Sorry for the wait! I hope you guys enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing at all. Literally. I am homeless.

The morning after the official rebirth of his friendship with Lydia, Stiles awoke with a surprising amount of energy. His body seemed to be teeming with it as he rolled out of bed and practically skipped to the bathroom. He hadn't slept much, his mind unable to rest as it tried to process his week. He was still particularly troubled by the apparent fact that his mother was involved in some pretty unethical genetic experimentation.

A part of him yearned to understand and make sense of it all. To learn the truth. Another part remembered the fear he felt seeing a gun pointed at Scott's head, and he wondered if perhaps it was better to just not get involved in that sort of business.

All concerns about that, however, were thrown from his mind the moment he met with his reflection.

Stiles was never quite as skinny and unfit as his frame and clothes probably suggested, but last he checked, he certainly didn't have legitimate muscles. He had been decently toned, sure, the kind that you could only be after four years of sort-of playing lacrosse. Now, his arms were harder, more defined. His abdomen was like a rock, with a definite four-back set in, one that Stiles could only dream of just a few hours ago. He even had pecs,like actually muscular pecs.

And while all of this was fascinating and potentially really awesome, what awed Stiles more was the complete lack of bruises that previously decorated his skin. Even his face, which had been swollen and dark just the night before, looked as good as new.

"Jesus," he gasped, leaning closer to the mirror. His hands traced across his skin. There was nothing there. He was completely healed. "How in the hell-"

A knock on his bedroom door shook him. Stiles stepped out of his bathroom, moving for the door.

"Who is it?" he called, pausing in front of the door.

"It's me, dude. Open up." Scott. Stiles pulled open the door and, with surprising strength, yanked his friend inside. He slammed and locked the door behind him.

"Dude, what-" He stopped, taking in Stiles's appearance. "Uhh-….. Wow. That's new."

Stiles held his arms out, nodding. "Yeah. And impossible. Look at this, I'm, like, completely healed and everything!" He gave a demonstrative turn, only to be stopped by Scott's grip on his shoulder.

"Dude, wait. Hold on. What's this?" His warm fingers prodded at something at the base of Stiles's neck.

"What do you see?"

"It looks like… a spider bite."

Stiles let out a choked cry and rushed back to the mirror, twisting in an attempt to see it.

"Oh my god. What the hell? Am I going to turn into some freaky were-spider now? Am I gonna grow eight legs and start shooting webs out of my ass?"

He could practically hear Scott thinking behind him. The teen had a habit of concentrating a bit too hard sometimes, bless his soul.

"Maybe we should go see a doctor or something. Get this checked out. It looks serious," he said. Stiles whirled around to face him.

"No way! They'll tie me up and experiment me like some sort of lab rat!" Stiles protested. He grabbed a probably clean shirt off of his floor and pulled it over his head. "No, it's better we just keep this quiet, right? I mean, what can go wrong?"

The two boys came to a mutual agreement that Stiles's condition would remain secret, although Scott made him swear that if anything went wrong they'd go straight to his mom.

Over the next few weeks, Stiles discovered that more had changed than just his physical appearance. For one thing, he was a lost stronger and a lot faster, two talents that would have been incredibly useful during the lacrosse season. He also had developed some rather remarkable reflexes, although they often did more harm than good as he struggled to adjust to them. His vision and hearing improved, although only marginally. What didn't improve, unfortunately, what his shit of an attention span. If anything, it was even harder to focus now that he had so much more to worry about.

Fortunately, it was easy to blame the recent ordeal of being kidnapped for his dropping grades. What Stiles had a little more trouble explaining away was the apparent lack of any bruising on his face. He tried the excuse of finding some really fantastic cover up at the drugstore, but it was obvious that no one actually bought that. But they couldn't seem to think up any rational explanation, so anyone that questioned him on it was forced to drop the matter and accept it as another strange thing about Stiles.

Things took a turn for the extra-strange almost two weeks after the kidnapping. Stiles was in economics, nodding off to the sound of Coach's rant about how inflation was probably all Greenburg's fault anyways. His left hand supported the side of his chin, keeping his head upright, his mind relaxed for the first time in days. Suddenly, there was a shrill whistle filling the room. Startled, Stiles let out a shout of surprise. As sudden as a violent sneeze, a sticky substance shot from Stiles's wrist, latching onto the side of his neck.

"Stilinski! Wake up! My class is not nap time! Does this look like kindergarten to you?" Coach was shouting, oblivious to Stiles's dilemma. Stiles, very quickly realizing what had happened, kept his hand against his neck and bolted from his seat. He barely managed to grab his bag in his haste as he exited the room. Scott was hot on his heels in moments, following him into the nearest bathroom, which was blissfully empty.

The moment the door shut, Stiles was pulling his hand away to examine the sticky white material coming from his wrist. He managed to pry it from his neck with much difficulty, but as he continued to pull at it, he realized that it was still attached to his arm.

"Dude, is that-?"

"Silk," Stiles said. "I've got freaking webs coming out of my arm." His face contorted in disgust. As he pulled on it, Stiles could feel it moving just beneath his skin. "Oh my god, it just keeps coming. How do I make it stop? Scott, I can't make it stop. This is so gross."

Scott watched in awe. "How are you even doing that?"

"You think I know?" Stiles's voice was shrill and panicked. "It's not like there's some book on what happens when you get bit by a crazy mutant spider and start turning into a bigger crazier mutant spider-person! I just- It just freaking came out of me!" He ignored the flash of amusement that cross Scott's face, continuing to tug at the web.

"Well," Scott said as he struggled to contain his amusement. "It's still better than coming out of your ass, right?"

It took almost five minutes for Stiles finally figured out how to get the web to stop, and after that he had to spend the remainder of the class period working on making it come out again. Over the next few weeks, Stiles took to shutting himself up in his room and fiddling with his latest ability. He found that once he got past the weirdness of it all, the stuff was actually really cool. His extreme laziness meant using the web to grab everything for him, that way he never had to get up out of bed if he really didn't want to.

Life was surprisingly good for Stiles for the first time in a long time. He had Lydia back in his life, his father was spending more time at home, and Stiles didn't feel completely and totally helpless for once. At least now if anyone tried messing with him or his friends, he'd be able to do more than just deliver half-hearted sass that only served to get him in even more trouble.

But this was Stiles, and for him good things could only last so long before everything finally came crashing down.

The day that Stiles's life completely fell apart began with a beautiful sunrise. The sky was painted a stunning orange, a shade not too far from Lydia's brilliant strawberry blonde mane. The weather was cool and crisp, but not too freezing. Even some of the heavy noise that came hand in hand with living in the city had died down in favor of singing birds and delicate wind chimes.

It was also a Sunday, however, which meant that Stiles was asleep for all of this. Because even as a now spider-human-mutant-thing, Stiles was never awake before noon on a Sunday if he could help it.

When he finally did decide to crawl out of bed and greet the world, it was nearly one in the afternoon. He descended the stairs, skipping two at a time, his bare feet landing on the wooden floor with a smack.

His chest felt light, despite how stressed he had every right to be. This was a good morning. His dad was home, rather than working extra shifts like he normally did. He also had plans later in the afternoon to catch a movie with Scott, Allison, and Lydia, which he was definitely looking forward to. The four of them hadn't all gone out together since the night of the kidnapping, and Stiles was dying for some semblance of normalcy after that.

As he all but skipped into the living room, Stiles was stunned to see another figure in the room. Allison Argent, despite being a very good friend, was probably one of the last people Stiles would ever expect to see sitting on his couch drinking from a large Starbucks cup beside his father on a Sunday afternoon. Especially without Scott in tow.

"Uhm… Allison. Hey. What's up?" He looked to his father, who was sitting with his back to him, shoulders tense.

Allison stood quickly, face pinched in obvious distress. "Hey, Stiles. Sorry to intrude like this. I was just telling your dad- Well, I just remembered something important about… the other night."

Stiles frowned. "Oh. Is everything okay?"

Allison nodded, tucking a long curl behind her ear. "Oh, yeah. Great. Everything's great. But I uhm- I actually have to go. I promised my dad I'd go out to lunch with him today, and I'm already running late, so…" She took a step towards the front door, and Stiles's father quickly moved to his feet.

"Let me give you a ride. I've got to head in that direction anyways for some errands," he offered quickly. Stiles knew his father by now to recognize a lie when he heard it. But he was too busy trying to wrap his mind around just what his father could even be lying about to call him on it.

Allison tugged on her jacket, head tilted to the side as she thought.

"Alright," she conceded. "I guess it can't hurt. Thank you." She turned to Stiles, forcing a smile. "I'll see you tonight, Stiles."

Detective Stilinski didn't meet his son's eye as he pulled on his coat and lifted his keys from the hook.

"Alright," Stiles said. "I guess I'll see you later?" The two were out the door before he'd even finished speaking, and suddenly all of the cheer had been sucked right out of him. All he felt now was confusion and a very dark, ominous feeling that something was very, very wrong.

Stiles rushed right back up the stairs, dressing as quickly as he could in a pair of jeans and a black pull-over hoodie. As soon as his shoes were laced Stiles opened his window, pulling himself out and to the roof. The air had a pleasant chill that stung lightly at his eyes. He could just barely spot his father's car turning left at the end of the street.

Stiles took several steps back, gauging the distance between his roof in the next, when he spotted movement in his neighbor's window. Lydia.

She was in her room, sitting at her desk, hunched over an obscenely large text book. Her long beautiful curls were pulled over to one shoulder, eyes narrowed in a casual concentration that only Lydia could master. And she was so stunning that it took Stiles's breath away.

Shaking his head, Stiles forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. He took another step back before breaking into a run. His roof vanished beneath his feet and he was flying through the air before landing with impossible grace just above where he knew Lydia's room would be. The roof slats sang beneath his feet and he grimaced. A moment later he could hear Lydia opening her window. He could picture her leaning her head out, frowning, as she tried to find the source of the noise. After some time, she stepped back and pulled the window shut.

Letting out a heavy, calming breath, Stiles shook his head and continued a more stealthy journey across the rooftops, following his father's trail. His new speed allowed him to catch up with ease, spotting the familiar cruiser waiting at a deserted stop light at the end of the neighborhood. The light turned green, and the car slowly began to creep forward.

Stiles saw it as though it were happening in slow motion. But it was happening fast. Too fast. A car blew through the red light on the left, slamming right into the driver's side of the cruiser at break-neck speed. There was the sound of crunching metal as the cruiser skid and eventually came to a halt against a light post. The car that struck it, a black van, backed up before coming to a complete stop. A man climbed out, pulling something from his coat, and stalked towards the now crushed cruiser.

Stiles leapt from the roof where he was watching and onto the fence behind it. Climbing down, he was still several hundred feet away. Too far away.

There was the familiar crack of gunfire. Once. Twice. Three times. Stiles was running, screaming, but the man was already climbing into his virtually undamaged van and driving away. By the time Stiles finally reached the cruiser, he could hear sirens approaching.

"Dad!" he called desperately, rushing to his father's side of the car. There was shattered glass everywhere, and Stiles could see blood on the windshield. Letting out a moan of anguish, he gripped at the handle of the door, trying to tug it open. At first, it did not budge, but finally game free from the car entirely. Stiles tossed it aside.

His father was at first unrecognizable, his face and torso stained in frightening amounts of blood.

"Dad," Stiles called again, weakly. He reached a shaking hand towards his neck, trying to feel for a pulse. But his fingers quickly became slick with blood and he had to pull back. A groan from the passenger seat pulled his attention to Allison, who was looking considerably less hurt, aside from the bloody gash in her forehead.

She blinked several times, no doubt staggered by the wound.

"Allison," Stiles called. She turned towards him, eyes slightly unfocused. "Shit, Allison, my dad, he's- he's hurt really bad. And he's not waking up. What do I do?" He wasn't sure how asking an injured, likely concussed girl was going to help, but he didn't know what to do. He looked again to his father. "Dad, please, please wake up. We've got to get you to a hospital, okay, dad?"

"Stiles," Allison said. "Stiles, you can't move him." She let out a groan, pressing her sleeve against her forehead. "An ambulance is on its way."

Stiles looked around and realized that they were no longer alone. There were now several other cars stopped at the intersection, many with their drivers out and running towards the scene. Stiles could see at least a few had cell phones pressed against their ears, even as the sirens grew louder.

Stiles let out a sob and took a step back.

"Oh my God," he said. "What happened? What happened?" He knew that he was beginning to go into hysterics and tried to rein himself in.

"Stiles, I need you to focus," Allison said. "Help me get my door open."

"But my dad-"

"Stiles!" Allison's voice jerked his attention towards her. There was a focused ferocity in her that Stiles had never seen before. "Help me get my door open. Then we can help your dad, okay?"

Stiles nodded, moving around to her side of the car. Her door was pinned shut by the lamp post, but it hardly took any effort for Stiles to shift the car over far enough to help Allison out, not caring who saw. Perhaps, if they asked him later, he could just pin it on adrenaline. Allison herself didn't seem at all phased.

It was then that the ambulance finally came to a stop, and two paramedics rushed out.

"I'm fine," Allison immediately said. "Please, just help him." They didn't bother to question her, only promising that the next medics to arrive would be taking an immediate look at her.

Stiles took a short step after them but then stopped, realizing that there was nothing he could do.

Once again, Stiles was left completely helpless as his entire world fell apart.