Deaton surprisingly doesn't live in the vet clinic.
Stiles makes a noise of surprise when Deaton parks his car along the curb outside of the apartment building, and Deaton just rolls his eyes when Stiles sputters out something about Scott saying that Deaton slept in a supply closet with a blanket of cats. Stiles thought it was a lie when Scott told him it years ago, but after Deaton was just always at the clinic whenever the pack needed him it was hard to believe he ever actually went home.
It's not even a small apartment. It's pretty big, with an open floor plan, and there's not even any voo doo magic stuff lying around. There's pictures on the walls of puppies for crying out loud. There's an open laptop with a desktop picture of Deaton a few other people, a newspaper left open on the counter with an empty bowl next to it, looking sad and neglected after someone rushed out of the house to patch up some kid who fell out of the sky, and a movie playing on the TV with the volume muted. It's bright too, with colorful walls, which is more surprising, as Stiles thought that a whole bunch of Gothic style furniture would be more up the good doctors street.
Whatever.
He toes off his mud slick shoes and leaves them by the door, not wanting to ruin Deaton's nice floors.
"I'm afraid I don't normally have guest," Deaton says, dropping his keys in a purple bowl near the door before sliding the dead bolt into place. "So you'll have to sleep on the pull out couch."
Stiles eyes him judgmentally and gestures to his everything. "You realize I'm on the brink of death, right?" He whines pathetically, clutching at his bruised side.
Deaton doesn't appreciate his whining like Erica would have, and just walks into the kitchen. Stiles follows and leans against the island, almost wanting to moan wantonly at how the cold marble feels against his bruised side. He keeps his mouth shut, though, sure that Deaton will toss him out on the street.
Stiles is pretty sure there's werewolves on the street, werewolves who want to ask him questions about their imminent demise, so, no thank you.
Deaton roams around in the cupboards for a few seconds before coming back with a rather large white pill. Stiles eyes it skeptically and Deaton just places it into his palm and gets him a glass of water, "It's an Ibuprofen. Relax."
"No freaky magics are at play here, right?" Stiles ask, just for lack of anything to say. He swallows the pill before Deaton can even answer.
"Oh no, there's plenty of 'freaky magics' at play here, Stiles," Deaton walks over to the fridge and opens the freezer, shifting around for a few seconds before reappearing with a bag of peas. Stiles doesn't appreciate how cold they look. "Not all of them are from me, though."
"Right."
Deaton wraps the peas in a paper towel and presses it to Stiles' side. Stiles yelps, "Jesus! Warn a guy!"
Deaton just raises his eyebrow mockingly and waits patiently for Stiles to take over the pea situation. Stiles does so and presses it tenderly to his side, wincing slightly. He doesn't even really remember how he got the bruise, to be honest. He thinks it might have been when he was thrown back when the demon broke the circle, still no actual clue how the hell that happened, but Stiles isn't exactly the king of knowing things right now so he mentally adds it to his list.
Stiles eyes Deaton suspiciously as he's bustling around, opening drawers and closets. He places two pillows and an afghan blanket on the couch. It looks scratchy and Stiles eyes it with distaste. Deaton gets to work and pulls out the couch, revealing a bed that looks barely big enough to hold two people that probably isn't comfortable at all.
Deaton comes back and guides Stiles by the elbow to the bed. Stiles lets him because either that Ibuprofen kicked in fast or his nap in the car didn't do anything to make him feel less like dead weight. He thinks it's a combination of both.
As he settles against the springy mattress, he was right, it's horrible, Deaton carefully pulls back the bandage covering his now useless protection ward. Stiles glares at it, like all of this mess is its fault. It probably is, knowing Stiles' luck.
"So," Deaton starts as he clicks open a small case and applies some disinfectant to a cotton swab, "Tell me exactly why I can only see one of these," he gestures to the ward, "Here?"
Stiles sighs, having heard the exact same question from both Deaton and Lydia. "I just didn't see the point," he mumbles, fidgeting as Deaton presses the cold swab to his side and drags it along his cut. He hisses a bit as it tugs the edges, "I mean, I was surrounded by werewolves for almost three years and I've only came close to dying like, twice? I figured getting more than one would, like, be a dare or something to the forces that be."
Deaton gives him a look and Stiles rolls his eyes, "Yeah, I know, blah blah blah. It's stupid. We've already had this discussion." Deaton quirks the corners of his lips up in what could be considered amusement and then sets to eying the cut with more skepticism.
"You hand picked this one, you know?" Stiles says, because the silence is unnerving and he can see Deaton looking at the needle and thread and he does not want to think about needing stitches, "I was going to go with a smaller one, and it totally worked in with this one," Stiles points to his Locks and Bindings rune, a neat trick that gets him out of handcuffs and ropes, that he moved to the inside of his left wrist because Deaton is a life ruiner and it was easier to touch when his hands where immobile, "But you promised this one was practically perfect."
The you're a jerk it's all your fault I'm here I kinda hate you goes unsaid.
Deaton smiles, "I did say 'practically', didn't I? Now hold still, You need stitches."
Stiles brings his hand up and catches himself right before he touches the rune on the back of his neck, the one that acts more like morphine than anything, "Adflicto" already on his tongue.
Deaton looks into his eyes, warm in their apology, and he smiles softly until Stiles is forced to look away, once again over come with the sudden feeling of loss that hits his body like ton of bricks. His eyes itch and he fights against the tears because he'll be damned if he starts crying over this.
He barks out a laugh, and it's a hollow sound that makes Deaton look away.
Stiles can't tell if he passes out from exhaustion or just falls asleep while Deaton's steady hands work over him, lost to the world as he counts each time the needle bites into his skin.
When Stiles wakes, he's in a bed he doesn't recognize, sweating under the weight of a thick blanket. He goes to stretch and a sharp pain cuts through his side that makes him wince, curling into a ball and pressing a hand against the stiff thread holding him together. Oh, he thinks, and then everything that happened yesterday seeps slowly through the cloud in his mind, Right.
His other side feels damp and cool, and when Stiles lifts the blanket he can see a melted bag sagging against a dark bruise. Stiles pokes at the bruise lightly, hissing at the rush of pain that strikes through his body.
Every muscle hurts like he's been working out nonstop for a week. His joints scream in pain when he finally pulls himself up and he stretches as much as he can without pulling at his stitches. His jeans slide uncomfortably against his legs and he feels itchy in his skin. Stiles makes a face at the bag of peas and hobbles over to the kitchen, leaving his sham of a bed unmade, to deposit them in the sink.
He really doesn't think they're salvageable at this point.
There's a note from Deaton on the counter saying that he had to run into work for a few hours and he'd be home at six or seven. There's instructions to take a shower, Stiles absently picks at the dried blood still on his abdomen as he reads and questions Deaton's morals for sending a severely traumatized eighteen year old to bed like this. Stiles considers if his mission back in time is to prevent Deaton from ever wanting to become a father, because obviously he'd be horrible at it and then his kids would trigger the apocalypse or something. It's likely. Stiles adds it to his list. The note says there's also some clothes on the coffee table, a look up confirms that, and a pass code to unlock a closet door.
Stiles decides that that's where all of the voo doo magic is kept. The urge to go through it without Deaton looking over his shoulder is almost too tempting, but, really, that blood is just getting distracting and Stiles is sure he's starting to smell so he sighs and hops in the shower.
And then promptly groans because wow, hot water is great for stress and whoever invented indoor plumbing is amazing and deserves every nice thing the universe has to offer. Stiles is almost certain the inventor probably died from poor hygiene before their plans were finalized, but alas, he hopes they have a nice party in heaven.
Deaton only has Old Spice and Stiles may or may not waste two minutes reenacting commercials where he's on a figurative horse, but he's been through a lot emotionally and totally deserves to make a fool of himself.
It hits Stiles then that he's in 2007 and no one would get that joke if he made it and that thought just sends him on a downward spiral where he ends up clutching his knees in the shower and having a bit of an existential crisis.
After he pulls himself together, which takes half an hour, and finishes washing off, Stiles drops his bloody, torn jeans in the trash and puts on the red button down and cream cargo pants Deaton left out for him.
It's not a perfect fit but Stiles decides it's better than nothing.
His stomach growls obscenely and he remembers that he hasn't eaten in six years, no he doesn't laugh at himself, that would be childish and this is a very adult situation that needs to be handled maturely. Stiles does chuckle a bit, because he's a funny guy, and rifles through Deaton's pantry and fridge.
He finds some frozen waffles and heats them up in a toaster. While he's waiting for it to pop he roots in cupboards and drawers for a bowl and spoon and pours a bowl of cereal, a boring adult brand, because six years, he reminds himself, and eats it without feeling a smidgen of guilt. He also drinks some milk straight out of the carton as a fuck you to Deaton for leaving him unsupervised and possibly traumatized.
The possible trauma is a big thing here. Weren't magical past guides supposed to be helpful? Stiles considers that while he tries to salvage his burnt waffle and bathes in it butter and syrup.
He's in the middle of his third waffle when there's a knock on the door. Stiles freezes, dropping his fork to the counter with a clatter that is sure to alert whoever is outside that there's someone in here. Do Deaton's neighbors know he's here? What's he supposed to do if someone ask why he's here? What if they think he's a burglar? What if they think Deaton is propositioning young men for sex?
Stiles is wearing the guys clothes, after all, and Deaton is pretty shifty. It's not that big of a stretch.
There's another knock, this one harder than the last, and a sigh, "I know you're in there, Stiles!" a familiar voice coons, and then, in a softer, almost conspiratorial tone, "I can smell you."
"Laura Hale for creeper of the year award." Stiles mumbles to himself as he puts his dishes in the sink and abandons what's left of his waffle.
Laura's pouting when he opens the door, "I'm not that creepy, honest."
Stiles just raises an eyebrow at her, "Yesterday you kidnapped me and brought me to your little werewolf den to sacrifice me to the moon, or something."
Laura waves a hand in a graceful motion that would look like a flail if Stiles attempted it, "Details," she says with a smile, and tries to step forward only to meet a barrier.
Stiles grins and breathes, "Deaton, you beautiful bastard." He places his hand on the wooden frame of the door, smile widening as he feels the steady pulse of a mountain ash barrier.
"Bastard is one word for him," Laura mumbles and glares at the door like it personally offended her.
"Yep," he pops the 'p', then leans against the doorjamb with a smirk, "So, what are you doing here creepwolf? Deaton explicitly said no harassing the time traveling human. I heard him."
Laura gives him a blank look, "There's no harassment going on here, Stiles."
Stiles guffaws, "Really?" he gestures to her standing as close to the door as the the barrier will let her, "What do you call this then?"
"It was called me trying to apologize for yesterday." Laura growls, eyes flashing blue.
And Stiles just... He gapes, because what? Werewolves don't apologize. Stiles has extensive records and knowledge on the subject. Stiles has three years of personal experience on the matter. Werewolves are too stubborn, their supernatural egos are too big to ever admit they're wrong.
But then Stiles remembers Derek bringing him curly fries after Stiles was right and he hadn't listened, remembers Peter working his ass off to be apart of the pack and not letting anyone in die, remembers Jackson not pushing him against walls or calling him names and defending him against some assholes on the team, and he amends.
Werewolves never apologize with words.
"You- what?"
Laura growls again, but it's a completely normal human sound of frustration and her eyes are green, "I'm not saying it again," and Stiles gulps, because Laura must follow the werewolf apology protocol, and her coming here is probably a huge thing that Stiles can't even come to terms with since Laura's talking again, "Now, go get your shoes on. You're coming with me to pick up Derek from school."
"Um, no I'm not," Stiles says hastily, stepping backwards unconsciously into the safety of Deaton's apartment. The blood rushes in his ears and his heart speeds up and he crosses his arms in front of his chest defensively.
No, he's not ready to see Derek. Sixteen year old Derek who probably isn't broody and grouchy and damaged. Derek who hasn't had to grieve over the loss of his entire family, who hasn't become the Alpha for a pack of misfit toys, who doesn't have to feel guilt every day like his Derek does.
Laura rolls her eyes, "Yes, you are. Come on, he's excited to meet you and mom says that seeing a familiar face will be good for you."
Stiles just stares at her suspiciously, "Right. I'm sure this isn't part of some long term plan to get me to tell you exactly why your every family member died?"
Her eyes flash blue for a second at the mention of her family dying, and Stiles wonders just how much control Laura has. Derek definitely never flashed his wolf side around this much, neither did Scott. Stiles feels the urge to just prod her with a stick and see how long it takes her to shift and try to eat him.
"Don't be ridiculous," She says, waving her hand flippantly, like she hadn't almost wolfed out and attacked him, "It's just that Derek wasn't there yesterday for story time and sacrificing you to the moon gods and all," Laura gives him a look, "And he thinks we're all messing with his head. I just want him to get a whiff of you and then you can go back to avoiding us and letting us die, or whatever it is you plan on doing."
Stiles recoils like she hit him and shifts uneasily at the guilt that wraps around his throat, "It's not like I want you to die," he seethes, because honestly? He doesn't. Despite the kidnapping yesterday, the Hales all seem really nice, and it's not like he wants to cause Derek unnecessary pain, but, "It just happens that way, okay?"
Laura doesn't even act like she heard him, "Yeah, yeah, whatever, now go get your shoes on and get in my car or I will start harassing you."
She sounds like she's teasing, but Stiles can swear her fangs just got a bit sharper, so he glowers at her, puts on his shoes and follows her out to the parking lot.
"You didn't put up much of a fight," Laura notes on the elevator. Stiles is having a staring contest with the door. Laura continues on, higher pitched to convey a pleased tone, "You want to see him, don't you?"
Stiles snorts, "Yeah, I really want to go see a guy who doesn't even know who I am. You caught me, Hale, darn your detective prowess."
The elevator dings and Stiles gets off without even looking back at Laura. She catches up to him quickly and shoulders her way through the front door that Stiles doesn't hold open for her.
As she unlocks the car and slides in, she states, "You know I can hear your heartbeat, right?"
"You know you're technically kidnapping me again, right?" Stiles shoots back.
Laura shuts up after that.