Author's Note: Hello! Thank you for hanging in there with this next chapter! Most of it is written (and the sequel started) but I have been so busy with work that I literally haven't had a spare second until today after the Thanksgiving festivities. As always, a huge shout out to my alpha reader Casey! Without her help I'm pretty sure we would have never moved past chapter six. And thank you to all of my readers who are still with me on chapter 25.

Please review/comment, follow, and share with your friends! I love the feedback and always respond back when I am able!

The following week was a blur of buzzing alarm clocks, take-out dinners, and Stiles and Derek passing out before either one could mutter, goodnight, which is why Stiles was rushing to drop Isaac off at his Saturday t-ball game after the two had woken up late, the tires on his Jeep squealing as he turned sharply into the parking lot. He then waited anxiously to switch off with Derek after releasing Isaac to the field for the start of the game. The arrangement, a suggestion from Dr. Galler after the "hidden keys" incident, was supposed to give Stiles and Isaac a little more one-on-one time to make up for their busy schedule. Though it seemed to help his son, it only made Stiles' anxiety about getting to the Mother's Day sale on time worse; he found that he was reaching for his inhaler and taking puffs in front of people at the school now, something he'd refused to do even in front of his lacrosse team in high school. June, it seemed, and the end of the PTA, couldn't come soon enough.

Derek had run to the Glendale office to deal with some paperwork that morning but arrived just as Isaac's the referee was blowing his whistle to start the game. There was only time for him to share a quick kiss with his husband before Stiles gave his son a wave and jogged towards his car.

Derek watched preschooler after preschooler swing their bat and run around the diamond, the crowd supporting the players with cheers. The wind began to pick up about fifteen minutes in, dust from the field twirling in the warm morning air. Isaac was up at bat by then, the child's form nearly perfect as Derek watched the plastic ball soar towards third base. Derek shouted, "Go Ize!" and smiled until he saw Isaac's fingers from his right hand go for his mouth mid-run, a knot forming in his stomach as he watched his son slow down and lumber not towards second base, but off of the field towards him.

"Need my 'haler," he wheezed once Derek met him beside the fence, toddler on the verge of tears as he rubbed at his chest. Derek could feel the tight constriction growing in his son's lungs, his wheezing audible now that he was right in front of him.

"Daddy gave you your medicine before you left," Derek said, eyebrows knitted together in confusion and slight panic as he knelt down and went through Isaac's bag for his inhaler and spacer; he didn't want to overdose the toddler if he didn't have to, especially since he knew how sensitive he was to the side effects.

"N-no," Isaac whined as he shook his head, panting gaining the attention of nearby parents. "H-he…f-forgot."

"Okay, okay," Derek said when he realized there'd been a miscommunication, shaking the inhaler and quickly connecting it to the spacer. "Don't talk, baby. Here we go. Deep breaths," he coached as he secured the spacer mask around Isaac's mouth and nose and pressed down on the canister. He repeated this two more times, the toddler breathing the medicine in with the biggest breaths he could muster.

Derek then lifted his son into his arms with a coo and handed him his juice cup, Isaac leaning his head on his shoulder in exhaustion as he sipped. They waited a minute or so on the sidelines, Derek listening to Isaac's wheezing settle down before he let himself take an easy breath. "What do you say we grab some lunch and head home, kiddo?" Derek asked softly as he leaned down to grab Isaac's bag. The toddler nodded from his place in his papa's arms and the two headed for the parking lot, Derek feeling all of the eyes of the fellow parents on him as they walked away.

It was always like that during practices and games; peoples' eyes would follow him whenever Isaac was in his arms or holding Stiles and Derek's hands, their lips busy whispering. About what, Derek could only imagine; his anxious heart was thudding so loudly in his chest that it overshadowed his ability to hear their comments.

Maybe it was about the "two dads" situation, or how they were always "babying" Isaac because of his asthma. He suddenly remembered one of the mothers asking, "He's not really allergic to peanut butter, right? He just doesn't like it?" at practice a month ago, could still feel the anger surging through him at her ignorant remark whenever he thought about it. Derek wished that Isaac just didn't like peanuts or strawberries, that his coughing from the dust and pollen on windy days like today was just a cry for attention. Didn't they know how hard it was to keep him from wheezing when his peak flow was hovering between the green and yellow zones? What it was like to hear the beginnings of an attack through the baby monitor at three in the morning?

Of course they didn't, he thought as he loaded a tired and still wheezing Isaac into his car seat. But it also didn't help knowing so.

x

"Thanks for doing Isaac's treatment this morning," Derek said sarcastically once Stiles entered the kitchen later that night as he scrubbed a pan clean in the sink.

"What? Oh, shit," Stiles sighed heavily, tossing his keys on the counter in exhaustion. "I'm sorry, I meant to text you. I must have-"

"Forgotten?"

"It was a crazy morning and it just slipped my mind," Stiles mumbled defensively, fingers rubbing at his eyes to wake himself up. "Did you put him to bed already?"

"He's in our bed watching Disney," Derek explained, voice devoid of emotion as he rinsed the pan in his hands off and placed it in the disk rack.

"He was supposed to be in bed over an hour ago!"

"I had to give him a treatment around one and then again at five. It's nine. I'm sure you can do the math," Derek said as he turned the sink off and wiped his hands with a dishtowel.

"What?"

"He hasn't stopped wheezing since I had to give him his rescue inhaler in the middle of the game," Derek explained, irritation finally coming through in his voice as he hung the towel on the door handle of the stove. "It was windy and the pollen count was high. I think they may have cut the grass before the game. That plus no pre-game treatment means that I can't get his peak flow to go back near the green zone." There was anger in his voice, the type that Stiles remembered hearing back when their days consisted of dealing with supernatural creatures threatening Beacon Hills and the surrounding areas, back when Derek protected himself with his hard, muscular exterior, their relationship nothing more than their friendships with Scott.

"Fuck," Stiles sighed as he beat his fist against the wall on his way out of the kitchen, the disappointment growing within himself enough to spring tears in his eyes as he raced up the stairs to check on Isaac.

x

"Ize?" Stiles asked softly as he sat on the edge of his bed, the toddler's eyes closed as the mist from his nebulizer filled the fish mask on his face. Stiles pushed his fingers through his son's curls and said his name again, the child's eyes fluttering open. "How're you doing, honey?"

"Otay," he whispered from behind the mask, still half-asleep.

"I'm sorry I forgot your treatment this morning," he sighed. "Is there anything I can get you that might make you feel better?" Stiles asked, feeling Isaac's forehead, thankful he wasn't running a fever on top of everything else.

"Book?" he asked breathily.

"Sure, baby. Which one?"

"Tatertiller," he replied, and Stiles could swear he saw a small smile beneath the mask, guilt in his heart multiplying as he left the room to find The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle.

x

"I thought that you should have this," Stiles' father had said as he gestured towards the wooden rocking chair he'd placed in the corner of Isaac's room the day after they'd adopted him.

"Is this…," Stiles began to ask softly as his fingers ran over the smooth, dark arm and up and around the back's arch. "The one from when I was little?"

"I sanded and stained it," he explained, one side of his lips curling into a hopeful smile as he watched the nostalgia fill his son.

"Dad, you really didn't have to do this." Stiles imagined his mother's arms around him, his head against her chest, the two of them rocking gently as he did a middle-of-the-night breathing treatment.

"I know Isaac's not really a baby anymore, but you said the psychologist mentioned bonding through cuddling and I figured-"

"It's not that," Stiles whispered. His father gave a nod of understanding.

"If it's too much I can bring it home," he offered.

"No," Stiles said, shaking his head, hand refusing to leave the chair. He took a deep breath. "I love it. And Isaac's going to love it, too. Thank you."

x

"Tatertiller," Isaac had smiled as he bent down and picked up The Very Hungry Caterpillar from the basket of books Stiles had strategically placed next to the rocking chair in the toddler's new bedroom their first August with him.

"Good choice," Stiles commented as he lifted the child with the book in his hands and settled him on his lap in the chair. Isaac was too busy fumbling with the pages to notice that Stiles had reached for the colorful fish mask the pharmacist had recommended earlier that day, medicine already poured into the attached reservoir to help the process go as smoothly as possible.

The starting of the nebulizer compressor had caused Isaac to flinch, but he calmed once Stiles pointed to the source of the scary sound on the floor beside them. "It's just like the one we used at Dr. Marmon's office today," he soothed as he placed the mask over his own face for Isaac to see before handing it to the child to investigate for himself.

"Fishy!" he'd laughed when he saw the design, one hand playing with the mist coming up from the reservoir.

"Mmhm," Stiles hummed happily as he helped the toddler secure it against his face. "Fishy is going to help you take your medicine."

Isaac let out a few miserable whimpers once it was in place, tears beginning to form as his tiny hands pulled at the strap.

"You know, I used to have to do treatments for my asthma all the time when I was little like you," Stiles soothed as he took Isaac's hands in his and gently positioned the toddler against his chest. "My mom would sit in this rocking chair and read books to me while I used my nebulizer." His voice remained warm as his fingertips circled Isaac's back, toddler's sniffles turning into little hiccups as he calmed. "It was our special time together and I thought maybe it could be our special time, too."

Isaac looked up at Stiles, chest moving evenly against his as he breathed in the medication. They'd already talked about Stiles' mommy by then, how she'd gone to heaven just like Isaac's and loved him so so much even though they'd never met.

"You picked one of my favorites," Stiles smiled as he pulled the book from where it had fallen between his leg and the arm of the chair. "The very hungry caterpillar,"he began in his storytelling voice as he opened the book in front of them, Isaac's eyes focusing on the first page where a tiny white egg lay on a green leaf.

The toddler's eyes remained wide as he took in the colors and rubbed at the holes and glossiness of the pages, his fascination with the growing green caterpillar's food choices throughout the story evident in the little giggles he'd make once Stiles would reveal the next page. His behavior had made Stiles wonder if he'd ever been read to before, and the thought that moments like that were missing from Isaac's memory were just another reminder of how thankful Stiles was to have such a sweet little boy in his life.

And now, eight months later, with Isaac snuggled against him in the bed and his eyes smiling as they focused on the pages of his favorite book, he couldn't help but think about how he didn't deserve such a moment. How could he have forgotten something as important as Isaac's medication? He could hear him wheezing despite the numerous treatments Derek had administered throughout the day, coughs that surfaced every now and then deep and chesty and so painful to listen to.

The promise he'd made Isaac on that first day of t-ball came back to him, and he remembered his father smiling and waving at the two of them from the crowd as he kneeled before a panicked Isaac ten minutes before the start of the game.

"But what if I can't breave?" Isaac had asked, head down, fingers fiddling with the hem of his navy blue baseball shirt.

"I'll be watching from right over there with Gampa," Stiles said as he pointed to where he'd set up chairs alongside the other parents. "And if you need medicine you can just walk off of the field and I'll have it ready, okay?"

Isaac hadn't looked so sure, his head still down, bottom lip jutting out a little.

"Remember, don't let the fear of striking out…," Stiles started, quoting the wooden encouragement that hung against the hallway wall beneath the stairwell of their house.

"…keep you from playing the game," Isaac mumbled softly, head lifting a bit as his fingers continued to play with the bottom of his shirt.

"You don't have to let your asthma hold you back, Ize. You've been taking your medicine and you know when to slow down."

"But I'm still scawed," he whined, lower lip quivering.

"I know," Stiles sighed understandingly. "I used to get scared before games, too. But you know what?"

"What?"

"You've been practicing hard and deserve to be out there with all of your friends. And you were so excited yesterday and this morning."

"I don't wanna play," he whispered, shaking his head as tears formed in his eyes.

"Ize, baby," he sighed, hands taking his son's. "You'll be fine. I promise. You did your neb and inhalers this morning. Your peak flow was nearly perfect."

Isaac just shrugged in true Derek-style.

"Do your lungs feel tight?"

"Y-yes," he admitted, tears finally streaming down his face. "And it feels like I eated butterflies."

"Oh, honey," Stiles chuckled, picking Isaac up and wrapping him in a hug. "That's not asthma, baby. That's nerves. You're just anxious is all."

"Is Papa coming?" he sniffled.

"He's gonna try his best."

"Otay."

"But Gampa and I will be cheering you on from right over there. See him?"

Isaac waved shyly from his place in Stiles' arms, confidence slightly boosted by the smile his grandfather was giving him from his place in the crowd.

"You've got this, Ize. Go show 'em how hard you've been practicing," Stiles smiled as he lowered Isaac to the ground, watching as he ran over to join his team on the field.

"He's come a long way," John commented from his green canvas chair once Stiles had come back over.

Stiles had nodded as he plopped himself down into his own, knowing more than anyone else that the past seven months had been anything but easy.

"Always used to be so afraid of the world, eyes and ears on alert like he was waiting for the next thing to go wrong," he continued, shaking his head, hating that that was what Isaac's life could still have been if Mr. Leahy hadn't lost it that August night.

Stiles didn't like thinking about all of that, the idea always hanging like a cloud over his family, the what if looming darkly, making it feel like Isaac could be ripped from them at any moment even though he knew it would never happen.

"Do you remember how he used to keep his sippy cup in his mouth to keep himself from coughing?" John asked as cheers rose from the crowd; one of the boys on Isaac's team had hit the ball farther into the field than those before him, allowing a girl to finally complete a home run.

"Dad…," Stiles trailed, slightly annoyed that the topic was being brought up in a public place, the details of his family something he liked to keep locked away.

"I know, I'm sorry. Not really the place to discuss this," he sighed. "But I think it's important for you to hear."

Stiles knew his father was going to continue regardless of how he felt about it, so he bit his tongue and let his father go on, eyes focusing on Isaac talking to a friend as they sat on the bench.

"Anyway, he'd be watching cartoons and a fit would start up and in the cup would go. And then when he couldn't keep it from progressing he'd finally waddle on over and say that Balto was sick and needed medicine."

"I remember that stage more clearly than I'd like to," Stiles mumbled, hoping his father would catch a hint even though he knew he wouldn't.

"My point is, I remember you telling me how you wished he'd just come straight to you when he didn't feel well because it would mean he trusted you enough, that he wasn't afraid of the little things. And we had many conversations about how you weren't sure how to get him to that point." John sighed, taking a moment to form his thoughts. "You thought for a long time that he might never move on from that, but here you are."

Stiles opened his mouth to speak but closed it when he realized his father was right. Isaac had come right up to Stiles and let him coax what was bothering him out, a change he'd barely given any notice to before. It had seemed so huge in the beginning, that Isaac explain his feelings and thoughts, and it had developed so slowly that it felt as though it had snuck up on them, had nestled into their lives without becoming visible.

He thought back to the first month with Isaac at their house, when it was just Derek, Isaac, and himself on Saturday mornings, the then-toddler cuddled up with his blankie and Balto on the couch.

"You okay, Ize?" he or Derek would ask after the coughing would begin, tone light as if they were asking whether he wanted milk or juice.

"I otay," he'd smile before sipping on his juice cup until it was dry, coughs surfacing only when the cup couldn't keep them at bay. "More, please," always followed that, and it had taken Stiles nearly a month to realize that the toddler was always drinking so much not because he was thirsty or that his throat was dry, but to keep himself from coughing.

"It's a pattern," he'd explained to Derek as they observed Isaac watching Bubble Guppies from the carpet one Saturday morning in the beginning of October, the juice cup attached to the toddler's lips only after he'd started going into a coughing fit. "There's nothing left in the cup. Watch what he does when he can't keep them from coming."

"Bawto doesn't feew good," Isaac explained as he entered the kitchen nearly fifteen minutes later, empty juice cup that Stiles had refilled twice already in one hand, the stuffed wolf in the other.

"Does his tummy hurt?" Stiles would ask as he bent down, the next few sentences following what was beginning to feel like a script. It was how he'd noticed the pattern in the first place, why he'd even brought the issue up to Derek.

"No," Isaac shook his head. "He needs his 'haler." A small line of coughs cropped up, the toddler unable to keep them at bay because Derek was filling his cup again.

"He seems a little scared," Stiles would say, adding to the script. "Why don't you show Balto how you take your medicine?"

Isaac would shake his head, coughs continuing until it was obvious he needed medicine, too.

"You do," Isaac would insist as Stiles opened the cabinet to pull the medicine out.

"Balto trusts you, though. Here, give the inhaler a good shake. Show him what a big boy you are," he'd encouraged while Derek recapped his sippy cup.

For a while, Isaac had refused by pulling back and increasing his grip on the stuffed animal, but sometime around the middle of December, he'd started to happily model how to take a spacer treatment; he wanted to shake the canister, put the inhaler in the slot, and hold the contraption all by himself. It wasn't always dependable, as Isaac would sometimes ask for Stiles to do it first, but as the months had worn on, Isaac had begun to want a more active role in taking his medication, the status of Balto's asthma soon becoming a topic that drifted almost completely out of their lives.

"You did good, kiddo," his father had smiled as he patted him on the shoulder, hand squeezing it as he let it linger for a moment, Stiles allowing himself to take a deep breath and smile at the thought.

As much of a win that first day of t-ball games had felt like, though, the night after Isaac' had had that attack during his game felt like a horrible loss, like the bases had been loaded and the crowd was cheering but he'd ended up striking out.

He lay in the darkness hours after arriving home, swearing that he could feel Derek's eyes on his back, imagining his jaw clenched tightly in anger even though he knew by his husband's snores that he was fast asleep. His tired eyes focused on the red numbers of his digital alarm clock until his eyelids grew heavy enough to close, weight of the day pulling him into one of the worst sleeps he was sure he'd ever had.