"Again?" Stiles groaned.

Annabeth blushed, looking away.

Stiles continued, "I know, I know, you really like this kid. He's your… best friend."

Annabeth spluttered, "Well no, I mean, he's, only second to you?" She finished weakly.

"Much better." Stiles laughed before quieting down. "Listen, I gotta go, I have to try to get Dad to eat."

"He's still not eating?" Annabeth frowned. "At all?"

Stiles sighed, "Well, he's not eating when he's here." He glanced around his room, taking in the messy floor and unmade bed. "And he's never here."

Annabeth was silent for a moment, taking in her twin. Stiles' eyes had black circles under them and he was thinner than normal. He also had a cut on his hand. She pointed at it. "Where'd you get that, Stiles?"

"Oh that?" He winced, casting about for an answer. "I got that… when I was cutting vegetables to grill."

Annabeth narrowed her eyes, "Stiles…"

He just looked at her.

She breathed out noisily, "Just… stay safe, okay?"

"Sure thing, Bethy." She scowled at him. "And with that touching sentiment, I really do have to go."

"Okay then. Same time, tomorrow?"

"You got it. Love you." Stiles smiled softly at her.

"Love you too." She swiped a hand through the mist, leaving Stiles alone, in an empty house, with a broken family, and shards of glass to clean.

Stiles breathed in. He wasn't ready to face the downstairs. Last night, his father had gotten drunk. Words had been said. Things had been thrown. They weren't speaking about it.

It could be worse he supposed. His father could be actively violent. He just- he forgot. He forgot that it was his son he was throwing things at. He forgot he wasn't the only one who lost someone important. And that, that was fine. Stiles could handle that.

It wasn't like his real Mother was going to suddenly swoop in and save the day. As far as he was concerned, this was his family. His father could scream at him and curse his very existence and he still wouldn't give up on him.

He was just so damn grateful that he still had a father. It didn't matter how much it hurt to clean up after him or to watch him stumble in. Family was family.

He sighed, stumbling to his feet, before heading downstairs. The previously beautiful kitchen was a mess, cover in broken glass and tepid puddles of beer. There was a clear point of impact on the yellow walls. He moved over to the closet, grabbing an old wooden broom and a trash bag.

It would be best, he decided, if he clear a path to the sink, opened the windows above it to clear the smell, and then moved on from there. It was going to take a while, but it was somewhat cathartic, cleaning. At least he was doing something. He wasn't just standing around waiting for life to knock him flat.

As Stiles continued cleaning, and the sun started to set, he became aware that there was something not quite right outside. The woods behind his house had been quiet. He paused in his cleaning, the soft clink of glass fading away.

He strode to the counter and grabbed a knife.

'I'll just take a peek', he reasoned with himself. 'Then I'll come inside.'

Opening the back door brought back faint memories of the last time the woods had been so quiet. That disastrous birthday. Stiles swallowed hard, staring out into the darkness. A faint whine brought his attention to the tree line. A small wolf was pressed against the dirt.

"You're new." Stiles mumbled to himself. "Most of the wolves disappeared around April." It was strange he mused. Wolves weren't native to California due to old farming and hunting tactics. Yet his entire life he had grown up with wolves in his back yard.

He moved slightly, stepping further out into the yard. The wolf shrank back, causing him to pause. Thinking quickly, he went back inside. He had some cooked chicken that he had thought to use to make chicken parmesan for his Dad. But, he thought bitterly, it wasn't like his Dad would be home to eat it. Might as well go to someone who would actively enjoy it.

He was so focused on reaching the fridge that he completely forgot about the glass scattered in front of it.

Sharp pain blossomed in his left foot as he stepped down hard on a shard. He gasped, tears prickling in his eyes. All he wanted to do was something good. It felt like the universe was spitting on him. Or, some vengeful God.

Wincing at the pain, Stiles continued on his mission. He just wouldn't step on the ball of his foot. He awkwardly hobbled from the kitchen to the back door. Gently pushing the door open, he threw the chicken in the vague direction of the wolf.

There, he thought with satisfaction. His good deed done for the day, he moved inside to the bathroom.

He had… experience with cleaning out cuts. If he wasn't braced for damaged here, at his home, he was prepared for pain at school. Jackson had made it clear that he didn't care about the fact that it hadn't even been six goddamn months.

He had made it extremely clear, going so far as to attempt to draw Scott into a fight. It had gotten so bad that Danny had to get involved, which the boy normally never did.

Stiles bit his lip in concentration as he used tweezers to pull out the glass. He hissed when his attempts accidentally nudged a piece further back in.

He was so focused on grabbing one, that he didn't even hear his Dad come in.

"Stiles?" His father's voice called from the kitchen.

"Yeah Dad?" He called back, trying to modulate his voice to avoiding summoning his Dad. It clearly didn't work, in fact it only drew him closer to the bathroom.

"Why is the back door open?" John called, clearly irritated. "I'm not going to leave you here alone if you can't listen to my simple instructions."

"Okay, Dad." Stiles called back, gasping as he finally got the last shard out from his foot. "Won't happen again."

John knocked on the door. "What are you doing in there?"

Stiles was struck by the simplicity of the question. On one hand he could lie, say he was just washing up. On the other, he could tell the truth and watch as his father's face closed off further from him. He chose the third. He said nothing, leaving the ball in his Dad's court.

The next few moments were fraught with undefined tension. John clearly didn't know what to do with no information. He was used to a kid who said too much, spoke too quickly, and always had a retort.

He sighed, letting his head rest on the door. It was difficult, he acknowledged, dealing with Stiles. Sometimes, Stiles reminded him of Claudia so much that he drowned in grief.

"Just…" He trailed off. "Let me know if I can help you, okay kid?"

"Yeah." Stiles called through the door, relief clear in his voice. "Don't worry Dad. I've got this."

John almost snorted as he straightened up from his slouch. Don't worry? Worry was all he did. It ate him alive, the worry for Stiles, for Annabeth, hell, even for Tony.

"I'm heading to bed. Don't…" He breathed out. "Don't clean up the glass. I'll take care of it."

"Sure thing, Daddio." Stiles said. John pressed his lips together as he headed for the stairs. Stiles was going to clean the glass up. He knew that. He would come down tomorrow and the glass would be gone, the stains vanished, and everything in its place. And John wouldn't do anything about it. What could he do- punish Stiles? For cleaning? He was only trying to help. Part of John was bitter. He wanted to wallow in his misery. Nothing should go right for a man clearly destined to ruin everything he touched. The other, louder, part of John was so damn grateful. What would he have done without this kid? He shuddered to think.

Stiles sighed in relief as his Dad's footsteps moved away, upstairs and towards his bedroom. The next part was the most painful and Stiles was never quite sure if he could muffle his sounds.

Unscrewing the lid of rubbing alcohol, he poured a small amount on a cotton swab. The smell brought forth memories of long hospital visits, tightly clasped hands, and monumental grief. Swallowing against the emotions, he pressed the swab on the cut.

The sting was a welcome pain. It gave him something to focus on. Physical pain wasn't something that Stiles sought out, but when it happened he didn't flinch away from it. He supposed he was… apathetic. Not apathetic enough to let something serious happen, but he knew that pain served a purpose.

He drew away the bloody cotton, staring at the cut. He was tired. Tired of the emotions. Tired of the isolation. He wanted his Dad.

He shook his head, bringing himself out of his trance. No. He wanted an illusion of love. He knew better. Love was hard work and pain and suffering, and it was getting close enough to taste happiness, and then having it ripped away. It was gritty and dirty, no matter the kind.

He stood up, putting away all his tools slowly. The bathroom had only one working light, he noticed, adding it to the mental tally of things he needed to do. And while he was in here, he should probably scrub it down. He couldn't remember the last time this bathroom had been cleaned.

He stepped out into the hallway, wincing at the feel of carpet on his cut. Hobbling back to the kitchen, he took his time cleaning, slowly loosing himself in the monotonous task.

Eventually, all the glass was cleared and the stains washed off the walls. He ran a towel over the counter before glancing at the time.

His eyebrows shot up. It was 12:07. Had he really lost that much time? He cast his mind back. When did his Dad come home? He had no idea.

Shrugging to himself, he headed up the stairs. He wasn't very good at taking care of himself. Or, that's what Annabeth said. Entering his room, he fell on his sheets, exhausted. He didn't bother getting undressed, what was the point when he was just going to wear the same clothes tomorrow? Sighing, he pressed his face into his pillow, wishing desperately for his Mom to come in, brush her hand across his forehead, and sing him songs in Polish. Instead, he got a cool breeze and the light of the quarter moon.

As he drifted to sleep with the rustling of the trees, Stiles knew that something had to give. There were only two options. Either his Dad was going to break. Or he was.