This story begins after the third episode of season 3, Fireflies. I may alter the characters/plot from this point on, but the original is not mine. All rights go to Teen Wolf producers. Comments and critiques welcome!

His hand caught on the desk and then pushed as he tuned out the voices, distinctly aware of just how helpful he could be in this conversation. There was just… almost no point in listening, so why bother? Colours, objects and faces flashed past him, blurred together as he sent the chair spinning faster and faster. Eventually even those distinctions were gone, bled together by the speed of his whirling, distorted beyond all recognition by the rapid rotation. Kind of like my life, was Stiles' pensive thought, and still he spun, and spun, and -

"Will you knock it off?"

The hard voice, coupled with an unyielding hand on his chair's arm, sent Stiles tumbling out of his seat to the floor. He hit the ground with an exaggerated yelp and quickly scrambled into a seated position, casting an indignant look at the impatient individual leaning against Scott's desk. With arms crossed across his black T-shirt, Derek raised his eyebrows, clearly a "what are you gonna do about it?" expression, and Stiles flung his hands out, palms up in return.

"What was that for?"

In his most condescending, frigid tone - which Stiles knew was reserved for him - Derek replied, "Some of us are trying to discuss what we should do about the Alpha pack. If you're too immature to sit still and actually contribute something, leave."

A flush of colour briefly painted Stiles' cheeks before he could control it. Other people might mock him, but hearing it coming from Derek - an egotistical jerk - was infinitely worse. Would it really kill him to be, I dunno, nice for once? Is that a werewolf's secret weakness or something? Niceness? It's probably because he thinks no could actually make him be friendly, he speculated. Whatever Derek likes to think, there are people who could kick his ass. Not me, obviously. But someone.

That caustic feeling powered his response, giving it an extra bit of snark. "Hey sourwolf, if you can't focus through a little bit of distraction, you should leave." Don't stick your tongue out, don't stick your tongue out. He stuck his tongue out.

Derek's thick eyebrows jumped higher and his bleached grey eyes widened, mouth thinning to a hard line. That was his, "I'm going to murder you in your sleep," look. It was also generally reserved for Stiles. Stiles wasn't certain why he found that so thrilling. Not everybody has a murder look that's meant for them, he told himself.

Scott jumped in. "Hey guys, come on. We're figuring out the problem of the Alpha pack, remember?" There was a wide, almost healed gash across his forehead, a remnant of the incident two nights ago. Apparently when werewolves were locked away for months without the moon and then reintroduced, their claws and fangs were almost as potent as an Alpha's. And they had tried to face that kind of power without him. The sight of the wound stirred his memory and made Stiles angry and - just a bit - more acerbic than he might have been otherwise.

"Hey," the slender teen protested, "all I'm saying is that if Mr. Big Bad Wolf over here is too puppy-ish to have focus, then I-"

Abruptly Stiles found himself lifted from the floor and flung - pressed - against the wall. When his eyes managed to refocus, Derek's haggard face was a foot from his own. His stubble was clear against his pale skin, making him look even more unkempt and drained. The Alpha's teeth were clenched so tightly his jaw became almost painfully prominent. It was an automatic response, almost an urgent need, to turn his hazel eyes from Derek's furious ones, but not before noting the livid rents that crisscrossed his face like some kind of map to Hell. It made him sick, just thinking of what kind of blows would have made that. He dropped his eyes lower, staring at the floor. "I-"

"Shut. Up," the Alpha growled, his voice distorted. Stiles shut up.

Slowly Derek loosened his fist from around Stiles' collar and stepped back, his gaze not flicking away for a single moment. It was a challenge, but Stiles did not rise to meet it. He was still too shaken by the stark look at Derek's wounds to think up a clever reply.

Once again, Scott broke them up, rising from his sprawl next to Isaac to stand in the middle of the two. "Guys, come on," he repeated. "Planning, remember?"

Isaac took part in the peace party, as if he also felt the need to separate Derek and Stiles before violence broke out. The tow headed teen had collapsed on Scott's bed when he'd first arrived, but now he leaned forward, clasping his slender hands on his knees. "We really do need a plan. The Alpha pack wasn't just one step ahead of us last time; they had already run a football field. They knew what we were going to do."

"Which is what I've been saying," Scott broke in, his earnestness showing in his hurried hand movements. "We need to think more, to actually plan before they push us into acting. It's the only way we'll ever be able to match them." Easier said than done, was Stiles observation as he leaned back against the wall. Derek unknowingly repeated him.

"Easier said than done. How do you plan on doing that?" He finally moved away, and Stiles allowed himself to start breathing deeply again before slumping back to the floor. For the sake of not getting beaten up by Derek, he tried to pay attention to the conversation they'd already had before.

Derek continued. "There's so much that we don't know. These murders - all of the victims virgins - what is that about? I know-" He paused, then pushed roughly forward. "I know a lot about werewolves from my family, ok?"

Stiles couldn't help but mutter, "None of which you tell us, unless it suits you."

The Alpha was partially turned away, but it was easy enough to see the way his broad shoulders tensed under the coarse fabric of his tight shirt. Clearly using his last reserves of patience, he ignored the comment. "I know a lot about werewolves and despite your-" a pointed, nasty glance at Stiles - "legends say about us, we've never had any reason to sacrifice virgins to the moon, full or otherwise. The only person I can think about asking is Peter, and he…"

"Is the last person I want to ask about anything," Scott finished, and everyone nodded in agreement. Running his hands distractedly through his dark hair, Scott eventually burst out, "If you don't know anything, then where does that leave us?"

"Safe." Isaac greeted the other three's incredulous stares with an impish smile. "None of us are virgins, right? So at least that's one less thing to worry about!"

If you look at me, Scott, Stiles swore to himself while hastily plastering on a mechanical grin, I swear to God and sunny Jesus that I will stab you with a silver stake and then roast you with garlic. Scott looked his way. Derek was the first to notice, his blanched eyes catching Scott's less than subtle movement. Of course he noticed first. And he laughed, a jagged sound bereft of mirth and brimming with disbelief. "You?" he asked in complete skepticism. And again, without even his previous empty amusement. "You?"

Isaac was a different story. His snigger started out as a quiet affair, but was no less delighted for all that. And it shortly grew into a full blown laugh that had him clutching at his sides and almost falling off the bed, reserve forgotten. Scott at least looked uncomfortable and ashamed, and said something in his defense, but Stiles couldn't hear it clearly over the burning flush that was searing his ears and cheeks. Isaac's reaction he expected, but Derek? What the hell was with that? Did he think I'm… what? With girls all the time? And why that look? He had seemed almost disgusted.

It was too much. Stiles rocketed to his feet, fists trembling at his sides, and there was an immediate and palpable shift in the air, the sudden entrance of tension. Scott, Isaac and Derek all stilled, shock and amusement and embarrassment flattened and dulled in the face of a possible confrontation. And - for one of the first times, and most strongly - Stiles became distinctly, horribly aware of what they were. Not wolves. But not humans either. Wolves in human skin, maybe. Regardless, they were different. Other. And Stiles had never been so alone.

It was that realization, not shame or embarrassment, that made his voice shake. "I may be a…" He stopped, unable to say the word, and had to start again. "I'm inexperienced, ok, ya. But at least I'm not stupid." Their confusion at his statement almost enraged him. Of course they hadn't thought of him. Of course not. Why would they have? All werewolves leave their pet humans at home. "Two nights ago," he said loudly, "you idiots let him go in against two… I don't know. Two tank werewolves." His finger rose of its own accord, to point accusingly at Derek. The Alpha looked nonplused. "Where the hell was Isaac while all of this was happening, huh? Why couldn't one of you have gone in with him while the other waited by the door?"

His pitch rose and then wavered, his finger dropping back to his side. "He could have died. Do you guys actually get that? I know, I know, you're practically immortal, but here's the thing. You aren't actually immortal." Stiles was aware, in a distant way, that he was totally getting off point, but all the tension that had been building up had just broken the dam he'd built and was flooding out. "You're the werewolves, and I know more about being in a 'pack' than you do. We're like this big, dysfunctional -" Not family. Because family was easily torn apart and hurt too much. Like with his mom.

The thought drenched his anger, and he swallowed hard. All three of them were frozen in stunned silence, and Stiles couldn't look at them anymore. He turned and walked to the door to Scott's room, pausing with one hand on the doorframe for support. "We're a group," the slender teen got out through the lump in his throat. "And if even one of us leaves, it isn't going to work anymore." He knew that, knew it with a sick certainty in the pit of his stomach. "Even him." And he could almost feel Derek's eyes burning a hole through the back of his shirt.

"But you guys don't need me right now." Stiles fought to keep his voice even, failed, and left without another word.