Hey! So here's the official First Chapter! I'm going to try and balance the angst with snarky Stiles, mainly because I love sassy Stiles so much and missed him in 3B. But let's be honest: home boy needs to heal.

This is definitely more of a healing fic than an 'action-y' fic, but there will be Ms. Argent to through in some diabolical shenanigans. But the last name is gonna be difficult for our 147 worth of pale skin and fragile bones.

Chapter 1

Home

"Lydia, are you're doing okay?" Stiles hollers from the front, plowing ahead as if he didn't just deadlift Derek and proceed to fireman carry him out of the warehouse. Scott throws a startled look at Lydia who doesn't really seem to be struggling with Isaac per se, but more with the fact that Stiles is in front of her. Scott's not doing so well with that information himself.

Kira pulls Scott forward, the two of them tripping over their feet. To be honest, the look on Stiles face – the one that shows he's about 90% done with this bullshit already and that he's questioning his return already – is one that brings a smile to Scott's face. Underneath the newfound muscles and tattoos – holy shit, tattoos?! Scott thought Stiles hated needles – Stiles still made the animated facial expressions like he couldn't believe that he was surrounded by such idiots all the time.

"I can't believe it, Scott," Scott finally snaps out of his reverie to realize that Stiles is not only still talking, but chastising him in that high-pitched, quick-worded way he missed so terribly. "I cannot fucking believe it. Have you lost your damn mind? Are you clinically insane? Because I gotta tell you, dude, I was clinically insane there for a while and even I would never in my entire life, indulge in a plan that was so inherently stupid like this one. I mean, what the actual fuck were you thinking? That you could talk the psychotic freak of nature that is Kate Argent down from murdering everyone in Beacon Hills? Who's idea was this? Who has their head shoved so far up their ass that they literally cannot see common sense? I want names."

Scott's grinning. He knows if Stiles would turn around and see how Lydia's choking back a grin and even Isaac is rolling his eyes (but in a 'he's back and as endearingly stupid as ever' sort of way), it would only force him to go into another tangent.

Crash.

A thunderous noise emits from behind them and they all reach a dead stop. Stiles does finally turn around, his eyes wide, but not panicked. It's strange to see him so calm. He doesn't leap back at least a foot, like he used to, but sucks in a breath. "Okay dude, I'm sorry, but I gotta set you down." Stiles murmurs to Derek, gently heaving him back over his shoulder and to the floor. Once Derek is no longer his personal scarf, Stiles reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife, placing it between his teeth. He then rolls up the leg of his pants and retrieves another pistol.

"Good God, who are you? Chris Argent?" Scott cries when Stiles pulls out the other gun from before, looking particularly ridiculous with a pistol in each hand and a knife between his teeth.

Without removing the knife from his mouth, Stiles rolls his eyes so enthusiastically, Scott thought they might fall out of his head. "It's not my fault you were never in the Boy Scouts," Stiles says with a terrifying grin. "Then you'd know to always be prepared."

Stiles charges toward the noise, only stopping to clap a hand on Scott's shoulder and say playfully, "Dude, how are you not dead already, you big, dumb idiot."

Before Scott and yell at Stiles to stop and come back because he's the one being an idiot and gonna get himself killed, Stiles is already out of sight.

"That just happened, right?" Lydia says breathlessly, straining under the weight of Isaac. "That wasn't just some sort of hallucination that all of us had a once, right?"

"Trust me, that was real." Isaac huffs. "I haven't felt this nauseous in a long time and it's definitely a Stiles-thing. The whole 'when you open your mouth, I want to put your head through a wall' thing."

Derek groans, pushing himself to his feet. Scott can see his face flushed with what he can assume is embarrassment, his skin slowly knitting back together like a five-year-old learning to sew. "We speak," he splutters out breathlessly, able to get back up. "about that to no one. The last thing I need people to know that I practically got bridal carried by the Stilinski kid."

Lydia snorts. "I think you think that people care about you much more than they actually do."

Derek gives an offhanded comment back and Scott can't help but be amazed. It'd been so long since they all spoke like this to each other. Five months, to be exact. The past five months have been nothing but grief, guilt, and implied words instead of just saying what they felt. And they sure as hell haven't been teasing each other. But it's simply back into place as if nothing ever changed.

As if no one ever left.

A scream pierces the air and Scott's hear stops. Gunshots resound in the halls and Scott makes a move to sprint back where his best friend would be, but his knees give in and he and Kira tumble to the ground. The once flustered Derek now looks like he's considering the same move, but he can barely stand without swaying. It's the most frustrating and terrifying moment – having all this power and the inability to use any of it.

Seconds melt away like candles; painfully slow.

There's the sound of sprinting and then Stiles reappears, the guns still in his hands, but the knife absent. "That should hold them off until we get to my car!" He rushes, catching Derek before his sway turns into a pitiful collapse. "If you ever wanted to use your supernatural skills to good use, now would be the time! Please and thank you!"

The group of them stumbles, carrying, and trips out of the warehouse, where a piece of crap Jeep is waiting outside. Derek snorts at the sight of it and it's clear that Stiles is A) no longer scared of Derek and B) so done with all this shit that he snaps, "We all don't have disposable incomes. Some of us, who have been freaking nomads for the past five months, have to figure out how to buy things."

The air gets a little stuffier with the vague mention of 'nomad.'

It's a tight fit, but all six of them manage to shove inside the Jeep. Even though he knows he should probably be in the back because of his size, Scott glares at everyone until they get out of his way and allow him to squeeze in the front next to Stiles, on the awkward seat that is really an armrest, but hey, they're breaking a million laws anyway.

Scott can't believe he is sitting right next to his best friend, Stiles' arm drooped lazily over the steering wheel like he always drove. Except there's something different. His eyes.

His eyes are hard. In a terrifying way, they kind of remind him of Derek, particularly when they first met him. They're cold and unyielding, as if the road ahead of them is insulting him. Stiles is deliberately not saying anything or making eye contact with any of them, those cold eyes fixated on the road.

Needless to say, the car ride is tense.

But Scott doesn't care. He's sitting down next to his best friend. He feels that needs repeating. He's sitting down next to his best friend. He repeats those words over and over to himself, only stopping when he realizes that his side – which shockingly remained injury-free – is now sticky with blood. After a quick once-over, he realizes that it's coming from Stiles.

"Dude, you're bleeding!" He cries, moving to see red staining his shirt.

Stiles merely snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah. Me and the rest of the occupants in the car. I'm just going to have to thrown this piece of shit away because it'd cost more to get the blood out of the upholstery than the car cost."

"I'm being serious, Stiles. Are you okay?" Scott asks because no, Stiles can't be hurt, not right after they got him back.

But unfortunately, he doesn't seem to think the situation is as dire as Scott does. "Superficial. Spoiler alert: Derek, your ex-girlfriend is a Grade-A bitch."

Derek grunts, but Scott's pretty sure it's in agreement.

"We can heal, Stiles," Scott is arguing, annoyed with Derek for not adding anything helpful.

"Dude, so can I." Stiles says. "Just because I'm a human, doesn't mean I'm an invalid."

"But—"

"Stiles," Lydia says softly, putting her hand gently on Scott, who feels his eyes flickering a deep red because he doesn't know what to do with his emotions at the moment. "You're back."

The statement falls like a rock in the ocean. With a clunk and myriad of ripples through everyone in the vicinity. "Yeah," Stiles says distantly, like he can't believe it himself. The word is sad and heavy. All Scott wants to do is grab his friend and shake him. Shake sense into him. Tell him how awful the past five months have been, how scared he always is, how much he misses everyone, and what a dick he was to never call, but to let him know that he's needed and necessary and holy shit, he never realized how much he missed his best friend until this moment.

That'd probably be unhelpful, though.

"I'm back."

Stiles grips the steering wheel at the words, his knuckles whitening and his face growing pale. Scott doesn't know what to do because he can hear Stiles' heart pick up pace and his fingers tremble. But then Lydia reaches over him and places her hand on Stiles' leg, a few drops of blood dripping on her porcelain skin, but if it bothers her, she doesn't show it.

The reaction is almost instantaneous. Scott can hear Stiles' heartbeat stutter for a moment and then gradually calm back down. He gives an uneasy laugh, as if he just told a really dumb joke and no one responded.

His eyes never leave the road.

Scott feels a little uncomfortable with Lydia draped across him like that, so she could touch Stiles, but then he realizes maybe it wasn't quite fair that he commandeered his friend. It's hard for him to remember sometimes that it isn't just 'him and Stiles' anymore, like it was a few years ago. No one would've really cared if either of them just disappeared for a few months, he can't help but think begrudgingly, and sometimes it's hard to understand that now there are a lot of people who care if one of them disappears. Even Danny – whom Scott thought was blissfully ignorant about everything – asked if Stiles was kidnapped by a werewolf or something when he didn't show up to school for the second week in a row.

They really should stop talking about the supernatural at lunch.

When Stiles pulls up to his destination, Scott's surprised. He knows he shouldn't be, but Stiles had been gone so long, it was weird to think that he'd just remember how to get to Deaton's. Then Scott remembers he was only gone for five months.

It felt so, so much longer.

Stiles jumps out of the car – not smooth enough for Scott not to notice the wince as he does so – and manages to wrap an arm around Derek, while pulling him out of the vehicle. The six of them stumble inside Deaton, who's eyebrows lift in surprise at Stiles, but that's as much emotion as they get out of the stoic vet. The three werewolves allow themselves to be checked out by Deaton (Derek at least a little begrudgingly because he's, well, Derek), but insists that all the wounds are clean of any infection or magic that could hinder that process. They just have to wait.

It's then the vet turns his attention to Stiles, who's leaning against the back wall, away from everyone, uncomfortably playing with one of his guns, unloading it and taking it apart.

"Stiles," Deaton says and the teen looks up, his eyes the youngest they've been since the surprised reuniting. "I take it that you left the center I recommended you to."

Stiles gives a hollow laugh. "Left," he repeats under his breath like there was something so profoundly upsetting about that word, that all he can do is chuckle about it. Stiles looks up and stares the vet in the eyes. "It wasn't exactly how you described it."

Deaton's brows furrow. "No?"

Stiles shrugs one of his shoulders as if he didn't have an opinion regarding the matter, but Scott knows his best friend well enough to see he has a very strong opinion regarding the matter, but he's choosing not to acknowledge it, which is the weirdest thing of all. Stiles' fingers move quickly around the weapon in his hands and there are a few silent minutes as they all are staring at him. It doesn't take long for the gun to be in pieces beside him. "I really don't like guns," Stiles says to himself as he nudges a few of the pieces away from him, pulling out the other and starting the process over.

"Stiles," Deaton says. "Does your father know you're back home?"

Stiles' head jerks up and all it takes is a look in his eyes to understand that no, the Sheriff does not know his son is back. It only takes another second for Scott to guess why.

Just in case he didn't stay.

His hands are trembling and his face is pale. Scott thinks that he's going to have to talk Stiles down from a panic attack like he used to do when they were younger. The shaking gets worse and Stiles sets the second gun down, only partially taken apart.

His eyes set on the group of them, all facing him like they weren't sure what he'd do or how he'd react to them, and Scott can tell that it hurts him that they're all unsure. Then, his eyes grow distant. "Stiles," Scott manages to get out before the teen collapses on the floor.

"Stiles!" Scott shouts, grabbing his friend and placing him on the animal table, his hands shaking. "Deaton, we need to call the hospital!"

"Not with the trio of you looking like that," Deaton says calmly, although his eyes are wide. He takes a glance at Stiles and exhales. "I think I can help him here. But I do think that you should call the Sheriff. And perhaps your mother."

Isaac takes out his phone and proceeds to do so because Scott's essentially useless at this moment. Or rather, has the very important task of holding his hand like he's afraid if he lets go, Stiles will vanish again. Now that he's spread on the table like this, Scott curses himself for not checking that Stiles was actually alright. Claw marks climb up his chest as if Kate swiped at him as he was escaping, managing to four claws to sweep through his skin. The bleeding has slowed and it probably isn't as bad as Scott's making it in his head, but his hands still quake as Deaton cuts down the middle of his shirt and pulls it off of him.

The tattoos are everywhere. For someone who vowed never to get one, there was a lot of breaking that promise written all over his body. Scott's dazzled by the art of it – there's no color but breathtaking black and white scenes depicted all over his chest, running to his back. It isn't until Lydia makes a comment does he realize their purpose.

Lydia's stepped to the other side of Stiles, absently running her fingers through his hair. Scott isn't sure she even knows she's doing it, but doesn't have the heart to say anything. He knows what it's like to be without an anchor. Sure, she may have been his publically, but Scott knows Lydia well enough that she considered him hers. She just never said it out loud. Or, at least he assumes he is. It's been a while since he's seen Lydia this relaxed.

But she's running her thin fingers over some of the designs, tracing the circles and lineart like his chest was made of sand. "Scars," she mutters, her voice sad.

At first, Scott isn't sure what she means. But sure enough, once he gets past the who 'Stiles is covered in tattoos and this is the weirdest thing that's happened in a while' thing, he sees it. Underneath the blanket of ink are white lines. Lash lines. Scar that travel from his shoulders, chest, and Scott can only assume, his back.

Whipping scars.

Scott lets go of Stiles hand because the rage that hits him is so consuming, he's genuinely afraid he might squeeze too hard, he'll break his hand. "Where did you send him?" Scott growls at Deaton.

It's clear Deaton is just as startled as everyone else. Granted, he keeps his head down as he carefully sews Stiles' skin back together, but he smells of confusion and guilt. That's not a combination that Scott's ever smelt on him.

The door of the clinic slams against the wall and it doesn't take a genius to know who's arrived. The Sheriff comes barreling into the room, Scott's mom hot on his heels, choking when he sees his son. "What—" is all he manages to get out because Scott's fairly certain his thought process is first that Stiles is back, then that he's unconscious, and finally that he is almost unrecognizable.

Deaton finishes his stitches, cutting the thread and stepping away from the teen. He seems to be preparing himself for something and it doesn't take long for everyone to experience exactly what that something was.

The Sheriff, his face contorted in rage, shouts, "You said he'd be safe!" He rounds on Deaton, his hand instinctually going to the weapon his side and Scott leaps in between the two.

The Sheriff realizes what he's doing and blinks. The anger disappears only for a second, though. "You promised me it'd be the best thing for him! That he'd finally get better! You assured me that it was in his best interest!"

"Trust me, Sheriff, I thought it was," Deaton says, very still for someone who's being threatened by a man with a gun. "I have no idea what happened. No idea whatsoever."

"Do you know what it's been like?" The Sheriff plows ahead, his face gathering to an unhealthy shade of red. "Do you know what it's like to simply send your son away, under the recommendation of someone you thought knew what the hell they were talking about, only to have him show up looking like… looking like… this?" The Sheriff waves his arms frantically at Stiles, barely registering that Lydia's grasping his hand tightly and sitting so close to his head, that if Stiles were awake, someone might mistake them for kissing. "I haven't spoken to my son, the only family I have left in this world, for five months because you said it was necessary! And this is the end result! Are you insane?"

"Think of your blood pressure, Pops," a weak voice says with a chuckle.

Everyone in the room stills. Stiles groans, pushing himself into a sitting position, but the noise he makes as he tries to do so indicates that was a terrible idea. The Sheriff seems distracted enough to end his bloodlust and he scurries to Stiles side, gently pushing him back down. "I don't think so, mister," the Sheriff says, laying a hand on his chest. "We're taking you to the hospital to get a check-up and I don't want you so much as lifting a finger."

"That'll be awfully difficult, Dad, if you really want me to go anywhere," Stiles jokes back, but his eyes are filling with tears.

The Stilinskis reuniting is always something that made Scott feel a pang of jealousy for, but this moment is so intimate between the two, that he actually has to look away. The Sheriff is looking at his son as if he's found the lost gold of El Dorado and the hardness has melted from Stiles' eyes. For the first time since Scott's seen him, he looks like Stiles in every way. Well, besides the skin.

"Aw, come on, Dad," Stiles says with a weak grin. "It's but only a flesh wound."

The Sheriff huffs a laugh that is equal parts relieved, upset, overjoyed, and exasperated. He looks like he may actually explode at any moment. "Monty Python, Stiles? Really?"

Stiles faintly pats his father's hand. "Don't worry, I've had worse."

The gravity of his words seem to hit him after he say it and his eyes widen.

They hang in the air.

A/N: Stilinski feels! The Sheriff and Stiles are gonna have lots of moments over this, because I love them. Also, Scott/Stiles feels because I've noticed a lot of fics kinda portray Scott as a dick to Stiles (always abandoning him, making him feel left out) and I kinda think the biggest relationship of the series is Scott and Stiles. They're kinda the best.

Please leave a review if you have the time! Love!