Only He saw

Who Took Who?

The hospital stung Peters' sharp nose, the ripe scents of pain, antisceptic and sorrow seeping through thin walls, low mutterings and far-off sobbing ricocheting off of laminated, scrubbed floors. It was a strange place: of pain, sorrow, death, and birth. An overbearing feeling of dread swept over the Were, making him feel trapped, scared.

"Just find Stiles. That's all I need to do." The mantra overtook any thoughts of the previous thoughts warping Peters vision, as he tried not to succumb to the terror that hospitals brought him. The last time he'd been here...he was powerless, essentially frozen and paranoid for months on end. The fire had taken his love for living along with his families lives. He didn't want to come to a place that stripped him of his former life, his wife! His wife, who was carrying his child.

Collapsing into a chair gratefully, Peter cradled his weary head in his hands, focusing on the unmoving, linoleum floor in the hope of the tears crowding his vision not falling. But as if in slow motion, two twin drops of hot, salty water fled from the man, splashing unforgivingly: a sign of his weakness.

In...and out...in...and out...

Shaky breaths brought the Were back to the present day, away from smoky wrecks and agonizing screams. Stiles needed to her his apology! Because of his anger, the already broken boy had been hurt. Severely. Sitting up, and smoothing out his rumpled, day old clothes, the man tried to remove the haggardness from his face, it was only partly successful. He stood up, silently following the scent of Stiles through twisting, sterile corridors until he reached a weathered door. Stiles was inside. But as Peter reached shakily for the doorknob, he sensed the presence of another, older man. The Sherrif. Through the thin door, Peter could hear him taking deep measured breaths, he stank of stress. The man clearly hadn't left his sons' side for a while. Preparing for an onslaught of hostility, Peter opened the door and watched the Sheriff's head snap up in a way which surely caused some pain, but the Sherriff felt none of it.

"What are you doing here, Hale?"

Peter greeted him calmly, softly shutting the door behind him. "I came to visit Stiles. I called the ambulance for him." A sharp intake of breath punctured the tense silence and the Sherrif rose out of his seat abruptly.

"Did you do this?" His low voice was mindful of the sleeping form less than a metre from him, but the threat in his tone was thinly veiled. Peters' eyes widened, the shock palpable on his face.

"No! Of course not! He tripped, on some stairs, he...cracked his head on impact. I called the ambulance straight away..."

The Were looked at the ground, frowning and hiding the stress on his tired face. But he looked up in surprise as the Sherriff strode in front of him, the grave and serious face giving way to relief.

"Thank you." The Sherriff put a gruff hand on Peters' shoulder giving him a non-verbal approval.

Peter nodded solemnly. Bowing his head, his heart went out to the man. He was trying so, so hard in the face of his wife's death. It must have been hard. Peter knew. He did.

The Sheriffs face crumpled, his usual stoic expression folding into a grimace of morbid sorrow. Peter watched, eyes wide, as he covered his rimming eyes with weathered hands, ashamed.

"I...I tried so hard, after...my wife passed away. But he's been so far away, and I...I hate myself for this...but I'm so busy I can't talk to him about it." The man's voice broke, as he eyed the sleeping boy in the bed. "And...I've been neglecting him so much. God. He...He cut himself!" Peter looked on gravely, narrowed eyes cast at the floor as he felt a spike of anger at the hopeless man. An excuse for a father. He wasn't there for Stiles, not once! At this point, in the few days Peter had been there, he felt he had done more than any biological member of Stiles' family.

"He told me." Peter looked the man straight in the eyes, a direct challenge to him. The Sherriff looked shocked, then ashamed.

"God..."

"I spoke to him about it. About coping mechanisms."

Stiles' father toppled into a chair, looking sadly at his son. "Then you've been better to him than I have been. I'm so, so...so fucking sorry..." Peter glared, finally unsheathing the rage he felt at the absence of a nurturing father figure in Stiles' life.

"I'm not the person you need to apologise to. You need to try, Sherriff. You need to catch up on all the moments you missed!"

"I do. I really do. You can sit with him, if you want...I need to shower, and clean up."

"Yes! Yes. I'm free for the day, so it's fine. I'll make sure one of the doctors contacts you if he wakes up."

"Thank you..." The Sherriff smiled gruffly, exiting the room in a cowed, quiet manner, leaving Peter to take his place next to the head of the bed.

"C'mon Stiles. Wake up." He gently took the boys loose hand, clasping his own around them, and sapped the pain from him. He could at least help with that...

A weighted sense of dread and guilt lowered itself into Peters' stomach as he watched the sleeping boy confined to the hospital bed. How long, if ever...until he woke up?

This was Peters fault. The Were clasped a weathered hand around his arm, tugging at the elastic band there as if grounding himself against a maelstrom of emotion. A familiar stinging feeling brought pained and wary tears to the man, and silently, he sobbed next to the sleeping boy, eventually falling into a troubled sleep, hunched over in the small uncomfortable seat.

Five hours passed.

Until Peter groggily became aware of a door opening in his peripheral vision, alerting him to a third presence in the cramped room.

"Sherriff?" He rubbed the tiredness out of aching eyes, groggily standing up in alarm and staring at the grimy clock on the wall. "Is something wrong? Shit, how long have I been asleep?"

The Sherriff smile tiredly, sitting in another chair shaking his head listlessly. "Everythings fine. Or, not worse..."

"Oh. Okay. Good."

"Definitely."

The two men eyed one another, unsure of what to say. "I can go?" Peter mumbled.

"Well...I meant to say, but I was held up. There was an emergency at the station...I have to go back." The Sherriff frowned awkwardly, aware of peters disapproving glance.

"I can stay."

"Thanks. I can pick you up something to eat?"

"Please."

Then, Stiles father left again, unsure of when he'd return, and so, so ashamed. But he didn't go back. Work was a priority...Stiles was okay with Peter! But not forever.

Behind him, Peter stood up to open an aged, cranky window, welcoming the fresh midnight air in the dusty room. He'd stay for Stiles. For as long as he neede him too. But was that pushing John away?

As he sank back into the rickety hospital chair, his ear pricked up, and he immediately scrambled again, painfully aware of Stiles quickening heartbeat...he was waking up!

"Stiles?! Are you..are you okay?"

The pale boy sat up, sweat glistening on the agitated skin, and stared at Peter, his eyes full of fear and rage. Peter stared, aghast, unsure of why Stiles was so startled, but ready to apologise with all his might.

"He...he took them..." Stiles hiccuped, before immediately collapsing into full-body tremors.

Peter raced to the boy's side, putting nervous, yet firm hands on slender shoulders, ready to comfort him from the apparent revelation he had had. Suprise flooded through him as Stiles wilted under his hold, fainting, the look of fear sliding off of his face into a gaping, dead expression. He was gone. Again.

The older Were gently laid Stiles back onto the bed, running out of the room to inform a nurse of his progress, yet he reeled from the confusing sentence Stiles had uttered...Who took who? Beacon Hills was once again shrouded in mystery and pain.