The Turn || Derek & Stiles
It had all happened so quickly. One minute, Stiles was taking a walk, hood up, earphones in, and then the next, he was slammed into the nearest wall. His head smacked harshly against the brick, and his earphones were torn from his ears. He blinked slowly a few times, trying to focus on the figures in front of him. He heard an angry male voice saying, "I said, wait up." Even through the slight haze in his head, Stiles figured that the man had been trying to talk to him, but he hadn't heard him through the music. The man continued talking in a slightly drunken slur and Stiles eventually grasped that he was being mugged. He dazedly emptied his pockets; iPod, six dollars and seventeen cents, a button, and some chewing gum.
The man passed the iPod to one of his companions, tossed the button and the gum to the ground, and counted the money. "Where's the rest, bro?" Usually, Stiles would have come back with some sarcastic comment about why a teenage boy, wandering through Beacon Hills at night, would have anything other than spare change, but his head was still swimming from the blow, and he could barely sting a coherent sentence together. "That's it," He mumbled slowly, turning his pockets inside out to show the man he was telling the truth, but he still didn't seem satisfied. He closed in on Stiles, knocking the air from his lungs with a blow to the stomach, and sent a fist flying at the teen's face.
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Once they had had enough and left Stiles alone--running down the road before anybody found the boy--he sat there for a moment, as if afraid that they would come back, before slowly getting to his feet. As eager as he was to get home to safety, Stiles' body protested, and he was forced to limp slowly. As he walked, he took a quick evaluation of injuries. Most would be easy enough to hide--the bruises he could feel forming across his torso, the cuts that were littered along his arms--but others, not so much. He could feel blood running from somewhere on his face, there was definitely something wrong with his leg, and he could swear there was a rib or two broken.
Cleverly angling his face away from his father, and forcing himself to walk normally, Stiles managed to hide his injuries from the Sheriff with a quick, 'I'm tired, going to bed', and headed upstairs. He closed the door behind him and limped over to the chair at his desk, dropping his head into his hands--before hissing at the sting of his cut cheek. Now that he was in the safety of his own room, alone, and in silence, Stiles was left to his thoughts. And the main one on his mind was how very different that scene would have been if he had been bitten by Peter, rather than Scott. If he was the werewolf, he would have been able to stand up for himself, or run away, or at least been able to heal instantly. Maybe he could ask De--Stiles shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of the thought. No matter how much hope he had that perhaps he didn't piss Derek off quite as much any more, he knew for sure that the alpha would refuse to give him the bite.
