bruised//«stiles stilinski»

Part 16

Derek is quiet. I don't bother taking the conversation any further.

"You can stay here. If you want, by the way." He says after a long moment of silence.

"I can't... It's your house, Derek. All I needed was a place to crash tonight. I'll find somewhere else tomorrow, it's fine." I insist. He wouldn't want someone like me living in his house.

"Oh yeah? Where?" He interrogates, raising an eyebrow at me.

I feel my cheeks turn red. "I... Er, I don't know. Somewhere."

"No. You're staying here. First we need to clean your head. Go take a shower." He tells me softly, but firmly. I comply with his instructions and let him walk me to the bathroom. He gets me a thick, warm, fluffy towel off of the radiator and I hang it up in the bathroom.

"Thanks, Derek." I say, nodding slightly a him, to which he just half smiles before shutting the door and leaving me alone.

I slowly peel off my dirty clothes. Blood stains my light gray t-shirt and I flinch as I pull it over my head. I look in the mirror. I stopped eating a while ago; I forget to take care of myself these days since I just don't give a crap anymore. My ribs petrude out of my torso in a disgustingly skeletal manner. I shudder at the amount of bruises and cuts over my pale skin. They're everywhere, big purple blotches clouding over the most of my ribs; literally, marks the shape of my dads boot heel, cuts across my chest- slashes- my body's a mess. My arms have scars from my dads brutal abuse. When I slide off my pants, my shins have dark bruises and horrible cuts over them. I shiver in the breeze from the open window as I take off my boxers. Soon the cold chill is subsided as I turn on the shower and let myself be engulfed in the hot water. It feels good. I gently rub the dirt and grime out of my hair, watching as the water below me turns an orangey color when it collides with my blood. I'm gentle cleaning my face and the fresh gash across my cheek. That'll be fun to try and hide at school tomorrow.

School.

Scott, Malia, Lydia, everyone. I sigh at the daunting thought before getting some soap and rubbing it over my tiny frame, creating foamy bubbles all over my body. I clean my face, letting the water pour over my head, shutting my eyes. I must admit, this is the nicest shower I've taken in a long time.

"Stiles?" I hear Derek's muffled voice on the other side of the door. "You okay in there?" He asks, knocking on the door.

"I'm fine." I call back, before turning off the shower, wiping my dripping face on the warm towel then wrapping it around my waist. Crap. I'm gonna have to walk past Derek. He'll see them. Everything. The bruises and cuts, my (most likely) dangerously skinny body.

I take a deep breath before gathering up my clothes I wore earlier and opening the bathroom door.

"Hey-" Derek begins, but stops when he looks at me. I avert my gaze elsewhere.

"Hi." I mutter. "Uh, can I put these somewhere?" I ask, holding up my bundle of dirty clothes. Derek nods and points to a laundry basket in the corner of the room. I put my clothes in.

"Stiles..." He breathes, looking me up and down, a concerned and disgusted look on his face.

"Yeah, I know, okay? I've seen them. They aren't as bad as they look." I lie, rolling my eyes a bit.

"Stiles. They're... They're awful. How long has he- your dad- been doing this doing to you?" Derek asks, squinting his eyes as if trying to concentrate really hard.

"I don't know. Like a year or something." I shrug. Derek's eyes widen.

"A year? Look, you need food, Stiles. There's, like, nothing left of you!" Exclaims Derek. I shrug again. I don't really care how much of me is left.

"Okay." I answer bluntly. "Uh, Derek? Where're my bags?" I ask him, raising an eyebrow.

"They're in my room, come on." He says, leading me into his room again.

My bags are laying on the bed. I nod and thank him, and he leaves me to get changed and goes to make food. I pull out my gray sweatpants and a black tshirt from my suitcase. I flinch each time my t-shirt knocks my head as I pull it on. When I'm dressed, I grab my red hoodie and head downstairs to see Derek cooking. I can't help but smile a little.

"Hey." He smiles.

"What're you making?" I ask, sniffing the air. "Smells good."

"Pancakes!" He answers cheerfully. I roll my eyes, chuckling.

"Derek, it's three o clock in the morning," I chuckle, "you can't seriously be making-" I stop when I see a pancake being flipped in the air and start laughing.

"You were saying?" Smirks Derek, sliding the pancake onto a plate. I roll my eyes. "Here. Eat." He pushes the plate towards me. He's rolled up the pancake and squirted syrup inside.

I hesitate; until now I ignored the excruciating hunger inside me, I forgot about it, got used to it. Only now did I realise I'm absoloutely starving. I slowly pick up a fork and knife and cut into the rolled up pancake, letting syrup ooze out onto the plate. Taking my first mouthful, I let the sweet taste fill my mouth. They're good. I chew, then swallow, already cutting up the next piece. I wolf down the pancake within about a minute.

"Woah. Easy tiger! When was the last time you ate?" Asks Derek, his eyes wide at my empty plate but already growing with concern. I stop to think. When was the last time I ate?
"Stiles?" He prompts, raising a brow.

"I, uh..." I swallow, my eyes darting around the room, away from his stare. "I can't remember." I whisper eventually. Derek frowns.

"Stiles..." He begins to talk softly. "You gotta take care of yourself," he says, reaching out and gently placing a hand on my arm.

"That's the thing, Derek. Care. What if I don't care?" I challenge him, coming across slightly more aggressive than I intended to. Derek sighs. "Exactly," I continue. "I don't care, Derek. About myself. Not anymore." I whisper, feeling my cheeks burning in embarrassment.

"You should, Stiles. You should care about yourself." Derek whispers back, lifting his gaze to meet mine, which I no longer try to avoid.

A/N woops I made it Sterek sry (not)

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