It was madness that Agatha Hawke thought the abomination's clinic a more sanitary nesting ground than Fenris' home—madness only surpassed by his own... for having ever thought otherwise.
Billy accepted Steve’s bat, tossing his cigarette into the road, and holding his shoulders square. He wished he hadn’t been such a fucking cunt the night before, asking his dad favors when he knew better.
Just walking to Steve’s car had him breathless as he tried to force his lungs to expand—the pain didn’t even register right anymore. It felt like the shock of cold water, when he slid off his surf board straight down into the Pacific—even when he swam back up, his whole body seized up against his commands to breathe, breathe, jesus, you’re gonna pass out.
He tried to hold his ribs expanded, keep his breaths short and shallow. His vision blurred, a little. He waited until Steve wasn’t looking to try and open the car door awkwardly with his left hand, so he didn’t have to shift his right side at all. Even that motion torqued his ribs, and he made a weird gaspy noise, and Steve looked up.
“...I told you, you don’t haveta come,” he grinned. “I know not everybody can handle monsters.”
“I’m coming,” Billy managed, turning to drop his ass in the passenger seat, and nearly puking out the door. His eyes stung with tears, and he closed them, cursing himself for arguing. He coulda just gone to bed last night, and actually been useful somehow today, but he’d been a whiny fucking bitch instead. “S’why I told you to pick me up, I’m not...not leaving your royal ass to get...eaten, your Kingship.”
“Hargrove,” Steve said, sounding concerned, and Billy sucked it the fuck up and swung his legs inside, yanked the door shut, and sat there trying to swallow back acid, looking at a field of rainbowy colors he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to see.
“M’fine,” Billy said, and he didn’t grunt at the sensation of his ribs contracting with his exhalation, and he didn’t blink, knowing his blurry eyes would just spill over, and Harrington would notice he was a fucking weak link.
“...Billy,” Steve said, reaching over, and Billy’s breath caught in his throat. Steve yanked his hand back, biting his lip.
The asphalt behind the nail salon was bumpy, and Billy kept his eyes fixed on the windshield as the jarring bumps rattled through him. He fixed his eyes on the overflowing dumpster as he swung his legs out and pushed himself upright, but when Harrington got out he slammed the door hard.
He stalked around to grab Billy by the collar of his shirt, hissing “Hargrove.” Steve slid his other hand under Billy’s shirt, and yanked it up, and Billy made some kind of little pussy groan in his throat as Harrington stared at the bruises and bloody scrapes all down his side.
“Jesus hell,” he bit out, and Billy laughed, and regretted it.
“I can still help,” he bit out, “I’m not a broken doll, Harrington, get off me—”
“You can’t help like this,” Harrington said, yanking his hand back, and grabbing the bat. “I shoulda grabbed Max, jesus. Get the fuck back in the car.”
“I’m not fucking useless,” Billy yelled back, and Harrington pushed him, not hard, but hard enough that he cried out and set his jaw, clenching his eyes shut.
“Just get back in the car,” Steve hissed. “We don’t have time for this, Hargrove—”
Billy felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks, and hated them, and his lungs chose that moment to rebel and make this retarded—accordion noise—and Harrington squeezed his shoulder, hard.
“Get back in the car, Billy,” he said flatly, and Billy bit his lips and swallowed hard, nodding. He waited until Harrington had stalked off to open his eyes, wondering whether he’d even come back, whether Billy’s dumb shit backtalk to his dad the night before was gonna get King Steve Harrington killed.
Billy sat very slowly, catching his breath, and braced himself, taking shallow breaths. There was yelling from Steve and the kids, and loud metallic thuds Billy thought—vaguely—might be something hitting the dumpster. He bit his lip, hard, and turned his body to get his legs back in the car, trying at least to be ready. He could at least not slow Harrington down trying to escape, the way he’d already wasted time not telling Harrington to leave him home. That he was useless.
He swung his legs inside the car with a shuddery gasp, and swallowed, and swallowed, his stomach ready to empty all of the nothing he’d eaten all over Steve’s dashboard. He went to lift his wrist and check his watch, and that hurt too, which was funny, in a way, and he was laughing, tears dripping off his chin, when Steve suddenly leaned in the door.
Billy couldn’t even remember whether it had been open, and he stared back into warm brown eyes, waiting.
“...jesus, Billy,” Steve hissed, and Billy laughed jerkily again, covering his mouth in case he puked.
“...Harrington,” Billy whispered, and Steve sighed, leaning his head against the car door.
“Come on,” Steve said, slamming the door again, and he walked around and dropped into the driver’s seat, and backed out.
Billy wondered hazily where the bat was, and how long it had been, but focused on breathing, and digging his fingers into his thigh, because it drew his brain off his stomach roiling—until Steve pulled into the hospital, and Billy slowly turned to look at him. “You—you got hurt, shit,” he said, looking Steve over. He had bloody knuckles, and Billy grabbed them as Steve turned the car off.
“I’m fine,” Steve said shortly, then sighed. “I’m okay. Billy.”
Billy stared at the blood on Steve’s hand, but let go when Steve tugged his hand back.
He got out and went in, and Billy watched him go. It was too much effort to ask further, so he just sat there, breathing, until Steve came back and made him get out of the car and into a wheelchair, like he was actually really hurt. Billy snickered, shaking his head, and Steve pushed it away and leaned in the car again.
“Get in the chair,” he said, “—or—or I’ll just—shit,” he sighed, and Billy grinned at him, letting his eyes drift closed. “Billy,” Steve said. “Billy.”
It was getting harder to breathe, Billy thought, like his lungs didn’t have enough room in them, and he coughed.
“Billy,” Steve shouted, his fingers gentle on Billy’s face, and then Billy vaguely remembered being half-lifted out of the car, and wheeled through corridors and hallways.
He awoke in a bed, and stared at the ceiling. Everything felt a little numb, and he breathed, slowly, relishing the ease of his lungs filling.
“Don’t go back to sleep, Billy,” came Steve’s voice, and Billy rolled his head to see him, and squinted.
Steve looked like he’d been fighting monsters—which figured, he guessed, groggily. He had circles under his eyes, and his hair stuck out at weird angles, and Billy felt guilt burning through him again.
“...sorry I was useless as shit,” he whispered, coughing, and Steve’s eyes widened. He held a straw to Billy’s lips, and squeezed his hand as Billy drank warm, plastic-flavored water.
“Jesus, Billy,” Steve sighed. “...you know you can just...ask me for help. You didn’t need to pretend you’d help fight monsters to get me to—”
“M’ sorry, jesus,” Billy interrupted, his eyes stinging. “I’m a waste of fucking time.”
“That’s not—” Steve groaned, resting his head on the hand holding Billy’s, and Billy’s eyes widened at the sensation. “...that’s not what I’m saying, Hargrove.” He pressed a kiss to Billy’s knuckles, and Billy giggled, too much, and he realized he was full of drugs.
Steve sighed. “You can just call me. You coughed blood everywhere,” he said, running his nails through his hair again, his eyes kinda...haunted, and Billy grimaced. “Fucking—punctured lung.”
“...’m fucking useless,” Billy told Steve’s fingers, watching them squeeze his own, and Steve took a slow, shaky breath, and squeezed harder.
“What happened,” he whispered, and Billy blinked at him.
“How the fuck would I know?” he asked, registering that he was slurring, a little. “I was in—in the...car.”
“What happened to you,” Steve bit out, and Billy blinked at him.
“...fell down the...stairs?” he offered, and Steve nodded, closing his eyes. Billy cleared his dry throat, and Steve picked up the empty cup of water, and glared at it before getting up and dropping Billy’s hand. He returned with cold water, and Billy drank gratefully, feeling it spread through his body.
“You had three broken ribs,” Steve told him. “And a concussion.”
“Shit,” Billy sighed.
“I’m gonna get a job,” Steve said, out of the blue, and Billy blinked at him. “Hopper said he has somewhere we can rent. We’re moving.”
“What,” Billy croaked.
“He said I can start paying him when I have a paycheck,” Steve said. “It’s just got the one bedroom.”
“What,” Billy whispered.
“Tell me it’s fine I moved your shit,” Steve told him, and Billy nodded, blinking wide eyes. “There’s no stairs, either,” Steve said vindictively, and Billy snorted a laugh, and winced.
Billy didn’t say anything for a long moment, watching Steve’s tired face, as he fidgeted with the straw in the now-empty cup.
“...I know this isn’t what you wanted,” Steve said. “You can get a job yourself and move out or whatever.”
“...what,” Billy asked again, and Steve grimaced.
“Kissed you like twice and then I just...kidnapped you,” he muttered, and Billy tried to get his brain to engage, and not just...think about kissing Steve. He hadn’t really expected it to happen again, especially not after he’d fucked up so bad Steve had to fight a demogorgon with help from some middle school kids.
“...okay,” Billy told him, and then, when Steve frowned over, gave him a thumbs-up.
“...you’re loaded,” Steve told him, laughing, and Billy gave an amiable snort.
“...why d’you want me in a house,” he asked, still trying to wrap his drugged brain around the weird shit Steve was saying. Steve groaned, squeezing his hand again. “...why’re you still here?” Billy asked, lifting his head to see better. “You hurt? Ha...Harrington?”
“I’m adopting you,” Steve sighed. “Like a pound dog.”
“...okay,” Billy said, letting his head thump back on the pillow. “I don...don’t play too well with others.”
“Yeah, I know,” Steve nodded, smiling tiredly. “Everybody knows you bite, Hargrove.”
“Only ’f you ask nicely,” Billy told him, winking, and Steve started snickering, leaning his face on his hand again, and squeezing Billy’s fingers.
“...we’re moving,” Billy repeated, and Steve nodded. “Two’ve...us. ...in...together?” Billy asked, to clarify, pretty sure he was missing a loophole.
“Yeah,” Steve grimaced, and Billy bit his lips together, nodding. “It’s, uh, it’s really small. But…” he trailed off, glancing from the floor back to Billy’s face, and then setting his jaw. “...I’ll help you figure shit out, uh, from there.”
“...what—what partic’lar shit,” Billy asked, aware how much there was.
“Um, not living with me forever, in somebody’s old hunting cabin,” Steve laughed, sighing, and Billy shook his head, flapping his other hand towards Steve until he smiled, and grabbed it.
“Don’t want to fix that shit,” Billy mumbled, and Steve laughed again, but his smile looked brighter. “I got—there’s—worse shit to fix, Harrington, you adopt dogs, you keep ‘em—”
“Okay, okay,” Steve told him, beaming. “I’ll...I’m gonna ask you when you’re sober, though, okay?”
“No,” Billy told him firmly, and Steve leaned in and kissed him a third time, despite Billy’s hospital-and-probably-puke-breath.
“Okay,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get you a license, asshole. Buy you a collar. You’re stuck now.”
“I’ll fucking wear it,” Billy hissed, shaking his hand loose from Steve’s to yank him closer, into a kiss.
Summary: Laura Hale is trying to murder him. How dare she give Derek the softest, most adorable sweater! When she knows that Stiles' weak bisexual heart can't handle that level of cute from the man he's most definitely in love with.
"It has thumbholes."
Yeah, well thanks for that, Derek.
AN: for @jmeelee, for her bday. Hope you like this.
Preview:
Stiles isn’t sure why Laura Hale is trying to murder him. But for some reason Derek is practically bouncing around the Hale house (or well, not looking like he is going to snap and murder someone any second now, which is basically bouncing when considering the Derek of it all) in the coziest looking sweater Stiles has ever seen.
Which means that Laura is definitely out to get him.
“Thanks, Laura,” Derek grins at his evil sister. “It’s great.”
Laura is the one person who knows about his embarrassing crush on Derek, because she can see through his lies and denial. And also she caught him inside Derek’s room that one time, trying to sneak Derek’s birthday present in there without Derek finding out that Stiles had been dumb and hopeful enough to get him a birthday present.
That gift hadn’t been nearly as awesome as this one, but that makes sense because has he mentioned that Laura Hale is trying to kill him?
Her weapon? Her surprisingly cuddly-looking brother actually smiling for once. Derek Hale. Smiling. A truly lethal weapon.
