Author's Note: Hey, Lovelies. Your response to the last chapter was amazing! I know it hurt, Derek feels always do, but I want to thank you all for sticking with me. This chapter is a little lighter, though not by a whole lot. I promise, the payoff at the end will be worth all of this angst and suffering.

Chapter title from the song of the same name by Relient K

**Trigger Warning for depiction of a panic attack in this chapter.**

Waking up with his eyes and mouth feeling as though he'd been bobbing for apples in a bucket full of finely ground gravel was quickly becoming a regular habit, and one Stiles was none too eager to continue indulging. His chest no longer felt like it contained a raging inferno within its depths, though it continued to ache in a way that told Stiles he wasn't healing as as quickly as he'd grown accustomed. He tried shifting a little against the cool cotton sheets beneath him, but stopped when his movement triggered an avalanche of pain. A full grown pachyderm could have been making a home on his chest for all Stiles knew, the swell of pain and pressure was that intense.

"Fucking owww." he groaned, closing his eyes more tightly against the light bleeding through his lids.

"A bullet to the chest will do that to you, kiddo." came the gruff reply from somewhere to his left.

Stiles cracked open one eye, peering in the direction of his dad's voice. "Hey, Pops." he croaked, his voice cracked and scratchy from sleep and abuse. "Long time, no see?"

The Sheriff heaved a heavy sigh, his tired face creasing into a reluctant smile. "Not that long, you've only been out about eighteen hours. How do you feel?"

Attempting to press one hand into the soft mattress beneath him to lever himself up, every muscle in Stiles' body throbbed in protest. His chest hurt the most, the newly knitted skin tugging and pulling as he haltingly pushed himself upright and propped his back against Derek's cushioned headboard.

"Like I got hit by a truck." he told his father honestly, rubbing the heel of his hand into the valley between his pecs, trying to soothe some of the ache, while carefully avoiding the unhealed hole just to the right of where his heart was. He could feel the slippery glide of the healing balm slicking his skin beneath his t-shirt, could smell the thick scent of Adder's Tongue and cedar clinging to his skin. "A really big truck, or maybe a smallish train. Sore, is my point."

"Well, considering Deaton pulled a shifter-specific slug out of you yesterday, you're lucky you're breathing." John said, his tone reproving. "What the hell did you thing you were doing, Stiles? You could have gotten yourself killed! And, for what? What did you accomplish, other than igniting a war?"

Stiles flinched, his pulse kicking up. He didn't think that was entirely fair, not since Jackson was actually the first one to kill a Kearney, but he didn't think his father wanted to hear his argument just then.

"Can I maybe have a glass of water before you ream me out?" he requested quietly, his head hanging down.

John huffed but got up and disappeared into the bathroom. Only then did Stiles notice that he was in Derek's bedroom, laid out in the center of Derek's giant bed like he belonged there. He filed that information away to inspect more closely at a later date when his father came back and handed him a little paper cup full of water.

Stiles sipped it slowly, buying himself an extra moment or two of silence before the yelling began. With a deep breath, as deep as he could draw with his chest as tight as it was, Stiles met his father's eye.

"I'm sorry, Dad." he apologized, hoping his wide, innocent eyes still had some sway with the Sheriff. "I know you don't understand, but I couldn't risk anyone else getting hurt."

"Oh, I understand." John snapped, his voice wavering with the stress of trying to stop himself from shouting. "I understand that you have absolutely no self-preservation instincts, whatsoever. I understand that you would rather sacrifice yourself than to trust your pack. I understand perfectly that you have no regard for your own God damned life, or for how we would all feel if you let yourself die in our places- How I would feel if I lost you, too."

"Dad-"

"No, Stiles." John bit out, his cheeks flushed with anger, eyes round with fear. "You are done with this shit, do you understand me? You are done playing the martyr and risking your neck. If you ever, ever, pull that crap again, I'm going to find every comic book and superhero movie in Beacon Hills, and throw them into the nearest volcano, and then kick your ass from here to Guadalajara. Are. We. Clear."

A long beat passed in oppressive silence, the only sound in the room the Sheriff's harsh breaths as they rattled their way past his lips.

"Yeah, Dad. Crystal clear." Stiles answered in a small voice, his eyes watering and fixed on the peaks of his toes beneath the blanket tucked up around his waist.

A soft, wounded sound fell from John's lips, and in the next breath Stiles found himself crushed against his father's chest, the Sheriff's arms a steel band around his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Dad." he choked, clinging to his father as though one or both of them were going to disappear if he didn't hold on hard enough.

"I know you are, kiddo." John sighed and pressed a kiss to his son's hair. "Just... Stop, okay? Promise me."

"I promise." Stiles agreed immediately, meaning it with every fiber of his being. If this was what his father needed, if a promise that Stiles would stop knowingly putting himself in harm's way was all he needed to give in order to wipe away the fear and pain in his father's eyes, Stiles was willing to give it.

Unconsciously, he dragged his cheek against his father's neck, scent marking him while drawing a deep breath at the same time. His brows furrowed in confusion when the only scents he caught were the Sheriff's aftershave and the faint scent of coffee, even when he focused.

Stiles pulled out of his dad's embrace, his mouth pulled down in a deep frown. "What-"

"Turns out, actions do have consequences."

Stiles' head shot up and he winced when the move jarred the wound in his chest. Derek stood in the doorway, arms folded over his chest like a shield, a scowl hardening his features.

"Derek, I'm-"

"Lydia's on her way up." Derek announced, cutting Stiles off and making his blood chill in his veins. Derek's tone was closed off and distant, angry in a way that had Stiles remembering days he thought to be long past. "She can explain what's going on."

"You mean why I still have a hole in my chest and can't feel my wolf?" Stiles ground out, realizing as he said it how painfully true it was.

He couldn't feel the hum of magic in his veins that had been present since he was turned, and its absence made his gut roll with nausea, a heavy ball of dread sitting in the pit of his stomach. There was no push of his wolf inside him, no glimmer or remnant of the other half of his soul. In its place, in the hollow space behind his ribs, there was a chasm of emptiness that used to hold the well of energy and magic that was his wolf. There was a deadened lack of everything that made Stiles who he was now, a cold and excruciating nothingness where there should have been his wolf and...

"Oh my God." Stiles gasped, air shredding his lungs on the inhale. "Derek, I can't feel you. Why can't I feel you anymore? What- Derek."

Panic crested high in Stiles' throat, clawed at his tongue and made his mouth go dry. His heart thudded an agonizing beat in his chest as he tried to cast out his senses, desperately seeking some vestige of their bond. When he felt nothing, imaginary fingers grasping at thin air, Stiles entire body felt the loss.

Derek's expression melted from solid ice to distressed understanding before it began swimming before Stiles' eyes.

"Shit." Derek's voice only made the absence in Stiles' head feel more like a yawning canyon. "Stiles, breathe."

Lungs constricting like they were actively having the air sucked out of them, Stiles tried to dredge up memories of coping methods taught to him by the slew of counselors forced upon him after his mother's death. He couldn't think, couldn't force his brain out of the loop it had cemented itself into; a repetitive track of It's gone, He's gone. You're alone in here again, just like before.

"No." Stiles choked on the single syllable, felt it lodge in his throat, twist and mangle into a broken gurgle, his breathing hindered by both the panic attack and the gunshot wound in his chest.

"Stiles." Derek's tone was demanding, his hands replacing Stiles' father's against his skin. "Listen to my voice, Stiles. I'm right here."

Derek's hands were on Stiles, rough and commanding his attention as they framed his panic-stricken face. Stiles tried to focus his vision, to see through the moisture brimming in his eyes and collecting in his lash line, but only managed to blur his sight further. He was shaking his head in denial, the room around him going dark and tilted.

Several minutes passed in which all Stiles could do was fight the invasive thoughts burrowing in his mind, and hope that someone would catch him if he passed out. Suddenly, a solid, rhythmic tapping broke through the fog inside his head, demanding his focus. Stiles latched onto the sensation, let it carry through him, deep down into the space left by the missing half of himself. Slowly, Stiles' breath began to sync with the tapping. He realized even more slowly that the tapping was coming from the steady thump of fingers over his heart, and that those fingers belonged to Derek.

"Derek." Stiles whispered, incapable of putting volume into the name.

"I'm right here, Stiles. I've got you, just breathe for a minute, okay?" Derek said, his chest rumbling against Stiles' back serving to further anchor Stiles into himself.

Glancing around with bleary eyes, Stiles discovered that they were alone now, his father apparently having given them privacy when a fully blown panic attack had become inevitable. Derek had climbed onto the bed, wedging himself into the space between Stiles' back and the headboard, his legs bracketing Stiles in, his arms wrapped around Stiles' chest so that he could tap out the soothing pattern with his fingers over Stiles' heart.

After a long silence, Stiles finally deemed himself able to speak again. "Why can't I feel you?" he asked, his voice shaky with fear. "It's wrong, Derek."

Derek held Stiles as he shuddered, let him lean more heavily into the warm wall of his chest. He pressed his lips to Stiles' temple, his lips scraping Stiles' skin as he said, "I know. Trust me, I feel it, too." He took a deep breath, squeezing Stiles reassuringly before he explained, "The Kearney's have bullets that disconnect you from your wolf. All of your abilities are nearly non-existent, and will stay that way until we find an antidote."

"How? That's not- It doesn't make sense." Stiles whined softly, nuzzling into Derek's jaw and wincing when he tried to turn his torso so that he could wrap himself around Derek.

"Sit still." Derek ordered gently, though he was already lifting Stiles delicately, moving him around so that Stiles was sitting sideways across Derek's lap and could get his face into the curve of Derek's neck. Stiles might be experiencing the absence of his wolf, but that didn't mean that his instincts were gone. The need to be close to his mate, to his pack, was still strong. "Lydia can explain better when she gets here. Just... try to stay calm, okay?" Derek murmured, fingers on one hand stroking soothingly up and down Stiles' back, while his other hand fell to curl around his hip.

Stiles nodded into Derek's throat, muscles going slack when the hand on his hip began to draw out his pain. "Don' have t'do that." he mumbled, the familiar protestation falling flat as he relaxed into the touch.

"Shut up, Stiles." Derek sighed softly, his lips pressing into Stiles' hair as he hitched him closer.

Stiles hummed his agreement sleepily, already feeling the tug of the pain sucking's sedative-like effects. He barely managed to whisper, "Stay?" before his eyes drooped shut.

He was mostly asleep the next time Derek spoke, wasn't even sure he heard it at all when Derek whispered, "Always." and pressed his nose behind his ear.

Stumbling weakly down the spiral staircase, Stiles was greeted with Scott's concerned face and Isaac's understanding eyes. He was thankful they let him finish the descent on his own and didn't try to coddle him. Feeling as weak and fractured as he already was, Stiles didn't think he could handle everyone treating him like he was made of glass, or worse, like he was human.

Being human wasn't anything to be ashamed of, and Stiles would be the first one to argue that. The truth of it was simply that Stiles had adjusted to being a werewolf. He'd slipped into the wolf's skin like he'd always belonged there, had gotten used to the power and strength that came with it. Going from human to wolf had been relatively easy and painless. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the reverse. Adjusting to being- for all intents and purposes -human after having been a wolf was much more difficult.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Stiles swayed in place, a wave of vertigo making his head go fuzzy for a second. Scott reached for him but Stiles swatted him away, a petulant and pathetically human growl vibrating in his chest and making him wince.

"I got it." he gritted, shuffling awkwardly across the living room as Lydia came down the steps behind him.

Stiles eased himself down onto the sofa beside his father while Lydia drew Scott aside, their voices low and incomprehensible to Stiles' ears. It was frustrating, but he turned his attention to his father and Isaac, who had plopped down in the chair across from them.

"Is your," Stiles waved an inarticulate hand at Isaac's shoulder, where the hunter's bullet had embedded itself, "healed? You don't look like you're in a whole lot of pain."

Isaac shrugged the uninjured shoulder. "My pain tolerance is really high. The salves and shit that Lydia insists Scott and Allison keep slathering on me, they help, and Scott draws the pain whenever he can."

"Yeah." Stiles scratched cautiously at the healing skin around his own wound, careful not to get too close to the newly healed skin. "Sucks, though."

"You can take regular meds, now, too." Isaac added, smiling comfortingly. "Deaton wrote you a 'script for Oxycodone. I think that's where Derek went."

"You should heal in a day or two." Lydia reminded him, again. She'd already gone over all of it with him upstairs, but apparently thought that it was necessary to repeat. "Your own healing is crap, at the moment, but that's what Deaton and I are for."

"Right, thanks." Stiles tried to smile up at her, but didn't think he managed to make it look natural.

Lydia leaned down to plant a kiss on his forehead, ruffling a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "Stay off your feet and leave the research to me, got it?" she questioned, though it was more command than inquiry, Stiles' chin caught between her fingers. "Don't make me come back here and scream you into submission."

"Yes, Ma'am." He did smile then, which he figured was probably Lydia's intention all along.

Once Lydia left, going to Deaton's to meet Boyd, Jackson, and Allison for research, Stiles turned to Scott. "So? What's the lowdown, man? Where do we stand with the Kearney's?"

The Sheriff rolled his eyes, but knew better than to try and argue with his son's thirst for information.

Scott hesitated, but folded himself onto the floor by Isaac's feet and filled Stiles in. "Malia, Kira, and Liam tracked them back to a foreclosed property right outside our eastern border. They've been holed up their since yesterday, and they're pissed."

"Well, yeah. I mean, we've killed more than a few of their hunters and they can't seem to level the score." Stiles reasoned, leaning a little to the side so he could use the arm of the couch to prop himself up.

"It's not just that." Scott grimaced, looking at his hands.

Stiles frowned with his whole face. "What do you mean? What could piss them off more than a bunch of dead family members?"

"A dead Second." Isaac spoke up, his hand coming to rest on Scott's shoulder.

"Carrick's Second is dead?" Stiles asked, mouth hanging open in surprise. "Who- How?"

"It turns out that the hunter's that set up camp at the Ironworks were led by Sean." Scott explained, eyes never leaving his fidgeting hands. "They figured that the pack wouldn't venture anywhere near it, banked on us knowing better than to fuck with all that iron."

Stiles ignored the dark look his father aimed his way, listening intently while Scott talked. He had no doubt that Parrish spilled the beans about Stiles' plan, guessing that little fact was the reason his father and Derek were so angry with him.

"They wanted to have a home base inside the territory, somewhere safe that they could get to quick if a fight went sideways. Sean was supposed to keep his head down and report back with our movements. After the thing with Isaac, when Jackson killed the other hunter, Carrick ordered Sean to fall back and wait for orders. You and Parrish showed up, and I guess Sean decided to defy his directive."

"Okay." Stiles chewed his bottom lip, letting the new information settle in. "So, Sean was among the hunters that attacked me and Parrish. It was self-defense, right?"

"It doesn't matter. According to Kira, Carrick is on a rampage. Sean wasn't just his Second, Stiles." Scott said softly, his eyes finally lifting to meet Stiles' gaze. "He was Carrick's son."

"Well, fuck." Stiles sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. "That makes things a shit ton more complicated. Do we know what he's planning as far as retaliation?"

Scott's irises glowed Red, a rumbling growl building in his chest. "Yes."

"Well?" Stiles pressed, trying to shift forward but stopping when his father splayed a hand against his shoulder and pushed him back. "Come on, Scott, what're we in for here? We're down two wolves, dude, we need to have a game plan for when shit goes down."

"Carrick wants revenge for his son's death, Stiles!" Scott snarled, shocking Stiles into silence. Scott wasn't a yeller, not when he didn't have to be. Raising his voice was a last ditch effort, in most cases. "This isn't just about taking out the pack, anymore. He knows who killed Sean, and he's not going to stop until he captures you!"

Stiles opened his mouth to respond, an argument on his tongue, but stopped when Scott's words sank in. He felt the blood drain from his face, his stomach flipping over on itself as his father's words about igniting a war rang through his head. "Wait, what? Me?!"

Scott was breathing raggedly, his chest heaving with anger. Stiles' dad squeezed his shoulder and Isaac was the one who answered, "It was you, Stiles. You're the one that killed Sean."