Chapter 28

That night, nothing could keep the nightmares away. Peter, who had chosen to lurk in the house with the sheriff's reluctant agreement, simply came in after Stiles' abrupt and tearful waking, occupying the empty half of Stiles' bed like it was nothing out of the ordinary. As if knowing perfectly well what Stiles needed just then, he was present, but kept his distance.

"Why are you doing this to yourself," Stiles whispered, roughly scrubbing his wet cheeks.

"I don't mind keeping vigil," Peter answered, opening the book he'd brought. "Unless you want me to leave. Then I'll leave. Or I could call Derek."

Stiles rolled onto his back, leaning into Peter's hand when it carefully settled on his head, fingers just touching his scalp to drain some of the persistent pain. "No, let him sleep. He must be exhausted."

"He could do with some rest," Peter allowed. "But he'd keep you company if that's what you need."

"He's oddly caring." Stiles exhaled in relief, wet lashes lowering a little without his say-so. "Will you accept him in your pack?"

"Do you want him in the pack?" Peter countered. The tips of his fingers began to gently card through Stiles' hair.

Without meaning to, Stiles hummed quietly. "He's your family. And he's good with Isaac. And I sort of like his grumpy face."

"Everybody likes his grumpy face," Peter said idly. "That's in large part his problem."

Stiles spent a productive moment hating Kate Argent fiercely before muttering, "Yeah, it probably is."

Peter continued, "Derek might not wish to join, no matter how involved he is at the moment. I've decided that I won't force the issue."

"That's good. Although … you're not gonna chase him away if he doesn't want it, right?" Stiles asked, looking up into Peter's face with some difficulty. "He needs to heal, too. With us, he'll at least have friends and some family to help."

"So you're friends now?" Peter asked.

"Dude." Stiles made a face. "We spent an evening trying to revive your sorry ass; you bet we're friends now. Even if he doesn't like me much, I've got his back."

Peter smiled softly, looking almost peaceful for the first time since Stiles had known him. "I think he likes you well enough, Stiles."

"Enough not to rip out my throat with his teeth?" Stiles bared his teeth and made a pitiful growling noise. "Cause let me tell you, some people find that difficult."

Chuckling, Peter took his hand away. "That's for you to find out."

Stiles basked a little in the quiet companionship before asking, "Hey, what're you reading?"

"An old treatise about healing magic," Peter said, turning a page. "It's in Latin, unfortunately, and I haven't come across anything helpful yet."

"Healing magic?" Stiles' eyes popped back open. "Wha … why are you keeping this to yourself?!"

Peter's hand effortlessly held Stiles down when he tried to flop around and sit up. "Because you needed peace and quiet more than anything else, young padawan."

"Let me see," Stiles demanded, making grabby hands.

"Do you even speak Latin?" Peter asked, exasperated.

"Very badly, but I don't care. Gimme!"

"Hands off, whelp," Peter said, pressing Stiles down firmly enough to make it stick, this time. "I might be persuaded to read to you, but only if you'll keep your grubby paws to yourself."

"Fine," Stiles huffed. "But go slowly. 'm tired and Latin sucks."

Peter heaved an aggrieved sigh but acquiesced. His hand returned to Stiles' hair, the light caresses quickly helping Stiles' breath to slow down and deepen. When he began to read, the words were spoken quietly but clearly.

Stiles understood maybe one word in five, but the cadence of Peter's speech was soothing and after a while the aural impression of the words changed from meaningless blankness to a soft green, like evening sunshine pouring through a veil of fresh linden tree leaves. It was clean and pure and warm and without quite knowing when Stiles slipped back to sleep.

oOo

On Thursday morning, Stiles and his father got an unexpected visitor.

"Melissa," John greeted, stepping aside to let her in.

In the kitchen, Stiles rose from his chair to pour her a cup of coffee and put one of Peter's divine pancakes in the toaster for some warming up.

"Thank you, Stiles. You're looking a little better, thank god," Melissa murmured. She stroked his uninjured cheek with her warm, competent hand and smiled weakly. "Sorry to barge in like this. I just …" She broke off, her breath hitching. "I just need someone to not judge me for a minute."

"Hey, yeah, no judging of you here," Stiles assured her, gently leading her to a chair and sitting her down. "Drink some coffee, have a pancake. Our kitchen is Switzerland."

Melissa's eyes misted over but her smile eased a little. "Thank you, Stiles. You're a sweetheart."

"He has his moments," John said, patting her on the shoulder as he ambled to the coffee machine to top off his own cup. "He's right. We're not judging you for what Scott did, and you're always welcome here if you need a breather." The toaster popped out the now warm and slightly crispy pancake. "Here, in case you're hungry. They're good and filling."

Taking another shuddery breath, Melissa tried a small bite. "You're right, wow. This is delicious! Normally, I'd scarf this down in an instant, but my stomach's been in knots lately."

"I'm sorry that this is so hard on you," Stiles told her, dragging his chair right next to hers and leaning against her small shoulder. "How can we help?"

"Well," she exhaled noisily, which was never a good sign. "Scott's father is of the opinion that there's no need to ruin his son's future by making him do time over a squabble between teenage boys."

"You'll excuse me if I have a different opinion," John murmured.

Melissa pressed her lips together. "Rafe is an idiot if he thinks that getting Scott out of this sort of trouble would do him any good. It's killing me that Scott's been so utterly stupid, but I've seen enough victims of violence to know that letting him get off lightly won't do anyone any good." She turned to Stiles. "You deserve better, and I'll make sure Scott understands that he did something seriously wrong."

Not to mention that Peter would probably kill Scott if he gets off too lightly, Stiles thought. He couldn't even feel properly horrified about that after the week he'd had. In fact, it was kind of nice to know that someone was prepared to ensure that Scott wouldn't be able to hurt him again if push came to shove.

"But he's still my son and I feel like I have to protect him," Melissa continued miserably. "It's so stupid and believe me, if I could, I'd send him to Antarctica for a decade right now."

"Well, a court-ordered restraining order is already in the works," Stiles' father said quietly. "No matter the outcome of that trial, Scott won't be allowed to come near us again. The judge is still considering the time limit, but that - and the fact that Scott is in investigative custody - is the only reason it hasn't been issued yet."

"I don't understand where I went wrong," she whispered. "Was I too strict? Or too soft?"

"Forgive me for being blunt, but Scott's just a moron," Stiles told her, still rubbing her shoulder. He exchanged a look with his father, who gave a nod. "Er, if you can wait a little longer, I'll explain everything that's been going on."

"Wha … John? You know what's up?" Melissa turned to the sheriff, who nodded again. "Why won't you tell me right now?"

"Because you're upset, because Stiles needs to heal up some more before I'll allow him to upset himself, and because he needs time to prepare his presentation," John replied evenly. "I promise that the whole clusterfuck needs a presentation, otherwise I'd have told you earlier."

"Oh," Melissa said, curling her shaking hands around her coffee cup. "That bad, huh?"

"No spoilers," Stiles joked. Since his neck muscles had stopped aching overnight, he carefully put his head against her shoulder and sighed quietly. "Need to get a cuddle in before we tell you, though."

"Oh, baby." She pressed a kiss to Stiles' bed hair. "Whatever it is, we'll get through it."

Stiles could only hope that this was true.

oOo

For the rest of the week, Peter was busy with Jackson's father, which meant that Derek was a steady presence in the Stilinski household. Stiles, who was feeling so much better now, found many uses for the werewolf: as a sounding board for his homework and his fledgeling college application letter, as cheap help in the kitchen, and of course as a painkiller, both physical and mental.

Fact was that Derek gave fantastic hugs at the slightest provocation, and he hugged like he didn't have anything better to do with his time.

Even better, Derek had no issue whatsoever with letting Stiles scan Peter's book on healing magic, and when that was finished, letting him read it and mumble the words to his heart's content.

"Hey Derek," Stiles called after another bout of mangled reading. "How're you feeling?"

Derek glanced up from the pot of Bologna sauce he was minding. "Fine." He was just about to turn back when he suddenly paused and stared. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay-ish." Stiles grinned. "Why? Are you tired of my face already?"

Derek wordlessly grabbed the as yet unused pasta pot from the stove and held it in front of Stiles' visage. "Look."

Humouring him, Stiles took his eyes from Derek's intense frown and onto the polished steel surface of the pot. After a minute of staring, he stuttered out, "Uh, okay."

"Yes." Derek put the pot down and sat on the chair next to Stiles. He was still staring. Very carefully, he traced Stiles' injured cheek with his fingers. "You feel that?"

"It … it doesn't hurt … not as much." Stiles grabbed the pot and stared at his distorted reflection again. "How? It looks so much better."

"Your magic," Derek said shortly. "Nothing else makes sense."

"But I was reading the spells for you," Stiles protested. "I wasn't gonna experiment on myself when I've got doctor's appointments for the next four weeks or so. Shit."

"Apparently your magic just heals, no matter who you want it to heal," Derek replied, his frown easing a little. "Why did you even want to heal me? Whatever I broke on Saturday has already mended."

"Okay, but who knows what's been lurking around inside," Stiles defended himself. "Just because you're not keeling over doesn't mean you don't need support."

Derek's eyebrow rose.

"And I might've thought that, if I did something wrong, you wouldn't die painfully," Stiles huffed. "I probably shouldn't have, not without asking, but it didn't feel wrong or anything. It didn't even feel like anything, if I'm being honest. And now this." He gesticulated angrily at his suddenly far less bruised cheek.

Derek caught his hand and held it firmly in both of his. "It's alright. You getting better is more important that letting Scott get what's coming to him."

"I could hurt our case. You know how lawyers are always jumping on the victims. Whoever's representing Scott will probably say that I'm healing just fine, it wasn't as big a deal as everyone initially thought, why, let's just give Scott a slap on the wrist and life can go on."

"You'd better talk about that with Peter and Mr. Whittemore," Derek said, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs on the back of Stiles' hand. "They can tell you what to do."

"Peter will probably be angry," Stiles mumbled. "I sure am angry at myself."

"That's just stupid." Derek stood and bopped Stiles on the head. "It's obvious that you're drawn to the book. Your magic wants you to get better. That's natural for you, now."

"Just effing inconvenient," Stiles sighed.

"Maybe," Derek admitted. "I just hope you'll never hate yourself for doing what your new instincts are telling you. Especially if it's something good like healing."

Thoughtful, Stiles watched as the other man went back to the stove to poke some more at the pasta sauce. Derek really was very good at offering comfort and taking care of others.

No way am I allowing Peter to let him get away, he thought, putting his head into his hand and just looking.

The silence between them wasn't strained at all and Stiles felt his mind enough at rest to just enjoy the fact that the bruised side of his face was hardly hurting anymore. Despite it only having been five full days, he'd already forgotten what that had been like.

oOo

On Friday morning, Stiles' father shoved the newspaper over the kitchen table, face grim.

"They just can't give it a rest," he scowled. "Sometimes living in a small town is a curse."

Stiles skimmed over the offending article, filing away the name of the reporter dragging him through the mud for later use. "Not a bad attempt at maligning our characters, although drugs are a bit lame, considering the things Beacon Hills' youth is getting up to. I must say that insinuating that Peter has an unhealthy interest in teenaged students was especially inspired, though."

"He does have an unhealthy interest in teenagers," his father growled. "Don't think I've forgotten that."

"Our bromance is chaste," Stiles smirked, causing his old man to spew his coffee. "I'm sure Mr. Whittemore will have a lot of fun suing the newspaper for defamation of character. He looks like the type who just loves juggling several lawsuits at once."

"Christ, kid, have some mercy," the sheriff spluttered. He mopped up the mess on his shirt and the table with a wad of kitchen roll Stiles handed him. "Hale's attentions to you really had better be chaste or I'll go medieval on his ass."

"What?" Stiles couldn't help but laugh at him. "You are aware that medieval people married off their kids at thirteen and stuff, right? Or are you saying you wanna see me get married real young? I didn't know you were so desperate for grandkids."

"Ugh, no. Don't you dare!" John leaned back in defeat and rubbed a hand over his face. "Let's drop this unfortunate topic and just agree that you're too young and Hale completely inappropriate."

"Well, he's hot," Stiles mused, grinning wickedly at the pinched look on his dad's face. "And he's only, like, thirty or so. Hardly a pervy methusalem. Give me another year and we're golden."

"Good lord, stop it," the sheriff groaned. "I don't want to hear this!"

"You sort of asked," Stiles cackled. "So, are we gonna sue, too? I mean, our friend Gino definitely wrote that I was involved with drugs. Sucks when the editor snoozes and forgets to fill in the circumspect language." He paused to think. "Or maybe the editor hates Gino, which I could totally get behind. In that case I'm all for sending them flowers. Maybe a gift basket."

"You bet we will, to both of it," his father said, rallying again. "After your visit to the hospital. I'm looking forward to your explanation to your quick healing."

And just like that, Stiles' good mood at his dad's expense dimmed.

oOo

Dr. Lee was astounded at the progress of Stiles' healing. Only the sheriff's quiet clearing of the throat prevented a full inquisition, but it was clear that he'd be looking at the new images Dr. Smith in the radiology would be taking as soon as they were available.

"Incredible," Dr. Lee muttered when the examination was over. "No muscle aches at all? No lingering pain from when I put pressure on the bruise?"

"It feels a little achy," Stiles told him. "It's just … better."

"I don't want to make you feel like a lab rat, but it's sort of hard to comprehend that the colour of that bruise has gotten so much better in such a short amount of time," Dr. Lee explained. "There are fast healers, of course, but looking at your patient file, that's not been the case for you."

"No matter how nicely you ask, no, my minor son won't let you draw blood to satisfy your curiosity," the sheriff said mildly. "Do I have to have that added to the file in writing, or will you and your colleagues be able to adhere to our wishes without that?"

Dr. Lee regarded him for a long moment, and then Stiles. "Send it to the administration via certified mail, that way no one can claim not to have seen it. I'll also pin it at the top of Stiles' file."

"Wow, Doc, creepy much?" Stiles asked, shocked, shrinking away from the man.

"Scientists are a scary bunch," Dr. Lee said, much calmer already after John's very clear refusal to entertain him. "It's never a bad idea to cover all your bases. I'd also recommend placing a copy with your lawyer."

"Come on, that's conspiracy level paranoia," Stiles exclaimed. "Isn't it? Dad?"

"David Whittemore will definitely have to work for his pay," his father said with grim satisfaction.

"David Whittemore is representing you?" Dr. Lee perked up. "That's great news, actually. That McCall boy won't get off easily, then."

"Will he be enough to protect my boy from your sort?" John asked. "Tell me straight away so I can plan our escape."

This made Dr. Lee laugh and it transformed his cool Asian features into something much more approachable. "It's not as bad as that, don't worry. But my sort will ask questions and request access to your son if you don't nip it in the bud. With college not so far off I'm sure you have better things to do than fend off annoying demands."

"We sure do," Stiles said, still a little uneasy. "Also, a patient file is no place for speculation, right?"

"Of course not, and I won't put any speculation in there either. However, even the bare facts might pique someone's interest, and therefore it is a very good idea to prevent any and all prying. That way you can sue if someone ever decides to ignore the prohibition."

"Maybe just restrict the file for now," Stiles father sighed. "Take it out of the general availability; we'll work things out later."

Dr. Lee swivelled in his chair and typed something. "I'll restrict access to myself and Dr. Smith for now. I can't do anything for emergency care, though, and if Stiles' slightly accelerated healing factor persists, other doctors might get curious." He finished his typing and turned back around. "In my way of thinking, you should find a trustworthy lab and get his blood run, just to find out whether there's something in it worth finding. If not, well …" He shrugged. "If not it'd be just a curiosity."

"Good idea," Stiles said. "Can we do that, dad?"

"We'll talk about it," John replied. "For now we need to get through the MRI appointment without having you abducted for government experimentation."

"Dad!" Stiles squawked while Dr. Lee laughed loudly.

End of chapter 28