Chapter Text
Derek sighed and exited his sister’s assigned room after he was sure she was asleep. Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital was not a place he was unfamiliar with, seeing as how years before— about seven, but it still felt like yesterday— he was there constantly to assist with his uncle’s burn wounds from that infamous Hale fire. He was there after the fire, too. A man, the town’s sheriff, took him there and comforted him with kind words. He was only fifteen at the time, and he stayed focused by watching the sheriff’s son babble continuously, running back in forth around the hospital’s waiting room while a young nurse tried to keep him in place. He hasn’t seen the sheriff’s son in a long time.
As he shut the door to the room, he went to the front desk to brew himself some coffee, the machines there had more flavors than the ones in the cafeteria. Always choosing something extra strong and hot to be aware of whatever Cora needed, he pressed the proper buttons that function curtained flavors—extra, extra espresso. Melissa McCall was there, operating the desk, because Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital never has enough workers to do one certain profession, one person always had two or three other jobs, and it looked like tonight was Melissa’s turn to man the station of the usual receptionist.
“Derek,” she greeted him with a smile and a hushed voice. She didn’t mind that Derek was using the front desk coffee machine. He deserved a break, an award for all that he’s been through. “How’s Cora feeling?”
Derek waited until the coffee was brewed and he’d drank about half of the cup in just a few gulps before answering. “She’s dealing. We both are.” With that, he turned around, just barely, because he was hit with a force that surprisingly made him halt. And accidentally spill his coffee, apparently. When he finally regained focus, he saw Melissa race from behind the desk and go to a patient in a wheelchair, asking him if he was alright and if anything hurt. Derek saw someone who he knew was her son, Scott McCall, pushing the wheelchair and also panicking, asking if the boy in the chair was okay.
“Honey, what hurts? Do you need to change out of your gown?” Melissa asked in a frantic tone, wiping down the boy’s hospital gown that was barely hanging on his shoulders.
“I. . .” Derek attempted to apologize, but his voice was quickly overpowered by the two helping the boy.
A few ragged breaths were heard before a frail voice was. “Everything hurts, all of the time. That coffee spill was a cakewalk. I was cold, anyway.” To Derek’s ears, he could tell the boy was struggling to talk, as he was whispering and his voice was raspy.
“Scott, take him to his room. . . Stiles, tell me if you need anything at all.” Melissa urged on.
Stiles.
The name sounded familiar to him and he realized he never got to apologize to the boy. Stiles, he thought to himself.
“I’m really sorry about the coffee. . .” he started, and froze in the middle of his sentence when the. . .when Stiles finally looked up. He was extremely too pale, immediately letting Derek know that Stiles has been in this hospital for far too long. His head was shaved, almost bald, with some sparse pieces here and there. He had a nasal cannula inside his nose, his lips where severely chapped, and he held an IV walker in one weak grip. Cancer? His eyes, Derek noticed, were huge, but he could tell that they were large before his apparent ailment. Derek knew he’d seen Stiles’s face before, somewhere.
“Whatever,” was the low response he received. Scott gave him a strained look before he continued to wheel Stiles away from the scene and into the elevator. If he’s going upstairs, he’s definitely chronically ill. The thought startled Derek, and he couldn’t reason out why.
“I’m sorry about that. I know it was an accident,” Melissa began to say tiredly, “Usually, I’d keep this confidential, but he’s been through three sessions of chemotherapy this week alone, and he’s in a lot of pain and discomfort, more so than usual. I’m only telling you this because he’s usually cheerful, one of our happiest patients. .” She trailed off, scratching at her chin.
Derek swallowed before asking, pretending to be nonchalant. “Is he. . . going to be alright?”
Melissa froze in her ministrations and sighed. “He’s a real fighter. He’s getting along.” A few seconds of silence passed and Derek stared awkwardly in his coffee cup. “Maybe he should tell you this himself. You used to hang out in the same room when. . you were younger. Do you remember the sheriff’s son?”
Derek’s eyes widened slowly in realization, and Melissa nodded, seeing his epiphany.
“Anyway, he’s in room 74, obviously upstairs. You should go say ‘hello.’” Melissa stated, and went back to her place behind the desk to help some visitors. He nodded, and began slowly to the elevator. “Derek,” Melissa spoke softly, “tomorrow.”
It was around seven at night, and visiting hours were over. Derek, of course, was spending the night in Cora’s room. Somehow, somewhere, she ingested some Wolfsbane. Derek spoke to Deaton about it, and he suggested that she go to a human hospital to rest, seeing as how the conditions of Derek’s loft weren’t going to provide her any comfort in healing. He watched as her chest fell up and down, going from gentle to ragged. The TV in the room was turned on to cartoons to help Cora sleep—background noise—and Derek used the sounds to distract himself. His mind couldn’t help but to drift back to Stiles and how wrecked and tired he looked. He made a promise to himself to go see him, whether it be peering in his room, or gaining the confidence to actually speak.
Scott woke with a start and winced when he sat up from the side of Stiles’s hospital bed. He’d been there to hold his hand, because Stiles had said yesterday was the worst he’s felt all week. His hand has still in Scott’s, frail and loosely-gripped. Scott sighed and kissed Stiles’s hand and prayed to whatever was out there that Stiles would get through the day without throwing up and getting nose bleeds. Without crying. Without whimpering that he wished his mom was here.
Scott was there when Stiles was diagnosed. Well, he was in the hallway pacing because patient confidentiality. But, he was there immediately after, when he heard the sheriff flip one of the office chairs. Stiles was fifteen when he was diagnosed with stage 2 thyroid cancer. Scott cried with him when he heard the news. Stiles is seventeen with stage 3 now, taking stage 4 chemo, and he’s been in and out of the several hospitals for surgeries and other various treatments. He got surgery last week to remove fluids spread throughout his body. This week, was his week to recover in chemo, in hopes to terminate most of the spreading. Thankfully, yesterday was his last day of the therapy, and he would be monitored today to see if he could go home this weekend.
It wasn’t until three hours after Scott woke up that Stiles did, hands still linked together.
“Hey, buddy,” Scott said softly rubbing his hand up and down Stiles’s cold arm.
“Hey, Scotty.” Stiles smiled weakly, voice gravely. The room was full of whirring and beeping noises as Scott did his usual routine of rubbing Stiles’s skin to warmth. The lights were off in the room. The nurses complained that, that was a factor of Stiles’s temperature changes, but understood the need to have them turned off.
“Wanna brush your teeth?” Scott offered, and got a tall plastic cup and a disposable toothbrush with pre-applied paste. Stiles opened his mouth as best he could while Scott gently brushed for him. He took care of Stiles like this when he was feeling especially feeble. Stiles gathered the saliva in his mouth and spit in the cup, only missing by a little. It was eleven in the morning, and Stiles was committed to being on his best behavior so he could leave soon. Lydia Martin, one of their best friends, planned to dye Stiles’s chopped hair a crazy and bold color, blue or something, just for fun. Stiles couldn’t wait for that. He didn’t even ask his dad if it was okay, and he always asked his dad for permission to do things nowadays. He had to, lest they be damaging to his health, because God forbid Stiles play on something fun and time-consuming like an exercise ball. Although the last time Stiles went over to Allison Argent’s house to play on her exercise ball, he fell and it took him several minutes to get his breathing pattern right, he wasn’t in any real danger. He’s not afraid of yet another collapsed lung scare.
“Anything you want to watch on TV?” Scott asked, always the nurturer, and turned to ‘Friends’ when Stiles mouthed it. Soon, about fifteen minutes after Phoebe yelling at Chandler, a nurse came in to change Stiles’s IV bag.
“Hi, Stiles,” she whispered and smiled something sad at seeing him in the same position as when he went to sleep, “Do you think you can do solids today?” Scott looked at Stiles, lips tucked in and expression concerned. Nodding, the nurse, a woman named Braeden, exited and reentered the room with simple food: a mix of peas and carrots with seasoned crackers and water. “I snuck in the crackers from the cafeteria this time,” she announced proudly with a wink, and Stiles, slowly but surely, lifted his hand to his mouth to feign blowing a kiss. Nurse Braeden snorted and left the room with promises to be back within minutes. Before Scott started to reach out and hand feed Stiles, Stiles reached for the crackers and dipped the in the juices the vegetables soaked in. Scott smiled proudly. “Good job, man.” At that, Scott received an eye roll from Stiles and a fist bump, despite himself. While Stiles was eating, the sheriff showed up, and when Stiles finished eating, about half of what was on his tray, he was feeling queasy. Minutes later and Scott was rubbing his hand up and down Stiles’s spiny back while the sheriff got a bucket lest Stiles had to vomit.
Stiles didn’t vomit. In fact, the food stayed down all day and made him feel better than he had in days on the liquidated nutrients and vitamins forced into his veins. Solid food was definitely the way to go. The sheriff, John, stayed with the boys until it was time for the doctors to check Stiles’s vitals and declare whether it was OK for Stiles to be released for the weekend. Stiles nearly jumped for joy when the doctor said he could.
“Be careful today, bud,” John said and kissed Stiles’s head, helping him sit up, and then stand. He was wobbly on his feet, but regained balance soon enough. Stiles was engulfed in Scott’s jacket, one that was free of any scent of cologne or perfume from Allison, knowing how sensitive Stiles was to smells. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you two were dating,” John laughed.
“Dad, please, everyone knows Scott and Allison are soul mates,” Stiles joked, adjusting the jacket and pulling a beanie on his head, one he or Scott always carried around just in case Stiles was feeling self-conscious, or whatever. “I’ll be careful, though, Daddy-O. No exercise balls unless I have spotters around the full circumference.”
John scoffed and rubbed the boys’ shoulders. “Love you, boys,” he said, and left the room.
“Andale, Scott,” Stiles said, sitting in the wheelchair he was giving during exit.
Scott was wheeling a now smiling Stiles down the hall while Stiles was humming the theme song to ‘Friends’ when someone, tall from where Stiles was seated, stopped in front of them, looking awkward. Stiles has never seen someone so beautiful in the hospital and wondered how he missed him walking around. Must have been transferred to another hospital at the time.
“Um. I’m Derek—Hale. I was actually going to go to your- your room to apologize for spilling coffee on you yesterday. .” He trailed off, looking down, yet still confident. He was wearing a leather jacket, his hair was tousled from what looked like finger-combing, and he had stubble that was just at the peak of becoming a 5 o’ clock shadow. Stiles had no idea what he was talking about, but couldn’t help but stare with wide eyes.
“. . Stiles wasn’t really aware of anything last night, but we know it was an accident. It’s fine, though. We’re leaving now, so. .have a nice day.” Scott said, awkwardly. The hospital atmosphere always seemed like a cloudy day turned sunny whenever Stiles was down and then got uplifted, but this guy—Derek—was bothering him, somehow. He didn’t like the way he looked at his best friend, well, whenever he wasn’t staring holes into the ground. He quickly exited and said a ‘goodbye’ to his mom when she passed them.
“Whoa, Scott, slow down, you’re going to give me heart palpitations.” At that, Scott immediately slowed down and found the quickest exit to the parking lot. “Oh my gosh, dude, I was kidding.” Stiles sighed and put his elbow on the arm of the wheelchair, resembling an irritated, young child.
“I love you, Stiles, but never do that to me—ever.” Scott said, so serious that it was almost scary.
Stiles was having heart palpitations, though, but for a complete other reason. He was falling in love with some stranger—a visitor, no less. He buried his head in his hands and groaned when he looked back and Derek was looking, too.