For the first time in over four months, everything seemed to finally be going right for Stiles Stilinski. He had been wary of it at first; he hadn't exactly trusted everything not to go wrong unexpectedly since that seemed to be a reoccurring pattern, but the dust appeared to be settling… at least for a little while. He figured he should enjoy it while he had the chance. He was currently resting, mindlessly flipping through a comic book while his new housemate went through the tedious task of unpacking and organizing.

The appointment to have the staples in his side removed was steadily approaching, and Stiles kept his eyes on the clock in anticipation for when they would leave. He was ready to be done with this. Stiles needed to put it all behind him. He was ready to forget about it, and until the unsightly bits of metal were finally gone, he knew he was just going to keep thinking about what had happened. He would much rather think about the unspoken agreement he and the resident surly alpha had come to last night.

Exploring what had steadily been growing between them for a while now was something Stiles was admittedly eager to do, despite his initial misgivings. He was content with where they stood now, if not yet entirely satisfied. Derek was allowing him time to adjust, giving him time to think about it, and the sentiment was greatly appreciated. This, whatever it was, was intense and intimidating and overwhelming, and Stiles had no idea what he was doing.

Scott had helped, probably more than either of them had initially realized. He had maintained a sense of the claiming bite as an uncontrollable instinct—something that had needed to be done, even if Scott hadn't realized he even needed it. It gave Stiles a lot to think on. He was still unsure when Derek could have possibly done it to him, but knowing that Derek had not meant to do it the way he had went a long way in helping him understand it. The way Derek spoke about anchors and his family… that had given him a lot to think about too.

Everything had been going smoothly today though. He hoped it continued.

Looking up from the comic book, Stiles raised an eyebrow as his new housemate released a sudden curse and ran a hand through his disheveled blond curls. Isaac had returned from his hearing earlier this morning in great spirits. The emancipation had gone smoothly, and now Isaac was considered an adult in the eyes of the law. There had been little doubt that things would not work out, not when Isaac had the Sheriff of Beacon County on his side, but the other boy had been a bit worried initially.

They had stopped briefly at the Lahey house in order to retrieve a duffel bag of some essentials to last until this weekend, when the rest of the pack would help bring over his furniture and the rest of his personal belongings. Isaac had already admitted that he would prefer his own twin bed over the queen that currently sat in the room, and the smaller bed would make room for the matching desk and bookshelf. He wanted to make the room his own.

"Everything okay there, Isaac?" Stiles asked him curiously, casually folding the comic up and setting it aside. The other boy made a noncommittal sound in reply, but his attention was mainly on the picture frame he held almost reverently in his hands.

Isaac sighed. "Yeah," he said quietly, coming to sit beside him. There was a crack in the glass, right down the center that obscured the photograph beneath. The young man in the picture was wearing camouflage fatigues, and Stiles knew by the resemblance to the boy beside him that this was Camden Lahey. "It must have broken on the way over here."

Stiles nudged his shoulder gently, giving the broken glass a considering look. "You know, we might have a frame that will fit it up in the attic. They might be a bit dusty, but we can clean one up in no time." He grinned when Isaac gave him a reluctant smile, but adopted a more serious expression when he spoke again. "This is your brother, right?"

"Camden. He would have been twenty-four this year," he volunteered, clearing his throat slightly as he placed the broken frame upon his bedside table gently. He scratched lightly at his forehead and changed the subject. "We should probably get ready. Your appointment is in an hour, and you mentioned you wanted to check on your dad, right?"

It was a clear evasion, but Stiles understood all too well how difficult it could be to speak about someone when it hurt so much. He shuffled down the hall and into his own room to grab a pair of shoes while Isaac retrieved his wallet and the keys to his truck, and then they made their way down the stairs carefully. He was getting better at moving on his own, and even insisted upon it, but Stiles knew the other boy hovered over him in wariness until they reached the bottom landing.

The trip to the hospital this time was a lot less urgent, especially since Isaac actually obeyed the laws of the road this time. His father was already sitting upright in bed when they arrived. There was an open manila folder spread out across his lap, and the lines in his forehead were more pronounced as he scanned through the contents. He looked upset, his mouth turned down grimly and his hands trembling. It looked like the files on what happened the other day.

His father had finally been able to move by the time Derek and his alpha friend had vacated the premises yesterday afternoon. He was still experiencing some tingling sensation throughout his limbs, phantom remnants of the unnatural paralysis, but was expected to make a full recovery. He was scheduled to be discharged today too, along with all of the others of what the newspapers were calling the Police Station Massacre. And really, with a name like that being thrown around, no wonder it had attracted a lot of statewide attention.

Just as with the previous unexplained murders involving Peter Hale, there were a lot of strange badges turning up without warning to conduct their own investigations. There had been no word from Chris Argent if any of the new suits and uniforms were aware of what had really happened and were offering up their hunting expertise or if they were really just state detectives that had been called in. Time would tell, but it was a worrying thought; there were enough hunters in town.

Stiles could only imagine how conflicted his dad felt right now. There might not have been a whole lot of sympathy for the hunters for what they did, because Stiles knew he could be vindictive sometimes. But he sympathized with his father. The only real victims had been the same assailants that had hospitalized his son not more than a week ago. His father had not been allowed to join in with the investigation, not when there was such a large conflict of interest there, but the hunters had still been contained within his precinct and had been brutally murdered on his watch with his own people caught in the crossfire.

This had to be difficult for him to accept.

Stiles walked into the room slowly, the tightness easing a bit in his stomach when his father looked up and his face visibly softened. He moved to sit in one of the chairs, giving the man a quick once-over to ensure he was truly okay. He looked better, that was certain, his skin no longer pale and feverish. His hands still trembled slightly, and Stiles knew it was probably from the phantom tingling sensation that lingered long after the paralysis ceased.

"Hey, kiddo." His father smiled through the warm greeting, and Stiles caught the offered hand in his and held on tightly as he dared. His throat felt constricted, just as it had yesterday, and he gave the man a miserable stare. "Consider this payback for what you put me through last week, so now that we're even, let's agree to no more death-defying stunts for a while."

Stiles snorted despite himself at the calm, almost catty words that soothed any lingering anxiety inside of him. He shook his head. "The way we get into these scrapes and get out of them," he said sagely, knowing his father got the reference by the way he raised his eyebrows. "It's almost as though someone was dreaming up these situations… guiding our destiny."

"… You had a marathon without me?" his father sniped with a petulant harrumph. "You know how much I love Adam West."

Isaac decided to chime in with a tentative explanation. "Stiles took it upon himself to help me go through my movie collection earlier while I unpacked," he said timorously, shuffling beside Stiles and tugging at the frayed hems of his sleeves. "He has been citing his favorites all morning long. He did a great impression of Ferris Bueller earlier."

The man nodded in understanding, and turned to give Stiles a look. "Well, my days of not taking you seriously are certainly coming to a middle."

"Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!" Stiles cried, grinning wildly.

Although Isaac did not join in with the sudden mindless banter, his bright eyes observed the two of them with unbridled curiosity as they began a quote war. He looked a bit bewildered to see the older man shooting off so many quick retorts word for word and keeping up with Stiles effortlessly. Stiles got it though. He knew most people looked at his father and only saw Sheriff Stilinski instead of John Stilinski. There was a subtle but distinct difference between the serious sheriff and the quick-witted father.

People seemed to forget that Stiles had gotten his awesomeness from somewhere. Seriously, where did everyone think the trademark dry wit had come from? He might have spent most of his childhood learning to cook with his mother, but he had always idolized his old man, and tried to emulate him as much as possible. His father usually kept a pretty professional demeanor while in uniform, but that did nothing to temper the ability to use sarcasm. He was more open at home, and this sort of thing had once been commonplace.

Things had not been the same for a while now. They had been drifting apart for quite some time, slowly, progressively, and Stiles knew that most of it was his fault. He was the one who had done this to their relationship. He was the one who kept lying, the one who kept deflecting, the one who kept avoiding talking just because it hurt sometimes; it hurt so badly to see the suspicion and the weariness reflecting in the eyes of his father.

The banter ended prematurely as both his father and Isaac sensed the subtle change in his mood. Stiles was grateful when the other two decided to discuss how the emancipation hearing had gone instead and he just sat there, inspecting the slight tremor of his father's hand as he held it in his own. He had gotten hurt because of Stiles. Maybe it had not happened directly, but it still happened because of the connection they shared and just how deeply intertwined Stiles was in the supernatural.

Stiles had only wanted to protect him. He had lost his mother and it had devastated him… he couldn't bear to lose his father too. He needed to keep him safe, but in doing so… he was hurting them both. He wondered sometimes which the lesser evil was: keeping him ignorant through the web of lies that Stiles was steadily getting lost in or allowing him to be conscious of just how dangerous a situation this really was and just how deeply Stiles was involved in all of it.

Lines were already beginning to blur. He couldn't help but feel that the two worlds were crossing over in a terrifyingly personal way, and there was a selfish part of Stiles that was desperate for the artifice of his own design to finally come crumbling down. He felt disgusting for his desire to be able to look his father in the eye again even if it meant placing him directly in the path of harm. He hated himself for wanting it, and even just considering it made a cool sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

Stiles just… needed to keep him safe more, to keep him alive. He knew his father was already a target though, no matter how much he wanted to deny it. He had been hurt because of this, more than once now, and it was just going to get all the more worse now that Stiles knew for certain that the kanima wanted something from him. There was no such thing as blissful ignorance, not when there were werewolves and lizard people going around murdering people; the fact that his father was where he was now was a clear testament to that truth.

"You look tired."

The quiet observation drew Stiles away from the dark place his mind had gone. He looked up slowly, unable to find words for a moment. "Yeah…" he said quietly, clearing his throat and offering up a sheepish smile. "Yeah. Had this overprotective upstart—" he jerked his thumb in the direction of Isaac "—not manhandled me into his truck last night, I probably would have slept in the waiting room. We got home pretty late too."

"I'm guessing that the new meds are part of the reason you seem so tired too," he said, a bemused smirk forming on his face when Stiles winced slightly. "You have been taking your medication, right? Because you were prescribed those pills as a way to help you get through the pain of recovering from a physically traumatic surgery. Not so they could sit in the medicine cabinet untouched while you suffer in silence."

Stiles bit down on his bottom lip, a wide smile plastered on his face. "That depends on what you define as my medication…?" He sighed when the man merely presented him with his unimpressed glare. "I might have skipped a couple doses," he admitted. "But in my defense, the oxycodone interacts with the Adderall to turn me into some complacent little pod person that only has the need to sleep."

"Stiles…" His father heaved a heavy sigh, a sympathetic but unyielding gleam in his eyes. He knew what was coming before the man even opened his mouth. "The pain pills are not up for negotiation. You will take them as the damn label directs you to until you can take five steps without wincing."

Stiles groaned to himself, but did not protests against it. "Fine…"

"Your appointment is soon, so I also suggest you talk to Dr. Wells about forgoing your regular medication until then." His father squeezed his hand gently, smiling wryly when he looked up. "I know this is hard for you, kiddo. I know. But humor your old man, okay? I don't like seeing you in pain."

How could Stiles argue with that logic? He smiled reluctantly and nodded at the compromise. "Yeah," he agreed. "Maybe I could just live off of coffee for a while instead."

Isaac snorted quietly. "Coffee?" he repeated with a hint of skepticism. He glanced between the two of them in confusion. "Caffeine is the absolute last thing you need. It would probably do more harm than good. You would probably bounce off of the walls."

The comment was said lightly, but it was still very surprising and a tad bit tactless. Stiles tried not to be hurt by it. He was used to comments like that and he really should have expected it at some point. Most people tended to react the same way, especially when they discovered the main drive for his inability to sit still and never shut up. Not all shared the same misconceptions about it, but it happened often enough to leave an impression.

Stiles had been young enough not to really care, but old enough to remember the first time he had heard of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. It had been such a mouthful, and even the abbreviated version had been too much for him to pronounce right at first. His failure to sit beside other children at school without talking to them had irritated his teachers, and his inability to stay on task with his homework without being distracted by a completely random subject had annoyed his parents.

Being diagnosed had been nothing more than trial and error. Stiles had been resistant to the idea of going to the doctors for tests, but there had been no real tests involved. His parents had done most of the talking anyway, answering a multitude of questions about his behavior, and then he was prescribed a trial medication for a month to see if it helped. It had been a very weird experience, because it had made his head feel like there were bees buzzing around inside and the world felt slow.

The amphetamine salts had definitely worked well enough to give a conclusive diagnosis, and after the trial period was over, everything else was just determining which medication and which dosage worked best for him. Adderall had been the best suited for him in the end. Sometimes his medication gave him headaches or made it impossible for him to sleep, but it helped soothe his nerves and helped him focus.

Sometimes Stiles would miss a dose and end up completely hyperactive for a while until he remembered. Scott usually recognized the signs when that happened though. He was often the one who reminded him he had forgotten and needed to take it. It happened more frequently now than it did when they were younger, but Stiles blamed that on the fact that his mother was no longer around to constantly remind him, and that this crazy werewolf drama was incredibly sidetracking on the best of days. His best friend had never failed him there though. He kept him on track, sometimes even sending off little text messages to prompt him.

Not to mention Scott bought him coffee and energy drinks, which made him the bestest best friend ever. His best friend understood that the caffeine did not affect him like it did other people. He associated caffeinated beverages with something that enabled Stiles to find peace when he felt too jittery, as something to clear his mind so Stiles could concentrate when everything around him was far too distracting. Not as something that made him hyper.

The fact that everyone just automatically assumed that it would make Stiles go bat-shit crazy usually just pissed him off a bit. He would usually smart off with technical terms on why the exact opposite was true when people made those kinds of assumptions, because watching them flounder sent a vindictive pleasure through his stomach. This was Isaac though, mild, kind, overprotective Isaac, who made him grilled cheese sandwiches past midnight and let him rifle through his limited edition comics.

Isaac, who still had managed to piss him off, but in this instance, had managed to make the denunciation sting more than usual. Stiles could take most of the things people said. He really could. Not all of them were even that bad when they found out about his disorder, like Derek, who had taken it all in a stride and had just said, "That… actually explains a lot," in reply when Stiles mentioned it at the diner a few weeks ago. But some people said worse things, and coming from someone he cared about… yeah, dude, ouch.

There was a long, tense moment as Stiles pursed his lips and turned his head away from the other boy. It was completely unsurprising, however, that his father noticed his reaction. His eyes hardened rapidly as his metaphorical hackles rose in response to the wounded expression that Stiles was unable to mask entirely. His father knew him too well.

"Actually, Isaac," the man said, his voice entirely too light to be genuine, and it was something that both boys realized immediately. Isaac tensed straightaway, his countenance guarded and wary, obviously on the defensive at the tone. "Caffeine has the opposite effect on my son, and it usually helps him concentrate and calm down. To be honest," he cast a speculative eye to Stiles quickly, "I was surprised to find the surplus of energy drinks in our garage gone a few weeks ago. He usually can't last a day without guzzling a few of them."

All at once Isaac lost his cautious demeanor, the wind in his sails cutting off so suddenly that he was clearly dead in the water. His eyes widened slightly and then his neck reddened as he shuffled his feet. Stiles narrowed his own eyes at the behavior, suspicion setting in on who the real culprit had been in the unfair misappropriation of his sweet beverages. The guilty expression that flashed over the other teen's expression was confirmation enough.

"Oh…" Isaac said softly, his hands shoving deep within his pockets. He looked up reticently and flashed those almighty powerful doleful eyes at Stiles that crumbled the righteous indignation that had been building in his chest to dust. "Sorry." His expression was genuinely contrite, and Stiles recognized the apology as one for both the theft and for the comment.

Stiles rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile quirking his lips. "Whatever, man," he said warmly with a shrug. "You owe me coffee by the way."

Isaac nodded quickly. "We can grab some after your appointment," he said, glancing at his watch. He looked up apologetically again. "Which happens to be in fifteen minutes. We should probably go get you signed in now so you're not late."

Reluctance kept Stiles in place until he felt his father squeeze his hand in reassurance, the man pulling away afterwards with a smile. "Go on, kiddo," he said. "My doctor should be coming by soon with my release papers, so we can all go home when you're finished. Then you can feed me some healthy monstrosity to enact your vengeance."

Stiles snorted, a wide smile spreading across his reluctant face. "I am going to make you regret those extra slices of pizza, old man," he promised darkly, standing slowly and impulsively reaching down to hug him. "Try not to flirt too much with your nurses, okay? There is only so much of that Stilinski charm these poor people can handle."

"Speak for yourself, kid," the man scoffed, eyebrows raised challengingly. "Hale followed you around like a lost puppy the other night."

The comparison made Stiles giggle with uncontrollable glee. He cackled and shared a look with Isaac, who was evidently struggling to contain his own laughter judging from the smirk on his face. His father did not understand the hilarity of his own words, and that made it all the more humorous, because it was also true in more ways than one. He waved them away though with only a slightly bemused smile on his face at being out of the loop.

Ten minutes later Stiles rose from the uncomfortable waiting room chairs when his name was called. He had sunk deep in the chair when the nurse had practically mutilated his first name, struggling to pronounce it for several minutes before just calling out for Mr. Stilinski. She had not even been close to pronouncing it correctly. He was sure that the only living people who could pronounce it right were his father and his maternal grandmother. The rest of the family just used his nickname.

"Are you coming?" Stiles asked when he realized that his companion had remained seated; he grinned at the surprised look he got in return. "Dude, I am notgoing into an exam room by myself." He was so done with hospitals. He just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible and get home, but seriously? He was not going in there alone.

Isaac joined him quickly as the nurse led the way to the examination room. She was quick and efficient, asking him a handful of generic inquiries of a post-op patient, jotting it down for his doctor to review. He sat still as the woman took his blood pressure and then stepped onto the scale when she asked him to. It was all pretty standard, and Stiles honestly thought nothing of it when she asked him to step on the scale.

"… One hundred and twenty-nine pounds," she muttered quietly, scribbling down his weight in the designated box. She looked up with a smile, and said, "Go ahead and take a seat, and the doctor will be with you shortly." She excused herself and left Stiles to plop himself down on the examination table, the crinkly noise of the paper making him cringe.

For a moment Stiles had thought the perky little nurse had screwed up with the scale. He knew what his normal weight was. He generally topped out somewhere between one forty-seven and one fifty. His Adderall sometimes made him lose weight because it sort of stifled his appetite, so he was no stranger to some fluctuations, and sometimes he got too distracted to remember to eat. It was just a hazard of being him.

Derek had even called him on it last week too, the day they went grocery shopping. At the time Stiles had thought the big old sour wolf was being completely ridiculous. He thought that Derek was making a big deal out of nothing, blowing it entirely out of proportion. Faced with such a large difference though, an eighteen pound deficit from what he thought he weighed… it was a bit of a slap to the face. He hadn't really forgone eating enough to lose that much… had he?

Carefully avoiding the now concerned eyes of Isaac, Stiles cast his attention to the walls and tapped his foot impatiently in waiting. He examined the posters hanging on the walls, carefully scrutinizing the charts that described human anatomy in a morbidly fascinating way to distract himself until the doctor arrived. He was lucky not to have to wait long before the door opened again and a familiar woman walked in.

Dr. Elise Wells had been the one to perform the surgery on him. She had light hair that grayed at the temples and a kind smile. He recognized her from his bedridden recovery stint here in the hospital last week. She was staring down at the chart until the door closed behind her, and she looked up with a warm greeting.

"Hello again, Stiles," she said, coming to a stop just in front of the exam table. "How are you feeling today?"

Stiles shrugged. "Not bad, doc," he told her. "Just a little tired."

Dr. Wells regarded him thoughtfully. "I expect you are still experiencing a lot of soreness too," she mentioned, eyeing his side. "Have you been able to walk around a little yet? Just a few rounds around the house, to help build up your strength again?"

"Yeah," he nodded readily. "I even climbed the stairs today! Which is great, because the shower is on the second floor, and I really, really, really need to take a shower soon? My dad talked me into me growing my hair out, which is a total mistake because this?" He ran his fingers through the greasy mess of his hair. "This is a disgrace. Not to mention my skin feels gross. Really gross. Just… Ick."

The woman pursed her lips in amusement. "You can take a shower today if you like, once I remove the staples." She reached over to the counter along the wall in order to grab a pair of latex gloves. "Why don't you lie back and lift up your shirt for me."

Stiles leaned back until he was staring up at the ceiling, feeling just a bit awkward as he pulled up his shirt to reveal his bandaged abdomen. She carefully went about removing the gauze and tape, and Stiles suddenly regretted asking Isaac to join him in the room when the boy drew in a slow, angry breath that was more akin to a growl. He turned his head, trying to catch his eye, but Isaac was looking away.

"Everything looks like it's healing up nicely," Dr. Wells commented in satisfaction, her gloved hands resting gently on his side as she inspected the knife wound. "May I see your arm?" He held it out for her and waited restlessly as she gave it the same careful scrutiny. "Alright, everything seems to be in order. Let me just call Claire back in here, and we can get these out."

Stiles sat up on his elbows the moment she was gone, and gave his companion a wary glance. "Isaac?" he prodded, unsurprised to find golden eyes peering at him when the other boy finally turned to look at him. He sighed and beckoned him closer. "Everything okay, dude?"

"… We were supposed to protect you." Isaac stared down at the crude wounds with regret, tentatively reaching out to touch but coming short inches away. He retracted his hand and curled it into a fist. "The ones responsible… I'm not sorry they're dead."

Stiles smiled unhappily. "Neither am I," he confessed. "I'm okay though. I'll be okay."

The doctor and nurse reappeared before Isaac could reply, wheeling in a cart with a small assembly of small instruments and a tube of the same antibiotic ointment that Stiles had been applying every few hours to fight back infection. He grimaced and fell back onto the table as the two women put on a fresh pair of gloves, the paper crinkling loudly beneath him as he did. He had never had staples removed before. He wondered if this was going to hurt.

"Ready?" Dr. Wells waited for his hesitant nod before looking to her assistant. The nurse opened a packet of sterilizing wipes and Stiles winced as the doctor wiped the alcohol solution around the wound on his side. It stung a bit, but it was mostly just cold. He lifted his head to watch as she selected one of the instruments, a device that frighteningly resembled a pair of oddly shaped needle-nose pliers, and the muscles in his stomach tensed instinctively.

"Is that going to hurt?" Isaac asked warily, giving the women a distrustful glance. He shuffled closer, his fingers flexing out briefly before he curled them into his palms once more.

Dr. Wells smiled at him reassuringly. "No more than a small pinch," she promised, and then she slid the lower nose of the pliers underneath one of the staples and squeezed the handles together which caused the metal to bend in the center. It came free with a gentle tug, and there had been even less than a pinch, more of just a light tugging sensation. She smiled at Stiles when he gave her a dumbfounded look. "See, no pain at all."

Removal of the rest of the staples was a quick process. She finished up with his stomach in mere minutes before continuing on to the ones along his forearm. That area was a bit tenderer, mainly because the skin of his arm was a bit more sensitive, but it wasn't exactly painful. Isaac had seemingly found his calm when Stiles showed no signs of discomfort, and was just watching the procedure curiously.

"All done," Dr. Wells told him brightly after applying a small amount of bacitracin around the wounds. "Just apply that the same as you have been for at least another week. Try to keep the affected areas as dry as possible still. Showering will be fine, but remember to dry off and use the antibiotic. We have you scheduled for a blood test in a few more days, so unless you have any questions, you are free to go."

Stiles bit down on his bottom lip as he sat up and pulled his shirt back down. He reached a hand up and gestured to his neck and shoulder. "There is a lot of pain here," he told her. "It hurts mostly in right there, except it sort of… moves… which is all kinds of disturbing, because I am seriously starting to think that a bug crawled inside there and it is slowly eating its way through my muscle."

The nurse, Claire, snorted as she wheeled the cart out, but Dr. Wells only blinked. "Oh, that is… I can assure you that it is not a bug. Since the wound was in your abdominal region, we used a method called laparoscopic surgery in order to repair the internal damage. This technique uses a telescopic lens to see inside, and we inflated your abdominal cavity with carbon dioxide in order to expand your stomach. The gas has been known to exert some pressure on the phrenic nerve, which is what is most likely causing the pain in your shoulder and neck."

Stiles raised an eyebrow skeptically. "So… you're saying that it's basically just gas pains?" he asked her. "I think I preferred the bug theory. It sounds so much cooler."

"It was certainly inventive," the doctor agreed with a wry grin. "That pain should disappear within a few more days. Usually just walking around will help get it out of your system faster. You can also just try rolling your shoulders or maybe a massage."

"… A massage?" Stiles grinned. "I can definitely get on board with that." His expression turned hesitant and he glanced over at his friend one last time. He had a feeling that he was going to regret this. He could already picture Isaac mentioning it to his alpha and the melodramatic upheaval it would cause. But… he was worried now. "So I noticed that I lost some weight too."

Isaac, predictably, honed in on his features with sharp eyes.

"Oh," Dr. Wells grabbed his chart and gave it a quick scan. She hummed thoughtfully as she went over the difference in his weight. "You were essentially fasting for almost four days after you were admitted, and that has definitely been known to cause such drastic weight loss. It is typically just water weight though, and should come back within a few weeks after you start eating regularly again. It's perfectly normal, nothing to worry about."

Stiles almost felt foolish about worrying to begin with. He would be back up to good old one forty-seven in no time, especially with the way Isaac and Derek were so intent on feeding him lately. That out of the way, Stiles felt ready to head home after bringing up the issue with his medication. She gave him instructions and he was admittedly exhausted and very glad that his father was finishing up by the time they returned to the room.

They were able to head straight out to the parking garage and he ended up sitting between his father and Isaac in the truck, and the other two decided to make a pit stop through a drive-thru for a late lunch. He had stifled the automatic protest when Isaac had asked for his order even though his appetite was still unsettled and opted for a large batch of seasoned curly fries to keep him appeased.

Stiles only had to beg a little bit to be allowed to take a shower. He was almost certain that had it not been for the fact that he reeked, his father would have tried to talk him out of it, but the old man had allowed Isaac to help him up the stairs. They stopped by his room for a change of clothes first, and then the other boy left him alone after making him promise to call for help if he needed it.

The warm water felt marvelous. He leaned his back against the heated tiles contentedly as the water ran over his head and spilled over his shoulders. He breathed in plumes of the rising steam and the faint, fragrant scent of his own body wash. As much as he would have loved to simply stay under the hot spray for as long as possible, he knew that the others would get worried if he took too long. He cleansed his hair thoroughly and scrubbed himself down again before regretfully turning the water off.

Reaching for a towel to dry off, Stiles paid extra attention to the newly forming scars on his body as instructed. He wiped some of the condensation from the mirror with his hand and stared at his reflection for a brief moment. The scar was just as bad as he thought it was. He touched the one on his side with a fingertip with a grimace at the ugly appearance. The one along his forearm was just as bad. He knew that physical scars faded with time, so the angry inflamed skin would eventually fade, but it would still always be there, be visible.

Stiles had never really cared much about his appearance. Not in the way that some of his classmates did, at least. He worked out enough, not like Scott did or anything, but he had at least some muscle definition. He liked to be clean, he liked feeling refreshed like he was now, but he couldn't care less about fashion choices or the kind of grooming that Jackson Whittemore did. He dressed comfortably, not fashionably. He had his fair share of scars too, because Stiles knew he was a clumsy person. He had been ever since he was young, but these were different from scraped knees and elbows.

These were battle wounds. He didn't like it.

Exhaling roughly, Stiles dragged his eyes away from the grizzly sight and paused when he noticed how visible his ribs were. Eighteen pounds, his mind supplied. He took a good look at his reflection, carefully studying the way his hipbones jutted out around his slightly recessed abdomen. He had always been skinny, but he had never looked so emaciated. A frown tugged at his mouth, which only seemed to emphasize the gauntness of his face.

Stiles tore away from the mirror, a bit upset by his reflection. He quickly tugged on the pair of gray sweatpants that he had brought with him, trying not to notice how tightly he had to tighten them around his narrow hips. He wanted to ignore it, to pretend that nothing had changed because this was supposed to be a good day, not one where he realized just how neglectful he had been to his own body.

It would definitely be a topic of discussion soon anyway. He knew that Isaac would never let what he heard today stand, even though the doctor had assuring them it was perfectly normal to lose weight after his surgery. He would mention it, either to Stiles or to Derek, because it was clearly something that they needed to discuss. He would deal with it then, because he had been right—ignorance was not blissful. He had been hurting himself without knowing it, ignoring the people he cared about when they had brought it to his attention. He felt like he owed Derek and Isaac both an apology and his gratitude for caring so much about his health.

They were better friends than they knew.

Stiles was about to pull on his shirt when he suddenly recalled the ointment. He had been instructed to apply it again after his shower. He sighed and dropped the garment to search through the medicine cabinet. He couldn't find it and realized that he had probably left it in his room earlier when he had applied it. He opened the bathroom door and crept down the vacant hallway, using the wall as support as he made his way to his room.

The small tube of bacitracin was sitting right where Stiles had left it, on his bedside table next to all of the gauze and tape that he had used to bandage himself with. He reached down to get it and abruptly shivered, gooseflesh crawling up his exposed back as a gust of cool air rushed through his open window. He tensed instinctively at first, knowing that he had closed it, but he knew of a few werewolves that made a terrible habit of using his window instead of the front door.

Turning around slowly, Stiles gazed in the shadowed corner of his room near the bookshelf and allowed the tension to drain from his shoulders at the sight of a pair of familiar glowing crimson eyes. "Hey there, creeper wolf," he said, trying to sound annoyed at the fright he'd given him, but the fondness in his voice was impossible to hide. "Lurk much?"

Derek crept forward silently at the salutation. He moved very much akin to the way a predator would stalk its prey, which was a pretty apt description judging by the way the older man ran watched him now. His face might have been inscrutable, but the red glow that had once been terrifying was now a good indication that he was struggling with himself. His long, deep inhale was just another indicator.

Oh, Stiles thought with a quick breath, suddenly remembering as another soft breeze brushed over his bare shoulders that he was still shirtless. He had seen Derek without a shirt on before in this very room. The man was built beyond perfection, worthy of being cast in bronze and displayed in a museum even, and over the past few months he seemed to have bulked up even more. And Stiles? Not exactly in the running for sexiest body of the year right now.

The feeling of inadequacy urged him to hide himself. His arms curled around his stomach in an attempt to conceal the flatness of it from prying eyes. He pursed his lips, embarrassment and shame building within him as he averted his eyes. He had left his shirt in the bathroom in his pursuit of the ointment, but if Stiles could just get around the looming alpha he could reach his chest of drawers for another.

Derek was in front of him in three quick strides, grasping gently at his wrists and pulling them away from his body. For a long, tense moment, the alpha merely stared. His expression did not waver, but his eyes were warm and calm. "Don't," he said, voice quiet and not quite angry, but intense. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"… Oh God," Stiles groaned, turning away because shit, Derek could smell it, could sense it, and that was just beyond humiliating. He felt the hand against his jaw, the strong, oddly soft fingers gripping his chin and guiding his head back. He looked up in reluctance, his heart fluttering with nervousness at the penetrating look he received.

"Stop thinking."

Stiles blanched at the command. "Can you really read my thoughts?" he asked uncertainly, an anxious deflection from what was actually a real concern he had.

"Yes Stiles," he said dryly. "I can read your mind."

Stiles stared, mouth falling open. "… Really?"

The man rolled his eyes, his lips twitching just barely. "No, of course not. Not the way you're thinking at least. The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. Thoughts are not etched inside of skulls, to be perused by any invader. The mind is a complex and many-layered thing… or at least, most minds are."

"… Oh my God! You!" Stiles sputtered. He stared incredulously, noting the self-satisfied smirk with only a small hint of disbelief before snickering. "Figures you would quote Snape," He shook his head. "Are you trying to impress me or something?"

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Is it working?"

They were flirting.

How the hell did that even happen? Stiles thought, almost unable to believe that it was happening so easily. They were practically flowing here over some book reference and it was kind of awesome. Stiles was not a good flirt. His ability to flirt was practically nonexistent… but Derek? He was a great flirt. He smiled that bright smile and perfectly rational deputies turned into simpering fools.

Stiles was about to attempt to try and contribute to this tantalizing conversation when Derek lifted his arm up to inspect the healing wound. The gesture was hauntingly familiar, although Derek never brought his wrist towards his mouth. He clamped down on the instinctual urge to pull away as quickly as possible, swallowing thickly as his pulse began to race.

A vaguely wounded expression flitted over Derek's features, and Stiles abruptly felt like the worst asshole on the planet. The look faded as quickly as it had appeared though, a grim understanding replacing it. "I would never do that without your permission, Stiles," he told him, voice thick with assurance. "Not again."

Stiles shook his head quickly. "No," he said. "No, that's not…" He glanced helplessly at the nearly faded bruise on his wrist, unable to figure out what to say in order to assure Derek that he had just misjudged his reaction. That had been the last thing on his mind. He had not even thought about the claiming bite. "You… I'm not scared of you."

Derek nodded his acceptance, but Stiles got the feeling that he didn't exactly believe him.

"I'm not," he insisted, slotting up closer to the man. Stiles shivered again, this time because the heat radiating from the other man seeped into him from their close proximity. He reached out and grabbed onto the lapels of the leather jacket. "Use those wolfy powers of yours, Sourwolf. I am not scared of you."

"… Then what are you scared of?" Derek asked, his brows pinching together. "You were afraid just now. You tensed, your heart rate elevated…" His thumb swept across his jaw, the motion equally soothing and distracting. His hand slid down to cup the side of his neck, touching the faint, almost invisible scar there from a few weeks ago. His eyes were still scarlet, but his pupils had dilated, now blown a wide and glossy black that almost overtook the red iris.

Stiles found it difficult to articulate words. He swallowed nervously again as they stared at each other, feeling very exposed and vulnerable. He wondered if this was what Derek had felt like last night, talking about his little sister and anchors and basically cutting himself open in an effort to make his intentions easier to understand. His heart was pounding fiercely within his chest when Derek took his hand and lifted it so it rested on his own neck.

They were only inches from each other, just as close now as they had been then, breaths blending together. "Will you let me do something?" Derek asked quietly, squeezing gently at his neck in a comforting gesture.

Stiles knew that were he to attempt speaking right now, it would come out as a mortifying squeak. He nodded fervently instead and licked his lips, blood rushing to stain his cheeks red, and he inwardly winced when he noticed the man flaring his nostrils, obviously scenting the air. He blushed harder as he realized what Derek was probably smelling, an abundance of teenage pheromones assaulting his senses.

Derek did not do what he had been expecting though. He had thought… well, to be honest, Stiles had hoped that this something Derek wanted to do involved lips. Their lips, possibly moving together in a sensual cadence, because they were so close right now. They were a hairsbreadth away, and a kiss, even just a brief, completely chaste one, would have been nice. But… apparently Derek had other plans.

Instead of any kissage happening, the other man twisted his neck around. The placement of Stiles' hand on the side of his neck placed the long, thin cut that extended from his elbow down to his wrist within reach, and Derek snuffled his nose along it gently. Stiles jolted when a warm, rough tongue darted out to lap at his skin. He sucked in a sharp breath, watching with his mouth hanging open slightly as the man laved along the wound.

Stiles gasped as a warm sensation soothed any of the lingering pain. "I…" he stammered brokenly, eyes falling closed of their own accord as the man continued to work. He knew what he was doing now. He could feel the skin knitting itself back together, the unsightly wound becoming whole again under the gentle ministrations. "I… thought… we agreed… to no more… licking?" He bit down hard on his lip to stave off the need to moan at the feeling.

Derek licked one long swipe up the entire arm, effectively coating it all with his saliva. He pulled back slowly in order to see his work, a satisfied grunt escaping him at the sight of the faint white line. It now looked years old instead of days, the inflammation and reddish hue no longer there. It looked more like a scar from a mild cat scratch rather than a ten inch blade.

"When did we agree to that?" Derek asked him.

"Yesterday after you jumped off of the—" Stiles cut himself off with a startled yelp at the sight of Derek sinking down onto his knees front of him. "You cannot just do that!" He cried, pursing his lips together when the man gave him a challenging look.

"Does it hurt?"

Stiles twitched, turning his head away from the inquisitive gaze. "No." He drew in another sharp breath as warm hands framed his hips. He flushed all the way down his neck, refusing to look down as Derek applied the same technique over the healing flesh of his side, taking gentle care to tenderly brush his tongue over it. The stubble of his chin scratched teasingly along his hipbone and his lips seemed to linger almost as much as his tongue did.

It was over all too soon, even though Derek seemed to take his time with it. He sat back on his haunches once he was done, his thumb brushing over the imperceptible scar carefully as if to ensure that it was completely healed. "It only healed the outer layer of skin," he said, voice laden with displeasure. He looked up and asked again, "Does it hurt?"

Stiles sighed, finally meeting his eyes, and answered honestly. "A little," he told him, watching him rise back to his feet. "Mostly it just aches." He looked at the scars himself, a warm feeling erupting within his chest. It had never even occurred to him, even after the neck licking incident in the bathroom a while back, to ask for this. The fact that Derek had… it was nice. "… Thank you, Derek."

Derek nodded slowly. "… What are you doing on Friday night?"

The abrupt shift in atmosphere was a bit blindsiding, but Stiles was becoming accustomed to it around this particular brand of sour wolf. He shrugged, trying to figure out if he had anything planned. "Nothing, I think. Everyone will be over Saturday though to help Isaac move his stuff in and—" He paused midway through the sentence, his mouth falling open as a proverbial light went off in his head. "Are you asking me out?"

Derek reddened subtly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "… Yes?"

"You want…" Stiles shook his head in wonderment. Derek Hale was asking him out. He felt the need to pinch himself to assert that this was real. Derek Hale was asking him out! He had never been on a date before. His experience with relationships was sadly limited, but Derek was allowing him to do this at his speed. He had said as much, and a date sounded like a perfect way to get to know each other better. "You would… do that for me?"

"I would do this for both of us," Derek told him evenly. His eyes finally faded into pale green and gray, a solemn shroud around him. "You already know my romantic history. She was the only person I've ever been with. I…" He hesitated only for a moment before admitting, "This is just as new to me as it is to you."

Stiles exhaled slowly, a slow smile lighting his face. "So… Friday night?"