Jody knew. Something. Stiles wasn't sure what "something" was, but he was certain she knew it.

By nine-thirty the next morning, he was almost willing to confess all knowledge of werewolves to her just to get an excuse to go back on his word to help Bobby Singer. The sun scorching overhead would have been painful enough without the graveyard of metal carcasses sizzling beneath, reflecting white light. He squinted when he glanced up from under the hood of an old Ford truck, hissing in pain as he accidentally touched the side panel with his forearm. There was flesh missing, he was certain.

"Are you sure this thing even comes off?" he asked, pointing his wrench down at the engine. Or, at least a small part that Bobby told him to pull out of a section he'd assumed was part of the engine. Stiles wasn't even sure what it was, but the man had taken one out of a nearby vehicle in about two minutes. Stiles was hitting twenty.

Which was a reflection of his whole long morning so far, with Bobby barking out a random factoid about a vehicle and expecting Stiles to know one tool from another. To the old guy's credit, he hadn't lost his patience yet, despite his rough mannerisms. Stiles was beginning to suspect the ass-hole thing was a front, with Bobby's true squishy-ness showing when he did things like force him to drink a bottle of orange juice or wear a greasy second-hand ball-cap to keep the sun out of his eyes. A greasy ball-cap he currently regretted abandoning.

Stiles grimaced when he looked back down and found something oozing out of his current "project".

"Uh, Bobby? Is this supposed to leak pink goo?"

His only reply was a muttering of what he was sure was foul language as the man retreated back toward the house. "And don't strip it this time," was the only words actually audible before the back door slammed, Bobby vanishing inside. Stiles almost shouted after him when he realized the faint sound in the background was a ringing phone, a ground line, he wagered, since Bobby had kept a cell in his pocket.

"That's fine, just leave me out here while you chat with a telemarketer in your air conditioned house," Stiles said, not even a little bitter. He swiped a blanket of sweat off his forehead with the back side of his arm, only afterward realizing he was smearing grease onto his face. "That's great," he snapped, balancing the wrench as he reached out for the oil rag. "Wonderful. I'm having a fantastic summer learning to build cat houses and strip cars. Can't wait to tell all my friends-"

A thud cut him off. After a second of blinding pain, he realized the sound was his head hitting the heavy edge of the truck's hood. He blinked, the world spinning a moment.

"That was…graceful," he muttered.

"What the Hell?" Bobby snapped. "I left you alone for two minutes!"

Stiles wasn't expecting the rough hands that grabbed him by his shoulders, and he nearly tripped over his own feet. He opened his mouth to complain (and also comment on the fact that, for an old guy, Bobby was fast) but closed it again when he realized Bobby was staring at him wide-eyed, practically clucking like an old hen.

"Damn that woman," Bobby hissed and yanked Stiles' chin downward. "She's going to have my ass. And damn that fool Garth too for distracting me."

The slick feeling at his scalp suddenly made sense, and he grimaced. "How bad is it?" he asked. "Also, who is Garth?"

"You'll live. And none of your business," Bobby answered. He chewed his cheek, surveying the damage before making a sour face, as if he was already regretting his next comment. "Come on in, and let me get you cleaned up."

Stiles snorted at him. "Bet you have great bedside manner."

"Just try not to trip over the steps and break an arm," Bobby replied.

Stiles recovered quickly when he almost did just that. He stumbled in behind Bobby, trying to resist the urge to reach up with his dirty fingers and prod the wound, and he wasn't entirely surprised by the air of disarray inside the home. He was sure that at some point the house had probably not been a cluttered mess, but at the moment it looked entirely like he'd expect his dad's house to look if he wasn't stuck trying to be a good example for his teenage son (the man had never owned a newspaper or magazine he wanted to part with).

"Sit," Bobby barked.

"Such a gracious host," Stiles commented, but obeyed, finding a cleared spot on a sofa as Bobby opened one of the double doors dividing up the main room and disappeared.

All in all, the living room wasn't exactly as "dirty", other than the groupings of whiskey bottles, as Stiles had expected it to be, but Bobby must have been a collector of odds and ends. And books. Mostly books, actually. There were piles of books here and there, stacked precariously on cardboard car parts boxes, propped open by other books and jammed into any available shelf. Also the area rug looked crooked for some reason, with something painted on the slick floorboards below peaking out. Probably a renovation job that would never be finished.

This was not what he was expecting from a guy with that much motor oil under his nails, which was judge-y, he knew, but Bobby seemed to be purposely projecting a certain image that in no way hinted at hobbyist librarian.

Stiles tried for all of three seconds not to snoop, but he couldn't help but crane his neck to see past the open door frame. He raised a brow, surprised to note at least three phones on the wall by a cluttered table inside the next room, with a cell phone holding down a stack of newspaper clippings. Most people didn't even bother with a ground line, much less multiple ground lines. Surely they weren't all functioning?

"Stage One Hoarder then," Stiles whispered to himself, but he couldn't convince himself that the casual assessment was accurate.

Before he could get a better look, Bobby appeared around the corner, sliding the door shut behind him. He was carrying a rather large first aid kit, which he plopped down on the table beside Stiles.

"You always this accident prone?" Bobby asked.

"It's an art." Stiles tried not to fidget in his seat. He wasn't sure why, but it felt awkward to be in a stranger's house. Specifically this stranger's house. It didn't look like a place that welcomed visitors. "Kinda got a library vibe going on here. Would not have taken you for the intellectual type, what with the whole…Anyway. What do you read?"

Stiles was certain Bobby purposely chose that moment to apply a liberal amount of rubbing alcohol to his wound. With a yelp, Stiles jumped back into the seat cushions.

"Harlequin romance," Bobby snapped. "Now hold still."

Stiles tried. He did. His distracted himself by glancing back at the shelves of books.

"Those are some antique looking romance novels. Special hardback leather edition? In Latin?" he joked. "But seriously, do you collect rare books or something? Like as a side business?" He trailed off, noticing a shovel propped against the hall wall, a dented gas can sitting next to it, as if the items had been hastily discarded. Weird.

He barely noticed it when Bobby peeled a butterfly stitch bandage onto his forehead. The older man grunted an affirmation.

"There. That should keep you in one piece. Now head on out. I'll be there in a minute to show you what you're doin' wrong," Bobby assured. When the phone in the kitchen began to ring again, he rolled his eyes, looking put-out. "I swear, I'm too busy for that knucklehead."

"Want me to answer for you? Pretend you're stuck on the toilet with food poisoning?" Stiles offered.

Bobby blinked at him. "What? No. Get on out. I've got business."

Stiles opened his mouth to mention that he needed to use the restroom but changed his mind when Bobby shooed him toward the door. He moved quickly, eyes down cast, but as soon as Bobby had his back turned, Stiles doubled back a few steps and glanced into the kitchen. He caught a peek of the phones again as Bobby lumbered toward one, aggravation in every step. The one ringing had a piece of tape on it labeled "FBI".

What the hell even? Stiles' narrowed his gaze, slipping back outside before Bobby literally kicked him out, but he could see the man through the window blinds, barking something into the phone while flipping through a tome that would put a chemistry text book to shame.

Extra weird. At least for a normal person. Stiles had a feeling Bobby was anything but normal, though.

"Noah, I think you need to take a step back."

He ran a hand down his face, fingers swiping over his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. It did little to wipe away the weariness clinging to his mind, so he reached out blindly, finding his coffee cup balanced on his dash. The cruiser's interior was stifling, even though he'd only just killed the engine, but somehow his coffee had chilled. He drank deeply nevertheless.

"You're too close," Jody continued, when he didn't reply. Her voice sounded hollow over the speaker phone, accusing. "Take a step back and look. Look at your son, Noah. Is this really what he needs? This case you're working on isn't going to help him."

He regretted it already, telling her what he was up to while Stiles away, but it had been his only choice when she'd called, chewing him out over not filling her in on Stiles' history. He should have known it would take her less than a week to nose her way into the cases Stiles had been a part of. He wondered what she'd said to Stiles, if his son had opened up, talked to her about any of it. She wouldn't give him a straight answer if he asked, he was certain. His son was good at imbuing a sense of loyalty in those around him, which was one of the reasons he felt like such a traitor.

Would his kid speak to him when he realized he was talking to Scott behind his back? Noah had even tried following Scott. He'd seen the kid meet up with the Lahey boy, which seemed odd, but the teens had shaken him quickly, and he couldn't help but feel he'd been made in the process. If so, t was only a matter of time before Scott mentioned it to Stiles.

He could look forward to a good chewing-out from his son to follow up the one he'd already received from his sister. Lovely.

Somehow, though, what he was doing right now felt even more invasive than following Scott. Maybe that was because he was digging even deeper.

"What about what I need?" he finally spat out. He swallowed it down, but he couldn't help himself. The words bubbled back out. "You know I love my son, Jody, I do, but this is driving me nuts. I need answers, and I'll get them, one way or another."

"I believe you," Jody said, sounding sober. "But I think your son will give them to you, if you give him time. Why won't you give him time? What's with the urgency?"

"I don't want to wait, Jody." He shook his head. "I want my kid back. You understand that? I want him back, and even if he's here, he's not really with me. I miss what I had with my kid. We were just getting better."

"Yeah." Jody cleared her throat. "Yeah, I understand."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"It's not," Noah snapped, frustrated with himself. "It's not. After Claudia, I wasn't great to be around. I was a terrible brother to you, and I drank, Jody. I know I swore to never be like Dad, but I was close. I was on the edge. I came back…I came back down after I found out about Owen. I didn't do everything right, but I did that one thing. Stiles didn't have to see much of that part of me, the part that could be like Dad, but it still took a while for us to be okay again. We were finally in a good place, and this constant lying started up…I need to get back there, to where we were."

"Then take a weekend. Take a few days. I'll buy your plane ticket. Get here and come see him. Or we can come to you, your call. Your kid is still alive. His needs come before yours."

Noah could hear it, the slight tremble to her voice, the forced sternness, and he knew he'd hurt her, somehow. That's how their relationship seemed to work. He winced, feeling the sting behind his eyes.

"I've got to get back to work. I'll talk to you later." He swallowed hard. "I love you."

"Noah."

He reached down, ending the call before she could say more.

The tap on his window startled him. His hand nearly at his weapon before his thoughts caught up to him. For a moment he'd forgotten where he was, why he was there. It took another second for him to realize who was standing outside his door. Derek Hale took a few steps back, giving Noah space to open the door and step out. They were silent a moment, and Noah opened his mouth to fill the void with an excuse. Before he could, Derek shifted the bag of groceries under his arm and sighed in annoyance.

"Why are you following me, Sheriff?"

By the third morning of salvage work, Stiles had come to his own conclusions. Mainly that Bobby Singer was a junk yard owning curmudgeon with a deep love of trucker hats. And that he was also a hunter.

Sketchy? Check. Weapon-lover? Based on the ammo and knives spotted on a trip to the bathroom, CHECK. Bizarre old books in multiple languages depicting supernatural creatures? Check. Check. Check. Honestly, the guy was terrible at hiding it, but Stiles figured most normal people would come up with reasonable reasons why those things would be laying around. Because who expects actual supernatural creatures to be an issue? People who have encountered werewolves and kanimas, that's who.

And Stiles was about eighty-nine percent sure that Bobby didn't actually run a side-business selling occult books, despite giving a particularly sassy reply about being a Harry Potter enthusiast when asked. So, hunter. A vaguely terrifying conclusion considering Stiles' past with those types.

Which was why his heart was currently threatening to beat out of his chest. Granted, he probably would have been in a more literal state of distress if he was actually on the receiving end of Bobby's shotgun instead of staring at the man pointing the weapon thanks to a totaled-out van's side mirror.

Objects may be closer than they appear; the words kept pulling his thoughts away from the situation at hand. He'd been attempting to remove the seat out of a van when he'd heard a customer pulling into the salvage yard. Normal, right? Only, a few seconds later he heard the muffled voices of two men and made the mistake of looking up at the mirror.

He tore his gaze away from the reflection long enough to spin around, hiding half his body against the van as he watched Bobby lower his weapon slightly, its shortened barrel pointed at the gravel. The other man was standing by his truck, scratching at his mustache in thought. He shook his head and said something to Bobby. Stiles was too far to hear the conversation, but he leaned out into the open, hoping to catch a few words.

"Damn my lack of supernatural hearing," he muttered, tasting a bead of sweat as it rolled over his upper lip.

The stranger must have caught the movement in the corner of his eye, because he stiffened, glancing Stiles' way. He waved his arm out at Stiles, head jerking as he told Bobby something, but the older man just jerked his chin toward the truck, sweeping his weapon in its direction.

Stiles could almost hear Bobby telling the guy to, "Get the hell off his property."

The stranger disappeared into his truck a moment later, peeling out of the driveway, and Stiles couldn't help but feel a bit relieved. It was short lived when he realized that still left him with probably-a-hunter and his weapon. Which, did that make the other guy something supernatural? Stiles swallowed hard, hoping to keep down any questions that might give him, and what he knew, away. He had a feeling hunters didn't like it very much when they were outed.

Bobby finally looked his way, raising a hand to wave him back toward the house.

"Sure, because I didn't almost just witness a murder," Stiles replied, knowing the man couldn't hear him. He jogged up to Bobby, eyes on the shotgun. "That guy owe you money or something?" he said, hoping it came out like a joke.

Bobby looked like he had a lemon in his mouth. "Or somethin'." After what appeared to be an internal struggle, the man huffed out breath. "Idiot was lookin' for work, but he's got a bad rep. Don't want his kind around."

Stiles forced out a chuckle. "Because you already have one idiot working for you?"

Bobby grunted to himself, then dug into his pocket for a few folded bills clipped to a scrap of paper. "I need you to make a run to the hardware store. You remember passing Greene's on the way over? Just hand the guy at the register your list. I need to stock up on some things, and my day just got a bit busier. Take the Chevelle. Keys are inside."

Stiles stared at him, confused. "You want me to take your car?"

"Did I stutter?"

Stiles took the cash. "God didn't skimp on the sass and whiskey when he made you, did he?"

"Little light-handed on the patience though, jackass," Bobby snapped back, then spun around, muttering to himself as he marched into his house. He slammed the front door.

"So you want me away from your house while you do terrifying hunter things. Great."

Stiles realized he was talking to empty air and walked to the Chevelle. With a decent paint job, the old Chevy would have been a nice car, but for some reason it looked like it had never made it past a touch of primer over its rust. He opened the door and was slapped in the face with a wave of heat and odor.

"I don't want to know why it smells like roadkill in here. I really don't."

"Nice place you have here, Hale," Noah said, surveying the loft. He supposed he should have been satisfied the young man was nice enough to let following him up into the building, instead of leaving him behind, but he couldn't help but feel like Derek wasn't interested in chatting.

"You say that like someone who didn't spend several hours this morning watching it from the street," Derek said, putting his groceries down on the counter.

Noah expected the man to make small talk, ask him to take a seat, offer a drink. He remembered, very vaguely, meeting Talia Hale long ago, and she'd been a polite, if oddly imposing, woman. It must not have rubbed off on her son. Derek stepped back into the main part of the room, arms loose at his sides, but somehow, he managed to block off the rest of the loft with his presence alone. Noah had the sense that he'd been invited this far just to force him into Derek's territory.

"You said you wanted to talk to me about Gerard Argent," Derek started.

"And Stiles," Noah added.

"Why do you think I know anything about your son?"

Noah raised a brow. "Implying you do know something about Gerard Argent?"

"Other than the fact that his daughter murdered my family?"

Noah couldn't meet the young man's eyes. He nodded slightly. "Other than that," he said, quietly. "Look, kid, I'm not here to tear open any old wounds, but I need answers, and I think you have them. I've been digging, and it seems Gerard Argent has disappeared. His family claims he's on a trip out of the country. Mind you, they weren't very eager to speak to me. Know anything about that?"

"Should I?"

And the question was almost earnest enough to be genuine. Noah frowned at him, and decided to cut to the chase. "Gerard hurt my son. I want to know why. I want to know how Stiles got mixed up with that family."

He was expecting a reaction, something he could read on the young man's face. Shock. Surprise. Worry. What he received was a shake of the head. "Sheriff, I don't know what you want me to tell you. I don't know much about your son, other than the fact that he and his friend tried to get me arrested for something I didn't do. A couple times."

Noah's cheek twitched. He smiled humorlessly. "Almost seems like you'd have a better motive for beating up my kid than an old man who, on paper, barely knew he existed, doesn't it?"

Derek only crossed his arms over his chest in reply.

"I don't know that you're connected, Hale." It felt strange, being honest, but it was currently Noah's only move. "I'm not here investigating you, understood? But my gut tells me maybe you know something about the Argents that other people don't. If I was in your position, if I'd lost my family like that, and I found out who'd done it, I'd want to know about them. I'd-"

"Kate was crazy," Derek interrupted. His jaw tightened, the only sign of anger on his face. "Gerard is worse," he added, surprising Noah. "I think Kate took after her father."

Noah blinked at his processed that observation. How did Derek know what he knew? "Did Gerard Argent threaten you in some way?"

Derek flashed a bitter grin in his direction. "Something like that."

"Why didn't you file a report? Hell, why didn't you say something?" Noah asked. At Derek's silence, Noah sighed. "What did he do exactly?"

"We're not talking about it," Derek said. "And if you want to know anything else, you need to talk to Stiles."

"Because you don't want to talk about it behind his back, or because Stiles is a better liar than you?" Noah snapped.

Derek smiled again, this time more softly, and he tilted his head, studying Noah. "You know, your son must take after you."

"Funny, that's what Scott said."

"Easy connection," Derek agreed. "Stiles thinks he can protect everyone while playing detective too. Sometimes it's not that simple."

Noah's mouth hung open, but he couldn't manage a reply right away. Derek gave him a moment, letting the silence between them drag on until Noah forced himself past the fact that the young man had just spoken as if he actually knew Stiles rather well. How the hell that would have happened, he wasn't sure, but Derek had all but confessed it. Noah couldn't piece together why he'd given him that much, but it felt like Derek knew exactly what he was doing.

"Is that what happened?" Noah asked, his voice hoarse. "My son, and Scott, did they find out Gerard had it out for you and try to stop him or something? Why would they have done that?"

To anyone else, it might have sounded crazy, but Noah knew his son, knew how fixated he could become. When he and Scott accused Derek of murder, when they were proved wrong, Stiles would have obsessed over it. Gotten involved. He would have spoken to Derek Hale. He would have looked into the Argents when the news about Kate came out…Noah felt cold. Had his son really been investigating that family without him ever knowing?

Derek didn't answer at first. Finally he shrugged one shoulder indecisively. "Or something," he said quietly.

"You didn't try to stop them?" Noah snapped. "They're teenagers! If that man's as delusional as his daughter, he could have killed my son thinking he was part of one of his fantasies! Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you-"

"Protect him?" Derek interrupted, looking away. There was a flash of light in his eyes, a reddish glow reflecting from the loft's window. "If I was a psychologist I'd say you were projecting your anger, Sheriff."