Emerging from the dense woods, Stiles fell on his hands and knees, panting for breath as his palms stung from the contact. His leg hurt. His lungs hurt. Everything fucking hurt.

He'd left the pack in the dust – hopefully, at least – and the ten minute sprint back to the loft had been hell for his injuries and sorely un-fit teenage body. But it had been necessary. His pack was a lot smarter than they looked, and if his calculations were correct then they'd already figured it out. They knew about his heritage.

And he just had to get the hell outta punching distance.

Stumbling over his feet, he hurried to his car, digging through his pockets for the silver keys. His fingers couldn't grab them fast enough, and he couldn't start the car within a heartbeat either which was vaguely annoying. Werewolves were fast and he had about three minutes before they burst through the forest and then cooked him in their little werewolf ovens.

"Fuck, come on not now!" Stiles closed his eyes when his car only spluttered out with a few pathetic heaves. "No, don't you dare, not today, not when I'm about to be stuffed and served as the appetiser!"

As a reply his car wheezed.

"Oh, I hate you so much," he groaned forlornly, absently patting the dashboard. "Come on, for me baby girl. Start!" he begged, revving the engine in emphasis. Just as he was about to get out and start running for the hills, the engine popped and the car rumbled to a start, vibrating under his body. "Oh nope, love you, definitely love you and leaving. Leaving now."

Looking over his shoulder somewhat cautiously – he honestly expected to be meeting red eyes right now – he threw the car into reverse and reared back. He could hear the engine and tyres scream in reprimand but ignored them, instead checking around the area to make sure he was home free before blasting away down the street.

"Right. Cool. So they know," Stiles announced to no one, slapping his hands against the steering wheel. "They know everything. Great. Awesome."

Silence.

"Holy fuck this is bullshit."

Stiles slammed on the break, stopping in the middle of the empty road with wide eyes. He could feel the tremble coursing through his body, shaking his fingers and blurring his vision, but he didn't fight it like he usually did. It wasn't a panic attack coming on, despite the aching wish that it was, but he didn't know what it could be. He was scared but feeling more relief then he thought possible. He feared the next time he saw stubbled covered cheeks and thick hair, but he couldn't bear to wait any longer.

Tightening the grip he held on the wheel, he closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the worn leather casing. This wasn't fair – he was meant to be relieved, he was meant to be dancing with the wolves and finally fitting in but here he was cursing every deity he knew.

And he knew a lot.

"Okay, okay, shit, you're fine," Stiles murmured, nodding absently. "If they punch you, heal it because hey, they already know you're a werefox, it'll be fine. Or healing it could remind them that you lied and make them angrier so they punch you again..." he paused in his musings before frowning. "Right yeah, no healing."

His face could take the damage right? If they aimed for his nose though, then he knew it was getting personal. He treasure that damned mole dotted thing. It was his money maker; it was what drew all the girls in. Then again considering how well it drew in one Lydia Martin, maybe he should let them break his nose. Might give him the rugged look girls loved.

What was he thinking about again?

Oh right. Pack. Secret. Future beating. How could he forget? It wasn't like the last twenty minutes of his life had been somewhat life altering and changing. It wasn't like the last week had made it so nothing could either be the same. He wasn't either hours away from death, or about to win an impossible fight against a man with a fox fetish.

No. Course not. Cause that would be weird – and Stiles didn't do weird.

"Oh and that didn't sound like a crock of shit," the dark haired boy snorted, shaking his head and straightening up. He was screwed whichever way he looked at it. "Well done Stiles. Now get home and get into cover before they find you."

Starting forward again, he may have broken a few traffic laws on the way home but it wasn't like anyone was around to catch him. It was after school and most kids were struggling to complete their homework or hiding away with video consoles and books while their parents laboured over papers or stoves. He could break all the laws he wanted.

Well not all, his father had put that much into perfect details – details that he couldn't currently find loopholes in. Damn.

Pulling into his driveway Stiles threw the car into park before sitting in silence for a few inactive seconds. The park beside him was empty, revealing his father was still at work and still had horrible timing and that meant he was alone.

Alone to face the wrath of the fabled sourwolf.

"You're going to die," he realised bluntly, sighing. "You're going to die until you're dead, and that is so much worse when in the hands of the sour one. He's going to find new and creative ways to kill you and then? Then he's going to break all the laws of the universe to bring you back to life so he can do it again – this time in slow motion."

He trudged through the door, locking it firmly behind him before he slumped against it. "And the crowd goes wild," he finished quietly, looking around the house.

He'd wasted more than the three minutes he'd given himself, but adding that the pack now had to get to his house he was allowed another five if he was lucky. Which meant he maybe had about two minutes to lock every door and window, and hide in his closet equipped with a baseball bat before the wolves came howling.

One minute and fifty five seconds.

Stiles moved quickly, locking the back door and double checking the front before moving onto the windows. They were harder to close admittedly; some like the bathroom window were always open and rusted to remain so, so his arms took a pounding.

He was on forty seven seconds as he raced up the stairs, beginning the ritual of survival again.

"Come on, forty three," he chimed, slamming down on the window blasting the study with fresh air. The lock groaned in complaint when he forced it into place and he struggled for a few extra seconds before he was throwing open the door to his dad's bedroom and starting over. "Thirty two..."

Get the upstairs bathroom then grab the bat and hide!

Stiles pushed all his weight into opening his bedroom door and it flew into the wall, no doubt leaving a dent he'd get scolded over later. His mind was elsewhere though, and his body already on the floor as his hands searching under his bed. He'd left the bat where he could easily reach it...

"Stiles, what are you doing? Are you seriously getting the bat?"

Yelping, Stiles tried to sit up only for his arm to be twisted and a cry to leave his lips. "Fuck me," he groaned, pulling out the throbbing wrist, complete with bruising and baseball bat. "That wasn't funny."

Scott shifted slightly under the glare, eyes flicking to the bat in his friends hands. Behind him, the only unlocked window in the house let in a cool breeze. "I didn't mean... Why were you getting the bat anyway? You expecting company?" he questioned, cocking a brow at the tanned wood before swallowing.

"I was expecting something bigger, scarier and broodier than you, that's for sure," Stiles admitted slowly, uncertain how to act around his best friend. The curly headed boy didn't seem angry at him, only confused and remorseful it appeared. "You're not angry..."

Scott frowned. "Course not," he shrugged. "Why would I be?"

"Because I've been hiding it from you?" Stiles offered dumbly, shocked at the sheer lack of interest showing on the other boy's features. "Holy hell, you really don't care do you? It doesn't bother you that I lied? At all?"

Scott laughed, lifting a hand to wave it around absently. "I don't get bothered over much man, and it's not like I didn't see it coming."

Stiles blanched. "You knew?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Scott smiled, chuckling again. "Once we worked out the whole scent thing, the others got it too – we're honestly not even angry at you dude, it's not a big deal. Yeah, you should've told us, and yeah it wasn't the best action but you can't really go back and change it now can you?"

Stiles couldn't help but beam at his best friend, the fear and horrid sickness that was swirling in his chest evaporating. All the worries he'd had – all the times he'd told himself that by telling them he was losing them. That he couldn't have one without the other. All the worries had been stupid. He'd been stupid.

"That," he licked his lips, refusing to admit the water gathering in his eyes even existed. "Is about the best thing I think I've ever heard."

Scott moved to sit on his bed. "Yeah, well we already knew you were helping the werefox, so it made perfect sense for you to help sneak it out of the apartment."

Wait.

What?

Stiles felt the happiness fade, the stone that had once sat in his stomach returning. "What?" he asked weakly, turning to frown over at the carefree boy. "I snuck what out?"

Scott didn't notice the change in demeanour, and still thought everything was peachy. The grin on his face said as much at least. "Well, we kinda gathered that you snuck it out, I mean the scent leads in the direction of your house and the scent is a mix of yours and foxys so it wasn't too much of a leap. We may not be as smart as you Stiles, but we can track."

"Yeah, you can," Stiles echoed meekly. "So, uh, no one's angry that I – uh, that I snuck out the werefox while you guys were out of it?"

"Nope!" Scott promised.

"Good..." Stiles turned away from the boy, pretending to place the bat back under the bed. The truth of it was that he didn't want to show his face, he didn't want his best friend to see the disappointment and the heartbreak lingering in whiskey pools. It would raise questions he suddenly didn't have the strength to answer anymore. "Uh, thanks I guess, I should've told you."

Scott waved away the apology, reclining back on the double bed like he owned it. "I'll say it again; we don't care," he shook his head, smiling still. The mere sight made Stiles' cheeks hurt. "But seriously dude, you need to bring this guy into the pack or something!"

"Why?"

"He's awesome!" Scott replied, easily like it was the simplest answer. "We really like him, so you can tell him we won't kill him or something. Even Derek likes him and he likes no one."

Stiles closed his eyes and shifted, leaning back against the bed and facing the wall. "Whoa, really?" he asked, feigning shock far too easily. "Derek hates everything and everyone – including puppies. He really hates puppies man."

It was easy to fall back on the usual sarcastic banter everyone always expected from him. Most of the time he didn't even realise he was saying something offensive or obnoxious until it was already out and inflicting damage and causing chaos. His tongue really wasn't his own most days but times like now made him happy that there was no filter from brain to mouth. Because he didn't know what to say.

And he hated it.

"I'm as shocked as you are," Scott allowed. "I think he was pissed at first, don't know why, but he was. Anyway, now he's pretty fond of it. Likes the idea of having another supernatural in the pack I think?"

"He's pretty anti-human isn't he?" Stiles asked.

Scott snorted loudly, more wild hand movements following the sound. "Nah, like he's not going to kill any human he sees but I don't think he likes having them in his pack. A pack has to be strong, and a human would just make..." the tanned features paled a little. "Shit, Stiles man, I'm sorry I didn't think before I said that and – "

"It's fine," Stiles cut in, brow furrowing. "You have a point."

Scott hesitated before shaking his head. "I do yeah, but you don't count. You're human yeah, but you're not weak – everyone knows that," he pointed out firmly, eyes sparking in determination. "Derek wouldn't let you in the pack if he didn't believe that."

Stiles pretended to believe him, plastering on a smile so bright he almost blinded himself. "Hey Scott man, if I wasn't in the pack, would you have joined?" he asked lightly, turning and propping up his head on the soft mattress. "Just out of curiosity is all."

"What? No!"

And that's why Derek let's me in the pack.

"Thanks man," Stiles chuckled, hating how hollow it sounded even to his own ears. "Wanna hang or you gonna go see Allison?" he questioned next, offering up another blinding smile and lazy expression.

Scott groaned, slumping back against the bed again. "Man, you have no idea how much I wanna shoot something right now, but did you know it's our seven month anniversary?" he asked, pushing back up onto his elbows, a confused expression painting his puppy dog features. "And did you also know that girls take that shit so seriously?"

Stiles snorted. "So I take it you don't remember that time Lydia dragged Jackson out of a pack meet because they'd been together for exactly one hundred days?" he muttered.

"Oh, yeah, that," Scott frowned for a few seconds before just giving up and shaking his head. "Anyway, I'd love to start a tournament with you, but I have a dinner to go too," he admitted, standing up with a cat like stretch. "A dinner, might I just add, that is with her parents."

Wincing, even Stiles couldn't help but feel bad for the boy. "Oh man, you have my sympathies," he allowed. "Want me to kill something for you?"

Scott instantly nodded. "Fight for me."

Stiles smiled lightly as the boy moved to vault back through the window, picking his tired body off the floor and back onto the bed. The curly headed boy hesitated, both feet and hands on the sill before he turned bodily, his trademark look of confusion decorating his features. "Why are all the doors locked? And the windows?" he questioned.

"Oh, uh, I guess I'm a little nervous with this hunter bloke in town," Stiles admitted, realising he wasn't exactly lying with the words. "You saw him the other day, he's suspicious and I don't want him using me to get to – uh, foxy."

Scott smiled. "All good mate," he announced, dropping from the second storey.

With the werewolf gone, Stiles blew out a harsh breath, cradling his head in his hands. He wasn't sure how he should be feeling – disappointed that the clear sign pointing to him was bypassed, or thankful that his secret was still his for the time being? There was a tight ball in his stomach that screamed anxiety but that had more or less been there for weeks now, growing as the hunters grew closer and his secret threatened to surface.

Huffing, he fell back against the bed somewhat dramatically. His body wasn't helping him decide how he was feeling, and despite the roiling emotions in his mind, he didn't have any clues.

Or a giant neon sign pointing to where the answer was, like the wolves had pointing at him.

Stiles swallowed back the scream building his throat, instead pushing to his feet and heading back out the door. He lazily walked around the house, reopening the windows he'd forced closed minutes before with a pout on his lips. All that hard work – wasted on something that didn't matter.

The wolves weren't getting the many, many hints revealed to them. It was like they didn't want to know it was him. Like they were pushing the information to extraordinary lengths just to avoid the realisation that the human in their pack wasn't actually human.

Ignorance was bliss, after all.

He was just settling his body onto one of the love seats when his phone started ringing. "Hey?" he answered instantly, not bothering to read the caller identification.

"Stiles? You home yet?"

A smile grew on the boy's lips. "Yeah dad," he promised, shaking his head. "I'm home – where are you? This little disappearing act of yours is getting old."

The older male snorted on the other side of the line. "My disappearing act?" John demanded. "Oh that's cute. Listen, I'll be back soon, maybe half an hour? Want me to buy dinner..."

"No!" Stiles barked, pushing to his feet and moving towards the kitchen. "You've already had pizza this month," he reminded the man, rummaging through their freezer. He was tugging out some meat when he replied, voice adopting the same tone as a scolding parent. "I'll cook and you will eat."

"Yes Stiles," he replied obediently. "Whatever you want Stiles. Just please nothing nutty and no more of that weird white stuff. I don't know what it was but I couldn't get the taste out of my mouth no matter how many times I brushed my teeth..."

The teenager beamed. "Not a fan of tofu then?" he checked.

"No!"

Stiles hummed. "Alright then, well I'm looking at some mince..." he let the sentence hang, hoping his father would perk up and offer some words of advice.

John didn't disappoint, and as soon as silence descended he blurted out a hearty; "Meatballs."

"With my basil sauce then?" Stiles murmured, holding the phone between his ears and shoulder as he bustled about. He hurried to put the mince in the microwave, hoping to defrost it just enough so that he could manipulate it into curved balls. "We only have that whole-wheat spaghetti you hate..."

John grunted. "I'll live, you can't really taste it with your sauce anyway," he admitted. "I just complained cause I could. Be home in forty. Love you."

"Love you too," Stiles replied, moving to hang up and fetch the other ingredients.

Cooking was a nice distraction for his constantly moving body and busy mind. His mother had seen the potential for a lengthy distraction when he'd first taken interest in it and had thrown everything cooking and baking related his way. He'd ate it up – heh, because you eat cooking – and lucky for the remaining two Stilinski's, he'd excelled at it.

Once his mother had passed, the responsibility of cooking had fallen onto his father's shoulders. Luckily, it hadn't landed and moved to their son after the two had come down with food poisoning on more than one occasion.

Stiles could cook. John couldn't.

Absently he began to mix the mince with breadcrumbs, eggs and various spices, not really noticing as he moved about the room. The water was already set to boil behind him, salt peppering the surface and he rolled the meat mix into balls, humming as he placed the near perfect shapes on another plate.

Stiles honestly didn't even realise how much time had passed, mind elsewhere when the front door opened and a bellow of his name echoed through the house. "In the kitchen," he called back, studying the browning meat in the pan.

John wandered in, warm smile in place. "Smells good," he complimented, yawning as he settled against the counter, dropping his work belt beside him. "Good day?"

"More or less..."

The tone made the older male freeze, gun hovering just about the marble surface. "Stiles, what did you do?" he questioned tiredly.

"I didn't..." Stiles sighed, a frown marring his features before he just smiled up at his father. "So, today was... I didn't mean..." he faltered and hurried to remove the meat from the stove-top. "Interesting?" he finished on, sighing as both shoulders slumped.

John accepted the plate pushed across the counter towards him, smiling as his son piled on layers of rich sauce and spiced meat. "You tell the pack?"

"Do I look like I told the pack?" Stiles asked, cocking both brows. "No, they think I'm best friends with their beloved foxy and they want me to get him to accept the pack."

John grinned. "See? I told you that – "

"Scott admitted they only like him because he's another non-human," Stiles bit out. "They like the fox. Not me. I believe his exact words were that they didn't want humans in their pack because they made them weak. It took him a few seconds to realise who he was talking too..."

John stopped smiling, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He took the extra time offered to think over what he was going to say to the boy, realising that the whiskey eyed youth had gone back to his belief that he didn't deserve the group of misfits. "Okay, why are you angry about that?" he asked with a frown. "They don't have any humans in their pack remember? You technically can't take offence to the statement."

Stiles stopped, lips moving soundlessly. "I... I can't, damn it," he realised. "Curse you for making my anger void," he finished with a groan.

"Stiles, I was right, go pout."

The teenager dropped everything to stare down his father, shaking his head in disapproval. The older male across from him was still smirking in victory, already forking together some of the food on his plate. "Right about what?" he demanded.

"Everything," John snorted. "Pack won't accept a fox. Pack wants the fox. Pack will hate me for lying. Clearly, this pack isn't even angry at you about lying for knowing the fox," he wrinkled his nose and gestured his hand to the fridge behind the boy. "Get me a beer?"

Stiles already had one ready, sliding it against the counter. "I thought I got caught today..." he admitted, smiling at his own stupidity.

"Really, now?" John asked interested, sipping the beverage. "What happened?"

Stiles moved to sit against the counter next to his dad, hands already beginning to animate the story he was telling. "Right, so there was this awkward moment in the loft when..."

Don't hate me. Please.

Everything happens for a reason in this story, remember that okay? Just don't hate me, alright; I did what I had too... Also it's fun to watch you all squirm.

Thank you to all those reading, reviewing and following... Love you very much.

Taila xx