"I can't believe you thought I was gonna yell at you," Noah said in a bit of a frustrated tone. He was pacing in circles around the hospital room while Stiles was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window feeling a lot less anxious than he had thought he'd feel. "I mean for god's sake Stiles, why on earth would I be mad at you?"

"Well you don't sound exactly happy right now, pops," Stiles mumbled, then let out a short, nervous laugh as he turned to look at his father.

Noah stopped in his tracks to give Stiles a serious look. "Of course I'm not happy! I just found out my son has hallucinations! I don't believe anybody's exactly happy when something like that comes around," Noah said as he once again walked around the room. Stiles watched as he let out a sigh, looked up at the ceiling for a moment and then walked up to the chair next to the bed and took a seat.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Noah asked, his eyes, once again, so tired it made Stiles' heart ache.

"I told you," Stiles mumbled with a sigh, "I was afraid you'd get mad."

It was still a mystery to Stiles why his dad hadn't yelled at him, even a little bit. At the same time, Stiles wasn't even sure why he had expected for his dad to yell at all. Noah never yelled at him. Noah hadn't yelled even when Stiles had accidentally fired a handgun after Noah had left him all by himself at the sheriff's station for like ten seconds.

As Stiles lowered his eyes to the floor, Noah walked over and without a word wrapped his arms around Stiles. The sudden embrace made Stiles' heart jump, and sent him to a rapid rollercoaster of emotions; faster than light he went through so many emotions from being a little scared to wanting to cry his eyes out, that they all mixed into a big pile of anxiousness, but fortunately he was quickly able to settle down to warm bubbly happiness. His father was there for him, always had been and always would be. He couldn't believe he had thought Noah would get mad at him for something like this.

"So," Noah sighed, and Stiles could hear how he was fighting back tears. It was rare for Noah to cry, but more than often he got emotional like this; clearly blinking back tears and swallowing down the urge to cry, trying to stay tough for Stiles. "We should probably start searching for the right therapist for you, right?" Noah asked with a half a smile.

"Yeah, we should."


The next day at school Stiles found it extremely difficult to focus on the teacher talking in front of the class. Well, he always did, but now it was like ten times more difficult than usual. His mind was wandering more than usual, racing back and forth between the murder investigation, his father and the fact that they had spent the rest of last night trying to find a therapist who seems like a good match to Stiles.

"C'mon Stiles," Danny said and patted Stiles' upper back before he got up from the wooden bench in the boys' locker room. "Time to wake up."

Stiles straightened his back with a sigh. Danny was right. He needed to clear his head so he could concentrate on their lacrosse practice because there was a big game coming Saturday and he seriously needed the practice. Stiles knew he'd probably sit on the bench for the whole game, but every time he had been absolutely sure he wouldn't be allowed to play, something had happened and he had been thrown on the field completely unprepared. So, he had learned that it was better to be safe than sorry.

Especially because of Jackson, their team captain, the coach's pet and every girl's wet dream. Jackson was the type of guy who just had to be the best at everything; he had to be the best looking, the best player, the most popular. And truth to be told, he kind of was. Stiles was the opposite of that; he wasn't popular at all, he sucked at lacrosse and, well, he didn't look horrible but he knew there were prettier fishes in the sea. And that if something made Jackson see all shades of red. So, whenever there was a reason for Jackson to get mad at Stiles, even the tiniest, most idiotic reason ever, he was sure to grab the chance and yell at Stiles. Being bad at lacrosse was one of Jackson's favorite things to yell at Stiles about.

And there Jackson was, standing across the locker room with Isaac, both of them laughing at something with their arms crossed over their chests. It was always weird to see them together even though they had been practically inseparable since their freshman year. They just didn't look like they'd get along. Jackson was a guy who drove his dad's Porsche had jawbones so sharp he probably sliced his bread with them, and he only talked to the rich kids at school. Isaac, on the other hand, looked like a little cuddly teddy bear with his curly hair and wide smile, and Stiles knew for a fact that he wasn't one of the rich kids. And still, they were always together, always whispering to each other and exchanging meaningful looks.

Jackson happened to glance at Stiles' direction, and his smile faded immediately. Stiles watched as Isaac leaned closer to Jackson and whispered something that lit up Jackson's eyes and made his jaw tighten. If Stiles hadn't guessed that Isaac was talking about him before, he sure did now when Jackson turned his deadly glare at him.

"Danny!" Stiles practically jumped up from the bench he was sitting on, grabbed his lacrosse stick and ran after Danny. "Danny help me please," he asked out of breath after reaching his friend.

Danny gave him a quick, rather confused look. "With what?"

"Jackson's mad at me," Stiles mumbled. He looked over his shoulder and saw Jackson and Isaac walk out to the field, too.

"What did you do?" Danny asked with a serious face, looking almost as fed up as Jackson had looked. The difference was that Jackson had looked like he wanted to kill Stiles, Danny just looked like he wanted to smack the back of his head to simply put some sense in him.

They sat down next to their teammates on the green grass of the field. Stiles straightened his left leg and tried to desperately reach his toes with his fingers, but it felt like his shin was going to snap in half if he wouldn't stop soon.

"I didn't do anything," Stiles mumbled, trying his best to not constantly peek at Jackson, who was, in fact, staring right at him. "Just please, make sure I don't die today, alright?"

"Can't promise you anything," Danny told him with a smirk, and on top of it, he laughed.

They both glanced at Jackson.

"Jesus, what did you do?" Danny repeated his question before turning his eyes back to Stiles. "I haven't seen him look that pissed after you fucked up at the final last year."

"We agreed to never speak of it again," Stiles quickly snapped.

But Danny was right. Even though Jackson was always kind of mad at Stiles, and always ready to blame Stiles for everything, he wasn't really angry. The only time Jackson had actually been angry had been last year at the big final, the most important game of the year. Someone had, for some reason, passed the ball to Stiles.

First, it had taken him a slow second to realize he actually had the ball, and in lacrosse time, a second was like an hour of normal time. Then, he had almost run the wrong way, but in the nick of time he had turned on his heels and ran the right way. Everyone had screamed at him to pass the ball, everyone had known he wouldn't be able to score on his own, and he had known it for himself, too. But just as he had raised his stick to pass the ball to Jackson, he had tripped on his own feet and landed face first on the wet grass.

Jackson had immediately thrown his lacrosse stick away and launched himself at Stiles, but the opposite team's guys had - thank god - ran between them and stopped Jackson, because if they hadn't, Stiles would've probably ended up in hospital.


The practice went like it usually did. Stiles got to play for like fifteen minutes before he, once again, tripped over something and almost broke his neck diving head first to the ground. After that, coach benched him for the rest of the time "just to keep anyone from dying.

Stiles had just waved goodbye to Danny and now turned his attention back to the lacrosse stick in his hands. He had thought about quitting a lot of times. He had even thrown his equipment away once, but he had felt so bad about it later that he had sneaked out to dig them out of the dumpster in the middle of the night. It was probably because of his dad that he couldn't quit. Noah had always been so proud of Stiles; always came to see his games and rooted for him even though Stiles nearly never played.

With a heavy sigh, Stiles put the lacrosse stick away from his hands so he could take off his shirt. He had waited for everyone to leave so he could take a shower. One of the things he hated the most, was undressing in front of other people. And, of course, having to take a shower with others. He had been forced to do it a few times and it had been absolutely awful.

He got up from the bench and picked up a grey shirt from his locker. As he was about to undress his shorts, he heard steps coming from the locker room door, along with two voices whispering to each other.

"So the sheriff's still at the hospital?"

"Still. But they'll probably let him leave soon, I wouldn't worry about him."

Stiles held his breath and tried to hear better; were they talking about his father? The voices were both familiar.

"I'm actually worried that he'll get out too soon. The full moon's only a few nights away and we don't need any more blood spilled."

"I heard they put the investigation on freeze."

"Great. Then all we have to worry about it Stilinski."

Stiles clung to his shirt like his life depended on it while shivers ran down his spine. They said his name, they were talking about him. His heart was pounding like he had just run up a five-storied high-rise.

"He's been talking to Lydia. She says she didn't tell him anything, but I don't believe her. His scent was all over her bed."

"Don't worry about it. I'll handle Stilinski."