A/N: TW for ableism. Harris is being an asshole.

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When Stiles wakes up, the cameras are gone, equipment entirely dismantled. That's cool, he thinks, though something's nagging at him, a distant worry.

He goes back to sleep.

When Stiles wakes up again, there are voices and footsteps and clicks, and he's pressed up against the wall next to Scott, looking at Derek's ass. Derek is growling, clawed hands making furrows in the floor. There are soft pops and Derek's growling louder and louder until he stumbles backwards, falling on Stiles, and Stiles is pressed between the wall and Derek's hard body and it feels good, safe, and Derek's stopped growling, so things are obviously okay now.

Something hits his arm, sharp, like a manic mosquito. He raises his hand, turns his head to look, but there's another sharp little pain, and he's really too tired for this.

Way too tired.

When Stiles wakes up the final time, it's because Derek's slapping him hard. Stiles puts an arm over his face and rolls away, motion halted when he hits something. He squints, taking in the tree trunk digging into his side and the dirt beneath his face.

What the hell, he so did not expect that. "Where are we?" His voice is dry and rasping as if he hasn't spoken for days – or maybe screamed himself raw beforehand.

"Fuck if I know," Derek grumbles. "But I do know that we're gonna get outta here and now." At the last word, a foot kicks Stiles's ass.

Stiles struggles to his feet, turning to glare at Derek. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

Derek stares at him, then turns on his heel and heads off in a seemingly random direction, like he thinks that Stiles and Scott – because Scott's right over there, looking just a bit irritated himself – that Scott and Stiles will just follow him.

Which, yeah.

Okay, fine. They do.

But only because Stiles has no fucking clue where they are and what with not knowing where the fuck those asswipes went, it's best to stay together.

They don't really trudge after Derek, though the thought is there. He's walking too fast for anyone to drag their feet, and Scott and Stiles are more or less jogging to keep up. They make a sorry procession, Stiles thinks, watching Scott from the corner of his eye.

Derek looks fine, alright, if a bit grumpy, but that's normal for him. Scott, on the other hand, looks like he had a fight with a blender and lost, and Stiles…

Stiles, from what his nose is telling him, is covered in come. The front of his jeans anyway and a little on the back, too. He knew that, but...it's worse now than it was before. Before.

Stiles stops suddenly, feeling like someone just hit him between the eyes.

They've had sex again. They must have, and it must have been back in that room, with the cameras, and Stiles can't remember a single thing. Like, nothing.

Roofied, the thought pops up in his mind again. Jesus.

It occurs to Stiles that he hasn't even wondered before about whether or not Scott and Derek even remember what happened the first time, never mind about the second. He might be the only one of them who knows and doesn't have to guess by the state of his pants and the scratches on his arms.

On the other hand, he might be the only one who doesn't remember the second time. Derek and Scott have been werewolves for longer.

He hears a sort of mewling sound coming from, coming from his own throat and Stiles can't take this, can't take not knowing, just can't.

Then Derek is suddenly in his face, gripping his shoulder with one hand and slapping him again, and Stiles sucks in a breath, finally noticing that he doesn't seem to have been doing that for who knows how long. He blinks, stares at Derek– Derek, who maybe knows.

Stiles opens his mouth to ask what he remembers, if he remembers anything at all, or if Stiles is the only one who forgot, but his heart is beating at 300 beats per minute or something, and he can't force the questions out. Desperately he grasps around for something else to ask.

"What... what do we tell my dad? I mean, he'll have been looking."

Derek opens his mouth, closes it.

"We," he finally replies tightly, "aren't going to tell him anything, because we will not be found together. No one knows that the pack meets in the old train station and you will come up with something that doesn't involve me." He pauses, closing his eyes, hand falling away from Stiles's shoulder to clench at his side. "Unless you, unless you want to get me arrested for–" He breaks off, making an odd noise, and Stiles has never seen him look so uncomfortable and, shit, helpless.

"Dude," Stiles says. "I'm not going to tell dad that you bit me. Fuck, I'm not telling him about werewolves, period."

Derek stares at him like he can't believe he just heard what came out of Stiles's mouth, and Stiles is used to that look, so he mentally goes over what he's said, and no. He doesn't think he said anything weird. There were no Star Wars references, for one.

"And I don't think people get arrested for turning people into werewolves. The police would have to know about you guys in the first place. It's more likely that Dad would shoot you."

A nerve in Derek's jaw twitches and he abruptly turns and stalks off. Stiles stares after him before remembering that he'd asked a question, a very good question.

What the hell are they going to tell everyone?

Stiles is manfully resisting pressing his face against Scott's collarbone. It's not that he has any feelings of that kind towards Scott and it's not that Scott smells good – which he doesn't because none of them have had a shower in over 24 hours and they all reek of blood, sweat and – in Derek's and Stiles's case – sex.

It's that the smell of gasoline is overwhelming and Stiles wonders just why some kids seem to think it's the height of awesomeness to sniff it to get high. Because it stinks; boy does it ever, even about fifty yards from the gas station, where they're staying hidden in the brush.

Concentrating on his hearing is worse, though. There are the trucks and cars going by on the highway. The sound of people talking and laughing, or talking and complaining, or screaming even, especially toddlers and small kids, and the flush of toilets, and in between all that somewhere the voice of Derek trying to flirt with the cashier at the gas station, so that she'd let him use the telephone for free.

"So," Stiles says casually, "any idea what we're going to tell my dad?"

Scott blinks at him. "We?"

Oh, gag him with a spoon. "Hello? You were gone, too."

"Oh, oh right."

"Just because your mom knows–"

"Shut up about my mom," Scott snaps, getting a pinched look on his face. Then he slaps his hands in front of his face and groans, and Stiles is uncomfortably reminded that Mrs. McCall didn't take so well to the realization that yes, indeed, werewolves exist and by the way, her son is one.

They stay silent for a while, Stiles thinking about how to explain this and Scott thinking about who-knows-what. Probably Allison.

The more Stiles thinks, the more convinced he becomes that there's no alternative. They'll have to do it this way, and this way will likely end with him getting grounded. At best.

He gets pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps and the rustling of leaves.

"Isaac will be here in an hour," Derek announces, striding towards them. He's making noise even though Stiles knows that Derek can be as quiet as a mouse if he wants to. Like he doesn't want to startle them – or like he doesn't give a fuck that they know he's coming, which seems more likely considering he's looking downright belligerent.

Scott - bless him - actually picks up on that and then proceeds to take the alpha by its horns and confront him. "What's crawled up your ass?"

"You–" Derek starts, face going white from fury. "You're asking that? If you hadn't run to the Argents to sell me out we wouldn't even be here."

Scott jumps up from his position on the ground. "First, I didn't run to the Argents. Second, he put a fucking knife in me. What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"Oh, I don't know, Scott. How about telling your alpha?"

Scott takes a step forward, almost stepping on Stiles's hand. "You're not–"

"Woah, woah," Stiles interrupts finally, pushing against Scott's kneecaps with one arm while holding up the other towards Derek. "Let's just calm down here." That statement is met with dual glares, so Stiles grasps around for some change in topic. Something to get them off the track they're currently on because this can only end in tears…and blood, and busted organs. "How did you find out about that anyway?"

Derek's eyes only briefly flick towards him; he keeps his focus on Scott. After a moment, however, he finally grits out, "I overheard you in the police station, talking to Gerard Argent."

"Okay," Stiles says before Scott can open his mouth again, because they're getting somewhere here. Derek's gone from 'I'm going to maul you violently' to 'I'm going to maul you'. That's progress. "So, the whole thing was stupid and Scott is sorry – Scott is sorry – and this won't happen again. Ever. Right, Scott?"

Scott nods reluctantly, and considering they've already gone through this whole apologizing thing before, that really should come faster or look more like he means it. Derek doesn't look convinced, natch, but he's settling down a little more. Stiles thinks back to … to the previous day and concludes that a physical sign of contrition might make this more real to Derek, but before he can figure out how to say that to Scott, so that Scott actually will show some sign of – submission (because 'you're not', that is 'you're not my alpha', isn't really an indication of anything like that happening willingly on Scott's part) – Scott drops back down on the ground next to Stiles and crosses his arms over his chest. He's avoiding looking at either Stiles or Derek, but that's the best than can be hoped for right now, Stiles thinks.

Derek's eyebrows sort of twitch, before he grunts and turns away, deliberately turning his back to them. Not a sign of trust; more like a sign of 'look how superior I am to you', which might be true in Scott's case and is definitely true for Stiles – at least as far as physical strength is concerned.

Well, maybe. Because Stiles is a werewolf now. Hah.

Where were you?

Why did you not call?

Don't you know how worried I was?

What were you thinking, Stiles?

Drunk.

Lost my cell.

Scott forgot his at home.

Dad doesn't ask him why he reeks of sex; Stiles answers anyway because the question is there in his eyes. He cleaned up his pants as best as he could, but there's no hiding the smell and borrowing pants from Isaac or Derek wouldn't have helped because they don't fit him, so.

So Stiles had drunken sex with someone. No, it wasn't Scott. Some boy, from another town; Paul or something, Stiles can't recall.

No, he had not taken any drugs; Jesus, Dad. And his car was parked somewhere else because he got into Paul's car – no, he can't remember the license plate – because he shouldn't drive under the influence.

Yes, at least one thing where he acted responsibly.

Yes, he knows, he's still getting grounded – for life. Or for the foreseeable future, at least.

A shower has never before in his life felt this good. Stiles stands underneath the spray for as long as he can, only stopping when the water turns from pleasantly hot to cold. He dries himself off, then stoops to scoop up his dirty clothes. They still reek, making his stomach turn unpleasantly with the memory of the cage.

Aside from being dirty, there's nothing wrong with them, but... he can't quite stand the thought of ever wearing them again, and that's stupid but.

But ten minutes later he's stuffing them into the garbage can. When he comes in, his dad raises his eyebrows at him, but doesn't say anything. They eat together; and it's silent and awkward and Stiles keeps his eyes firmly fixed on his plate, while his dad purses his lips and talks about baseball.

Then dinner is over and Stiles is doing the dishes before slinking upstairs, into his room.

It's unreasonable to believe the video would already be up somewhere.

Stiles checks anyway, and voila. Nada.

He taps his fingers against the surface of the desk, shifts in his seat, throws his head back. Twirls the chair, around and around until he's dizzy and then some.

What he needs to do is his homework.

No, what he needs, really needs, to do is figure out what his personal anchor is. Because he's a werewolf now.

But in order to do that he needs to raise his pulse, get angry or something, and if he does that he might try to kill his dad.

Ergo, he needs a … a wolfsitter. Only, he's grounded, and his dad took his key to his Jeep, and he's only getting it for when he needs to drive to school and back, which - fuck, unfair. So fucking unfair.

It's not like he meant to get kidnapped and bitten by a werewolf.

Of course, his dad doesn't know that or this wouldn't be a problem because he could say, 'Hey, Dad, I need to go to Scott's or maybe Derek's, if he's not feeling too homicidal, because I need to learn how to werewolf correctly.'

Stiles is not going to involve his father in the supernatural business, though, because he kind of likes his dad and anyone who's ever learned about werewolves has had more crap thrown their way than they can deal with. And it's dangerous, and he's not going to lose his dad, too; he's not.

Stiles jumps up from his chair and stomps over to his bed to throw himself on it. Maybe if he ignores the internet for tonight he can get some shit done.

Only, of course, his homework would include an assignment where he has to research something online. Of course. So, he's getting up again, and stomping back to his desk, book, pen and notebook in hand. He should really install LeechBlock one of these days, only he can't bring himself to do it.

And it wouldn't keep him from Googling 'werewolf porn vid' anyway. Unless he blocked Google and Yahoo and freaking Lycos, which, lol, no. Stiles erases his search history for the third time this evening and gets back to work.

Sometime around 2 a.m. his dad comes in and tells him to get offline and go to bed. Stiles says yes only because the internet is evil and he still hasn't done his math homework, which he's consequently doing in bed afterwards.

Then he's getting out of bed again because if he doesn't pack his bag the night before, he'll forget half of what he needs the next day.

So, all in all, it's three a.m. when Stiles finally turns off the bedside lamp and closes his eyes, and that's, of course, when Derek climbs in through his window.

"No," Stiles says quietly, but clearly. "Whatever it is, it can wait."

"That eager to kill your dad? Rip his throat out? Eat his innards?"

"I need sleep, Derek," Stiles hisses, sitting up. "Can't we do this tomorrow, oh shit." Right, he's grounded. They'll have to practice when his dad's not around or Stiles can sneak out, so he'll lose sleep either way, but – he's just, just exhausted today. "My dad's got the night shift tomorrow night. He won't know I'm gone, but he might come into my room tonight." Okay, unlikely, and Derek's look tells Stiles that he caught onto that.

Stiles groans, and just. "I'm exhausted." And then because it might help: "Derek, please." He drops his eyes and tilts his head, and shit, there's his cock twitching again at the worst possible moment. And there is Derek, scenting the air, and freezing.

Stiles fervently wishes it were possible to die of mortification. He also wishes he weren't getting harder because of Derek not-staring at his dick. His eyes are fixed on the top of Stiles's head in a way that Stiles just somehow knows means he's doing it to avoid looking at Stiles's lap.

"Tomorrow night," Derek finally grits out and positively vaults out the window. Crap. Stiles exhales noisily and drops back onto the mattress to stare up at the ceiling. He's wide awake now, and sleep's about as far from his mind as it can possibly be.

"Why," Stiles asks, definitely not addressing his penis even if he's sort of looking in the direction, "did you have to do that to me?"

There's no answer. And considering the way Stiles's life has been going recently, he's really fucking happy about that.

Two hours of sleep make no one a happy camper. Stiles stumbles down the stairs, feeling like an extra in The Return of the Living Dead. An extra zombie, that is. He stops, almost tripping over his own feet, and puts 'Are zombies real? and if so, how can you kill them?' on his mental research list. Like, he'll ask Derek if they're real, and if they are – and Stiles so wouldn't be surprised – he'll try to figure out how to take one out.

Just in case. Because this is his life now.

"Morning," his dad says from around a cup of coffee. Stiles yawns at him and shuffles towards the kitchen cupboard to get a bowl and some Cocoa Krispies. He places both on the table and sits down before remembering that he also needs milk.

And a spoon. Mustn't forget the spoon.

"When did you go to bed?" his dad asks. Ah crap, he's going into uber-dad mode again.

"As soon as you told me to," Stiles replies entirely truthfully, sitting down on the chair again.

"Okay, when did you go to sleep?"

"Um, at three?" Stiles mumbles, ducking his head. Well, he tried to go to sleep at three.

His dad harrumphs. "Go to sleep before midnight today. You need it."

Stiles nods and shoves a spoonful of Krispies into his mouth to avoid actually lying out loud. The keys to his Jeep clatter down on the table and his dad stands up to get himself another cup of coffee before pulling out paperwork.

Stiles thinks about stealing a glance, but – better not. Not when he's in trouble already. Only the thought remains, of course, and has his leg moving up and down rapidly while he's trying to restrain himself.

It's not like he doesn't have about three billion problems he has to deal with. No need to try and cure perpetual boredom by helping his dad solve crimes. Likely it's about the massacre at the station anywhere, and considering that Stiles knows exactly what went down there and cannot actually tell his dad, yeah. Focus on his other problems.

Like, he's pretty sure it must have been Gerard Argent who was involved in that business with the film crew. Also, he couldn't have known where Scott and Stiles were going unless he somehow listened in.

Stiles tries to remember when they were talking about this and where they were, and comes up with lunch and library. Was the library bugged?

Alternatively, was there someone who could have overheard them, could have guessed what they were talking about, and known enough to tell an Argent?

Crap, he wished he'd been paying attention to who was in the library, but he'd pulled Scott into the farthest corner and there was no one close enough to overhear.

So, back to bugs. Or lip reading. Was the resolution on the cameras good enough for lip reading?

"Stiles."

"Hm?"

"You're late."

Stiles raises his eyes from his bowl and blinks at his dad, then he blinks at the clock in the kitchen.

And then he's jumping out of his chair, because, fuck, he's really going to be late if he doesn't hurry now.

"Crap. Bye, dad!"

Dad sighs. "Bye, Stiles.

It could be the fact that he's tired, but that's not quite it. Not quite the reason. He keeps looking around at his classmates, expecting things to somehow be different, which is stupid because nothing has changed for any of them.

And, well, things are different, but only because he can now hear what Diane is telling Susan at the other end of the floor and because he can now smell Greenberg's cologne about three rooms down. But all of this is so incredibly normal. Like, of course, Diane is angsting about Jason, and of course, Greenberg's cologne still reeks.

That's all normal, but he still feels like he's so different now, that something so monumental has happened that surely everyone should somehow react to that.

"Hey."

"Fuck, Scott!" Stiles flails, almost jumping, literally, three feet in the air. Almost, because Scott grabs him before he does something that ordinary Stiles can't possibly do.

Ordinary Stiles. Crap. Stiles groans, slapping a hand against his forehead. He very deliberately doesn't look at the camera strategically placed in the upper right corner of the hallway. Scott slings an arm over his shoulder and leans closer. "You looked a little out of it. I know it can be overwhelming, at first." Then he gently pushes Stiles forward, guiding him to their first class.

It's okay, and not. Stiles is easily distractible to begin with, no denying that. Add to that lack of sleep and suddenly supernaturally good senses and well. Keeping his mind on the lesson proves just a tiny bit harder than before.

On the other hand, he also overhears Lydia whispering the answer to her neighbor when Finstock calls on him and Stiles had naturally not been paying attention to him at that exact moment, so what with his super-werewolf ears having picked up the right reply he can at least pretend to be focused on the lesson.

Scott grins at him. Stiles half-heartedly returns his smile and tells himself to pay better attention because that? Was pure luck.

If classes and hallways had been bad, it's nothing compared to the cafeteria. The chatter of the students is loud, clatter of forks is louder, and being hemmed in on all sides is downright insulting.

"Guys, back off."

No reaction. It's as if he hadn't spoken. Scott keeps stuffing his mouth and Isaac keeps – also stuffing his mouth, and they're both ignoring the fact that Stiles totally has enough self-control not to wolf out because Emily Wilson won't stop scratching the plate with her fork. At most he'll jump over a couple of tables, rip it out of her hand, bend it into a pretzel and throw it at her feet.

At most.

"Derek says if you don't show tonight, he's going to pay you a very personal and painful visit," Isaac tells him underneath his breath and Erica smirks at him from across the table. Stiles' brain stutters to a halt at the 'personal', flashing through several scenarios of what 'personal' could mean before limping forward to comprehend the 'painful' part of the statement.

Isaac's eyebrows climb up into his hairline. "Huh."

"Shut up," Stiles mumbles, flushing, and Erica laughs. The fact that he had some kind of sexual encounter with Derek, however horrifying and scary it was once Derek had lost his higher brain functions, has done nothing to turn off the reaction he gets whenever something sounds vaguely like Derek might get up close and personal with him. In fact, it might have made it worse because he now knows intimately what Derek's skin tastes like and how good it feels with Derek's hands on him, keeping him from doing something stupid like pressing up against wolfsbane-coated bars.

Scott clears his throat. "I don't see where Derek gets off making demands like that. Stiles is my best friend. I'll help him." Scott's jaw is set in a stubborn line and he's glaring at Isaac over Stiles's head. Stiles closes his eyes. Oh God, no. Please, God, don't let him become the rope in Scott and Derek's little tug of war.

"Derek is the alpha," Isaac snaps at him.

Derek doesn't even need to be here to turn Stiles into a length of rope.

Scott's eyes flash yellow, and Stiles just about fed up with this. "If either of you latches onto me and tugs, I'm going to skewer you both." He takes a deep breath to center himself because this won't be easy. "And I'm going to Derek's."

"Stiles!" Scott's mouth is hanging open, which would be hilarious and a great opportunity for merciless teasing any other time, but Stiles isn't in the mood. He needs to learn control and he doesn't want to hurt Scott doing it. Derek's an alpha. He can take it.

Now how to get that across diplomatically.

Stiles turns to Scott, catches his eyes. "If you think I'm going to give you the opportunity to take revenge on me for the car thing–" he pauses. "–and the lacrosse thing, you've got another think coming." He picks up his nearly empty plate, nudges Isaac out of the way and leaves both of them sitting where they are.

So, he doesn't want to hurt Scott, or his dad. However, there are a handful of people Stiles wouldn't mind ripping apart. Only not really because Stiles doesn't do that, even to Harris, who keeps being an absolute ass.

"Have you forgotten how to speak?"

Stiles keeps his eyes firmly on the desk in front of him, counting backwards from one hundred.

"No," he grits out around 87.

"Am I boring you then? Is that it?"

83. 82. Stiles shakes his head. Below the surface of his desk, he can feel his nails – claws – digging into the palms of his own hand. His mouth is starting to feel funny, too.

"Or did you forget to take your happy pills today, Mr. Stilinski?"

"What the hell?" That's Scott, Stiles registers vaguely, but then he's out of his seat, busting out of the room and into the corridor, and it's all he can do not to move as fast as he wants to because that would just be stupid. But wolfing out right before a camera – fucking cameras, why; why – would be too.

Stiles rushes to the nearest bathroom, the girls' room but he can't care about that now, and into a stall and just sits down on the floor wedged in between the toilet and the door. Sits and tries to calm down, but fuck, fuck he can't.

His vision's swimming red again, and he whimpers, drawing his legs to his body and pressing his head against his knees.

He wants to howl.

He wants to rip Harris apart, sink his teeth into his throat and shake him, shake him, shake him like somebody is shaking Stiles.

"Stiles.

"Stiles, man; come on. Snap out of it."

Stiles growls.

"You're not helping him."

"I know. What the fuck do I – shit. Grab his shoulders."

"I can't."

"Shit, shit, just. Sorry, Stiles."

Pain explodes in his hand, and Stiles gasps, surging up and away, but there's nowhere to go and he hits the back of his head against the tiles, and wow, that hurts about just as much as Scott fucking crushing his hand. "What. Are. You. Doing?"

"You were wolfing out." Scott is looking at him with a cross between a well-duh expression and some kind of guilty, please-don't-hate-me face. "Pain brings us back."

Stiles blinks because, yeah, yeah. He's not flipping out anymore, so point, but fuck.

Also, fuck. "Did I really just storm out of chemistry?" That was so not good, not at all. On the other hand, eating Harris would have been worse. Stiles totally bets he tastes bad.

"Yeah, you did." Isaac says, ever the bringer of good news. "And we all got detention."

Fan-fucking-tastic.