Warning: Lots of complicated feels.

The Fabric Of Your Flesh

When Stiles wakes again, he is laying elevated, his head to the side. As he opens his eyelids he can feel one moving slower than the other. But what they both see is a hand coming at his arm with a something long and metal. He shouts a strangled cry and tries to flinch away. Every part of him protests, including the person with the hand and the metal.

"Stiles, Stiles, it's alright. It's a morphine drip, it'll help with the pain." Melissa has her needleless hand on his hand, rubbing it comforting. "It's alright, sweetheart, you're safe now. Relax."

Stiles does relax, only twitching when she inserts the needle. The relief is almost instant. He sighs and sinks into the mattress.

"I s'pose I don't need to as'sk where I am if 'ou are stickin' needles into my arm." Stiles croaks.

Melissa smiles and pets his hand gently. "It's going to be alright now, Stiles. Everything will be okay. You're safe. No one is going to hurt you. Not if I have anything to say about it!" She chuckles lightly, "Oh, sweetheart. Why would anyone do this? To you, to anyone? Hun, please, you need to tell me who did this to you."

Stiles exhales again, his eyes drooping, "Ogre…"

"An ogre?" Melissa stops her caressing for a moment of confusion. "Does this have something to do with Scott?"

Stiles manages to sidestep his drowsiness to address that question. "Whut?"

"Well, something related to what Scott is. I'm… okay? With it, really. I just need to get use to the idea that my son is a… werewolf."

Stiles looks at her intently, and then glances away. His eyes sag again. "S'okay…" He mumbles. "My dad?"

"Stiles, I need to know if it does have something do with that because your father thinks it was the team you played on Friday, especially after want happened to Jackson." Melissa insists even though as a nurse she knows the morphine is making Stiles way too comfortable with the idea of sleeping.

"Whut 'appened to Jackssson?" Stiles slurs but is curious, looking back at Melissa.

"He died. Well officially."

"Whut?" Stiles tries to rouse himself but the medicine is winning.

"We'll talk about this later, I guess. You had better just get some rest."

Stiles is convinced and slips back behind his eyelids.

There are several flashes of time periods in which Stiles experiences but fails to interact with or clearly remember. One is Scott consuming his view, chattering and watering his puppy brown eyes at the sight of Stiles. Another is his dad. He doesn't say anything. He just sits in a chair next to Stiles's bed, holding his hand and gazing at him. Another, and Stiles is 50/50 about this one, is Lydia clucking at him and even looking distressed. That could be a dream, but she is telling him about Jackson so maybe not. Stiles's dreams about her are never that cruel. There are plenty more with Scott, even one where, again this is yet to be determined, but Allison. She approaches him like a wild animal with Scott hovering over Stiles on the other side of his bed. She says something, frowns, and knits her brows together like she is upset. They leave the room, and Stiles falls back to sleep.

He keeps dreaming of laying in the morning grass on the curb where the Ogre left him. He isn't sure where his mind inserts its own fantasies and where reality takes place, but he recalls watching the morning sun swallow up the stars. His body does not feel anything, not even the dampness of the dew on his back; in his dreams he is just a void taking up space in the sleepy neighborhood. But then the sky does a funny somersault and fireworks go off, exploding brightly in his eyes. There is a voice, it's speaking a jumbled language in his ear and makes his head hurt. He tells it different things each dream, "I don't want tea," "That colour doesn't look good on you," "You need a bigger shirt," "There's an elephant over there, you should inform the zoo," and more strange commentary. The voice grunts and jumbles some more words in his ear. But he knows in one dream, he remembers it well; he grabs at the voice and takes a hold of a shirt. The fabric is worn and damp. Under the shirt is a solid mass, tense and flexing. He remembers making a comment about it. It only makes him aware of the solid mass coiling around him, squeezing him. This does not make him panic or struggle. Like a blanket, like the one he used when he was young, the solid mass envelopes Stiles, something soft presses against his forehead, and finally he is given peace.

Finally Stiles wakes up and stays that way long enough for Melissa to tell him he's been battling his eyelids for two days. The burns, consisting mainly on his legs, arms, and shoulders are mostly second-degree burns. There is one on his knee that they doctors are a little concerned about. The other bruising on Stiles's face and abdomen will heal over time, but there was nothing serious. His nose was reset so it'll just look like a plum with a butterfly bandage for a while. No concussion, which surprised Stiles remembering how many times Gerard had hit him. Maybe he was a little rusty. The crack that he remembers hearing, not necessarily feeling, yielded no damage, so that is a relief.

All in all, he is allowed to leave with a bag full of dry dressings, medical tape, a bottle of Ibuprofen, and antibiotic cream. His dad is at his side at all times, nodding and listening quietly to what Melissa and the doctor tell him for treatment: change the dressings everyday, apply the ointment, keep irritation to the minimal, bathe in cool water, no showers, take the Ibuprofen to help with the pain and swelling. Sounds manageable, Stiles thinks, feeling a little more in control of himself. They give him some crutches to help him walk because of the particular burn above his right knee. He asks for a cane instead but they laugh. Stiles thought it was a reasonable request.

The ride home is quiet. Stiles knows his dad is brimming over to say something, to interrogate him about what happened, but Stiles is tired and just wants to sleep in his own bed. He is tired of off-white walls, beeping machines, the burn of the IV, and being bothered every hour by a nurse.

Arriving home, Sheriff Stilinski helps his son out of the car but after that Stiles's insists he can do it himself. His father shadows behind him as he hobbles with the crutches into the house. The real challenge is the stairs, but the Sheriff decides he has waited long enough and steers Stiles's into the living room, lowering him onto the couch.

"Who did this?" The man stands over his son. "Who the hell did this to my son?"

"Dad…" Stiles sighs and leans back, feeling the dull throb returning as the hospital medicine washes out.

"No, you tell me, Stiles. Was it someone from the other team? Because you heard what happened to Jackson, right?"

"Actually, not really. I think people told me, but I don't remember."

The Sheriff deflates a little, just a little, "he's dead, Stiles. He was stabbed on the field, right when you were taken. I don't know when the funeral is going to happen because he's body is undergoing an autopsy. But, you tell me, Stiles, did those little bastards on the other team do this to you? Was it that number 12 that kept hittin' you? I need a description of the bastard that did this, or was it more than one person? I will find them and burying them in the ground, you hear me? Don't think that you need to keep quiet about them in case they'd come back. I'm willing to set a chair in front of the door and wait for them with my shotgun. No one is going to get away with hurting my son like this."

"Dad… I can't even remember what they looked like, it's all kinda fuzzy…" Stiles feels swollen from not just his injuries, but his dad's protectiveness and foolishness. He can't get his father anymore involved in this supernatural crap than he already as.

"Don't give me that, Stiles. They, they fucking tortured you, look what they did!"

"I know what they did! I was there, dad!" Stiles shouts in a burst of anger but it disappears fast at the sight of his father's startled expression. "I'm sorry, I'm just tired… I didn't mean-"

"No, no, I'm sorry. This isn't the time for this." The Sheriff puts one hand on his hip and the other in his hair, combing it back, "it's just…" He pierces his lips and furrows his brows.

"I'm okay, dad, you found me."

"No, I didn't find you, it was the Hibbens, they found you. I should have been the one. I was looking everywhere for you, and I still couldn't-"

"Dad…!" Stiles starts to cry even though his eyes are black and puffy and the salty water burns. His father's eyes do the same and carefully they figure out a way to hug.

After three days of missed school, Stiles is feeling a little bit more like himself: watching trash T.V., playing video games on his computer, napping at irregular hours, and eating microwave-d dinners. Yup, things were returning back to normal. Except for the awful nightmares he'd rather not talk about.

His dad is at work, but he'll be home for lunch. That's all right, Stiles on a mission to level up his Worgen. He has been living in his room for these three days, mainly on his bed. With loose shorts and a muscle shirt, he is a little chilled but for his burns it's a reasonable temperature. They are blistering and ugly. His bruises are mostly still black and blue. The swelling in his face as gone down a little, but he still looks like he was attacked by a hive of bees. He also looks like he is dead because of the circles darkening his eyes. Like dark sockets of a skull. Stiles wishes it was closer to Halloween, he'd have the best costume. A mummy, that's what he'd be. His arms are already more bandages than skin.

But he can't shake this nagging feeling. It makes his stomach churn and teeth set on edge. No matter how creatures he kills the feeling just won't be replaced. He doesn't like it. It's like something has been forgotten. Misplaced. Waiting to be addressed. And if it's let to sit too long it could be ruined. Maybe not forever, but it would never be the same. But what is it?

Stiles pauses the game and studies his funny looking face in the reflection of the computer screen. He can feel The Question reappearing in the back of his head, waiting to be asked.

He sighs, "how is this my life?" There it is.

"The dryer!" There's the answer, not to The Question, but to the nagging. He forgot to turn it on.

Carefully, he places his laptop on the end table and rises like a swell in the ocean off his bed. Moving, that's the hard part. Especially with his leg. The right one with the burn on his thigh. Dear God, it freaking hurts. With intentions to swear off his crutches, Stiles is trying to operate on his own, but his accused leg won't cooperate.

Contemplating his game plan for getting off the bed, Stiles hears something behind him. If it is something demanding a quick reaction, Stiles is dead because slow is his only speed right now. And he has ADHD. You can imagine.

He finally turns enough to see what he heard.

"Derek." His breathes.

The Alpha is bending through his window, not frowning, but not looking happy. He nods at Stiles and just stands there. Unsure like the first time he creeped into Stiles's room and was caught.

"Ah… hi." Stiles settles back into his mattress, scooting so he can look at Derek more comfortably. Flinching when his torso twinges.

"Hello." Derek greets in a mumble and shuffles on his feet. Hands in his jeans and looking like he wants to be sucked in by his green long sleeve. This is not a common sight to see. He looks like the Awkward Turtle trying to recede into his shell.

"Why don't you sit down? I think we need to talk." Stiles says like he did the first night they were bonded and pats his bed.

"Yeah, I think we do." Unlike that night, Derek actually does come over and sits down at the edge of Stiles's bed. Plotted with his back to Stiles.

They sit quietly for a few minutes, Stiles picking at his bandages, and Derek rubbing his hands together.

"Y'know," Stiles is the first to talk, even though that is not completely surprising, "I should be telling you to get the hell out of my room and never show your face again."

"So why don't you?" Derek quietly suspects this.

"I don't know. I know I should. I want to. But, I don't." He clasps his hands together. "Maybe you've finally grown on me. Can you believe it, I actually like you?" Stiles means this to be funny and maybe means something more. He isn't quite sure himself.

"No you don't." Derek glances over his shoulder at him.

"Oh, so you're an expert on my feelings now?" Stiles narrows his eyes.

"No, but I know how the bond works. It won't allow you to feel like a normal person about the one you are bonded too. You should be angry with me. Furious." Derek is weirdly self-inflicting. "This wouldn't, shouldn't have happened." His eyes flicker over Stiles and then he turns away.

"Hey now," Stiles tries to inch closer to Derek but it is painful. He forces himself to anyway. "No one is pointing a gun to my head about this. I'm not mad at you. You didn't tell those sick bastards to do this to me. Did you?"

"Course not, Stiles." Derek growls but refuses to look at him, "but I might as well have." Those brooding shoulders are so tense Stiles thinks they are going to snap.

"So, is that why you are here? Because you feel guilty? Or were you forced by the bond to come?" Stiles is right behind Derek, gritting his teeth because he is leaning on his bad leg but that nag is back.

"What is that suppose to mean?" Derek actually turns around, but he looks livid. "Would you stop it!" He gestures at Stiles's kneeling position and pushes him onto his butt. The mattress makes them bounce.

"Isn't it the same? Me not being mad, you bothering to come over?" Stiles challenges, unfazed by Derek for once. "It's just because of the bond."

They both know there is a different meaning behind that statement but whether or not it will be addressed is another thing entirely.

Derek stares intently at him, studying and taking in the ugly bruises on Stiles's face. It's what Derek does when he is trying to figure someone out when his amazing people skills fail to get him the answers he seeks. He uses his werewolf superpowers to inspect all the little things you quietly give away with your face, your posture, your temperature, your heart. Stiles doesn't try to feel self-conscious about it because he wants Derek to figure it out. They are just too stubborn to really say it. Whatever it is they are trying not to say.

"Have you changed your bandages today?" Derek questions. Maybe off topic, maybe not. Derek's back to being Derek Maybe Hale.

"No, I was going to do it after lunch."

"You should do it right now."

Stiles does his own studying, "is that code for something?"

Derek sighs and gets up, already zoned in on the medical kit on Stiles's dresser. "I'll help you." Not a question, a statement.

He grabs the needed supplies and returns to his place on the bed. Stiles briefly wonders how savvy Derek is at treating burns but then he feels like smacking himself for being such an idiot. Duh.

"You're being quite nice to me, should I be worried?" Stiles playfully raises an eyebrow. "Are you trying to take advantage of me in my weaken state?"

Derek fails to cover up a snort and grabs at Stiles's legs to stretch them out across the bed. "I'm going to do something that is going to help, but you have to let me."

"Is it going to be weird?" Stiles leans away.

"Yes."

"Go for it."

Derek rubs his hand on Stiles's shin. It isn't burned but there is a bruise, a big yellow and blue one. Derek's hand stops on it, gently squeezing the skin. Not enough to hurt but a dull ache is asking for reasons behind the pressure. Then the werewolf's expression gets intense, and Stiles gasps. The bruise doesn't hurt but tingles uncomfortably. He grabs Derek's arm.

"Let me do this." He says, glancing at Stiles. His eyes are faintly red.

Stiles nods but doesn't let go of Derek's arm until the sensation ebbs. When Derek removes his hand, the wound is barely there. Just a slightly coloured patch of skin.

"Holy Hale," Stiles touches it. There is no pain. "What did you do? Are you a wizard?"

"No, we have the ability to heal others. Alphas have the ability to physically heal, but Betas can only take away the pain." Derek slides his hand up to another bruise and works his magic.

"Take off your shirt." Stiles does without question.

He works on the bruises and cuts, touching and focusing until the aching and wounds are flushed away. It is like magic. He glides his hands over Stiles's abdomen, the worse of the blacks and blues. Stiles leans on his pillows while Derek touches him more than he ever thought the guy would. He was just getting use to Derek talking to him with more than two sentences per insult.

Stiles tries to think about something else then how intimate it is. It's all sorts of weird, but Stiles doesn't mind it. Plus it feels wonderful. He can breathe without feeling like his torso is conspiring against him. It had felt like he had done an intense abs workout. But Derek is like a hot shower taking out all the knots and pains.

"This is amazing. How come you never mentioned this to Scott?" Stiles sighs when Derek works out a particularly painful spot.

"It's not that important of a skill."

"I would beg to differ."

Derek reaches up to Stiles's face and cups his cheeks. "Would you get on your knees to do it?"

A hot spike of something Stiles rather not admit to goes right through him. He can feel his cheeks redden under Derek's palms, and his entire body warm up.

Derek chuckles, "you need to calm down, Stiles." The pads of his fingers poke at his face injuries.

"Don't tell me to calm down. I'm being stimulated from something other than pain. I have been in a constant state of agony for nearly a week. Do you know how that feels?" Stiles gripes

"Yes, I do." Derek looks at his face but not in his eyes.

"Wait, does that mean you felt it?" Stiles tries catches Derek's gaze.

"Yes." His lips pierce, and he lets go of Stiles's face for his hands to find the medicine and bandages. "I'm going to do the burns now."

"So you felt it? When Gerard was – and when that Ogre-?" Stiles presses.

"Yes." Derek starts peeling off the bandages on Stiles's arms.

"How much? How much did you feel? Like a lot or uh, like a on scale of one to ten, one: none and ten: a lot, where would you rate it?"

"Eight. It's probably part of the reason they didn't let up." Derek frowns.

"So how come you didn't-?" Stiles bites off the rest. He doesn't know why, but he can't ask it.

But that's okay because Derek doesn't need him to, "why I didn't find you? Save you?"

"You make me sound like a damsel in distress."

"You are. But I couldn't, not when you were there."

"You knew were I was?" Stiles smacks Derek's hands away.

"Yes."

"Then- then why didn't you come storming into the castle?"

"Because one man can't." Derek admits, "I wouldn't have been able to save you."

Stiles mouths incoherent words before getting out, "so you just stood outside, allowing them to beat me and burn me with a fucking curling iron!"

"What, do you think that I enjoyed it? Do you think I got pleasure out feeling what that bastard was doing to you? Damn it, I wanted to do something, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything!" Derek looks desperate, and Stiles's likes it. Maybe his anger was just delayed.

"That's bullshit, Derek! Nothing has ever stopped you. You didn't even try to save me! You didn't even have the nerve to see me when I was in the hospital! I know you don't give a rat's ass about anyone, but I had hoped you'd at least feel something since you're the reason this happened to me!" Stiles shouts.

"I couldn't help you, Stiles! They had protection over the house, I couldn't get in. There were hunters everywhere. Even if there were a way I would've gotten you killed! Probably both of us."

"Why didn't you call the police then?" Stiles is the one sounding desperate, trying to understand the complications of this conversation.

Derek is quiet for a moment, "what was I suppose to say?"

"How about, 'hey, Stiles is getting tortured, please send in the troopers!' God, Derek-!" Stiles buries his hands into his face.

They sit in a pregnant silence. Butter knife thick. Stiles isn't crying into his hands, but makes it easier to not look at Derek. There is a lot of confusion swirling around in Stiles, and he is trying to make sense of it.

"I'm sorry." Derek says so quietly that Stiles barely hears him. "This is all my fault."

"It is all your fault." Stiles mouths into his hands.

The mute returns but only for a short period.

"Maybe I will leave."

"No. Sit. Stay."

"Stiles," Derek sighs, sounding tired.

"Derek," Stiles pulls his face out of his hands. "I am angry at you. But not for being the reason that I was… hurt."

"This isn't good," the invisible tether, "I shouldn't have let this go so far."

"Did you have a choice?" Derek furrows his eyebrows at the question.

"What? No, but that doesn't matter-"

"Of course it does, you Sourwolf! You said yourself that you're more effected by the bond than I am." Stiles interrupts.

"That's why I should have given you an out! Then this wouldn't have happened. It couldn't have happened." Derek pounds his fist on his knee, blaming himself.

"Maybe I don't want an out." Stiles mumbles but for a werewolf it's loud and clear.

"Wha-what?" Derek for once stutters.

Stiles gingerly snatches the back of his neck, "maybe I don't want an out."

"That's- Why not?" He looks confused like this was never something Derek was expecting to hear. Ever.

"Why would I?" Stiles picks at a fiber on his bedspread.

"You- you were tortured Stiles, why- why don't you-? And that girl-" Derek is running his claws through his hair, trying to find the answers that must have floated up into it from his brain. "Just a minute ago you were yelling at me."

"I know, I know. Just – I'm tired, I'm confused, I don't know what to do anymore, and you are such an easy target for my anger. It's like you've got a bull's-eye right on your forehead. I just wish you would've – and I know you didn't want me to be tortured. I know that. You could'nt've have known how completely psychotic Gerard is. Sure, maybe hiring a bodyguard for me would've been a good idea, still a good idea, but you weren't hoping for this to happen." Stiles reasons.

"No, I wasn't. I would never." Derek squints at Stiles like he is hard to look at.

"So then it's okay."

"It's not okay, Stiles. You weren't fine a minute ago."

"I thought about."

"Stiles," Derek groans, "what are you saying? You need to get some rest, and I need to leave."

"No," Stiles grabs Derek's hand. "I want to make this okay! Forget the nightmares, forget my wrath for you, and forget the burns and bruises. You don't need to feel guilty. I don't want you to feel guilty. About any of this." Not about him, not about his family. He doesn't want Derek to feel any more guilt. That's what it all really boils down to. Stiles wants to say this but that is the best he can do for now. "So, just pretty please stay with a cherry on top."

And maybe there is one more thing that boils down. He may be still churning with confusion, but one thing is crystal clear, and damn him for admitting it to himself, but he doesn't want Derek to leave. Even though it was because of Derek that Gerard took him into his clutches, Stiles dreads being without Derek now that he is here. He doesn't understand it but the nightmares, wrath, burns, and bruises don't plague him as harshly when Derek is in sight. So, why would he want him to leave?

"And just next time I'd appreciate an effort on saving my life." Stiles winks, breaking the tension and revealing in the nicest way possible the source of his anger.

"I swear there won't be a next time." Derek squeezes his hand.

Another chick flick moment enters the scene as they hold hands. Stiles can be a chick-flick kind of guy, but Derek. This is a first and probably a last, but he'll enjoy Derek when he's got him like this.

"So," Stiles shakes their hands, drawing attention to it but is distracting by talking, "you said you were going to do something about these really ugly looking burns that are more like blisters from a weird, contagious disease."

Derek squeezes his hand one more time before letting go. "I hope they aren't contagious." He claws off the bandages from Stiles's arms and frowns.

"Those fucking bastards." Derek glares at the damage. The Ogre had actually untied Stiles's arms and retied them in front of him so he could burn them easier. He had even burned Derek's initials on the inside of his left arm. Derek stares at it and tenses up again.

"You could leave it. It could be an eccentric devotion to our marriage." Stiles jokes. He feels better about it when he does. Life doesn't seem as serious when you laugh at it. Because sometimes you either laugh or you cry, and Stiles prefers to laugh. And after all the drama, he needs a good laugh.

"No, I've already marked you. I won't let anyone else." Derek flashes his eyes at Stiles then brings his mouth to Stiles's skin and licks.

"Whoa, what are you doing? What happened to the magic-touch healing?" Stiles doesn't pull away, yet he still feels strange about being licked again.

"Bruises are internal. This is external so it has to be treated differently." Duh, Stiles should have known that judging by Derek's face.

So, Stiles gets licked and occasionally sucked on like he did when Derek clawed his neck out. What a complete 180: fighting to licking. His arms, his collarbone, gets turn around for his shoulders, and then it gets weird when Derek shifts back so he can bend to get at the severe burn above Stiles's knee. He knows it hurts and spends his time pulling away the dressing and tape. Gently, he works, and Stiles barely feels the throb.

"I didn't know you were such a big softy." Stiles has the nerve to ruffle Derek's hair before he leans over to confront the monstrosity that is Stiles's thigh. "You should wear your heart on your sleeve more often. It's a good look for you. Wish you did earlier. Y'know, maybe then you would have tried li'l' harder to have rescued me."

Derek glares at him like a predator about to rip a piece of meat out of his leg. "I'm trying to apologize. So, don't push me. I can make this hurt."

"But you won't do that because it'd hurt you too."

"I have a high tolerance for pain."

"Okay, then you won't because you secretly like me."

Derek does his classic Derek Eye Roll and begins. This time it is a little different, and it has a lot of new and interesting thoughts coursing through Stiles's brain. This has been a very not normal afternoon, but seeing Derek where he is has got Stiles thinking all kinds of not normal thoughts. Part of him knows Derek knows, but Derek doesn't say anything so Stiles doesn't try to control it. He wants to push it, seeing how far he can push Derek. It becomes really easy when Derek finishes his magic licking treatment with the burn on Stiles's neck.

Stiles gasps and grabs Derek in surprise when contact is made. "Uh, whoa, what the hell?"

"It's because this is where I marked you. Suck it up." Derek roughly explains and continues even though Stiles is squirming under him. It tickles and burns at the same time. Conflicting Stiles with shoving Derek off of him or holding him in place.

"If-if you were a va-vampire, I'd be more con-concerned about that demand." Stiles stutters from the sensation and being embarrassed by how much it is effecting him.

Derek snorts into his neck and pulls away from straddling Stiles. Flashing his fangs at Stiles, he grins, "you should still be concerned even though I'm not."

"Ha-ha." Stiles pokes at the burn on his neck. It is flaming and tingling.

"Don't." Derek slaps his hand away.

"I thought you healed it?" Stiles accuses him.

Derek reaches back and handles the burn ointment. "I aided the healing process, I didn't cure them. You still have to treat them with the medicine."

"Does that mean more licking treatments are scheduled?"

Derek pauses from rubbing the cream on Stiles's arm. "Excuse me?"

"Uh, nothing." Stiles casually picks up whistling.

"You liked it." Derek smirks and continues applying the cream.

"Did not. It was weird and unnatural."

"You liked it. I know."

Stiles scoffs.

"We don't need to be bonded for me to know. It's pretty damn obvious."

"Y'know what? It's your fault."

"My fault?" Derek looks innocently at him, "how is it my fault?"

"Uh, because," Stiles has to figure out how he wants to word this.

"Because it bothers you." Derek crawls over him again and leans into his neck. "This bothers you." He scrapes his teeth over the burn. The hot spike returns full force. Stiles clenches Derek's sleeves again.

"I swear to God," Stiles growls half-heartedly.

"Hey, Stiles, I'm home-" Sheriff Stilinski is bursting through Stiles's room like he owns the place. Well, he does, but this is still Stiles's room. It's been for sixteen years. That entitles him to some privacy. But it doesn't matter because the sheriff has caught his son in bed with a strange man.

I'm terribly sorry if this last scene knocked you everywhere, it did me. These two are impossible sometimes. I tried my damnest to get the fight to flow but y'know, when have these two ever been anything but rough water? I hope the heavier amount of Sterek made up for it?

And I know, part of the problem was Stiles being an emotionally constipated teenage boy. Eventually, they'll both get around to really saying what the hell is going on with their feels. But for now, awkward and all-over-the-board fights, and quick makeup bickering.

Again, sorry for errors, please point them out, and they'll be fixed. This chapter was a beast.

And Stiles isn't going to magically get better, so don't worry. Derek is just a good distraction. We'll have to see what the Sheriff thinks about that. ;)