He leaves the hospital with two cracked ribs, exactly what Melissa said, and orders to take it easy for a while. The doctor had asked him if he had been shot over a bullet-proof vest, because apparently that's what cops commonly come in with.

Stiles lies easily (doesn't even remember it. Probably something about dogs or stairs), and he's on his way with gauze wrapped around his entire midsection. He can barely move, but makes it home in one piece. He has enough energy to get upstairs and into his bed before he falls asleep.

Waking up extremely early in the morning is no fun. Stiles is still tired, and his mouth and throat are dry. The clock reads 4:50 in the morning, and yet Stiles can't fall back to sleep, no matter what his brain is telling him. So he stands, rubbing his eyes, stretching his body.

That's when he remembers what happened. His ribs scream in protest as he curls back in on himself, the pain bringing fresh tears to his eyes. He stifles a groan, and grabs the bed post, steadying himself.

"Son of a..." He whispers, clutching his side, trying not to grab too hard to prevent more pain. He sighs, and starts walking towards his door. It opens without a sound, and Stiles looks down the hall to see his dad's door closed, too.

Stiles and stairs just don't go together well, so he takes them on one step at a time. By the time he reaches the bottom, his side's on fire and he's sweating around his forehead and neck. He shuffles into the kitchen, and grabs the pain pills he's too used to taking, and swallows two with a glass of water.

He ends up sticking his head under the faucet for a while, just to cool down after the trek down the stairs. He swipes a towel from the counter, and dries his hair. He dreads the thought of walking back up those, stairs, so he throws the towel back onto the counter and sits on the couch.

The TV is never turned on, and Stiles falls asleep.

It's been years since Stiles last had a nightmare. Back when his mother was sick and when Stiles and his dad had no idea what to do after her death. His dad would rush in, hold him close to his chest, let Stiles fall back asleep listening to his heartbeat.

This morning's different because his dad's not here. Early shift. Stiles wakes up screaming, clothes drenched in sweat. His throat and side are sore, and he's out of breath. That's when he realizes there are hands on his shoulders and a face in front of his. He leans back, and Derek's face comes into view.

"Stiles? You okay?" He asks.

Now Stiles is confused, and blinks to clear his eyes of tears. "What-" His throat scratches, and Derek pulls away to go into the kitchen, only to reappear with a glass of water. Stiles drinks half, takes a break, then downs the rest. "I was going to ask what happened, but that seems stupid in retrospect. Why are you here is much more appropriate."

Derek sits on the coffee table in front of Stiles. He sighs, and stares at him. "I heard you screaming. I came over to make sure you were alright."

"You heard me from your apartment?" Stiles asks.

Derek shakes his head. "No. I heard you from the Preserve."

"Why were you there?"

He pauses, and Stiles narrows his eyes. "Not important. Are you sure you're okay?" Derek asks as he stands up.

Stiles looks up at him, looking too tall. So Stiles stands up with him, and hunches over in pain when he remembers he was "shot". Derek grabs his flailing arm, and lowers him back on to the couch. "Wow, that hurt a lot," Stiles mutters.

"What happened?" Derek demands, trying to see the problem without crossing any boundaries. Stiles mentally applauds him for that.

Stile grins. "I, apparently, got shot."

Derek freezes, and Stiles rolls his eyes. Before he can get a word out, Derek growls. Low and deep enough that Stiles' bones practically rattle. "Who? Argent? Hunters?"

"What? No," Stiles immediately says. "No hunters, and definitely not Argent." Stiles shifts in place, suddenly realizing the corner he backed himself into. "It's just-" He then lifts his shirt, showing the gauze wrapped around his midsection. "Right." He forgot about that. "Well, under all this, is an injury that looks a lot like a police officer's when they get shot over a bullet-proof vest."

Derek's growl lowers, and Stiles cocks his head. Why was Derek growling in the first place? Maybe it's a Pack thing. Anger for any hurt member, or something. Stiles puts it with the fragments of his nightmare.

"Why were you wearing a bullet-proof vest and getting shot at?" Derek sounds like he's using all of his energy into not punching Stiles in the nose.

"Uh..." And now decision-making time. To tell or not to tell. Telling could cause unknown consequences. One of them is how Derek's going to react. Stiles frowns, wondering why he would care what Derek thinks, and figures it has something to do with the fact that he would rather dictate his own love-life, and having this "soul mate" really puts a damper on things. Wait-

Stiles just thought "love-life" and "Derek" in the same thought. And now that he's really thinking about it, his little nagging voice that tells him to steer clear of people doesn't usually nag as much when Stiles thinks about Derek. Okay, props for progress on that part of his brain. But he need to focus on the now.

If Stiles told Derek he has an unknown "soul mate", then it would clear up the whole "Stiles is a clumsy asshole who has two left feet" thing. He would know it wasn't always Stiles' fault when he got hurt.

"Um," Stiles tries again, licking his dry lips with a dry tongue. Damn. Something so easy shouldn't be so difficult. Just say- "It's not my fault."

Derek stares at him, waiting for him to go on. When Stiles doesn't, he says, "What does that mean?"

"It means when I get hurt, sometimes it's not my fault." He holds up his hands. "These paper-cuts aren't mine." Stiles motions to his side. "This isn't my bruise." He opens his palm, shows Derek the pink scar. "I didn't cut myself."

Derek's stare shifts from Stiles' face to his hand. Stiles thanks Melissa for the quick and clean stitches, but the cut was deep, deep enough where he would always carry it with him. Stiles has a marker, and it makes knowing that someone out there has the same exact injuries as him both scares and interests him. It also irritates him, but for a whole other reason.

"If you didn't do them, then who did?" Derek asks, startling Stiles.

Stiles shrugs. "No idea." He gulps, could leave it at that, but knows it's not enough. Now or never, Stilinski. "I went with Scott to the animal clinic once last year. Deaton told me that I, uh," he swallows, "that I have a "soul mate"."

And when Stiles thinks Derek's going to just up and leave, Derek stands, but doesn't leave. "Soul mate?"

Stiles nods, once. Doesn't say anything else. His tongue is on the verge of choking him, and that's (not) going to be an awesome header to a newspaper: "Boy dies choking on own tongue in front of crush."

Derek sighs, sounding so utterly defeated, and shakes his head. "Wow. That's... awesome."

The word may have been said quietly, but Stiles feels like it punched him in the gut, and then the brain. Which is a really weird combination.

"Awesome? Don't you remember me going off when we had to get to the police station for Isaac? Was that awesome?" Stiles is seething, because having a "soul mate" is the opposite of awesome. It's painful and annoying and downright- Stiles doesn't have a word for it yet, but he feels violated, in a way.

Derek chuckles, but it's dark and humorless. "You'll have someone who'll love you for the rest of your life."

"No I don't! What the hell are you talking about? I don't even know who it is! How am I supposed to love someone I don't know?! Huh? Tell me, cause I'd love to hear it!" Stiles wants to run, run until he can't, and then run home. He's numb and wired at the same time, and then he feels something bump into his leg. He falls onto the couch, and prods at his hip. Another goddamn bruise.

Stiles closes his eyes, and rests his head on the back of the couch, muttering to the sky, "Oh my God. One goddamn day. I will give you my kidneys, liver, anything you want if you will just one go day without getting hurt. I swear to every god and goddess out there."

Derek sits down in a chair. "It happened again?"

Stiles nods. "Yup. Asshole probably ran into a desk or something. I just-" Stiles breathes deep, in and out. When he speaks again, he sounds tired and frustrated. "It's literally every day. Today it's a bruised leg, tomorrow it'll be another goddamn paper-cut or bloody nose or-" He scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair. One arm rests on top of his head while the other flops down onto the couch.

They stay silent. Stiles is glad for it.

At least twenty minutes later, Derek flicks his forehead. Stiles whines and rubs at the spot. "I was meditating. What?"

Derek chuckles, and there's a real smile there. "C'mon. We're getting lunch."

"Ooh," Stiles says, standing and rubbing his hands together. His side hurts, but he can handle it. "Where?"

"New place. It's called My Apartment." Derek smirks at Stiles' frown. "Really good, cheap, food, and there'll be a ton of people you already know there."

"Asshole," Stiles says as he pulls on his jacket and shoes. "I was really excited there was some mysterious restaurant only werewolves could go to because you need a claw to unlock the door." Stiles' shoulders droop. "Or maybe you have to roar to make rocks fall down and reveal the entrance. Or-"

He keeps it up the entire time. And yes, he knows Derek's just entertaining him.

Still, for now, Stiles is happy. (Goes to hell that Friday, but he gets what he can for the time being.)

Gerard's punches don't hurt as much as his ribs. His face hurts, yeah, but his entire lower body is pretty much in blinding pain. His ribs might be broken (again) after falling down the stairs. Gerard kicks him, and hearing Erica and Boyd whine behind him actually pains him.

All he knows is that he can't tell him where Derek is. No. Don't do it. Bad.

"Where is he?" Gerard demands, holding him by the collar.

Stiles grabs at his hands. "I don't know!"

Gerard growls, not unlike a werewolf, and releases one hand on Stiles' shirt to grab his jaw. "You're going to tell me. I can do this for a very long time. But how long can you keep it up? He's not even your Alpha. Not even your friend. We can get rid of him. Scott would be safe." Gerard's tone changes so quickly that Stiles' head spins. He has to blink to keep up with the conversation.

Gerard continues. "Lydia could go on to be whatever she wanted. Melissa wouldn't have to worry about her son's death every day. Your father would be safe."

"Don't you dare-"

"Oh, no. Of course not. Not Sheriff Stilinski. Who had no idea about the supernatural beings living right under his nose. He wouldn't have to get hurt at all. Not if you tell us where Derek is."

Stiles wants to be angry, wants to fight with all his might against Gerard. He wants to forget all that Gerard said, because hunters don't hurt humans, and continue getting beat. Derek doesn't deserve to be given up because Stiles gave up.

That's what he wants.

That's not what happens.

Yes, he screamed when he ran into the kanima. It's not entirely his fault, considering it actually was Jackson (who may be a douche bag, but running him over in a car? Big fat no.) So yes. Lydia was more composed than him, but that doesn't even say a lot.

He gets to witness, from the sidelines with Scott, Lydia call out Jackson's name, and Jackson stop what he's doing to stare at the key Lydia dangles in front of him. Watches as Jackson de-"kanimizes", and is now naked. Stiles rolls his eyes.

He turns his head to the side as they hug, and realizes his mistake when it happens.

Derek (now recovered) and Peter (appearing magically) spear Jackson with their claws in his stomach as soon as Jackson steps away. Lydia screams, and runs to Jackson as Derek and Peter let him drop to the ground. Stiles' focus is pulled between Derek and Jackson and Lydia.

"Do you still-" Jackson whispers.

Lydia nods. "Yes. Yes I still love you." Stiles gapes as Lydia lays Jackson on the ground, and starts crying into her hands.

"What-" Stiles starts to say to Derek, but then there's movement and groans from the middle of the floor, and Jackson is standing up, still naked, and looks up at the ceiling to roar. He's a werewolf now, eyes blue for a reason Stiles doesn't know.

Gerard's gone, a puddle of black goo left in his wake. Stiles has a feeling he won't get far, but it does nothing to stop the stinging in his body. In fact, it intensifies thinking about the old hunter.

Stiles starts moving towards his jeep, and Scott looks at him. "What?"

Scott gives him a look. Stiles isn't sure he likes that look. "Nothing. Just tired." Scott smiles, albeit with the look. Stiles smiles back, no matter what his brain is telling him. (Shut up and get home. You have a lot to think about.)

For once, he listens to his head.