Sterek One Shots

In The Arms of An Angel

In The Arms of An Angel by Allyarra

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Lydia was laughing when it happened. Laughing at the spastic manner in which Stiles was trying to explain why exactly this wasn't funny. They were going through an intersection and Stiles turned to give her a look and then he was just surrounded by light, a fucking halo for the one guy Lydia had always wondered if he was slightly too good to be true. Because Stiles was just that fucking beautiful of a human being. Taking care of her and the rest of pack and putting up with Derek-Fucking-Hale's emotional constipation to be just human. So when the truck's lights had surrounded him she'd thought for a moment, oh, now it makes sense, he was an angel all along.

And then the truck slammed into them, into Stiles' precious jeep, into Stiles. Her laughter has been horribly choked off, replaced with screams of terror and absolute-fucking-horror. Because she's a werewolf and somehow she can process the fact that a semi-truck has plowed into them and they're actually rolling over and crashing into the cars that hadn't fucking ran the red light. Then everything goes still and she groans, because hey, she might be a werewolf, but that doesn't mean that car wrecks don't hurt.

But she's healing, because, hey, she is a werewolf, but Stiles isn't. The jeep had come to a rest upright, thank god, but the entire driver's side is smashed up, completely wrecked. And Lydia knows that if she wasn't a werewolf then she'd probably be unconscious right about now. But she is, so she's much more concerned with the fact that Stiles has his eyes closed and there's so much blood.

Oh God, so much fucking blood. And Stiles is pale, paler than she's ever seen him, for all his jokes about being a fragile, pale human and it's scaring her. Because she can barely hear his heart and his breathing is practically nonexistent and he cannot die on her.

Because she might be able to function if he died, and it would be functioning because somehow life would always be a little hollow with Stiles there to fill in the silence, but the Pack would go to pieces. So Stiles had to be alive, he had to survive this. For all of them.

X

Contrary to popular belief, Jackson was not an idiot. Sure, he wasn't some kind of genius like Lydia, but he wasn't stupid. Not by a long shot. Especially when it came to understanding people. Especially people close to him. And somehow, on the list of people who Jackson really cared about, Stiles' name was near the top. Jackson's not really sure how it ended up there, but he knows that it's there to stay, because he'd long ago come to terms with just how important Stiles was to just about anyone who was forced to take the time to get to know him.

Jackson's the first to get to the hospital after the accident, but only because he'd already been there, having just finished his shift. He'd been heading out when the ambulance had come in and he'd smelled it. Stiles had always stood out for everyone in the pack, no one was really sure why, nor did they really care, because it was useful. So Jackson had been able to smell Stiles even through the chemically clean scent that always made him sneeze and the other nurses make fun of him. He'd smelled him, and Lydia to a certain extent, before he'd seen them.

He took off running as soon as he smelled them though, because he could smell theblood, and he knew that the pack almost never came to the hospital, unless they came to see him. And since he'd technically gotten off an hour ago they couldn't be coming to see him. So he ran.

And what he found made him wish that he could rewind time, because he honestly couldn't process what was happening. Lydia was crying, holding herself in a way that made it seem as if she didn't she'd fly to pieces. And Stiles was just lying there, as doctors worked over him, shouting terms that maybe Jackson could have understood if it hadn't felt like his entire world had come to a halt.