A/N: Lol so I thought I was done with this story (no creative juices flowing and whatnot), but I was bitten by the writing bug today. Which I think is a thing. But anyways. Still haven't finished the story, still probably won't, but here you are haha.

After a few seconds of silence, Scott burst out with, "Well? Who was it?"

"Nobody," Stiles snapped. He was sick to death of this whole "help poor, defenseless, damsel-in-distress Stiles" vibe that seemed to be permeating every person with whom he came in contact lately.

As soon as Coach opened the door, Stiles rose to his feet. "I want to go home," he said firmly, ignoring Scott's worried (annoying) stare.

Coach leveled his gaze at Stiles. "You're going to the hospital, Stilinski."

Stiles bristled. "I don't need a hospital," he said through gritted teeth.

Coach ignored him and fixed his eyes on Scott. "McCall, I thought I told you to watch your imbecile classmates." Despite the words, there was no heat in Coach's tone.

"Listen," Stiles said. Maybe he could get out of this if he blew it off as nothing. Reining in his anger, he said, "I appreciate you wanting to help, but I'm fine, really. I don't need -"

"McCall," Coach barked. "You've been excused from class to drive Mr. Stilinski to the hospital."

Scott blinked, but he then hastily replied with, "Thank you, Coach."

Coach only grunted before making his way back toward the gym.

"Scott." Stiles whirled on his best friend as soon as Coach was out of sight. "C'mon, man, you know you can't take me there."

"Stiles, I'm taking you to the hospital. End of discussion."

Scott was already striding toward the exit. Stiles hurried to catch up. "No, I mean, what'll the doctors think when they see frickin' claw marks that more than likely came from a wolf?" Which, yeah, was a good point, but not the real reason Stiles didn't want to go. Getting him medically checked out was just one step closer to them figuring out what was happening. One step closer to them finding out who was doing this.

One step closer to losing everyone he's ever cared about.

Scott shrugged. "They'll come up with a normal explanation. They always do."

And . . . Stiles had no possible counter to that.

"But if you're that worried about it," Scott continued, "My mom can probably look at you on her own."

Oh, sure, that's a great idea, Scott! Stiles thought vehemently. Let's add the woman who raised you to the list of people involved in this situation who are about to be brutally murdered! All he said was, "Nah, your mom's way too busy. Wouldn't want to disturb her." Or get her killed. Besides, maybe the waiting list to a regular doctor would be too long and Scott would get bored, allowing them both to leave without an actual check-up.

"Lucky you!" The lady behind the reception desk grinned brightly at the two boys. "Dr. Emmerson has just enough time to check you over, as he's in between patients right now!"

"Yay," Stiles cheered in monotone. "Lucky me."

The only reason the nurse had even bothered looking for available slots for the two of them was because everyone at the hospital was friends with Melissa McCall. Scott got an automatic "Pay attention to me" card every time he set foot in this building.

Scott shot him a quick glare before smiling at the woman. "Thank you so much," he said sincerely. "We appreciate it."

"No, Scott," Stiles hissed as they approached the doctor's office. "We definitely do not appreciate it."

Scott through his hands into the air, exasperated. "What's your deal, man? Why are you so against getting help?"

Stiles bit his lip and looked away.

Scott sighed. "Let's just . . . finish the check-up. And then, then -" he pointed at his best friend. "You will be telling me everything."

Stiles frowned. "Fine," he lied.

They entered Dr. Emmerson's office.

Sheriff Stilinski was sitting at his desk at the police station when his cell phone began buzzing irritably. The sheriff fished his device out of his pocket and answered it without looking at the caller ID. "Stilinski."

"Mr. Stilinski," a woman's voice, strong and authoritative, answered him, "This is Beacon Hills High School."

Cold terror gripped Sheriff Stilinski's heart. It's fine, he told himself sternly. Stiles is fine. He probably skipped or got detention. His son hadn't always been an extremely truant child, but something had changed in these last few months. The sheriff didn't know what had happened, but suddenly everything easy and relaxed in his relationship with his son had become strained and forced. They weren't on bad terms per se - in fact, to an outsider, their interactions probably looked normal, familial. But the truth of the matter was that he'd never felt more distant from Stiles than he did now.

"We are calling to let you know that your son was dismissed from his classes today so that he could go to the hospital."

The sheriff gripped his phone tighter, the initial terror he'd felt when he first got the call constricting his chest. "I - is he okay?" he managed to get out past his compressed lungs.

The woman hesitated, and that split second of silence was years to Sheriff Stilinski. "I'm not at liberty to say."

At first, the words didn't register to the sheriff. And when they finally did, it still took him a minute to respond. Because surely she didn't mean what she had just said, right?

Sheriff Stilinski's hand clenched into a fist. "Not at liberty to say?" he said, fighting to keep his voice down. Several deputies were already glancing at him through the windows of his office. "I'm his father. What do you mean you're not at liberty to say what condition my son is in?"

The woman, seemingly strengthened by the anger in his tone, replied coolly, "I mean that I am not allowed to disclose that information to you."

You'll be lucky to keep your job once I'm through talking to administration, he thought viciously. "Can you at least tell me when he left?" he said through clenched teeth.

He heard her rifling papers on the other end. "About an hour ago."

This time the sheriff didn't even bother trying to lower his voice. "He went to the hospital an hour ago and you're telling me now?" Without even really being aware of it, he was already throwing on his coat and headed out the door.

He didn't wait for the woman to come up with a half-cocked excuse - he ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket. He took a brief moment to tell the department where he was going, but then he wasted no time getting into his car and roaring out of the parking lot.

He arrived at the hospital in record time (because he may or may not have been aided by the sirens on his car). He burst through the hospital doors, knowing he'd gotten there quickly, but not knowing if it was fast enough. His son could be bleeding out on a gurney, for all he knew.

"What room is Stiles Stilinski in?" he barked at the receptionist, not caring how impolite his actions might be. He needed to see his son.

The young man behind the desk, flustered, began typing into his computer rapidly. He was obviously new - the sheriff had never seen him before. "Um, yes, just a minute, sir."

The sheriff impatiently stood in front of the desk, his fingers tapping his leg as he waited for the answer.

When the typing slowed, Sheriff Stilinski shot a quick look at the receptionist. The young man's face was drawn into a slight frown as he stared at his computer screen. "Could you please tell me your relation to Mr. Stilinski, sir?"

"I'm his father," the sheriff said in what he hoped was a calm tone of voice.

"Oh . . . okay," the receptionist said, his eyes flicking from the desktop to the sheriff. "I'm gonna have to make a quick call." He picked up the desk phone and dialed a number. "Hello, this is Dave. I, um . . . Stiles Stilinski's father is at the front desk." His gaze nervously flitted back to the sheriff. "Yes. Right now. He wants to know which room his son is in. . . . Yes. . . . Yes, I understand. I'll tell him."

By the time the receptionist, Dave, hung up the phone, Sheriff Stilinski's fingers were itching to yank the computer toward himself and do his own search. "Well?" he bit out irritably.

"Uh," Dave said, "Someone will be down here shortly to talk to you."

Sheriff Stilinski froze. He's dead, Stiles is dead, I didn't get here in time. The doctor is coming to deliver the bad news. He'll ask me to sit down - they always ask you to sit down, as though sitting down will help soften the blow, negate the damage, but it doesn't, it doesn't ever - and then he'll explain patiently that they did everything they could, but the injury (tumor) was too large, it was inoperable, it was impossible -

"Sheriff?"

The familiar voice broke the sheriff out of his frantic, deteriorating thoughts. Melissa McCall was striding toward him, a pained expression on her face.

The sheriff's knees buckled and he nearly fell. "Stiles? . . ." he croaked. Already dark hopelessness threatened, looming at the edge of his mind. It was the same darkness that always caused him to pick up that second drink, that third shot; but this time there would be no one to pull him back, no reason for him not to drink himself into spiraling oblivion.

Melissa's brow creased for a moment, but then she seemed to understand what he was asking. "Stiles is fine," she soothed as she came to a stop near him, placing one hand on his arm.

Raw relief blotted out every other emotion for a moment. He took a sharp breath. "He's not . . . ?"

Melissa was shaking her head before he even finished. "He's fine," she repeated firmly.

The sheriff nearly sobbed at the assuaging news, but a fierce dart of anger jolted his senses. "Then why won't anyone tell me what he's doing here? If he's fine, he wouldn't be here!" His voice increased in volume until he nearly shouted the last word.

Melissa paid no heed to the curious glances from the people in the waiting room as she ushered Sheriff Stilinski into an empty hospital room. She closed the door with a click and then turned back to him. "Sheriff, I have bad news and then more bad news. At this point, I don't know which is worse than the other."

"Please." The sheriff's voice broke. "Please just tell me how Stiles is."

Melissa let out a breath. "That's one of the bad news. I wasn't there for the actual appointment, but I read the notes Dr. Emmerson made." She half-smirked, but worry was still etched plainly across her face. "I'll leave out the medical jargon for your sake. He has multiple cuts and abrasions on his torso, arms, and legs, most fairly shallow, none deep enough to require stitches. He also has extensive bruising in the same areas." She paused, and when she spoke next, her words were slow, cautious. "It appears he received these injuries over a period of several days."

The sheriff gaped, his stomach twisting itself into a terrible knot. "He never said anything," he said quietly. Suddenly he slammed his fist into the wall, ignoring the throbbing pain in his knuckles. "But I should have known! I'm a cop, for crying out loud! He's been acting strangely. I brought it up once, but I should have pressed him. I shouldn't have stopped until I got a straight answer." He raised his shaking, bruised hand to his face. "What kind of a father am I?" he asked hollowly.

"It's not your fault," Melissa offered. "Teenagers excel at fooling people. Especially the people they're closest to."

The sheriff closed his eyes. "But this never should have happened in the first place," he said. Then his features pinched tight and his eyelids flew back up. "Who did this?" he growled. "Who's been hurting him?"

Melissa swallowed. "Um, that's the other bad news. As of now, everyone is convinced that you're the one who did this."

Sheriff Stilinski's voice shook with a combination of horror and rage. "I have never laid a hand on my son."

"I know that," Melissa said. "But they don't. And you won't be allowed near Stiles until you're cleared."

The sheriff put his head in his hands. Stiles, what have you done?