"Stiles?" Is something wrong?" Scott asked.

Startled by the question, Stiles froze, the pencil he had been absently tapping against his knee going lax between his fingers. "Wha—nothing's wrong. Why would anything be wrong?"

Scott shrugged from where he sat cross-legged on his bed, hunched over his chemistry textbook. "I dunno. It's just…you haven't really said much since you came over. And you keep looking at me then looking away again. It's kinda creepin' me out, dude. Do you wanna talk? Is it Peter? Did he do something?" His shoulders were tensed up, like he was seriously on the verge of hunting Peter down.

Which was sweet, but—no.

Hauling up his own open chemistry textbook that was threatening to slide off his lap, Stiles wiggled around in Scott's desk chair to a more comfortable position. "No, no problems with Peter. Things are good…uh, really good…" Stiles trailed off, his mind flashing back to earlier: Peter's hot mouth wrapped around his cock, sucking and teasing and making it almost impossible for Stiles to concentrate on pleasuring Peter in return—which apparently Peter had been fine with, judging by his satisfied smile after he'd jacked himself off and shot his load all over Stiles's face (soon after, Stiles had discovered that while having someone come on your face was hot as hell, semen really fucking burned when it got in your eyes).

"Hey, Stiles?"

Forcibly yanking himself out of the memory, Stiles shook his head to clear it and brought his attention back to Scott. "Yeah?"

"Whatever it is that you're thinking about right now, could you not think about it?" Scott asked. His face was pulled into a grimace like the one he'd made at lunch.

Oops.

Stiles rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly, "Fine, jeez…at least that's all you can smell right now. You're lucky I love you. I showered for you and everything before coming over." Okay, mostly it had been about making him smell less like a porn star, post-shoot, but Stiles figured washing off the reek of sex doubled as common courtesy.

Scott shook his head and laughed under his breath, but he sobered up a few seconds later. "So if it's not Peter, what is it?" he asked.

The worry in Scott's voice did a lot to sooth whatever ruffled feathers Stiles still had from being left out of the supernatural loop the past few months. It was so easy to get caught up in resentment that he tended to forget that Scott had meant well and genuinely cared about him.

And remembering that, at the end of the day, his buddy still had his back made Stiles's stomach twist with old guilt.

He hadn't had Scott's back when he'd left him alone in the woods with an Alpha werewolf (granted, Stiles hadn't known werewolves actually existed then, but the fact still stood). No matter what Peter said about the bite being a gift, a part of Stiles would always be heavy with the knowledge that he had helped rip away his best friend's shot at a normal life. All of Stiles's anger and confusion in the past few months highlighted at least one thing —that he was out of touch with his best (and pretty much only) friend. And that thought rankled at him, especially since they had been nearly inseparable for years.

Stiles cleared his throat, self-conscious of the way his heart rate skipped faster with trepidation. ""Um," Stiles stalled. "Are you okay?"

Scott blinked in confusion. "Am I okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, shooting for nonchalance despite the fact that his palms were starting to sweat. "Like, how are you? You know…with your whole…wolfy situation? On a scale of one to ten, one being hate and ten being great, uh…where are you?" he finished weakly, hoping that he didn't come off as too overbearing.

It was just… Stiles needed to hear the words. He might agree with Peter's rationalization on becoming a werewolf, but that didn't mean it held true for Scott.

Scott leaned back against the wall of pillows behind him. Looking lost in thought, he rubbed at rubbed at his shoulder absently, drawing out an exhale. "Uh, I dunno. Decent, I guess? Now that no one's trying to kill us, anyway. Um…I'd put it at a six or a seven, I think, since I'm pretty much back to where I was before school started—except for not being an asthmatic anymore. The heightened senses push it up too, though. If I still had Allison, I'd probably be at, like, an eleven, but…" Scott trailed off, shrugging in a 'what can you do?' kind of way. "Why'd you ask?" He cocked his head curiously to one side.

Ah.

"Just wondering," Stiles said, hastening to shell out a plausible answer. "Things have been kinda crazy for a while and I haven't found the time to get a bead on your quality of life recently, so I just…thought I'd ask."

Scott nodded, still looking a bit lost. "So, why'd you ask about the werewolf thing? Does it bother you?"

Stiles snorted.

The only thing that bothered him about lycanthropy was the tendency to try to tear people (like him) into little pieces. Besides, if Stiles had a problem with Scott being a werewolf, there was a good chance he'd have said something by now.

"No, I wanted to know if it bothered you." There. Quick and easy, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

Scott seemed a little taken aback, oblivious to how much his answer meant to Stiles. "It's got its ups and downs, but it's fine. Couldn't change it if I wanted to, anyways," he said with an uneasy chuckle. "Are you sure you're okay with it? You seem kinda concerned about it," Scott said, a trace of worry in his voice.

"Ah, well, you know…"

"What?" Scott prompted, when Stiles failed to elaborate.

Stiles worried at a fraying edge of his textbook with his thumbnail. Might as well rip another Band-Aid off, he thought, despondently.

"I'm sort of the reason you got bit in the first place," he muttered down at his lap, hardly daring to look up at his friend in more than glances.

Scott frowned. "Dude, you're not the one who bit me. I don't blame you for what happened that night—neither of us knew that was gonna happen. I mean, if you're gonna blame anyone, blame Peter."

You know, the guy you're boning—Scott didn't need to say it, but Stiles could hear the subtext as if his friend had shouted it, like Stiles was violating bro code by willingly letting the older man anywhere near him. He wondered if he was cringing on the outside as much as he was internally.

Some of his guilt must have shown on his face because Scott slumped forward over his lap again, bracing his elbows on his thighs with a defeated sigh.

"Look," Scott said, pacifyingly. "It's fine, dude. Really. Over and done with. If we all keep throwing around things we can't change then we're not gonna move past it, so…consider us good. All of us, including Peter. But I'm still not forgiving him for killing all those people," he said determinedly, as though Stiles was going to try to convince him to absolve Peter of all his sins.

Which Stiles wasn't. Murder was still murder, regardless of the reasoning behind it. Even if they were very good reasons.

Stiles raised his hands, placating his friend. "Not asking you to." He went back to scouring his textbook for a definition that he'd copied down wrong (how the hell he'd mixed up metalloid and alkaloid, he didn't know), his anxiety assuaged.

Mostly.

"Thanks for showering for me, though."

Stiles popped his head up and returned the grin Scott was giving him. "No problem, buddy. I figured I'd be nice and come over smelling like me instead of werewolves." He stretched over sideways to rest his elbow on the desk, his body twisted awkwardly as he lazily drew a line through the alkaloid's definition he'd written under 'metalloid', proceeding to scribble the correct definition underneath it, his head moving back and forth from his textbook to his study guide.

"Werewolves? As in more than one?" Scott asked, interrupting Stiles's train of thought.

"Huh?" Stiles said, still half concentrating on finishing his sentence.

"You said werewolves. Like, more than just Peter. Who else would you smell like?"

"Ah." Stiles froze again. He hadn't realized that he'd pluralized 'werewolf', but now that it was brought to his attention, Stiles couldn't get himself to stop thinking about how Isaac, how he had ground against Stiles and tore at his clothes, trying to get closer…

The memory jarred through him and Stiles found himself unable to laugh off his slip up as a mistake. His tongue felt heavy as lead in this mouth and, try as he might, he couldn't focus on the words he needed to write down, his hand suspended mid-pencil stroke.

"Stiles?" Scott prompted, his face drawn with concern.

Feeling slightly ashamed, Stiles ducked his head and sat back properly in the chair, abandoning his sentence for the moment. This was stupid. Nothing had happened. No one was hurting him. So why did he feel so hunted right now, like he was on the edge of flight?

His thoughts were becoming more and more chaotic as Stiles grasped at them. He'd taken his Adderall, right? Before coming over to Scott's? He'd popped his normal dosage to go to a normal study session so why the hell couldn't he concentrate —?"

"Stiles?" Scott asked again, stronger, more insistent.

Isaac, it had to be Isaac. The attack was messing with Stiles's head, the memory fighting for his attention now that he couldn't push it away and it wanted out, wanted a voice—

He needed to tell Scott.

"Um…about the cafeteria incident," Stiles haltingly began, the words reluctant to fall from his lips even though his mind was flashing through the images like someone had their finger pressed on a fast-forward button. "Part of it may have extended beyond the cafeteria."

At Scott's imploring stare, he launched into a haphazard account of the events in the Preserve, absently wondering just how many Band-Aids he could rip off before he actually lost some skin.

***Elsewhere***

The sound of Peter's footsteps echoed through the open stillness of the train depot as he steadily descended the concrete steps. The large hanging lights illuminated the main room, flooding it with light and leaving nowhere for anyone to hide but in the railcars.

Narrowing his attention to them, Peter picked up the steady heartbeat of his nephew in the farthest car.

To all appearances Isaac was nowhere to be found. And that was fine, in Peter's opinion, because the irritation that simmered just beneath his air of calmness itched for an outlet —like the wet behind the ears werewolf who had dared to touch what was his. Perhaps after he heard what Derek had to say, Peter would track down Isaac for a chat…

He rolled his shoulders, working out the tension in them, and made a beeline for the car his nephew was in.

There was no fear in Peter. He had seen Derek's bite, knew the ultimate and fatal damage that his nephew's wrath could cause, but he also knew that if Derek had wanted to take it that far again, he'd have done it by now. After all, why would Derek waste the time and effort to help Peter re-establish himself if he wanted to kill him (again)?

So, really, it was his nephew's bark he had to contend with.

It wasn't often that Derek demanded his presence and, when he did, it was usually over something Peter had done to piss the Alpha off— though Peter supposed that dominating Derek's only remaining beta would have struck a pretty good chord.

He shoved aside the rusting door and hopped up into the car.

Derek was sitting rigidly in a seat halfway down the car, staring at him with his arms crossed in front of his chest. He wasn't surprised by Peter's appearance (then again, he had probably known the moment Peter set foot in the depot).

Deciding it was probably best to avoid looking like a threat, Peter dropped into a seat a few rows away from Derek, sprawling in it. "You called?" he asked sardonically, patiently waiting for Derek to vent his frustration.

It was a few seconds before Derek spoke, taking the time to first catalog the scents Peter had brought in with him.

Smart, Peter thought.

Scents couldn't tell lies —but they could be misinterpreted.

"How is he?" Derek asked softly.

The question threw Peter, somewhat. He'd been expecting the violence and yelling right off the bat. He eyed his nephew, assessing him. Something akin to pride stirred inside Peter at the display of maturity.

"Physically, he's undamaged, though his jeans weren't so lucky," Peter said, keeping a neutral tone. "Mentally… it's harder to tell. He has a knack for repressing his feelings with sarcasm and he's deflected discussing what happened since I escorted him home. There could be problems in his future interactions with Isaac, especially if he keeps avoiding the issue rather than meeting it head on, but…" he trailed off with a shrug. "At least Isaac didn't get farther than aggressively humping Stiles against a tree."

"Yeah," Derek said, his eyes narrowed. "You stopped Isaac before anything else could happen. In fact," a hard note entered Derek's tone, "considering the little damage Isaac actually inflicted, you were apparently very…enthusiastic…about separating him from Stiles. A broken nose, a dislocated shoulder, a few broken ribs, not to mention the clawing of various parts of his body —"

"If you're saying I went overboard," Peter said crisply, cutting off Derek's inventory of Isaac's injuries (as if they even mattered when Isaac had likely healed before reaching the depot), "I disagree. If I had found them just five minutes later than I did, Stiles would have been raped, had his virginity ripped away without his consen—"

"Virginity?" Derek interrupted, looking confused.

"Yes," Peter grudgingly admitted. "Technically, he's still a virgin, which makes what Isaac did even worse, trying to take that away from Stiles by force. Consider what that would have done to Stiles," he finished coldly, his rage broadcasted in his squared shoulders and crossed arms.

Isaac wouldn't have been gentle, wouldn't have stretched or slicked Stiles before entering him. In his mind, Peter could vividly imagine Stiles's screams and tears as Isaac thrust in single-mindedly, brutally ripping Stiles apart. If Peter hadn't found them when he did, Stiles would be in the hospital right now—or the morgue.

"You care about him," Derek murmured in amazement.

Peter's eyes snapped open, unaware that he had closed them against the pure fury that had surged through him at the thought of what could have happened tonight. Derek's eyes were raking over him, as if he was something new, and Peter mentally chastised himself for giving too much away. He wasn't quite sure what the extent of his affections for Stiles was yet, but he'd wanted to keep his feelings private for a while longer.

Shaking off the haze in his mind, Peter became aware of a stinging pain in his upper arm. He looked down and was surprised to see his claws, piercing his shirt and digging into his flesh. Retracting them, Peter sighed, wondering if he could still salvage the situation.

"Of course I care whether or not he gets raped. Do you understand the damage rape does? Physically and emotionally? It's abhorrent—a tool for cowards and the lowest of the low. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, much less Stiles," he said, his nose slightly scrunched up in distaste.

Well, maybe on a hunter.

"That's not what I meant," Derek said. His eyes were narrowed, analyzing Peter closely, looking for inconsistencies. "If Isaac had attacked anyone else, you wouldn't be this angry right now. But it matters to you whether Stiles gets hurt. You care about him," he said, the statement sounding more like an accusation.

Peter cocked his head. "Is this an interrogation or an intervention?" he asked curiously, careful to mask how wary the change in topic made him. He'd been hoping that, after the 'Q and A' session at the house, all of Derek's prying into his personal business had ceased, but it seemed his nephew was more tenacious than Peter gave him credit for.

Whether or not that tenacity was going to be a problem remained to be seen.

"It's a reality check," Derek said, his tone stern. "Stiles is human. Tonight, he couldn't fight off a beta. How do you expect him to defend himself against an Alpha? When the Alpha Pack comes at us, what do you think is gonna happen to him when he gets caught in the middle?"

"So what do you want me to do? Push him away because he might get hurt?" Peter shot back, his proverbial hackles raised at the thought of casting the teen aside. He refused to accept that as an option, not after the promise he'd made to Stiles.

"He's in danger by being close to you, and the longer he stays near us, the more likely it is that the Alpha Pack will use him against you. You can't protect him all the time."

"That's why I want you to reconsider your decision to keep Scott out of the loop," Peter said, slowly enunciating each word as though his nephew would actually listen if he could hear Peter's frustration in every syllable. But Derek just shook his head and Peter's irritation with the Alpha mounted.

This martyring streak needed to end.

"We've been over this before," Derek said wearily. "The Alpha Pack left their mark on our door, not Scott's. There's no reason to bring him into a fight that isn't his. Let him— let them both be teenagers while they can. They don't need this."

The sour stench of grief permeated the air, threatening to choke Peter. He understood —understood, not empathized —that the fire had forced Derek to grow up faster than he otherwise would have, but a short childhood wasn't uncommon in their kind.

Being a werewolf wasn't easy.

Peter sighed heavily, feeling exhaustion beginning to set in. "No one needs this, but, believe me, you don't want Scott caught unawares by the Alpha Pack —"

"I don't want him in this at all," Derek interrupted forcefully. "It's not. His. Problem!"

"Then at least tell Stiles. Kill two birds with one stone," Derek snorted derisively at him, "no, hear me out," Peter said quickly. "You don't want Scott involved, fine, but at the same time you don't want him to walk blindly into this mess either, right? Bringing Stiles into the loop is the only way to make sure that Scott stays out of the way without requiring you to watch his every move. Stiles knowing the situation gives you an extra pair of eyes and a way to lever Scott in whatever direction you need. At least one of them needs to be on their guard."

Derek looked away, but didn't say anything, which meant that he knew Peter had a point but didn't want to admit it.

"Derek. You need Stiles in on this," Peter implored softly.

Peter needed Stiles aware of the situation. He was in the same boat as Derek: he couldn't be there all the time to protect Stiles. Tonight's drama had driven that home. But Peter still had confidence in Stiles. After all, it was far easier to spot danger coming from outside than it was to expect it from within. Stiles just needed to know what to look for.

When Derek nodded his grudging acceptance with a terse "fine", relief swept through Peter, calming him, though he knew his peace of mind came at a cost. There would be no peace for Stiles until the Alpha Pack was dealt with and no longer a looming threat. And hoping for a swift resolution was probably a double-edged sword.

"Thank you," Peter said, infusing the words with all the gratitude he was capable of anymore.

Derek nodded again, this time wearily, knowing as Peter did that the decision condemned a teenager to a heightened state of paranoia for the foreseeable future. But Stiles could have night terrors for all Peter cared, so long as the teen stayed alive.

Derek didn't offer any further comments and Peter jumped at the chance to take his leave, having effectively thrown his nephew into a "fit of the broods", as Peter liked to call it.

Free of the stifling atmosphere of the railcar, Peter went in search of a solitary place to crash for the night, content to put off worrying his new lover for at least a few hours more.