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There hadn’t been any supernatural activity (aside from the disaster residents of Beacon Hills) in the last month, so it honestly just came down to Stiles having the worst luck ever. Seriously, what were the odds that Derek would need to call an emergency pack meeting on the one day that Stiles had to get into a fist fight with his jeep?
Derek : Pack meeting @ loft right now
Stiles : whats going on??
Derek : Just get here.
Stiles : uhh i cant
Stiles : im a little preocupado at the momento
Derek : What
Stiles : question marks exist sourwolf
Derek : Stiles.
Stiles : so i might be in the hospital right now…
Stiles : no biggie tho
Derek : What happened
Stiles : oh just some human issues
Stiles : like breakable bones that dont heal immediately
Derek : I'm coming.
Stiles : no no im fine i swear
Stiles : i punched my jeep and it fought back
Derek : You punched your jeep.
Stiles : yes
Derek : You're a fucking idiot.
Usually, Stiles might agree with that - but not this time. His jeep, his pride and joy - she was literally asking for a fight. Roscoe usually only died twice a week - it was an unspoken agreement they had - but she hit a record of five breakdowns that week. Five! At this point, Stiles knew for a fact that she was just being a dick on purpose, so he felt the fight was reasonable.
He was about to explain that to Derek, but the door opened and Melissa walked into the room with a very exasperated expression on her face.
“Alright, Stiles,” she sighed. “The doctor doesn’t think you’ll need surgery to correct the fracture - but you will need a cast. We need to immobilize your fifth metacarpal and everything surrounding it, so it can heal as quickly as possible.”
“A cast?” Stiles whined. “How am I gonna… volunteer at the wolf sanctuary? ”
Melissa rolled her eyes and sat on the edge of his bed. “You’re not. You’re going to take it very easy, avoiding water and any activities that might jostle or worsen the fracture.”
“We’re good there - I don’t drink water, anyway. There’s no caffeine in it.”
Stiles figured his joke was not appreciated, judging by Melissa’s Unamused Mom face.
“Your cast,” she specified. “Don’t get it wet.”
Stiles still didn’t see how he was supposed to shower without getting his hand wet, but he nodded anyway. He’d figure it out. Google had the answers to everything.
Stiles was more than ready to just fall into bed and pass out by the time his dad brought him home. His hand was sore, the bright red cast weighing his arm down was itchy, and his jeep was still broken in the driveway. He wasn’t sure what he expected of a cast for a knuckle fracture - but he didn't think it would need to start way up at the middle of his forearm. That seemed kind of excessive, in his opinion. He also thought his pinkie and ring fingers would be kept straight, but they were bent down as if they were halfway into becoming a fist. It made him want to let his other fingers curl, too. That position was going to get annoying very quickly.
Stiles kicked off his shoes and stripped down to his Batman boxers - which were cool, even as a nineteen year old, thank you very much - then jumped into bed. He’d figure out the showering situation in the morning. He also needed to get painkillers or something. Ugh, tomorrow's problems.
It wasn’t until he was pulling the blankets up around himself and getting comfy, that he realized he’d forgotten to turn the light off.
God damnit.
As if his day wasn’t already bad enough. What did he do to deserve this?
He stared at the light switch across the room for several seconds, before his eyes drifted over to the nerf gun and new package of nerf darts he’d gotten that morning. Scott bought some, too - it wasn’t like he was doing it alone. That would’ve been weird, but bros having nerf battles wasn’t. Okay? Okay.
Stiles reached over and grabbed them off of his nightstand. He could use the target practice, anyway - so he’d be able to kick Scott’s ass that weekend. A casted right hand might complicate things a little, but Stiles was a professional adapter, at this point. If he could adapt to being part of two werewolf packs, he could definitely handle a cast.
He loaded several darts into the barrel and clicked it closed, before aiming carefully towards the light switch. He could do this. He just needed to channel his inner Allison Argent. Deep breath in, slowly let it out, and—
It really shouldn’t have been statistically possible to miss every single shot until he ran out of darts, but apparently Stiles Stilinski was just skilled like that. It was probably the cast’s fault - which was technically Roscoe’s fault for starting shit with him.
Stiles put the nerf gun back on the nightstand and laid down in defeat. His punishment for being a failure would have to be sleeping with the light on, because he definitely wasn’t getting up to turn it off now.
He was about to close his eyes, when he heard his window slide open. This probably should have concerned him, but werewolves were allergic to doors - so it wasn’t unusual.
What was a little unexpected, was that it was Derek.
“You smell like pain and disappointment.”
Such a way with people, that Alpha Sourwolf.
“I broke my pinky knuckle,” Stiles said, holding up his injured hand as he moved to sit up while carefully keeping the covers over most of his naked torso. “And I realized that I have no inner Allison Argent.”
Derek’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, so Stiles nodded towards the sad pile of nerf darts scattered on his floor underneath the light switch.
“Why didn’t you just get up to turn it off?”
Stiles gaped at him. “I’m injured, Derek.”
“Your hand doesn’t affect your ability to walk,” Derek pointed out as he switched the light off and walked over to him.
Stiles’ heart did something embarrassing as he felt the wolf sit on the bed against his hip. He wished it was because they never touched, but Derek had gotten a lot less allergic to physical interaction in the past couple years - and it wasn’t uncommon to scent mark each other. Granted, the touching was usually Derek briefly running his hand over the nape of his neck or rubbing his shoulder in greeting - not sitting in bed together… while Stiles was in his Batman boxers.
He decided he didn’t need to be embarrassed about his heart rate speeding up, because everyone in the entire county had to know he’d had a crush on Derek Hale since he was sixteen. Derek could just stop paying so much attention, if he didn’t like it, okay? It was a perfectly rational feeling for Stiles to—
“Stiles?” Derek called, looking expectantly at him.
“What?”
“You weren’t listening to a word I said.” It wasn’t a question, but Derek didn’t seem angry. In fact, Stiles was pretty sure he even had the slightest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“No,” Stiles agreed. “Say it again?”
“That’s a large cast for one knuckle - you sure that’s all you broke?”
Stiles was pretty sure that wasn't what he'd said, but whatever. He was Mr. Adaptable. He was down to go with the flow.
“I know. With how big this thing is, I may as well have broken my wrist, too.”
Derek shrugged as he lightly ran his fingers up the rough cast, until they danced across the skin of his upper forearm. Stiles was about to smack him for the way it tickled, but then black lines climbed up Derek’s hand and Stiles sagged back down to relax into his pillow as the pain seeped away.
Ah, werewolf painkillers. Amazing. 10/10, would recommend.
Without the discomfort and pain, sleep was looking even more enticing than it was when he’d gotten home. His eyes slipped closed and he let out a content sigh as his body relaxed into a euphoric puddle of numbhappysleepy.
“I love you,” he mumbled - and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that was probably not the right thing to say. But it also was. Another one of tomorrow’s problems.
“Get some sleep, Stiles,” Derek said softly, and Stiles let himself drift off to the feeling of Derek’s warm, comforting hand brushing gently through his hair.