i apologize profusely for the hiatus in this story; this chapter is a little shorter than usual, and i'm not sure if it much makes up for the length you've all waited, but i hope you do enjoy it. i hope to update more regularly. i honestly feel horrible about keeping you all waiting. thanks for reading!

The thick, heady scent of coffee wafts around him; the pitter-pattering of keyboard keys being tapped and untapped buzzes in his ears. He sinks a little deeper into the leather couch, extends his leg a little further, the heel of his shoe gliding easily against the tabletop, nudging the stack of indie comedy books. The fact that he's hoarding the area doesn't cross his mind; he's just focused on the warmth of his mocha seeping through his coffee sleeve, bleeding into his fingertips. He takes a quick sip before slipping the cup between his hip and the armrest of the couch. It's a bit precarious, especially considering that there's a 97.6% chance that he'll end up spilling it somehow, but he likes the heat on his side and he doesn't want to move – granted, he'd only have to lean forward to set the cup on the tabletop, but like... He seriously does not want to move.

Sitting in the coffee shop, surrounded by early-morning orders and procrastination-driven students, he's able to breathe, isolate himself from last night's events and instead view them as a screenplay. A music video, where the music has been ripped away, replaced by the raw bite of wind and hard fists and feet.

Stiles cracks open his laptop and flexes his fingers over the keyboard, pulls up a file for a paper that should have been written a few days earlier. It's his theory (and likely every other college student's theory) that Sunday was created for the sole purpose of giving people time to catch up with their work; although, now he's wondering whether, in the absence of Sundays, people would still put off their million-and-one chores.

His teeth scrape thoughtlessly against his lip, and he hisses, swallows hard.

Stiles?

It was Derek, of course. Stiles mentioned that, too, after the RA dragged him back to the dorm and had him propped up on the bathroom counter: You're always saving me, he'd said. He'd meant it to detract from what had happened, meant it as a joke, but Derek had just frowned at him. Dad always say once is a chance, twice is a coincidence, thrice is a pattern.

Yea, well, there better not be a third time, Derek had growled.

His fingers dance across his keyboard, stringing words together in quick swoops. The sentences come together easily; it's an opinion piece for a freshman seminar, nothing difficult, designed to strengthen arguments by generating them. It almost doesn't seem fair, really; Stiles has been arguing all his life, finding loopholes and exploiting them.

"Stiles?"

Poised to strike, his fingers freeze, and Stiles cranes his neck upward. Blue eyes are staring back at him, gold locks bumping against temples, a chin nuzzled into what looks like a cozy scarf.

"Look who it is – the-scarf-boy-that-is-Isaac," Stiles responds, offering a small smile. The boy is staring at his face, and Stiles clears his throat, looks back down at his laptop.

Isaac seems uncertain of how to approach what he's so clearly interested in. It's almost funny, really, to watch people react – wanting to ask, knowing it's none of their business, wondering whether it's inconsiderate not to ask. It's like watching a live action battle between good and evil.

"Mind if I take a seat?" he finally settles on and Stiles gestures easily to the plush leather chair near his side of the couch. He keeps tapping at his keyboard, finishing up his thought and jotting down vague ideas to expound upon in the future; he hates losing good thoughts, mostly because it's a waste of time and he doesn't really know if his attention span will hold for another intense work-session.

"Mind if I ask…" Isaac inclines his head, ever so slightly, in Stiles' direction, then ducks to take a swift sip of his coffee.

"I have half a mind to turn you down," Stiles responds, uncertain as to whether he's joking or not. "Let's call it a bad night. Got myself into a thorny situation." A tight smile, and he shuts his laptop, looks over at Isaac looking at him.

"Let's not talk about it then," the boy says easily, shrugging. "I'm well, though, thanks for asking." A cheeky grin. "Glad to know you're always looking out for other people."

A snort escapes him without thinking, and Stiles is briefly tossed back to last night:

Derek had kept pressing for details about what happened, was practically demanding names and social security numbers. Exhausted, weak, Stiles had gotten snippy, and they ended up staring at each other in a tense silence for a timeless expanse. Finally, Stiles had sighed, let his head drop. Look, I'm sorry, Derek, I didn't mean to bite. I just… please, please don't go right now. Give me two minutes, okay?

He blinks and snatches up his mocha, using it as an excuse not to speak.

"How'd you like Jurassic Park?"

It takes him two seconds to realize Isaac isn't some creepy stalker (and/or somehow figured out Stiles' tumblr account – awkward), that the boy caught him alone in the movie theatre not too long ago. "It was – I mean, it was Jurassic Park. That's all that needs to be said."

Isaac quirks a brow but nods regardless, and Stiles squints across at him. "You don't agree. You said you thought it was 'okay,' if I remember correctly – but you seem skeptical." Head tilted, Stiles tosses back another swig of his drink, gulps hastily, and continues. "The whole concept of Jurassic Park is beautiful, but we'll credit that to Michael Crichton. The animatronics alone were fantastic, but the dynamics of the film, the direction of the camera…" He extends a hand, waving it around, as if doing so will express what he is failing to express; Stiles ends up sighing, slumping back in his seat, head tilted back. "Classic Spielberg."

There's a long pause that Stiles doesn't really notice until they're halfway through it; he glances over at Isaac, blushing slightly, an apology on the tip of his tongue – but Isaac is just staring at him, eyes intent and mouth upturned.

"You're a film enthusiast."

"Most people classify it as an obsession, if not an addiction. But I like the way that sounds – enthusiast."

"No, but really – you're into cinema." It's not a question, more a stunned repetition, as if doing so will reorganize his thoughts somehow, connect points A and C.

Stiles laughs, confused, nods. "Film major, once you drop the jargon. At least, hoping to be."

Isaac leans back in his chair, then immediately leans forward, eyes wide and intent as he looks at Stiles. "Come to film club. Every Thursday night. We watch movies and talk about them, and sometimes there is pizza; always popcorn. I'd love if you came."

The sincerity takes Stiles off-guards, and he blinks, almost bites down on his lip before he remembers what a disaster that is. "Uhhh, yea. Sure."

Isaac nods, pleased, pushes himself out of his chair. "I have loads of homework to do, but come, please, I swear you'll love it. Thursday night, seven, in Lawrence Auditorium."

"Okay, I'll try to be there." A puzzled smile upturns Stiles mouth, and Isaac mirrors it excitedly.

"I'm holding you to that, Stiles! Feel better."

They exchange brief waves as the boy wanders off, and Stiles is left to sit there, staring at the empty chair beside him.

It's a little too much to process, but cute scarf boy totally just said, I'd love if you came. Stiles isn't sure if it's appropriate to entertain such thoughts, but he kinda hopes Isaac intended the innuendo.

The pinch of Derek's fingers, tightened around the curve of his shoulder, had been comforting. The heat radiating from his palm had soothed him. It wasn't a perfect fit when Derek settled between Stiles' parted legs, but it worked, and as he stepped close, Derek had slid his other hand up Stiles' neck, cupping the skin below his ear. It'd felt right to shut his eyes and tip his forehead into Derek's chest; the harsh light was blocked out, and with it the scent of the antiseptics, the blood clotting the washcloth and the cotton balls and splattering the sink. For two minutes, Stiles had been able to pull away from the pain in his chest, coloring his face; he lost track of the uneasy billowing of his lungs.

He focused on the way Derek smelled, a mixture of sweat and antiperspirant and something more earthy that, in a better mood, would have made Stiles' fingers dig into the older boy's hips. The heat of him, the tender brush of his hands…

"I'm sorry."

That's what Derek said, whispered, his breath ghosting into Stiles' hair.

It only lasted two minutes, then he pulled away and patted Stiles' knees and they went back to cleaning him up, swiping medicine across his cuts. They acted like it didn't happen, except when their fingers would hesitate when they brushed hands and they'd both stop breathing.

Stiles can't get it out of his head, but he has to – he has to, and he knows it. His jaw clenches briefly as he scrubs his hands in the sink, stealing a glance at his reflection. It's like there's a cloud floating above his head, but instead of rain, it shines psychedelic light down onto his face, distorting his typical pale skin into a blend of reds and purples and blues and blacks.

"It is what it is," he mumbles under his breath, flicking his hands before wiping them on the sides of his jeans.

Fifteen steps later, he's outside of Scott's door, knocking quietly. Stiles doesn't pause, doesn't let himself pause; for whatever reason, he's been oscillating between whether he could tell Scott what happened. No, he knows why he didn't tell Scott – because Scott was his best friend in high school, and now… now it's weird. Now, there's a sports team and a girl and Greek parties separating them, not just a couple of blocks and a curfew.

On the fourth knock, the door pulls open. Scott's hair is mussed, but his lips aren't swollen and/or pulled into a goofy smirk, so Stiles assumes Scott's busy with stress or sleep. Maybe both. No Allison, though, and that's what he needs.

"Stiles – wha…" Scott swallows, rakes a hand through his hair, glances down the hall, drops his voice in that melodramatic way Stiles never could figure out. "What happened to you?" The door opens wider and it's like a gravitational force just draws Stiles in, feet shuffling across the floor.

He leans against the wall, eyes shut, and waits for the slick of the lock.

"Dunno, dude, I just – someone jumped me last night. That's all."

"That's all?! Stiles, c'mon. Bro. Sit down. Tell me what – Jesus."

Deep breath. 1-2-3. Stiles opens his eyes and forces a slight smile, shakes his head. "I'm fine, really. S'not so bad anymore. Uhm… uh, Derek cleaned me up and got me ice and I think it helped."

"… Derek." Something shifts in Scott's gaze, like a boulder being pushed from a cliff, rolling down and slamming into years of trust and brotherhood. "Why didn't you, uhm, call me? Or let me know. If it happened last night."

"I just… he was there, Scott."

"Yea, no, I mean – it's fine. I guess I just figured…"

Fuck fuck fuck, he didn't even think about hurting Scott's feelings, and now the kid's wearing this awful expression that's almost completely authentic to a kicked puppy. "Sorry, Scott." The words are carried on a breath, and Stiles glances down, scuffs his feet. He isn't sure what to do. Maybe, earlier, when he had more energy, he would have gotten angry – it isn't fair for Scott to assume he's still Stiles go-to-man when Stiles isn't even Scott's go-to-man anymore, replaced by Allison… (Go-to-woman, person – whatever!) It isn't fair that Stiles is apologizing, when his face is still bloated from an assault.

A lot of things aren't fair, though, and Stiles doesn't care.

His friend squeezes his shoulder, and they exchange a long look before Scott nods his head over his shoulder. "You wanna load a movie, or a game?"

"Only if your ass has popcorn."

"Yea, somehow. You ate like, a whole box last time you were here."

"Tell that to my tapeworm."

His key gets stuck in the doorknob and, try as he might, he can't do anything about it. He ends up tugging and jerking and pushing and pulling and even whispering quietly into the lock, running his fingers along the seal of the door, as if somehow that willgenerate a response.

Whatever, he's desperate. (It doesn't, by the way.)

Someone comes up the stairs behind him while he's crouched over and acting like some sort of door-o-phile, and Stiles hastily tries to arrange his hands and/or body in a less creepy/awkward/weird way. He ends up dropping onto his ass, legs sprawled awkwardly in front of him, one hand outstretched, handling his keys.

"The fuck are you doing?" Jackson says, and Stiles jerks a little, surprised. He cocks his head back to stare up at his roommate as he approaches; even from an unflattering upshot angle, Jackson is still pretty attractive. It's shit.

Stiles is less focused on that, though, because after the initial shock, his palms get a little sweaty.

The last time he saw Jackson was yesterday afternoon. Before the attack. He didn't come back last night, and… It's not like Stiles suspects him, just – it seems weird and unlikely and Jackson is the only one who blatantly dislikes him. It wasn't Jackson who leapt from the rosebush though. Nah, the kid is smarter than that and, anyway, his assailant's physique was different. At least, it felt different; Stiles didn't get much of a look at the guy, just felt his pommeling fists, the way his mind was quickly spiraling out of control.

"Are you going to move or wha – what happened to your face, dude?"

Stiles squints up at him, trying to decide whether the tone is defensive or maybe guilty, but – nada. He's not a voice analyst anyway. For once, actually, Jackson's looking at him, like, looking looking at him, a crease folding his eyebrow. Stiles tilts his head back down and pulls his body away from the door, shrugging loosely. "Uh, sorry, my key got stuck… Probably gonna have to call someone or, or something."

A pause stretches between them, and as he presses his back against the wall, he allows himself a quick peek up at Jackson. His roomie is playing with the key, but only half-heartedly; at least, Stiles figures it's half-heartedly, because if Jackson were really into it, Stiles imagines he'd be cursing and sweating and acting melodramatic all around.

Whatever.

"You didn't answer the question."

A glance back up. Jackson's fingers fall from the key, defeated, then dip into his pockets, digging deep. There are empty hollows beneath his eyes and, for once, his mouth isn't puckered up into some sort of judgmental sneer. His shirt is wrinkled, tucked in on only one side, but it doesn't look deliberately stylish, just hasty.

For once, Jackson looks honest, and Stiles feels like – if he tilted his head at the right angle – he might be able to see the boy's bones. Maybe that's what prompts him to murmur, "Someone jumped me."

They stare at each other for about five seconds before Jackson bites his lip and nods and looks away. It's like his knees falter, because his feet stumble back, Jackson's weight steering him until, three feet away, his back thumps against the hallway wall opposite Stiles. From there, he kinda just… sinks down onto the carpet, legs folded into his chest. Stiles isn't sure why, but the broken movements seem sadder than his own sob story.

"Rough night?" he eventually risks, and Jackson smirks down into his palms and nods.

"Sorry about your face."

"Shouldn't be sorry, not your fault." Stiles tips his head back and rubs at his eyebrow; his gaze is locked on the ceiling, but he flicks his eyes back toward his roomie when he asks, "Right?"

Jackson scowls across at him, and it's almost like this comfortable, companionable silence never happened, was just some mirage in Stiles' dysfunctional brain. "I know that, loser. Jesus." His nose scrunches and Stiles just swallows dryly, not sure what else to do.

More silence.

"Hey, do you think we should like – call… someone? The door isn't fixing itself," he tries.

"I already did. I texted Derek."

"Oh. That, yea… that works, too." Derek. The name reverberates in his chest like smoke swelling in his lungs. "Hey, Jackson?"

"What."

There's enough venom to stun him, but Stiles pushes on – he never said he was necessarily the smartest crayon in the box. (Smartest, brightest, dullest, whatever. Whatever.) "What's wrong?"

Blue eyes roll into his direction, full lips parting, tongue flicking over the flesh quickly. Stiles feels himself tense, waiting for the looming comeback that's sure to bite at his skin, but instead, Jackson says, his voice only half-formed, "Things kinda got out of hand and uhm, y'know… Well, you probably wouldn't know, but Danny and I got into this stupid fight and… Fuck, I don't know why it matters to you."

Jackson's fingers sprawl into his hair, tousling the locks, before drooping down to cover his face. Hidden from view, Stiles swallows the lump in his throat, heart flitting nervously around in his chest – he waits another beat or two, then crab-walks to the other side of the hallway and settles beside Jackson. Not too close, but still close; then again, anything within twenty feet is close for them.

"I don't know what happened, dude, and you're probably right – I don't get it, but I'm sorry." He pats Jackson's knee like a wounded animal, quick and short, before withdrawing his fingers. Jackson makes this noise though, and Stiles freezes before exclaiming in a whisper-that-really-isn't-a-whisper: "Did you just laugh?!"

That's how Derek finds them, both a mess in their own respective way, snorting at something barely funny.