Note: I'm going with the idea here that because Stiles wasn't with Scott for the tryouts, Scott was a bit more careful and didn't end up hurting Liam. (That does also mean though that Coach didn't throw his hissy fit and throw that ball that Kira caught, so Kira's not on the team.) Instead Liam went to the hospital to meet his step-dad for family reasons. I'm also of the opinion that due to Scott being more realistically screwed up by Allison's death that he and Kira didn't kiss (yet?)

xXx

A few days later Stiles had to give in and set off in his jeep to go and see Deaton.

The wounds had been more than a little difficult to look after and they had started feeling hot a couple of days ago. When he'd next changed the bandages and had almost broken his neck getting a look at them they had looked decidedly red, inflamed around the edges and were weeping clear liquid continuously. Then he'd started to feel slightly nauseous and feverish. Not good signs and Stiles was getting genuinely scared.

The crux had come that morning when Malia (who had turned up the afternoon after Stiles' stay at Derek's,) had wrinkled her nose and told him he didn't smell good.

"Like some of the animals in the Preserve who had been wounded. They never lasted long and were bad to eat," she'd said before stating she didn't want to be around him when he smelled like that.

So now Stiles was skipping school (god forbid one of the werewolves who could put two and two together smell him,) and heading to the vet's because he didn't know where else he could go.

Thankfully his dad had had the early morning shift, so he'd already left by the time Stiles usually got up.

Malia also had vanished in her own time and said nothing about the fact that Stiles couldn't even bring himself to get out of bed.

It had then taken him the entire morning to summon up the courage and energy to head to Deaton's, talking himself out of it several times and trying to take care of the wounds on his own again. It had only taken him one look for his pride to crumple and for him to drag himself out of the door, although he had sat in his jeep in front of the vet's for almost an hour before he'd managed to make himself get out.

It was a haunting experience walking back in there and hearing the ghost of Scott's gasps and pleas, but it helped that it was the middle of a sunny day and after a long, uneasy moment Scott's whimpers faded back into memory. He didn't think he'd have been able to walk in if it had been raining.

The practice was thankfully empty, with only Deaton standing behind the counter going over his appointment book. He looked up and for a split second his usually zen-like expression faltered before a genteel smile was sent his way.

"Mr Stilinski, this is a surprise."

Stiles suddenly felt deeply ashamed for coming and shifted nervously from side to side, wanting nothing more than to turn around a flee. But this wasn't a problem he could deal with on his own anymore and there was no one else to go to.

"Stiles?"

Stiles jerked his head up and when had Deaton opened the divider and stepped through, moving to stand in front of him?

"Is there something I can help you with?" the vet continued patiently.

"Y-yeah, I've," Stiles licked his dry lips as his voice caught in his throat. "I've got this problem that I need you to look at. I don't want to worry anyone because it was an accident and they've got enough on their plates right now, but I can't look after it properly because I can't reach it and I wanted to go to Scott, but that was a bad idea, so all I could think of was coming here-" he was babbling, Deaton's eyes were starting to look a little glazed, and with great difficulty he forced himself to come to a stop.

"Perhaps we'd better go into the back," was all Deaton said as he gestured Stiles forward.

Once they were safely behind the closed door Stiles thought it best to just get it over with and show Deaton rather than being consumed by nervous word-vomit again and unzipped his hoody. Underneath instead of the usual plaid over a t-shirt was just a buttoned up shirt. The wounds had started to pull too much for him to be able to put a top over his head anymore and even the shifting he had to do to unbutton and pull off the shirt caused him to wince.

Deaton's eyes narrowed in on the bandages sloppily tied around his ribs. Stiles had done them so badly that morning, limbs feeling like noodles from a fever that had since broken, that all he had to do was pull on the tucked away end for the whole thing to sag down around his waist apart from the places where it had stuck to his damp wounds. Even Stiles, human though he was, could pick up a slight sour smell from them now.

When he turned around to ask Deaton to help him get the bandages unstuck he had not been expecting the surprised hiss from the man.

"What on-" Deaton said, stepping forward sharply.

"Can you give me a hand here before you start with the twenty questions," Stiles interrupted tiredly; too exhausted to be surprised by Deaton dropping his usually calm mask.

Careful hands started tugging at the fabric, peeling it away from the gashes a centimetre at a time before they finally fell away, leaving the wounds displayed in all their ugly glory.

Fortunately for Stiles, Deaton went into professional mode and obviously decided to take care of the wounds before grilling him over how he'd got them.

"I'm afraid the wounds are too old for me to stitch them now, but after I have cleaned them I might be able to put a few butterfly stitches on them so they won't heal quite so wide," Deaton said calmly as he moved about the room, taking items from shelves and pulling implements from drawers.

He had Stiles hop up onto the cold metal table and then turned on the light stationed over it after placing everything he had gathered beside Stiles.

"This will more than likely hurt quite significantly," was the only warning Stiles got before liquid fire was being poured into the wounds, causing him to arch instinctively away and swear. A surprisingly strong hand clamped down on his hip, holding him in place, as the teeth-achingly sharp pain moved from one gash to the next. By the time Deaton had finished, Stiles felt more than a little light headed and wondering dimly if Deaton could think any less of him if he face-planted on the floor.

Said vet's thrice-damned face appeared in his spotty vision as hands steadied him.

"Let's take a minute to give you a chance to recuperate, Stiles. I apologise, that must have been an unpleasant experience for you, but it had to be done with an infection that far along. You should have come to me much sooner."

Stiles could only hang his head, too ashamed to look Deaton in the eye.

"I know," was all he could say.

When Deaton judged him recovered enough to continue, Stiles resolutely fixed his eyes on the far wall and was determined not to flinch again on something he'd so stupidly brought on himself.

Something a little less painful than the liquid fire, but still sharp enough to make Stiles bite down on his lip hard, was applied and then there was a slight tugging sensation as Deaton applied the butterfly stitches. The vet then bandaged Stiles' ribs again in a clean dressing, doing a far better job than Stiles had managed.

Once finished, Deaton disappeared further into the clinic after disposing of the dirty bandages, then returned a short while after with a glass of water in one hand and a small bottle that rattled as he passed it to Stiles.

"These antibiotics are safe for human consumption. You are to take one with food two times a day every day until the bottle is empty. You are to also come and see me every day so I can keep track of how the wounds are healing."

Deaton then held out the glass of water.

"Take the first one now; I have some fruit you can have."

Stiles wordlessly clasped the glass and then set it down beside him to open the pill bottle while Deaton went into the back yet again.

The man returned just as Stiles was downing the tablet and held out a banana which Stiles took with a murmur of thanks.

"I'd like to check a couple of other things with you as well as getting some understanding of how you came to have those wounds, Stiles, if that's okay with you."

Stiles was rather preoccupied with trying to force himself to swallow the bite of banana he had in his mouth while his stomach was revolting at the idea, but he managed a shaky nod.

"Excellent, now who inflicted those wounds on you and why?" Deaton's voice was as sharp as a razor. "If it had been a random supernatural creature who just attacked you, you wouldn't have hidden them to the point of them getting this bad and putting yourself at risk of blood poisoning; so I can only assume that it was one of the pack, which leads me to the 'why?'"

Stiles managed to force the banana piece down and took another sip of water to try to hide his shaking before answering.

"It was an accident, I promise. Everyone's struggling right now and they didn't even realise they'd done it, so I thought it would be better just to keep it quiet," Stiles managed to dredge up a little resolution from who knew where and met Deaton's eyes as fiercely as he could. "And since it was an accident I'm not going to tell you who it was. I won't."

Deaton merely looked at him for a while before giving that infuriating ambiguous smile.

"Noble intentions, Mr Stilinski, but not, I fear, given to the right person."

Crap, he already knew who it was. Even though Deaton hadn't seen him and Malia together, Scott would have been keeping him up to date with everything and the vet would have been smart and removed enough to put the pieces together and draw the logical conclusion after seeing the gashes.

Stiles clamped his hands down on the edge of the metal table as he felt the stirrings of a panic attack twist threateningly through his chest.

"I still maintain that it was an accident," he replied stubbornly and Deaton dipped his head in acquiescence, probably knowing that it would be a useless endeavour to try to get anything more out of Stiles for the moment.

"Can I put my shirt back on now?" Stiles asked hopefully, trying to supress a full body shiver. He was always cold now, but the examination room had always been particularly cool even when he'd been at full health.

Deaton's mouth twisted sympathetically for a moment before shaking his head. "I'm afraid not. I still need to do a couple of more checks on you to help with my assessment of your injuries."

Those checks turned out to be a very through (seriously, Stiles might not be able to ever look at Deaton without blushing again,) all over examination, in which Deaton wrote down every still healing cut or bruise he found along with some of the newer scars. Stiles had weakly tried to pass off the first few as him just being clumsy but Deaton had sent him a look so unimpressed that Stiles' mouth had clicked shut before he'd even realised.

The thick scar the Nogitsune had given him across his stomach still wasn't fully healed even though Stiles knew it should have been by now and Deaton had spent a long time prodding and poking it before he was satisfied, scribbling away in his notebook for quite some time.

After that Deaton had made Stiles hop on a set of scales that was built for the larger animals who visited him.

Stiles stared in dull surprise at the numbers before him, trying and failing to work out how he'd managed to lose more than two stone in the last couple of months.

He'd never been the biggest guy, but before Scott had been bitten he'd been somewhere in the low 150's which his doctor had told his was an ideal weight for a boy his age and height. After Scott had been bitten stress, sleepless nights researching, nightmares, and a general running for his life had quickly dropped the weight to around 147. He hadn't weighed himself since. Now the numbers 119 blinked reproachfully up at him. He could see his ribs and his hip bones jutted out so sharply they looked un-natural and he hadn't noticed.

Holy shit. Okay, he knew in an absent way and an almost complete avoidance of mirrors because he couldn't met his own eyes in them (plus there was way too many other things taking up his time and limited energy,) that he'd lost quite a bit of weight, what with the way his clothes now hung off him, but this classed him as pretty severely underweight. No wonder people had been starting to comment: a couple of teachers were beginning to tentatively ask him questions, as though they expected him to shatter apart if they approached him too firmly. Random people who knew he was the Sheriff's kid that he'd pass on the street or in the supermarket would stare worriedly at him. A sweet old man in the park had asked him if he was okay and needed anyone to talk to.

That now familiar nasty little voice in the back of his head demanded to know why if all these strangers only had to take one look at him to know how bad off he was, why none of his friends or his father had commented?

A hand clamped down on Stiles' shoulder and he instinctively flinched away, hunching in on himself protectively. It took a moment to remember who is must be and turned sheepishly to meet Deaton's blank expression.

"That's all I need from you for now, Stiles. If anything like this happens again in future and you don't feel you can go to a hospital you are to come straight to me. You can put your shirt back on."

Stiles felt pathetically grateful as he almost ran to where his shirt lay and pulled it on. He'd felt horribly exposed without something covering him, every bruise and scrape ugly and unmissable under the harsh lighting, showing his shame to anyone who could walk in. His chest loosened a little as he pulled the final button through, and without raising his head he grabbed the pill bottle off the table, ignored the banana he's only managed to take a solitary a bite of, muttered a thanks and was halfway to the door before Deaton's voice halted him.

"Stiles, you should talk to Scott about this."

Stiles bristled but didn't turn.

"What, you mean if I don't tell him you will?"

"As a supernatural person from your pack is part of this I cannot directly get involved, but this is a very dangerous path you are going down, and not one you're likely going down of your own will. If the wounds on your back had been even an inch further to the left they could have severed your spine. You've been lucky so far, but in a situation like this luck doesn't last long. Talk to Scott before something that you can't come back from happens."

Stiles realised that his fingers were twitching in a familiar way where they rested against his jeans, unconsciously counting over and over again as Stiles thought of Scott; of how the bags under his eyes had become darker, how Kira was the only one who could really seem to get through to him anymore and bring out a smile, how Scott had been turning his head away from wherever Stiles was sitting or standing and Stiles didn't think he even realised he was doing it. Telling Scott, who was barely holding himself together, was impossible. This was something Stiles had brought on himself. He deserved it, and he deserved to have to deal with it alone.

"I'll think about it," he lied and then hurried out before Deaton could say anything else.

He found himself at a bit of a loss back in the jeep; going to school was out, as was his home. If he went into the middle of town the chance of a deputy or his dad spotting him were high. He could go out to the Hale house again but Derek had sent him a text a day after the storm saying that the house was now too unsafe to go in. Wait, Derek.

Stiles didn't hesitate in turning on the jeep and then peeling out of the parking lot, heading with unerring certainty to the half abandoned industrial district of the town.

He pulled up in a free car park a couple of blocks from Derek's building, hiding the jeep behind a large van as he knew that the district was routinely patrolled by the sheriff's department and most of them knew his memorable car on sight.

The walk to Derek's gave him a little time to calm the frantic thoughts in his mind before they could build themselves to panic-attack inducing levels. So Deaton knew, so what? He'd just basically said that he wouldn't tell anyone. But what if he changed his mind? God, what if Scott confronted him over it? What if he didn't?

His thoughts continued to swirl in ever-darkening spirals as he automatically pulled the key Derek had given him months ago (and only him for some reason,) to open the door. He made his way up the stairs still grappling his feelings and then he was pulling open Derek's heavy door, which didn't have a proper lock, just deadbolts, but since the rest of the building was empty it was a moot point.

Derek had obviously been sitting on the couch reading, but now he was putting the book down and making his way over, forehead furrowed into that familiar scowl.

"Stiles, I hear you coming up. What are you doing here?"

And just like that Stiles' mind calmed.

It was such a shock that Stiles jolted and stumbled, but then there was those large, warm hands, as gentle as ever, catching him and drawing him into the loft at the same time.

"Stiles? What's wrong? Do I need to call Scott?"

It was said in Derek's usual way: rather blunt and sharp, demanding he get to the point right away, but the concern layered underneath cracked something in Stiles and suddenly Derek's face was blurring.

Stiles started to cry; deep, gut-wrenching sobs that he tried to keep silent but shook his whole body as his covered his face with shaking hands in shame.

From what he could make out, Derek seemed to be at a complete loss as to what to do: he yanked his hands away from where he'd been grasping Stiles' biceps as though he'd been burned, but then almost immediately went to return them before stopping only a few inches away to hover uncertainly. He started to speak several times, only for him to stutter into silence before he'd got more than the first syllable out. If Stiles hadn't been so far gone he might have found it adorable, but he didn't because he didn't deserve Derek worrying over him.

"I'm," Stiles choked out between sobs. "I'm s-sorry. I'll go."

He turned back towards the door only for Derek to find his conviction and reach out to grasp Stiles' shoulder firmly.

"Don't be an idiot," he said gruffly as he led Stiles over to the sofa and all but shoved him down on it.

Stiles wretchedly curled in on himself, ignoring the way it stretched the wounds on his back as Derek strode away to shut the door and then vanished through the hole in the wall to where the kitchen was.

Stiles hoped that Derek might be reverting back to his emotion-phobic ways and was leaving him in peace to pull himself together, but then he was back, marching across the floor to him with a single minded purpose.

A bottle of water and a box of tissues were placed on the coffee table in front of Stiles and before he could do anything but blink at them the throw over the back of the sofa was being tugged around his shoulders.

Derek then settled rigidly next to him, as though he wanted to bolt at any moment, and awkwardly reached out to pat Stiles stiffly on the shoulder.

"There, there," he grated out as though it physically pained him to say the words, staring fixedly ahead of him with wide-eyed terror.

Stiles couldn't hold in the snort to save his life and managed a shaky grin even though the tears (and more than likely snot) were still running down his face as Derek's head whipped around to glare at him.

"You totally suck at this," he croaked. "If I'd've known you'd try to be nice to me I'd have cried on you ages ago. S'nice."

Derek's shoulders seemed to loosen a little in the face of Stiles' familiar teasing, but Stiles couldn't hold the quivering smile and he dissolved into sobs again.

Emboldened by Stiles' words, Derek drew in closer until he was pressed firmly against Stiles' arm. Then he slowly, as though Stiles was a wild animal, reached and wrapped his arm around Stiles' shoulders, pulling the teen even tighter into his side.

Stiles, too consumed by his misery and too tired to resist if he'd wanted to remained pliant in Derek's grip as he turned him a little more into him. In the end he was fully curled into Derek's side as the man leant back against the cushions, getting himself comfortable for the long haul.

Derek didn't say anything more and for that Stiles was grateful, but his thumb started moving in soothing circles against the bone of Stiles' shoulder.

Neither could have really said how long they stayed like that only that it was long after Stiles' tears had run dry and he just sagged exhaustedly into Derek's body. At one point Derek moved, twisting his neck so that his chin was resting on top of Stiles' head. At another Stiles could swear Derek's stomach was rumbling but when he sluggishly raised his head Derek's hand lifted from his shoulder for a moment to push it back down. Sometime after that Stiles hesitantly unclasped his hands from where they were tightly wound around each other, hugged close to his chest, and stretched them out, ending up with one arm loosely wrapped around Derek's front.

The shadows lengthened and neither spoke or moved; Stiles lightly dozing and Derek staring at the wall, eyes distant.

Eventually, as the last of the natural light faded from the sky and artificial lights started flickering on, Derek patiently nudged Stiles into standing and wordlessly led him up to the bedroom he'd stayed in the last time.

The note that Derek had left Stiles on the door was still in there, on top of the drawers where he'd left it, still proclaiming that he'd rather Stiles came to the loft in future when he needed to 'go for a midnight wander' instead of returning to the Hale house.

Maybe the memory of that was what had prompted him to go to the loft in such a weak moment.

"Stiles."

The voice was soft, and said his name so comfortably that Stiles took a moment to realise that it hadn't been a figment of his increasingly irrational imagination.

Stiles turned to look at Derek, who was standing in the doorway like he didn't want to intrude.

"Can you tell me why?"

Why had he come to the loft? Why had he cried? What had devastated him so badly that he'd sought out Derek for comfort? Why he'd let Derek comfort him at all?

Stiles could only shake his head and he almost sagged with relief when Derek didn't look put out or try to push it. Instead he nodded, tossed the bottle of water that Stiles had never got around to drinking and the tissue box onto the bed, and wished Stiles a goodnight before quietly slipping away, closing the door behind him.

Even though he'd dozed most of the day away, Stiles was so exhausted that he barely had the energy to slip off his shoes and jeans before flumping on the bed and burrowing under the covers.

Sleep was quick in coming and maybe it was because of how tired he was but the nightmares didn't taunt him that night.

xXx

Scott had bit a fucking kid.

The Sheriff had got it into his head to try to play happy families that Friday evening, ignoring how his and Stiles' relationship was still on very fragile ground, plus how Malia still barely acknowledged his existence, and had taken them out to dinner.

Stiles had spent most of the meal just prodding his starter around his plate, trying to remember the last time he'd had a full meal or when food had tasted anything other than bland, unable to go along with his dad's weak attempts at conversation while Malia was increasingly rude to the waiting staff as they 'didn't bring her deer meat to her quick enough'. She'd been confused when the Sheriff had tried to explain that it was called venison and had stubbornly kept calling it 'deer meat' instead. Stiles didn't have the energy anymore to try to correct her; who cared if she liked venison? Since humans ate it as well it was socially acceptable for her to enjoy it so he didn't have to do anything, like suggest she like pizza instead.

The call came just as Malia was getting to the point that she was threatening to go back into the kitchen to make them hurry up and his dad, along with their waiter, was trying to calm her. (She still hadn't managed to wrap her head around why they needed to cook it.)

The mere fact that this was the first time that Scott had called him out of school for months showed how serious the situation was before Stiles had even answered the phone, heart pounding.

"Scott?"

"Stiles," Scott's voice sounded wrecked and Malia quieted, much to the relief of those around her, as she tiled her head unsubtly towards the phone.

"I need-" Scott continued. "Can you just come to the hospital? Is your dad with you? Bring him too or call him if he's at work, we're gonna need him."

The line went dead.

It had taken them twenty minutes to get there instead of the ten it should have taken since their mains had been brought out just as they were standing and then Malia had refused to leave until she got her 'deer meat', sending the waiting staff scurrying back to the kitchen to transfer the meals to take out boxes with a snarl. The Sheriff had thought it quickest just to indulge her and Stiles didn't have the drive anymore to protest.

Thankfully she'd eaten her meal (and then Stiles') quietly in the car. John had asked Stiles to drive so he could munch down a few bites of his own, guessing that he would probably be too busy for the rest of the evening to work. He was right.

A quick call to Scott again once they were there had led them up to the rooftop, where a worried Melissa was waiting by the door.

"He won't let me out there," she said, wringing her hands in frustration. "Just shouts that it's not safe every time I try to open the door."

"Okay," John soothed, rubbing a hand over her shoulder. "Well Scott called us so we should be fine to go out."

"Be careful," she called after them as the Sheriff cautiously pushed open the door. Then Malia snorted and shoved past him, ignoring his exacerbated hiss of her name.

The roof was a wreck and from where Stiles stood by the door he could see a decidedly dead body as well as Scott pinning the writhing form of a kid against a large air duct.

At first Stiles thought that he was trying to attack or get away from Scott, but the longer he looked the more he realised the young teen was twisting in pain - his blood soaked sleeve, the dark wound of a bite on the wrist, and Scott's bloody chin showing why.

"You idiot," Stiles breathed and Scott's eyes jerked around to meet him, an exhausted and injured look on his face, eyes all but screaming for help. There was no way Stiles could resist that look from his best friend, even with their relationship crumbling around him and before he knew it he was crouching down on the other side of the kids struggling body. He didn't try to hold him down since Scott was doing such an admirable job, but also because Stiles now had the physical strength of a kitten.

"Hey, hey," he called, trying to get the kids attention. Hazy eyes turned to him. "What's your name?" He could see his dad out of the corner of his eye crouch down by the body.

"Liam," Scott said. "His name's Liam. He's a freshman at our school and did really well at the lacrosse tryouts today."

Stiles tried not to wince. Scott wasn't trying to accuse him of quitting, in fact he hadn't pushed him about it at all, but the gap in Stiles' knowledge that he would otherwise have if he'd not screwed up so badly rankled at him.

"Right," Stiles continued, trying to smooth over how much his voice was shaking. "With how long it took us to get here, and I'm guessing you called me pretty much immediately after it happened?" Scott nodded. "Okay, so he was bitten around three quarters of an hour ago then. Did Derek ever mention how long it takes to find out if a body rejects the bite or not?"

"Rejects?" the kid – Liam, croaked, his struggles lessening as the pain seemed to be dying down and his awareness of his surroundings coming back. "What d'you mean 'rejects'?"

His eyes widened in panic as they flew to Scott and he started struggling in earnest again. "Does he have something that can be passed on through a bite? Does he have AIDS? Oh god, I have AIDS."

"No, no, no," Scott tried to say soothingly. "Nothing like that. You don't have AIDS, I promise, but… my bite will have changed you."

"Changed me," Liam said flatly. Scott nodded so emphatically that it was a wonder his head didn't fall off.

"How?" the kid demanded, but before either Scott or Stiles could respond, John was crouching down next to them, looking Liam over carefully. His eyes widened when they got to the bite.

"Does this mean-" he started, and Stiles jumped in.

"One way or the other, yes, dad, it does; which means we need to get him out of here before the other cops show up. We don't know how long it'll take or what'll happen really, so it's best we get him away from everyone for their safety."

"Their safety?" Liam squeaked.

John ignored him.

"Do you have somewhere to take him? Somewhere he can be safely contained if need be?"

"Yes," and Stiles realised as he said it that they did.

"Well you need to get him out of here in the next five minutes then, since that's when I'll be calling it in. Scott, I need a quick rundown of what happened, right now, son."

"Hey, there's a human pancake in the alley," Malia called over from where she was standing casually on the very edge of the roof, looking down with vague interest. John raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at Scott.

"Okay, I was here to see mom," Scott began, attention shifting between John and Stiles. "And I heard Liam mention at practice earlier that his step-dad was a doctor here, so I'm guessing he was here to see him."

"Wait, when did you hear me say that?" Liam interrupted, his confusion overwhelming his discomfort.

"When you and your friend were putting on you gear," Scott said distractedly, clearly wanting to get back to the main story. Liam's brows wrinkled in an incredulous frown.

"Hold up, that's not possible. I remember you were right on the over side of the pitch with Coach and that curly haired jackass because I asked who the Captain was and someone pointed you out to me."

"Yeah, and I heard you."

"But that's impossible."

"Boys!" John snapped, going into full Sheriff mode, and they fell silent. "You can discuss this later; right now I need to know what happened."

"Right, right," Scott scratched uncomfortably at the blood drying on his chin and it was a testament to how messed up their lives were that none of them except Liam gave it a queasy glance.

"So, Liam was here to see his step-dad, and some hunters who didn't follow the Code must have found and followed me. I didn't notice anything was wrong until one of them approached me in an empty corridor. They said I'd go along with them or they'd kill this kid they'd just caught. Then the other one turned up with a gun held on Liam."

Liam took in a great, shuddering breath and Stiles absently reached out and patted him on the head.

"So," Scott continued. "They took us up here and when the one not holding Liam turned to wedge the door shut I took my chance. They worked well together and managed to keep me from properly hitting one of them. Then when I'd finally got one down and was about to knock him out, the other one called out to me and shoved Liam off the roof."

Okay, now Liam was close to hyperventilating, obviously reliving the traumatic event all over again.

Stiles, with the help of the other two, sat him up and pushed his head down between his knees.

"Just focus on your breathing and try not to listen," was all the advice he could give for the moment, and Scott took that as his cue to continue.

"I managed to get to Liam in time to grab him, but then they continued attacking me while I was trying to pull him up. It all happened really fast; I managed to push one away pretty hard, I heard him scream, and then the other one was right behind me, shouting about putting me down while I had almost pulled Liam back over the edge. Then the guy pushed me back down, using all of his body weight so he was, like, pretty much lying on my back, and he had his gun right on the back of my head. Liam slipped out of my grip and I leant out even farther and managed to grab him with my teeth while I reached back with both hands, like this, to knock the gun away. I don't really know what happened, but then the guy above me's gun went off, and then the other guy's gun went off. Then the guy above me just … fell and when I pulled Liam back onto the roof the guy still up here was dead. That's when I called Stiles."

Stiles could feel the beginning of a headache coming on and by the looks of it his dad was in the same situation. How things like this managed to keep happening to Scott was beyond him; it was a combination of crazy luck, sheer stubborn-headedness, and a surreal step over into a reality where movie shit like this actually happened.

"So what you're telling me," John said slowly. "Is that they killed each other."

Scott looked as though he was puzzled as to why they'd even doubt him.

"Yeah, that's what I just told you."

"Only you, Scott," John sighed as he pushed himself back to his feet, clapping Scott on the shoulder as he went. "Only you. Now you guys better disappear sharpish. Oh, and send Melissa out."

Liam seemed too stunned to protest as Scott and Stiles pulled him to his feet, and then it was just a case of Scott (having cleaned the blood off his chin after a sharp reminder from his mom,) leading him down through the hospital with a hand lightly resting on his back. Stiles remained pressed in close to his other side to hide the bloody sleeve while Malia trailed along in apparent disinterest behind. He was hyperaware of her, just waiting for a biting comment or for her to reach out and grab him, but for once she seemed focused on the bigger picture and didn't bother him.

They all climbed into the jeep, Liam in the back with Malia, while Scott settled in the passenger seat. A though seemed to occur to him and he twisted to look at Stiles.

"Wait, where are we going?"

"I would have thought it would be obvious. Where do we know that's out of the way enough that no one will notice if things get loud, yet it's comfy enough for us to stay there for a long while, and also has lost of handy things like sturdy pillars in case we need to chain someone up? Plus it has someone who knows more about this sort of stuff than anyone we know who isn't a psychopath or won't just smile mysteriously at us."

Scott looked blank and Stiles rolled his eyes, experiencing a pale imitation of the fond exasperation he used to feel towards Scott whenever he was being particularly dense.

"Derek's, Scott. We're taking him to Derek'."