his eyes in concentration. "Deaton should check it out. It could be dangerous. No one uses it until we know what it is made of."
Derek kept his stance, even after Stiles had explained where he had gotten it from and emphasized repeatedly that it couldn't be harmful when all it really did was heal.
He couldn't change the alpha's mind, though. Not when Derek was still kind of pissed about Stiles' irresponsible usage of his powers.
As Derek was extracting all the splinters from Stiles' skin, pointedly avoiding to meet Stiles' gaze, his eyebrows were set so firmly above his eyes that there was no doubt over how angry he still was. He was focusing too intensely on his task, taking it as serious as a surgeon treated a brain surgery.
Those eyebrows were silently judging him, Stiles was sure of it.
"I guess I got a little too cocky," Stiles conceded, no longer able to take the heavy silence. "Thinking I could just let them fade into the background of my attention without losing control over them. That probably was really stupid."
The alpha just snorted.
The on-going silent treatment caused Stiles to sigh in frustration. "You know, I already apologized and I'm truly sorry. I know that I wasn't thinking about consequences and that I acted irresponsibly because it could have been someone human instead of Jackson - not that it being Jackson makes it better or something! But I realize that I could have seriously hurt somebody and I truly regret that. I'd take it back if I could! I'd promise that I'll never let that happen again but I can't without lying. I wish I could but we both know that I have no real control over the sparks. Not really. Sometimes they indulge me but, in the end, they'll do whatever they want. Maybe I should become a hermit and live far away from society. What if that's the only solution? I mean, I could endanger everyone around me if I don't learn to properly control them and -"
"Stiles, would you please shut up already?"
Rather than the actual rude request, it was the fondness in the alpha's voice that made Stiles comply.
Derek shifted slightly which caused Stiles to shift as well.
They were in the office again, because it was apparently the place where Derek kept his medical supplies as well. Maybe having a first-aid kit nearby was indispensable to conduct a successful business in the werewolf world, who knows. Actually, Stiles couldn't see a more persuasive argument than the alpha's fists. It was probably just good manners to take care of business associates once they had agreed to work with you.
Now that he thought about it, Stiles could see Derek in the role of a mafia boss, eliminating those who stand in his way and threaten to destroy what was his. But even as the mob boss, his reputation wouldn't be as rumored and feared as Peter's and Laura's.
The Were-father, Stiles thought, smirking slightly.
What would his role be, he wondered? Right now, he kind of looked like the mob boss's lap dog since he was sitting with him on the small couch with his legs sprawled over Derek's.
At the reminder of the intimate position, Stiles began to wiggle in slight embarrassment. It earned him a tap against his outer thigh in reprimand.
"You're not cut out for the life of a hermit," Derek simply stated, not pausing in his work.
Stiles raised his eyebrows in mocked offense. "Yeah? Well, I don't seem to be cut out for the life of a spark, either. I mean, whose idea was it to give the power that actually requires a lot of discipline and concentration to someone with ADHD and the poorest impulse control around? No one with good intentions could come up with that, that much should be clear. It's probably someone who wants to see the world burn!"
"You realize that you're lamenting over being a possible danger to society to a werewolf of all people, right?"
"If you put it like that, I do sound like an insensitive jerk," Stiles admitted.
The last splinter had finally been extracted from his skin, but the most painful thing was the appliance of the disinfectant spray anyway. Derek didn't ease him into it. He just held him in place when he tried to pry himself away from the alpha's grip.
At last, he wrapped a thin bandage around his arm.
"You're surprisingly good at this," Stiles noted, looking at the almost professionally wrapped bandage.
"This isn't the first time I've done this," Derek replied dryly, obviously referring to Stiles' other little accidents that had happened over the last few weeks.
"Hey, you have no idea how hard it is to balance when you have only one good leg!" Stiles defended himself. "And thanks to me you can list first aid skills on your resumé so don't complain."
Now that he had both of his hands back to himself and there was no reason that they were sitting so close to each other, Stiles felt kind of sheepish. Not knowing what else to do, he fumbled with his hands, eventually focusing on the scars on his palms.
He remembered the strange sight of himself in the mirror in which the silver had turned black like he was beginning to rot. Even the reminder still sent shivers down his back.
Given his curious nature, he had naturally done his research about the hexagon. It had to mean something, especially since the scars always began to glow when he conjured up the sparks.
What he had found on the internet and in books didn't seem to relate to his case, though. He was still lost.
The alpha had followed his gaze to his palms and was now eyeing the symbol the scars were forming as well. Unlike Stiles, he didn't look at them like they were the root of evil.
It, therefore, surprised Stiles when the other man's hand suddenly took hold of his own and brought it closer to his other so that the symbol was completed.
"We shouldn't judge ourselves and others by our abilities but by what we do with them," the alpha said quietly. "That's what my mom used to tell me when I or my sisters couldn't control our wolves and thought we were monsters. She also taught us that the more you fear the powerful part of you, the more it takes control. As long as you don't accept the wolf as a part of yourself rather than as a different entity, you're bound to be at war with it."
Stiles felt the yearning in Derek's voice when he mentioned his mother echo inside himself, reaching out for the hole in his heart to settle there.
Before he was able to overthink the action he intertwined his fingers with Derek's. Oddly enough, it didn't seem like such a strange thing to do. It just felt right.
Bodily contact and displays of affections had become a given between the two of them. At first, it had never lasted very long because the action usually caught up soon enough to their minds and their common sense made them withdraw from the other. Since it had kept happening, though, even their common sense seemed to bow down to the unexplainable need for contact.
And Stiles saw nothing wrong with it. Werewolves were naturally more tactile than humans and since Stiles wasn't really part of the pack of his own accord, Derek's wolfish side probably thought that the best way to protect him was to mark him as much with his own scent as possible.
As for Stiles, he had never been one to turn down affection or restrain himself from showing his own to the people that mattered to him.
To outsiders, it may look strange. But as long as it worked for them, Stiles didn't even think about changing a thing.
"I don't like it when you're smarter than me," Stiles complained, a small grin on his lips, "That's not how this works. You're supposed to be the silent, grumpy one and I'm supposed to be the smart, suave one with the great sense of humor and a charm no one can resist. Don't get it mixed up."
Derek looked doubtful. "You have to work on some of those attributes that supposedly apply to you or I'll have to replace you. You only fit one-half of the criteria right now."
"Oh, haha. You better leave the jokes to me. That was horrible." Stiles narrowed his eyes at the werewolf as he thought of something. "Hey, what half does fit me?"
Derek never gave him a concrete answer to that, so they just continued the silly little banter until Stiles was eventually dragged away by Malia and Cora to watch a movie with them.
When he was alone in the office, Derek walked over to the desk and picked up the jar of ointment that he had placed there.
He didn't know what it was but he didn't trust it. In his book, people you just met didn't give you something this powerful without being aware of its effect.
Maybe he was just paranoid. But it definitely couldn't hurt to analyze the ointment to make sure it didn't have any negative side-effects. He didn't want to take any risks.
Tomorrow, he would bring it to Deaton.