Thursday passed with nothing new from Derek. Stiles had texted him asking if any change was wrought in Erica, Boyd, and Jackson—there was none. Stiles continued with his holiday assignments and his project, wondering why Derek hadn't made an effort to contact him other than the one word reply. He sanded down the wood in the back of his house where the weeds grew next to the cement walkway with a furrowed brow, trying to understand if there were other implications to the word no. It was clearly an idiotic response but he couldn't help but obsess. And eventually he had to simply stop himself, wipe his brow, and go inside for a hot shower because this obsession with Derek Hale was getting out of hand.

Of course the shower only brought more thoughts. His brain was a warzone between psychotic and rational. Is Derek avoiding me now? Really, Stiles, it's been less than a day. I hope he got I was mostly joking about the whole being shitty thing. Okay yeah half-kidding. Jesus, I hope he didn't let Scott or Lydia's personal vendetta's get to him. Maybe he's decided he doesn't want to hang out anymore. No, he's probably just got things to do—like check on his betas. And brood and stuff. The guy likes to brood. Maybe he didn't like Iron Man. Stiles laughed. Who didn't like Iron Man?

Stiles rinsed his hair out, still laughing. "I'm such an idiot," he mumbled.

You're only obsessing because you sort of kind of have a crush on him. And who wouldn't? He's a smoking hot badass. And sure yeah he's done some things that weren't entirely redeemable, but they weren't entirely NOT redeemable either. I mean yes, he put them in danger and didn't train them well enough to control themselves, but Erica, Isaac, and Boyd are arguably better since they were bitten aside from the whole catatonic stuff. Very grey area stuff. Still…he's got a good heart once you get past the rough exterior. The really thick rough exterior. And he's hot. Like really, really hot.

"Goddamn those cheekbones," Stiles muttered. "And those abs. Jesus." Eyes. Mouth. Hair. "God his hair." This wasn't a very safe train of thought, but he couldn't stop. All those well-defined muscles that could only be there from hours and hours of training and honing his body to its most perfect form. There was such a sense of utter control that Stiles wondered what it'd be like to poke at those cords that kept him together. What it would be like to watch them uncoil and see him fall apart until he was a clenching, shuddering mess on a tangle of sheets. He'd seen him in pain, and that was an experience both traumatizing and hot. Now Stiles wanted to know how he looked when he was in ecstasy.

The image brought heat to his neck and a tingling along his cock. Stiles reached down and touched his growing erection as the water beat down his back, imagining Derek stretched out in front of him, back arching under him, eyes fluttering with each thrust, breath coming in short gasps, muscles along his sides and chest tensing and bracing. And maybe Derek did have a bit of wolfishness to him and liked to bite—not too hard, just enough to leave faint marks on the neck. Or maybe he was more of a teeth scraper, dragging his teeth across skin and leaving gentle kisses at very precise stops. Stiles slid his hand down his shaft, exhaling with each pull. Where were Derek's weak points? Ears? Neck? Nipples? Inner thigh? Maybe he liked the feeling of nails scratching down his back. Stiles rubbed a thumb over his sensitive tip. The pleasure went up his spine and he moved faster, feeling the building sensation under his balls. He thought of Derek getting a blow job in a dark parking lot—and was too turned on by the idea that he didn't care that someone else had done it to him.

One hand went to the tiled wall of the shower as the other pumped harder. Pre-come slid from the tip, slicking his path further as he gripped tight and pulled back. "Fuck…fuck." Electricity started below his balls, he went faster, and then his body wrenched long shudders straight from his center. He came all over the shower wall, letting the water from above wash it down and the electrical shivers wrack his body. "Fuuuuck."

Stiles let out a long exhale and leaned back against the tiled wall, closing his eyes briefly as the pleasure subsided. When he felt well enough, he turned off the water and got out. Part of him hoped this crush on Derek Hale that was leading to intense masturbating sessions in the shower would soon leave him alone—and part of him almost maybe liked feeling this sensation for someone other than Lydia Martin. Of course, that didn't mean the target of his affections was any different league-wise. And that was probably worse than the fact that he had this crush thing sitting in him. Because he'd been there and done that, why did he have to torture himself in this way again?

Maybe if he kept telling himself that it wasn't really a crush because Derek still (sort of) scared him then he could logic himself out of this mess. Yeah. That's what he was going to do.

He heard the door slam downstairs. It was only six—was his dad home already?

"Stiles!" his father called.

"Bathroom!" he shouted back.

His dad lugged up the steps while Stiles dried himself off. "Stiles… I came back to tell you that it's going to be a late night at the office," he said behind the door.

Stiles paused while pulling his black and grey striped sweater over his head. Why didn't he just text him that? And there was something in his voice…

"You could have just texted me that, Dad." He pulled up his sweat pants and opened the door.

His father didn't look okay. Dark circles, worry lines, shirt looked like he hadn't had time to change into a clean one. And he wouldn't look him in the eye.

"What's going on?"

Stiles' dad took a breath. "It's…Scott."

All lingering sexy Derek thoughts flew out the window, and everything froze. His mouth went dry. The earth vibrated in his vision. And for a second it seemed like his heart was going to stop. But then it all tumbled back into motion a second later. "Wh—what about Scott?" he breathed, fearing the worst.

"His mother called today to tell me that he never came home from work last night."

All words dried up on Stiles' tongue. His mouth opened in a small 'o' and his heart hammered in his chest, nearly deafening any thoughts that could have crossed his brain.

"But, look, Stiles. I'm sure Scott just forgot to let her know where he is. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

But there was everything to worry about. Scott wasn't invulnerable. He thought back to Erica and Boyd—sitting on the cold metal tables, eyes milked over, bodies stiff and unresponsive. They were okay because Derek was with them since it began. Jackson presumably was with Lydia. But what about Scott? What if whatever got to them got to him and he was lying in the middle of the forest with no one around?

"Hey," his father said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Hey are you okay?"

Stiles swallowed back the rising fear in his throat and nodded.

The worry lines deepened. "Are you sure?"

Stiles let out a breath. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just…yeah I'm sure he's okay."

"So you haven't seen him?"

Stiles shook his head. "I saw him yesterday morning…he was at the vet's with Lydia."

His father nodded. "I guess I'll have to talk to her. Stiles…it's going to be okay. Like I said, it's probably nothing to worry about." He gave his son a quick hug with a pat and then trudged back down the stairs.

Stiles stood under the bathroom doorway for several minutes, trying to keep those fears locked down tight in his gut. But the heart-pounding violent quivering seeped through in nervous breaths as he struggled for control. Every fiber of his being screamed out and threatened to either rip to shreds or collapse. And the enormous pressure on his throat, in his head, and in his chest pushed him until he was slipping down the door. His hand gripped his sweater as he struggled for breath.

"Shit," he choked out. His fingers tingled, his stomach churned, and his vision started to blur. "Shit shit shit." He fell onto the soft beige rug and lifted himself to the toilet. He upended the seat just in time. His throat burned, and he sat at the bowl for several minutes, waiting for the last rolls of fear to leave him.

He sniffled and wiped the little build up of unshed tears from his eyes. "Shit," he mumbled as he leaned his head back against the cold wooden cabinet.

His phone buzzed above him on the white counter. His fingers scrambled up and clutched the device. It was Derek. His thumb hovered over the green button. He wanted someone to talk to, but his and Derek's relationship wasn't to that point…yet. But maybe Derek knew something about Scott? He swallowed, rejected the call, and put the phone down on the rug. He should just let his dad do his job.

Stiles let out a long shuddering breath. His best friend was probably in trouble and he was sitting on the bathroom floor thinking about how he couldn't do anything about it. Because he couldn't. What power did he have? His only power was the power of sarcasm. He clutched his hands over his eyes and pulled his knees up. The guilt that came sat heavy in his chest. He should've been with Scott this whole time. They were best friends. Maybe if he never pushed Scott away he would be where he is now, concocting some plan to get them out of whatever mess they'd gotten into. Or maybe he'd be there to pick Scott up and carry him to the vet's so at least he was safe.

But he gave up. He quit when it got rough because he couldn't stand the pressure—inside and out. And now Scott was in trouble and he was too cowardly to even pick up the phone.

His phone buzzed again on the floor. Text message. He clicked on it.

Derek: Answer your phone.

Stiles sucked in a breath, grabbed his phone, and shakily got to his feet. He turned the water on in the sink and cleaned himself up, rubbing his reddened eyes and brushing his teeth. He padded back to his room and slipped under the blankets on his bed.

But the phone in his pocket was unrelenting. The bright screen glared in his dark room.

Derek: I'm going to come over there.

Stiles: Don't. I already know what's going on.

Derek: No you don't.

At this point Derek called him. Sighing, he answered with a croaky, "what?"

"Stiles—are you okay?"

"I'm fine. What do you want?"

Derek was silent.

"I'm going to hang up—"

"I'm coming over there."

"No! Jesus. Just tell me what it is that you wanted to tell me."

"Fine…The blood samples came back last night and Deaton figured out what that blue substance was."

Stiles sat up. "And are you going to tell me what's up or am I going to have to guess?"

"The blood held a combination of Aconitum and something called Artemisia Absinthum."

Stiles was up at the laptop before he even realized. "Wait Aconitum? You mean Wolfsbane? And—hang on…Art-em—how do you spell that? Okay. Ab-sin-th-um." He scrolled and clicked on, hopefully, the most promising website. He chewed his lip, reading the text carefully. "'Artemisia Absinthum, also known as Ambrosia, Absinthe, and Wormwood, is a fragrant herb often used to induce heavy sleep and vivid dreams.' I have no idea what this means."

"It's also what was in that blue substance—aside from one other unidentifiable chemical. Deaton isn't sure about that."

"It says that this Wormwood stuff is green. Or at least the essential oil in it, when extracted, is green. Maybe it was the Wolfsbane that turned it blue…or whatever that third thing is. And how could you not smell it? But—" he waved his hand, "it doesn't matter. What does this mean?"

"I don't know." Derek huffed on the other end.

"What? Is there something else?"

"It's Isaac…and Scott."

Stiles felt the tight wad of guilt and fear clench in his gut. "Wh-what about them?"

"If we couldn't trace the scent of that blue substance…maybe we could trace the scent of the victim. Isaac is better at that so I sent him. But Scott went to make sure he was okay and—" he took a breath. "Scott lost him. He didn't know what happened. One minute they were tracking the scent up the river and the next he woke up by the side of the road—at daybreak."

"Scott's okay though?"

"He's a little…out of it I guess."

"Why didn't he call his mom, though? She hasn't seen him since yesterday—she called my dad."

He could practically hear the 'oh' on the other end. "I—"

"Is he there with you?"

"Yes, but—"

"Let me talk to him."

"He's not exactly himself."

"What do you mean?"

"Like I said…he's out of it."

Stiles was silent for a long minute. "What happened, Derek?"

"I'm not sure. Just… I'm coming over."

"No, I'm coming over there—you're at Deaton's?"

"No, don't come over here."

Stiles was already digging in his closet for a decent pair of jeans. "Too late, I'm heading out the door."

"Dammit, Stiles—No."

"—In my—pants," he struggled out, trying to balance the phone on his shoulder and stick his legs in his darkest jeans.

"…Was that an invitation?"

Stiles choked and tripped over his legs. The phone went flying and he landed with a hard thud on his carpet. What the actual fuck? What. The. Actual. Fuck? He pulled his pants up and scrambled to the phone.

Derek was trying to hide his cackles—the bastard. "You're too easy."

"This is supposed to be serious, asshole." Never mind the sexy image induced heart attack he was currently having.

"Right, right. You can't come over here because I'm already in front of your house."

Stiles flailed to his feet and raced down the stairs. He flung open the door and glared. Derek was standing looking altogether too hot for it to be legal. He still had the unhealthy look to his face and the droopy hair, but that didn't change the fact that he was positively on fire. The jackass. Stiles let his eyes sweep down for half a second. It wasn't fair that he looked so good in that black leather jacket, navy blue tee, and tight black jeans. When he got back up to his eyes, despite his earlier brush with laughter, there was definitely a sobered look lingering there saying something more than he could with his words: that whatever it was, was pretty bad and jokes were only a small comfort.

"That's actually a nice sweater. Big change from the reindeers."

"Shut up. Where's Scott?"

"You don't want to see him."

"Really? Because that's definitely why I would ask where he is."

"Stiles."

"Don't go all 'Stiles' on me like I'm being an idiot. Is he at the vet?"

Derek glanced away from those giant brown orbs. He couldn't take it. "Yes."

"Is he okay? No. Never mind. At this rate I'd have better luck trying to pin you down and pluck out your teeth. I'll just go over there myself."

He jingled the keys in his pocket. Derek grabbed him by the arm before he could get two steps.

"He's not okay. He's going to…end up like the others. But he's not there yet. I don't think you should see him."

Stiles blinked. Something occurred to him then. "What happened to Isaac?"

Derek swallowed. "As soon as I found Scott I took him to Deaton's and then I went to looks for Isaac. I've been looking all day. I…couldn't find him."

Stiles felt the pit in his stomach expand a little. His chest constricted, his fingers tingled, the bile rose in his throat. He was going to freak right in front of Derek and he was pretty sure Derek could tell what was happening—probably hear it too with the way his heart was pounding in his chest.

They were the only ones now.