The week was passing by painfully slow. Stiles grew agitated by the second day and started talking to himself by Tuesday. Aside from the Internet and online games, he was pretty much left with zero contact with the outside world. Whenever his father was home, Stiles breathed a sigh of relief and let out his stream of consciousness like there was no tomorrow. He didn't even know half of the words that were coming out of his mouth. It was Wednesday when his father suggested, with a tired look in his eyes, that he do something constructive.

So that was probably where Stiles decided the literal approach to his father's words was best and spent Thursday making plans for a massive project and Friday running around the hardware store for wood and paint. When he got home, all the wood strapped to the top of his jeep, he was met with a certain surly sourwolf.

Stiles moved around his jeep and pulled at the harnesses. "What do you want?"

Derek strode around the car and leaned on the back window. "What's with all the wood?"

"I'm building something. Are we playing twenty questions now?"

Derek puffed out a breath. "I have more information. You said you'd help." His clear hazel eyes never wavered from Stiles' face trying to catch his attention.

Stiles moved to the other side and pulled the harness off and then a plank of wood. He trudged up the driveway and dumped it in the garage. When he turned around, Derek had carried the rest behind him. "I didn't need your help."

"You could still thank me."

"Thanks, I guess." Stiles shrugged and opened his trunk. "I did say I would help. But I have my own project now."

"Stiles."

"Look," Stiles said, looking up from his trunk and giving Derek a hard expression, "Nowadays I try not to involve myself in supernatural activities where I'm clearly disadvantaged. I can't help you."

Derek shoved his hands into his pockets and raised his chin. "You don't even want to know what I have to tell you?"

Stiles narrowed his eyes. He knew Derek was saying it like that on purpose. Like there was some sort of seriously crazy shit that he knew would be like hyperactive teenage boy catnip. And it just pissed him off because it did interest him. Right deep in his gut he was dying to know what was going on, but he couldn't. Knowledge was power and sometimes that power didn't always lead to good places.

Derek shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not asking you to get involved, Stiles. I know that would put you in a dangerous position. All I'm asking is for a little brainpower. You don't have to leave your room."

"Ha ha, very funny. Make fun of the recluse geek. Very clever. Fine, I'll help. But only if you grab all those paint cans."

Stiles waited the few moments while is Macbook booted up. Looking behind him, Derek sat in the other chair, flipping through his Sherlock Holmes anthology. His brow creased down in concentration. Stiles shook his head, sarcastic smile pinned to his face. He swiveled back to his computer and opened Google.

"So tell me about this latest development. Be detailed. Don't forget to mention anything. Although, you can probably skip the whole 'I frolic through the forest' part—I already know you're a wild animal."

Derek rolled his eyes and scooted behind Stiles. "A couple of days ago there was a body found by the river. It had floated down overnight."

"My father is the sheriff, remember?"

"Right. Well, I had Isaac get a scent from the crime scene to try to track where the body came from."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"They didn't release this information, but the body was in unnatural state of decay. It looked like a shriveled version of a man, drained of all his fluids and then hardened. And he didn't have any eyes."

"And this has a supernatural trademark or something?"

"Something like that. And Isaac couldn't track the scent. Neither could I."

"So far, this just seems like a psychopath's work. A weird feeling in the air and some creepy shit enough to give me nightmares. Also, the water could have washed away the scent."

"It was unnatural, Stiles."

"Unnatural is not the same as supernatural."

Derek glared. "The police didn't release the information."

"And clearly that means that they're keeping some information to themselves so that when they interrogate a suspect, they can see if he knows something only the killer would know."

Derek huffed. "So you're not going to help me?"

Stiles sighed and turned to his computer. "Creepy…shit…"

"Stiles."

Stiles backspaced with a laugh. "Jesus, don't get your werewolf panties in a twist."

"You aren't taking this seriously."

"And you're taking it too seriously. Beacon Hills was bound—at some point—to get a psycho-axe-murderer. We just so happen to be cursed with more than one. And this time could very well be something perfectly human that my dad will sort out."

Derek's eyebrows came down over his eyes in one of those really intense glowers that he used when he was especially pissed off. Most people would cringe—and Stiles was sorely tempted to. He knew the guy couldn't stand him and he knew that Derek was one of those people where he couldn't be sure whether he'd follow through or not on a death threat. Better be safe than sorry. But recently Stiles had been rethinking his entire view of Derek in light of more recent events.

The evidence was there. And Stiles concluded that Derek wasn't one of those mindless Neanderthals who dropped a club on someone's head because they were mad. In fact, Stiles was fairly certain that the look Derek was giving him was a practiced look. He knew his face could pull the angry silent brood about as well or even better than that of Buffy's hot vampire first love, Angel. And Angel was probably the original brooder. All brooders before him paled in comparison. Yet Derek managed to give Angel a run for his money. And Stiles was beginning to think that he did it on purpose. Just to make him think he would rip his throat out so he could get his way.

Stiles smiled back. "Look, as much as I would love to spend my night researching with a nonverbal man-child-werewolf and possibly end up being thrown against a wall or a door…I have a project that I need to work on. So, you can go back to your train cart or whatever and find a nice dark corner to wallow in and let Stiles get back to his life."

"You said you'd help," Derek growled between clenched teeth.

Stiles shrugged. "Can't. Busy." Next thing Stiles knew he was thrown up against his door. Of course. "Ouch! Jesus Christ on tortillas! This is exactly what I'm talking about!"

Derek pressed close and growled at him—pretty much solidifying Stiles' theory that ninety-percent of Derek's 'angry' reactions were practiced. No one could act like such a stereotype creeper asshole and totally mean it. Either that or Stiles pushed a button with Derek that no one else could, and even Stiles wasn't so egotistical to think that.

But Stiles felt something sour building in his gut. It took him a moment to recognize it as anger. Derek's stupid game was infuriating and childish. "You need to learn to express yourself in a more healthy dynamic way. And you need to learn about an interesting concept called 'personal space'. I'm not picky on the order here." The sarcasm dried up on his tongue, leaving only bite and no lightness to his words.

"Stiles, shut up. You're going to find out everything you can."

Usually, Stiles would cower into submission and return with a sarcastic comment, but these days he wasn't feeling quite like himself. "Fuck. You."

Derek flinched and let go. "What?"

Stiles pulled at his sweater. "You heard me. Now, get out. Fuck you and fuck your stupid bullshit supernatural problems. I'm not here as some sort of Google puppet. Get your own damn computer and do your own damn research."

"You said you'd help." This time the words didn't come out in a growl. They were quiet and contemplative. Derek looked Stiles up and down.

"And I told you to come back when you actually had something worth helping. I'm not going to waste my time to find out that this dried up carcass isn't a result of supernatural activity—just some psycho that treated the body with weird chemicals or some shit and then froze it or something. Because then it's neither my job nor your job, and we both end up tired from chasing ghosts." Stiles huffed and opened his bedroom door, but he stopped before stepping out and waved his hands in the air. "And you know what? It's not my job anyway. I'm human, Derek. I shouldn't be involved in your crap pile. Find someone else."

Derek seemed stunned for a few moments before smoothing out his face as though he'd settled some deep inner debate. "I'll come back when I have something better then." He turned to the window, shucked it open, and jumped out.

"Ugh," Stiles groaned. He leaned out. "Don't come back at all!" he shouted before slamming the window shut. "Son of a bitch…"

Find someone who can actually help. A hero.