Stiles set his lunch tray on the cafeteria table with a clatter before plopping down on the bench seat opposite Scott. Just as he was about to dig into his sloppy joe, he saw the scrunched-up expression on Scott's face and he paused, the sandwich halfway to his mouth.

"What?"

Scott hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. Stiles motioned with his sandwich for him to continue. "Can we switch spots?"

Stiles blinked at his friend, confused. "Like, right now? Why?"

"Um." Scott fidgeted, twiddling his fork. "You're kind of sitting in front of the stream from the air conditioning vent."

Raising a suspicious eyebrow at the request, Stiles tore into his sandwich, wondering what the big deal was. They always sat here. Why Scott had a problem with it now had him puzzled.

Scott hunched forward over his tray, looking for all the world like Stiles was dragging the issue out by force. "You kind of reek."

Throwing his arms up indignantly, Stiles protested through a mouthful of sloppy joe. "There's no way! I showered twice as long this morning to make sure."

Granted, only part of his lengthy shower was to scrub off Peter's lingering scent. The rest had been devoted to jerking himself stupid while imagining that it was Peter's hand on him instead of his own. Stiles had slept undisturbed through the whole night and had woken to find himself half naked and alone. And that was fine, less awkwardness all around, but Stiles couldn't help wondering how it would feel to wake up with someone else beside him for a change.

Pushing his unhelpful musings to the back of his mind, Stiles chewed moodily. There was no way he could still smell like Peter. He had soaped down two or three times to make sure every trace of the older man was gone. And his clothes were clean. The only piece of clothing on him that wasn't "fresh" fresh was his jeans. He had re-worn them because he had only been wearing them since after his shower late last night, but—oh.

Oh…

Oops.

Stiles cringed at the realization that he was wearing the jeans that he had straddled Peter in, that he had been wearing when Peter had twice jerked him off, jeans that he had slept in while cuddling with Peter (yes, cuddling, Stiles wasn't afraid to call it what it was).

Guess they weren't as clean as he had thought.

"I don't care how long your shower was," Scott groused. "You still smell like you rolled in Peter's scent…and other things…"

Stiles ducked his head. He had the good grace to feel ashamed by his oversight. "You're not wrong," he muttered down at his tray. Scott groaned through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Stiles snorted at the irony of the situation. "Oh, sure, intimate details about you and Allison's sex life are peaches and cream, but the slightest suggestion of Peter and I getting hot and heavy together is TMI."

Shrugging, Scott played with his food. "Most of it is because I can smell it. I dunno. But it is weird to think of you like that."

"Like what?" Stiles prompted thorough another mouthful of his sandwich.

Scott dropped his gaze to his plate and shrugged again. "I don't know. Involved? Sexually? Performing…acts and things…with Peter…" He trailed off, looking queasy.

"What, are you saying I'm hideous? You are, aren't you? I'm the ugly duck in the picture and it's grossing you out."

Scott's eyes went wide in dismay. "No! You look…you look alright for a dude, y'know? I mean, you're not my type, but you're not…half bad," Scott quickly assured him, though his discomfort showed at having to weigh in on his best friend's attractiveness.

"Hey, you could do a lot worse than Stiles," Stiles said, pretending to be miffed by his friend's disinterest.

"Oh yeah, like who?" Scott countered as he made a mess of his mashed potato pile.

"Greenburg," Stiles said, like it was obvious. Scott shook his head in amazement and picked at his food.

Stiles was halfway through his sandwich when Scott tossed down his fork and dropped his head into his hands. "Why couldn't it have been Derek?" Scott moaned, sounding as though his life was falling apart.

Stiles smirked, the sadistic part of himself finding Scott's dismay kind of hilarious. "Early bird catches the worm," he quipped. Scott looked up at him, his mouth hung open in stunned horror. "Kidding, jeez…but, yeah. Totally do-able," Stiles admitted. Because yeah, Derek was hot in a tall, dark, brooding way that a lot of people swooned for, and Stiles may or may not have entertained a fantasy or two involving the Alpha (especially when he needed that extra edge to get himself off). It wasn't Stiles's fault that Derek looked like angry sex walking…

But the Alpha had never offered. Then again, neither had Peter, really, before Stiles had jumped his bones in the preserve. Maybe the Hale men were passive when it came to approaching someone sexually?

A lunch tray setting down on the table broke his thought pattern.

"I'm sure Derek will be sorry that he lost out to his own uncle," Isaac said as he sat down beside Stiles, a smirk on his face.

"What, like he was interested before—hold on a second," Stiles turning his attention back to Scott when Isaac's words sank in. "You tattled on me to Derek?"

Scott shrugged and hunched in on himself defensively. "Derek's his Alpha, he should know what his betas are doing."

"I think you mean who he's doing." Stiles countered, offended by his best friend's betrayal. "You wouldn't have gone to Derek if he was putting the moves on someone older, like your mom." Scott's eyes flashed warningly at him. "Okay, not your mom, but you know what I mean."

Scott fell silent and scooped up his fork, using it to moodily push his food around on his plate.

"So you're really boning the zombie?" Isaac asked. "That's…interesting…considering what Derek had to say about him. And, no offense, but even if Scott hadn't ratted on you, we still would have known. When he came back this morning, he reeked of you. Tell me," Isaac's hand suddenly latched around Stiles's thigh, "have you always been such a slut or is it just for werewolves?"

Scott growled threateningly from across the table, but Isaac didn't so much as twitch as he remained deep inside Stiles's personal bubble, his hot breath dancing across the side of Stiles's face.

Stiles sat frozen, his eyes trained in his lunch tray, but mentally he was flailing. He was shocked by Isaac's sudden advance, unsure if it was genuine or a sick power play, but, either way, Stiles didn't feel like playing this game. His heart pounded hard in his chest—from fear, not desire—and the awareness of just how helpless he was drove him to the edge of recklessness. "Sorry," he said, finally turning his head slightly to look Isaac in the eye, shoring up his anxiety behind a thick layer of bravado and anger. "I prefer born over bitten. You know, more control," Stiles said pointedly as he felt claws digging into his thigh.

"You like control? Or being controlled? Because, to be honest, you kinda look like you'd enjoy being somebody's bitch," Isaac whispered dangerously, his eyes flashing yellow briefly as his clawed hand slid higher up Stiles's thigh.

"I don't kiss and tell," Stiles retorted dismissively, returning his attention to his tray. He was hyperactively aware of the threat mere inches from him and he was doing his best to ignore his steadily mounting panic. Regardless of how pretty Isaac was, the werewolf's aggressive attention deeply unsettled him (and the claws hadn't helped either). But even on the off-chance that Isaac was actually interested in more than freaking him out, Stiles wasn't about to whore himself out to another werewolf. Or anyone else, for that matter.

If his eight-year infatuation with Lydia Martin had taught him anything, it was that Stiles was monogamous to a fault.

"Isaac," Scott hissed angrily. Scott had enough control over himself to prevent a full shift in the middle of the cafeteria, but his clawed hands threatened to dig into the surface of the table.

With a cocky smile, Isaac released Stiles's leg and leaned away. "No problem," he said smoothly. "Just a little teasing. It's all in good fun."

Stiles scoffed under his breath. Fun. Right.

Scott seemed to accept Isaac's backing off and he calmed down, retracting his claws.

The tension gradually dissipated as they all fell quiet, plodding through their lunches—until the subject of Erica and Boyd was broached.

"Any word on the others?" Scott asked softly.

Isaac stiffened, apparently caught off guard by the change in subject. "No, we haven't heard anything. Not that I expected to. They wanted to leave and they left. Didn't really think that stopping Jackson would bring them back. Derek, on the other hand, he still has hope. He has us out searching the woods every day."

"I thought they'd be back by now," Scott admitted as he bit into his sandwich. "I mean, Gerard and the kanima have been taken down. What else is there to keep them away?"

"The rest of the Argents?" Stiles helpfully supplied while Isaac only shrugged.

Stiles thought Isaac looked almost uneasy and was about to ask him about it when two familiar people walking into the cafeteria caught his eye: Allison and Lydia. Scott noticed their entrance too (well, at least Allison's) and he hurriedly engaged Isaac in a discussion over the make-up chemistry assignments Harris had given them— an obvious attempt to distract himself from his ex-girlfriend.

Stiles tuned them out as he tracked the two girls, watching as they sat at a table on the far side of the cafeteria, eating and talking and keeping to themselves. They looked normal, as though Allison hadn't tried to decimate the Hale pack with her manipulative grandfather, as though Lydia hadn't faced her kanima-turned-werewolf ex-boyfriend (who had skipped town a day or two later, the jerk). To see them acting as though nothing had happened disturbed Stiles more than having a hostile werewolf in his face.

Stiles wondered what that said about himself.

He stared at them—stared at Lydia—and found himself in awe of the lack of squirmy-fuzzy feelings in his stomach at the sight of her. He still thought she was attractive and amazing, but the shortness of breath and tension low in his belly that he was used to feeling when she was near him wasn't there. Not for her, anyways, not for the past couple of weeks. But it was there for Peter last night when the older man had unexpectedly shown up in his bedroom and, for the life of him, Stiles didn't know what to do with that information. Part of him was a little freaked out by the possibility that he may have already transferred his obsession from Lydia to Peter.

Stiles just hoped that his dick wasn't calling the shots on this one.

". . . Peter?"

"Wha—?" Stiles whipped his head back to Scott, his attention snagged by the mention of his lover.

"I was asking Isaac what it's like living with Derek and Peter," Scott patiently explained.

Isaac shrugged, looking bored. "It's alright. I see more of Derek than I do of Peter though. Peter comes and goes when he wants. Sometimes he doesn't come back to the station at all. I can't tell whether Derek likes it better when Peter's there where he can keep an eye on him or when Peter's out somewhere else. Probably both, knowing Derek."

"I know which I'd prefer," Scott muttered darkly.

Stiles didn't even bother to rebuke his friend. A lot of the problems Scott was currently faced with stemmed indirectly from being bitten by Peter that night in the woods. As much as Stiles empathized with Peter, facts were facts: this year would have gone much differently had Scott never been turned. Or if Stiles had been turned instead (though Stiles tried not to let his mind ponder that "what if" scenario too often—there were only so many unhealthy thoughts he felt comfortable having at any given time).

"What I'd like to know," Isaac said, keeping his voice low to prevent being unheard, "is how he's back. You guys helped kill him a few months ago, right?"

Scott nodded and stopped playing with a leftover lump of potato. "We burned him and Derek slashed his throat. Stiles threw the Molotov cocktail that set him on fire," he said, pointing at Stiles with his fork.

"Really?" Isaac eyed him appraisingly and it almost made Stiles's skin crawl.

Stiles was uncomfortable with being put on the spot (admitting that you helped kill your current lover was awkward, okay?). He only just managed to keep from squirming guiltily on the bench. "Any ideas as to how he came back?" Stiles asked, half to deflect Isaac's attention and half in the hopes of getting an actual answer.

Isaac looked at Scott expectantly, but Scott shook his head. "I don't have a clue. Me and Isaac—""Isaac and I," Stiles corrected. Scott rolled his eyes exasperatedly at him. "Fine, Isaac and I found out at the same time."

"And Derek hasn't really said anything else about it. If he was actively ignoring Peter, I'd say he was pretending it didn't happen," Isaac said. "But…I don't know. Either he doesn't want anyone to know the details or he hasn't felt like sharing them."

"Maybe he doesn't know," Stiles chipped in through his mouthful of sloppy joe.

"Nah," Isaac immediately dismissed. "Derek usually knows more than he lets on. He probably thinks it's more of a 'we don't need to know' thing. I can see why he might not want to share, though. Knowing how to come back from the dead? Who wouldn't want that kind of information?"

"You think it's only a werewolf thing?" Scott asked vaguely as he openly stared at Allison with a hangdog expression on his face.

"Probably, considering it involves massive and sudden tissue regeneration," Isaac said as he picked at his own food.

"Maybe he had help," Stiles threw out carelessly. He was disappointed that the others were as clueless as he was and he felt his attention begin to drift back towards Allison and Lydia.

Scott snorted derisively. "Who would willingly help Peter?"

Stiles paused in thought with his fork halfway to his mouth, the question having triggered something inside his head.

Who would help Peter come back from the dead? The Argents had vast knowledge on different creatures (and who knew what other kinds of supernatural tidbits they had), but reviving a rabid werewolf contradicted their whole raison d'être. Most people thought that Peter Hale was just a coma victim had mysteriously disappeared, or had been kidnapped from his room at the hospital. Everyone who knew the truth had essentially wanted him dead (or stopped at the very least).

Well, that was a technicality, considering Lydia Martin never knew the truth behind the 'animal' attack on her at Formal.

Stiles stared across the room at the girls as he mentally ticked off names of people who knew about werewolves (that he knew of).

Isaac, Erica, and Boyd: no.

Scott: NO.

Deaton: no.

The Argents: no.

Jackson: no—

Stiles frowned. Jackson was still the kanima at the time that Peter had come back from the dead and under Matt's control— and Matt couldn't have done it because he hadn't known anything about Peter in the first place. Stiles seriously doubted that the kanima could serve two masters at once and Jackson himself definitely wouldn't have known how to do it. He wasn't smart enough to figure out something as thorny as raising the dead. His ex-girlfriend, on the other hand, could probably wrap her brain around an answer if she gave the problem the time of day, but—

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat as a radical thought struck him.

Lydia had been marked by the supernatural, had been bitten by an Alpha and proven immune to the change. But what if she was only physically immune? What if, like Jackson, she was still mentally susceptible to supernatural influence, to supernatural control?— to Peter's control, through the bite that failed to turn or kill her yet had irrefutably left his mark on her.

Stiles felt his stomach turn and he broke into a cold sweat.

It was Lydia.

She helped Peter come back from the dead. She was the only one close enough to all the werewolf drama who could potentially be involved. She had behaved abnormally for weeks and displayed occasional mental instability—as though someone else was pulling her strings. And she had thrown a party with a drugged punch that had incapacitated anyone who might have gotten in the way of Peter's resurrection that night.

Now that he saw all the pieces for what they were, it was painfully obvious: Lydia Martin, Stiles's longtime obsession, had been driven nearly insane and used like a puppet by the man who had nearly killed her.

By the man Stiles had let his guard down to.

Feeling sick, Stiles grabbed his backpack and made his way out of the cafeteria, brushing off Scott and Isaac's questions with a faint "I don't feel well".

And there was no blip in his heart rate because it was true.

He wasn't feeling well at all.