A/N: Hi! I don't know how different things are on Ao3 than they are here, but here are some things I should say to clarify? I guess?
1. Stiles is a Spark (magic!!!)
2. The Sheriff's name is Noah, not John
3. Erica and Boyd are alive (idk how)
4. This is after S2 but before S3. But also Scott is an alpha. Idk how
5. This isn't Sterek but it also isn't not Sterek. Derek simply isn't in the fic. Maybe they're dating but it isn't mentioned at all :/
6. Sorry if this is all obvious, I'm used to Ao3 now and haven't read any TW fic on here </3 Hope y'all like this :)

Stiles Stilinski sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands and the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders. The room was dark– his overhead light's lightbulb had burnt out and the curtains were drawn tightly, blocking the street lamp's yellow light. The only light was from the clock on his nightstand, glowing 11:58 PM.

His black eye throbbed, and he carefully avoided touching his split lip. He winced as he shifted his weight, the pain in his leg and ribs a reminder of the night's brutal encounters.

Stiles, Scott, and Allison had gotten word of two omegas in the Preserve. The confrontation had started peacefully enough, with Scott asking them if they needed help, and even going so far as to offer them a potential spot in the pack. Things had gone downhill very fast after that.

Apparently, the omegas had been exiled from their previous pack. Stiles could tell why– the omegas had said maybe three sentences before pouncing. Scott and Allison had taken one, while Stiles had taken the other.

Stiles was only just getting the hang of being a Spark. He had only been practicing defensive strategies– spells?– so he had hoped the omega would tire himself out and then Stiles could go on the offensive with his bat.

But of course, he wasn't that lucky.

The omega had to have been hopped up on something because he just kept. On. Going. The only reason Stiles had been able to knock the fucker out is because while the omega had Stiles on the ground and was about to rip his throat out, Stiles had been able to reach his bat and smash it into the omega's face. That had knocked the omega over and one more hit rendered him unconscious.

Scott and Allison finished with the other omega at the same time Stiles had, so they tied both the omegas up and Allison and Scott had left while Stiles drove the omegas out of town and dumped them in a forest an hour and change away from Beacon Hills.

Stiles had only just gotten back. Climbing through his window had become just as easy as using the front door nowadays (as painful as it was sometimes), but sneaking in was harder when he had the Jeep, since it wasn't the quietest vehicle. If he turned off the headlights and drove slow enough, sometimes he could get away with it.

But of course, tonight was not one of those nights.

The soft creak of the floorboards outside his room broke the silence. Stiles tensed, his heart pounding in his chest. The door opened slowly, and the silhouette of his father, Sheriff Noah Stilinski, filled the doorway. Stiles was immensely grateful for the darkness that concealed his injuries.

"Stiles," the Sheriff's voice was gruff, tinged with worry that sounded more like irritation. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Stiles swallowed hard, forcing a casual tone into his voice. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, Dad. I lost track of time."

"Lost track of time? Where were you?"

"Just at the library," Stiles lied smoothly. "Studying for exams."

His dad's jaw tightened. "If that's true, the library closes at nine. Where were you the other three hours?"

Stiles's heart sank. He should have known better than to use such an easily disproven excuse. "Okay, fine. I went out to eat with Scott and Allison," Stiles said. Technically, they had eaten before looking for the omegas. Who cares if all they had eaten was a bag of chips and some cupcakes? Food was food.

His father shook his head, frustration boiling over. "I dropped off some old clothes for Scott two hours ago. Scott and Allison were both there."

Stiles flinched at the anger in his father's voice, and a sharp pain shot through his ribs. "Dad, I'm sorry. I just... I needed some time alone. I went for a drive, cleared my head."

"Why can't you just tell me the truth, Stiles?" his dad's voice cracked. "I'm your father. I'm supposed to help you. But I can't do that if you keep shutting me out and feeding me lies."

Stiles looked down, hiding his face further in the shadows. "I'm fine, Dad. Really."

"You're not fine," his father snapped, his worry manifesting as anger. "You come home at all hours, you barely talk to me anymore, and when you do, it's nothing but lies. What did I do to lose your trust?"

Stiles's mind raced with the night's events and the layers of lies he had woven so intricately to keep his father in the dark. He kept telling himself that it was a necessity to protect the Sheriff from the harsh truths of their supernatural reality, but every lie seemed to dig a deeper chasm between them.

He felt a pang of guilt at the hurt in his father's voice. He wanted to tell him everything, to lighten the load of secrets, but he just couldn't. Not when it would put his father in danger.

"Talk to me, Stiles," his dad pleaded, voice softer now, but still laced with frustration. "Please. Whatever it is, we can deal with it together."

Stiles remained silent, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. How could he explain the supernatural chaos that had become his reality without sounding insane or putting his father at risk? He stayed silent. He couldn't do it.

His father's patience finally snapped. "Dammit, Stiles!" he shouted, making Stiles swallow hard and clench his jaw, guilt eating him alive. "I can't help you if you don't let me in. You're my son, and I'm terrified for you. Every time you walk out that door, I don't know if you're coming back. Do you have any idea what that's like?"

The room fell silent, the Sheriff's words hanging heavy in the air. Stiles blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over. He didn't want to say, yes, I do, because every time his dad left, Stiles could only hope with all his heart that he wouldn't need to have a deputy pull him aside to tell him his father had died.

"I'm sorry," Stiles whispered instead, his voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry, Dad."

His dad took a deep breath, his anger deflating as he saw the regret in his son's posture. He rested a hand on the doorway and sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Stiles, I need to know you're okay. That you're safe. Whatever's going on, we can face it together. But I need you to be honest with me."

Stiles nodded slowly. "I know that, I do. It's just... it's complicated."

His dad nodded and looked like he wanted to come through the door, but didn't. Stiles was grateful. "Life is complicated, kid. But we can figure it out. Just... let me in."

Stiles looked up, meeting his father's eyes for the first time that night. He saw the fear, the worry, and the unwavering love there. He knew he couldn't keep shutting him out, not completely. He also knew his dad couldn't see him going through these emotions.

"Dad," Stiles began, his voice trembling. "There are things you don't know. Things I can't explain right now. But I promise, I'll tell you everything. Just... not tonight. Please, trust me a little longer."

His dad seemed to study Stiles's face, searching for any sign of deceit. He evidently saw none, only seeing the earnest plea of a boy caught in a world too complex for his years. He sighed, nodding reluctantly. "Alright. But this conversation isn't over. Not by a long shot."

Stiles managed a weak smile. "I know. Thank you, Dad."

His dad tapped the door frame as a signal of him leaving. "Get some sleep, okay? We'll talk more tomorrow."

Stiles watched his father leave the room, the door closing softly behind him. He carefully lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, the weight of his secrets pressing down heavier than ever.

He couldn't keep this up, but... he had promised Scott. He didn't want to break his promise.

Part of him protested, saying, Your father is more important than a promise, and Stiles knew it was right.

Stiles knew Scott had had the same thoughts before, but about Allison. And Scott had broken a few promises. So maybe it was Stiles's turn.

◈❖◈

The first rays of sun barely peeked through Stiles's drawn curtains when Stiles finished scribbling in his notebook. He hadn't had the energy to log his injuries last night. He had barely slept, but simply laying in his bed had given him enough energy for the day.

He looked over the log in the Injury Notebook and went through his mental list, checking to make sure he hadn't missed anything.

A few (3, maybe 4) bruised ribs, not broken (woot woot!)

Multiple cuts on back/shoulders (cleaned and bandaged) (keep an eye out, might get infected) (from tree branches)

Multiple cuts on arms (same as above)

Black eye

Twisted ankle (left) (wrapped)

He couldn't think of anything he'd missed, so he closed the notebook and hid it in a desk drawer. He hadn't bothered with the split lip or cut-up knuckles– he had only written the black eye because he considered it a head injury due to how close it had gotten to his temple. (He'd started the notebook four or five months ago, just in case he 'inexplicably' died one day, probably from internal bleeding.)

Stiles limped down the hall and to the stairs. Each step sent sharp pain through his ankle and ribs, but pushed forward, hoping to be up early enough to avoid his father. The clock on the kitchen wall read 5:05 AM. He'd managed maybe an hour of sleep due to the insomnia and nightmares, and the injuries didn't help.

Stiles moved quietly, careful not to make any noise that might wake his dad. He made his way to the kitchen, leaning heavily on the counter to take the weight off his ankle. He reached for the coffee maker, his hands shaking slightly from exhaustion and pain. He started the machine and watched the dark liquid drip into the pot, the smell filling the room.

He was just beginning to relax, thinking he had made it without waking his dad when he heard footsteps. Stiles's heart sank. He glanced up just as his father rounded the corner into the kitchen and quickly turned away to hide his face.

"Morning, Stiles," his dad said groggily, rubbing his eyes. Stiles hummed a response, hoping if he was quiet then he would be left alone.

But of course, his father didn't get the hint.

Stiles was just reaching for a mug when his dad's hand flew out and caught his wrist. He saw his dad look down at Stiles's knuckles, and he inwardly cursed. He grit his teeth and glanced at his father.

"Jesus, Stiles," he breathed, and Stiles looked away.

"Dad, it's fine. It was an accident."

His dad moved his hand to Stiles's chin and forced Stiles to turn his head. Stiles saw a muscle in his father's jaw clench and unclench, and Stiles braced for the worst. "Like hell this was an accident. What happened?"

Stiles pulled back roughly, wincing as the movement aggravated his ribs. "Leave it. I'm fine. Really."

The Sheriff's eyes narrowed. "Don't give me that. You look like you've been through the wringer."

Stiles tried to brush past him, but he couldn't hide the limp (which was more of a stagger) when he let go of the counter. Stiles hoped his father wouldn't notice.

But of course, the Sheriff's eyes didn't miss it, and he quickly grabbed Stiles's arm to stop him from leaving. Stiles let a small gasp of pain as his dad's grip pressed on one of the cuts hidden under his long-sleeved shirt.

His father's concern turned to determination. "That's it. We're figuring out what's wrong with you right now."

"Dad, no," Stiles protested, trying to pull away. "It's nothing. Just leave it."

His father's grip tightened, careful not to hurt him further but firm enough to show he meant business. "Sit down, Stiles. Right now. Or I'm calling Melissa."

Stiles's eyes widened with alarm. He knew his dad would be good on his word, and the last thing he wanted was for Melissa to be bothered. She had worked a double last night, and Stiles couldn't imagine waking her for something like this. Or anything, for that matter. He clenched his jaw and nodded. "Okay, fine. I'll sit."

His father guided him to the kitchen table, helping him to a chair. Stiles winced again as he sat, the pain in his ribs making it hard to take deep breaths. His dad crouched in front of him, his eyes searching Stiles's face for answers.

"You need to tell me what happened," he said softly, worry etched into every line on his face. "I can't help you if you don't tell me."

Stiles looked away. He wanted to tell his dad everything, but he couldn't. Soon, but not yet. "I'll be fine, Dad. Just... let it go for now. Please?"

But at the look his father gave him, Stiles knew he had to say something. Even if that something wasn't the entire truth. He sighed.

"I got in a fight. Just some asshole, he got the jump on me while I was walking home," he said. Then, since he couldn't help himself, "But if you think I look bad, you should see the other guy."

"I intend to," his father said. "Who was it?"

"I don't know," Stiles said. "It's no big deal."

His father wasn't buying it, but let it go for the moment. "Let me take a look at your leg."

Stiles shook his head and tried to act nonchalant. "It's nothing, Dad. Probably just a sprain. I've dealt with worse."

His father's frown deepened. "You've had worse?"

Stiles's eyes widened slightly. "Yeah, you know... playing lacrosse and all. But it's nothing, really. It's not as bad as some of the other things that happen during lacrosse; did you know that 19% of injuries in lacrosse are concussions? But that's only in men's lacrosse. In women's lacrosse, it's actually 24.5%. Also in men's lacrosse, knee injuries make up 16% of reported injuries, and upper thigh or hip injuries make up 15%, and ankle injuries are only 6%. Apparently-"

Stiles didn't notice his father pulling up the sleeve of Stiles's shirt until it was too late. He quickly yanked the sleeve back down. "Shit! Dad, uh-"

"Let me see," his father demanded. Stiles shook his head. "Stiles, those band-aids aren't doing anything. Let me see, I can help."

Stiles wanted to protest but knew that if he refused, his father would call Melissa. He sighed, feeling trapped. "Fine," he said, annoyance clear in his voice.

Stiles pulled up his sleeve, revealing one of the bandages. His father stood and his eyes widened at the sight of the poorly bandaged cuts. As he moved to inspect it, Stiles shifted, causing his neckline to slip just enough for more bandages to be visible on his shoulders.

"What are those?" His father asked, his voice shaking.

Stiles quickly tried to cover them. Goddamn oversized sleep shirt. "What are what?" he asked, playing dumb, hoping to deflect his father's attention.

"Take off your shirt," Noah demanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Stiles swallowed hard, and the pain in his ribs and the discomfort of the situation made him hesitate.

He didn't want to. He really didn't want to. But then, that stupid logical part of his brain chimed in again.

You should, it said. You need the help. You can't see the cuts on your back; not very well, at least. He can see if they're infected.

Shut the fuck up, he said back.

But of course, it was right, and he hated that it was right.

Apparently, Stiles had taken too long, because his father had pulled out his phone. Stiles saw him thumb through the contacts and panicked. "Wait! Don't call Melissa."

His father glanced at him and sighed. The phone was set down on the table face up, Melissa's contact open as a clear threat.

Stiles psyched himself up, then slowly pulled off his shirt, wincing as each movement sent fresh waves of pain through his bruised ribs, and exposed the extent of his injuries. His chest and sides were mottled with dark bruises, evidence of the beating his ribs had taken. Band-aids crisscrossed his forearms, and there were a few poorly placed gauze pads on his back that probably looked horrible– Stiles had applied them last night while fighting to keep his eyes open.

He held the shirt in his hands and looked anywhere but at his father, his head bowed. The room was silent, the tension palpable.

"What the hell, Stiles?"

Stiles closed his eyes tightly at the remark. I know, he wanted to say. I know what it looks like.

Because he did. He did! Even without the injuries, a proper what the hell was warranted.

Scars littered Stiles's torso like there was no tomorrow. Some of them could be played off as normal, like the one on his left collarbone from falling out of Scott's tree house when he was eleven. Others were more difficult to explain away; the claw marks wrapping around his right rib cage to his back? In no world could Stiles give a normal reason for it to be even possible, other than 'freak mountain lion attack.' (That particular scar had taken months to heal, and he was concerningly proud of how he'd been able to hide it the whole time. He was surprised he hadn't overdosed on Tylenol and ibuprofen, though.)

His father's voice cut into his train of thought. He sounded angry, and Stiles kept his eyes shut and head low.

"Why didn't you tell me about any of this? How long– Jesus, how long have you been hiding this from me?"

Stiles swallowed and opened his eyes but kept his head down, opting to stare at the shirt gripped in his hands. "I... I didn't want to worry you." And I couldn't tell you without telling you.

Stiles knew it looked bad. It was bad. He felt his lungs constrict and his ribs ached.

"Didn't want to– Christ, look at you!" Stiles blinked hard, flinching. "You're covered in bruises and scars. How am I supposed to help you if you hide things like this?"

Stiles's vision blurred as his ribs ached and his breathing caught in his throat multiple times. The guilt tightened around his chest like a vise. "I– I couldn't," he stammered, his voice barely audible.

"You couldn't? You think I'd rather be kept in the dark while my son gets hurt like this? Dammit, Stiles, you should always tell me when you're injured. Always!"

Stiles's breaths became more erratic, and he numbly thought, this is a horrible time to have a panic attack.

But of course, his anxiety didn't seem to agree.

He gripped the shirt and twisted, his knuckles turning white. He felt himself gasping, and his ribs screamed in pain. "Dad, I... I can't... breathe."

◈❖◈

Noah was, for lack of better words, fucking terrified.

Stiles's torso was covered in a myriad of healed and scarred wounds, a particularly chilling set clearly claw marks that were terrifyingly close to Stiles's spine. Noah hadn't seen Stiles shirtless in a long time, and the sight was fucking terrifying. His mind raced, struggling to process the image before him.

"What the hell, Stiles?" Noah's voice was louder than he intended, his shock and fear twisting into anger. "Why didn't you tell me about any of this? How long– Jesus, how long have you been hiding this from me?"

Stiles gripped the shirt in his lap tighter. "I... I didn't want to worry you."

"Didn't want to–" Noah echoed, incredulous. "Christ, look at you! You're covered in bruises and scars. How am I supposed to help you if you hide things like this?" Noah demanded, and he sounded harsher than he'd intended. But this was his son, his kid, who apparently walked around with emergency-room-worthy injuries without Noah knowing like it was no big deal.

"I– I couldn't," Stiles stammered, and Noah was lucky he heard it with how quiet it was.

Noah's heart broke and his frustration boiled over at the same time. "You couldn't? You think I'd rather be kept in the dark while my son gets hurt like this? Damn it, Stiles, you should always tell me when you're injured. Always!"

"Dad, I... I can't... breathe," Stiles gasped, and Noah's anger melted away in an instant, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling fear.

"Stiles," he said, his voice softer now, tinged with his own brand of thinly-veiled panic. He sat in the chair across from Stiles and ducked his head, trying to meet Stiles's eyes. "Hey, hey, it's okay. Breathe with me, alright? Just try to match my breathing."

It had been a few years since he'd needed to calm Stiles down from a panic attack, but (as gruesome as it sounds) it was just like riding a bike. He fell into the facade of Calm and Collected without an issue.

He reached out, placing a hand on Stiles's bare shoulder, careful to avoid any of the cuts or bruises. "In and out, nice and slow," Noah coached, taking deep, exaggerated breaths.

Stiles seemed to struggle but followed Noah's lead as best he could. His breaths hitched and stuttered, and one of his hands let go of the shirt he was holding in favor of reaching out to grip Noah's shirt instead. Noah laid a hand on top of it and squeezed.

"I'm here," Noah said. "Just keep breathing. I'm right here."

Stiles nodded and Noah could see him squeeze his eyes shut again to focus on his breathing. Gradually, Stiles's breaths began to even out, and he let go of Noah's shirt.

Noah took a deep breath himself, one of relief. This goddamn kid. Walking into the kitchen to find his son not only already up (which was his first sign that something was wrong) but sporting a black eye, split lip, and busted knuckles had not been what he'd expected.

After Noah had gotten past the shock, the concern and guilt swallowed him alive. Unless Stiles had snuck out after Noah had seen him in his room, Stiles had been sporting these injuries last night. When Noah had reprimanded him for coming back late.

Not to mention all the scars. Noah had somehow missed his son's obvious pain for what looked like years worth of injuries.

Christ, am I really this bad of a father?

Then when Stiles had started having a panic attack, Noah was morbidly relieved. This, he could fix. This he understood.

Now, Stiles having calmed down and now leaning away from Noah, letting go of Noah's shirt, Noah's heart broke to see his son so vulnerable. Stiles's eyes didn't meet his and darted everywhere else in the room. He was so obviously uncomfortable, self-conscious, and... he was probably scared to death, if the panic attack was any indicator.

"Are you alright?" Noah asked softly. It was a stupid question. Obviously, Stiles was not alright. But Stiles nodded anyway.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Noah shook his head.

"No, kid, don't. Did I do something to trigger it?"

"No," Stiles said too quickly, but then paused. "A little. But it's not your fault."

Noah expected Stiles to say as much. "How so?"

"I know what it looks like," Stiles admitted quietly after a few seconds. Noah swallowed. "I know it's... bad."

"Kiddo–"

"I'm sorry, I am. I just... didn't want to worry you," Stiles interrupted.

Noah wanted to pull him into a careful hug, but thought better. Stiles's body language was closed off, and he probably wouldn't appreciate it right now. "I'm always going to worry about you, kiddo. That's what dads do. But I'd rather worry while knowing what's going on than be kept in the dark."

Stiles didn't say anything. Noah inwardly sighed and closed his eyes. He doubted he would get anything out of his son today. He'd try again some other day, sometime when Stiles didn't look so... horrible.

"We need to clean those wounds properly and change the bandages," Noah said instead. Stiles nodded in agreement, which showed Noah how grateful Stiles was for the change in subject. Stiles wasn't even going to protest.

Noah moved Stiles from the chair to sit on the table so he was easier to examine, then went to the bathroom to retrieve the first-aid kit. Stiles hadn't moved when Noah came back, but his hands had returned to holding the shirt in his lap.

Noah started removing the band-aids on Stiles's forearms first. The adhesive had stuck to some of the scabbed-over areas, so when Noah pulled them off, some of the wounds reopened and started bleeding again. Noah winced. The wounds themselves looked painful, but not as bad as they probably should. Whoever cleaned the wounds did a good job. Noah decided to ask.

"Who cleaned these wounds?"

"I did."

Noah blinked. "You did?"

"Yeah, but it's not the first time. You shouldn't need to worry about them getting infected," Stiles reassured as if that was the most concerning thing about what he'd just said. Noah decided to address that issue later.

"Why didn't you use our bandages or more gauze pads?"

"...I ran out. Didn't have a chance to restock them."

Noah frowned and checked the first-aid kit sitting next to Stiles. "There's some right here."

Stiles shrugged and grimaced. "I couldn't use those. I'd have to come down here to get them, and you were awake."

As upsetting as that was, Noah bit down his reproval. He continued redressing the wounds in silence.

At first, when Noah had seen the band-aids on Stiles's arms, Noah'd swear he had a heart attack. Noah still wasn't sure he wasn't going to. But the wounds (and scars layered underneath) didn't look like self-harm, so Noah could breathe a (however minute) fraction easier.

Noah finished the wounds on Stile's forearms and moved to the ones on his back and shoulders. He considered moving Stiles back to the chair, but Stiles moved so Noah could reach the injuries better.

The dressing and cleaning of these wounds didn't look as nice as the ones on Stiles's forearms. Noah clenched his jaw. "You did these, too?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Last night."

Noah rolled his eyes, exasperated. "I know that. When last night?"

"Does it matter?"

"I just want to know if you actively avoided asking me for help."

Stiles was quiet. "It's not like that."

Noah restrained himself from laughing mirthlessly. He didn't want to trigger Stiles into another panic attack because Noah couldn't control his anger again. "Then explain it to me."

"I... can't. Couldn't."

"Because...?"

"You'd ask questions I can't answer. And if I did answer, you wouldn't believe me." Stiles hesitated but spoke again before Noah could say something. "And you'd be right to not believe me, I'm not blaming you or anything."

Noah felt terrible. There were a few things Stiles had said today that had unintentionally hurt Noah, but this was different because it was true, in a sense.

Stiles lied a lot. Noah knew Stiles lied a lot. But at some point, the truths and lies Stiles fed Noah had become harder to differentiate. Either Stiles had gotten better at lying, or Noah had lost all sense of trust in Stiles. Noah didn't like either option.

"I'm sorry I haven't been a safe person for you," Noah said, and Stiles's eyes finally darted back to Noah, if only for a second.

"No– don't. I wouldn't believe me either, at this point," Stiles said. "And I– it's not like I want to lie to you. I want to tell you so bad."

"So tell me," Noah said, pausing his work to emphasize. "Please."

"I can't."

Noah closed his eyes in frustration. But he couldn't say anything he would regret later, so he opened his eyes and kept his mouth shut.

It had to be drugs or a gang, right? Maybe both. Either would explain how Stiles got beat up, and how he got all these scars. (Well, maybe not the claw marks, but Noah was sure there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for those.)

Whatever it was, Scott had to be involved. Scott was probably the one who got Stiles into it, Noah thought. He hated that he was probably right, too. Stiles knew better than to get involved in drugs or gangs, with everything Noah had drilled into him since Stiles had been able to understand what he'd been saying.

If Scott was involved, then Allison could be, too. But if Allison was, then Lydia would be. And then Jackson– and Noah had to end that train of thought because then half the teenagers in Beacon Hills High School would all be connected through this. Noah instead analyzed everything in the past year or so, ever since Stiles and Scott had started Sophomore year.

Derek Hale could be connected– drug dealer, gang leader, whatever-the-hell. Sure, Derek had been cleared of all charges, but he'd still been investigated in the first place. And Noah knew that made him a bad cop, but he wasn't a Sheriff right now– he was Stiles's father.

The main event that stuck out in Noah's mind was after that lacrosse game. When Stiles had been missing, then come back hours later, beaten and bloody. Stiles had said it was players from the other team– Noah hadn't believed him even back then. But Stiles had been so... so hurt that Noah had accepted it and been glad his boy was home and safe.

Noah applied the last gauze pad to Stiles's back and indicated he was finished. Stiles moved again so he was sitting normally, and Noah didn't miss the wince. Noah's gaze darted down to Stiles's chest.

"Can I take a look at your ribs?"

Stiles's head, which was still bowed and looking at the shirt in his hands, darted up. "No, I'm fine," Stiles said too fast.

Noah raised his eyebrows. "Your entire chest is bruised. Your ribs could easily be broken or bruised. They could puncture a lung if we're not careful."

"They don't even hurt," Stiles said, and if that wasn't the biggest load of bullshit Noah had heard today... and that was saying something. Stiles sighed, clearly seeing Noah's disbelief. "Look, they're not broken, okay? I already checked."

Noah's eyebrows raised even higher at that. "Alright, putting aside the fact that you already checked, meaning they do hurt," Noah saw Stiles's eyes widen in realization. This kid. "I want to check myself. A second pair of eyes– or hands– can't hurt."

"Can a little," Stiles grumbled, but sat up straighter to give Noah access to his ribs.

Noah felt around Stiles's chest but didn't feel anything broken. He did feel quite a bit of swelling, however.

"I can't feel anything broken, but they could still be bruised," Noah said, and looked at Stiles's face. He had been biting his lip and closing his eyes, and Noah felt instant guilt. Noah pressing on his injured ribs had probably hurt like hell. Stiles nodded. Noah pursed his lips. "You already knew that, because you already checked."

Stiles nodded again. Noah almost wanted to strangle his boy, but reigned in his anger. Then a thought occurred to him.

"Didn't you just have a panic attack?"

Stiles actually rolled his eyes. Noah shouldn't feel so happy seeing that mannerism right now. "Yeah, I think so."

"Didn't that hurt like hell?"

Stiles looked back down at his lap. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Shrugged.

What the fuck, kid?

"Alright, setting pain tolerance away for a second," Noah said, and he hated he had to say that, "We're talking about the panic attack."

Stiles stayed quiet. Noah didn't expect him to say anything.

Stiles's panic attacks started when Claudia had been admitted into the hospital– Noah since has suspected that's when Claudia had started hitting Stiles. Noah would always love Claudia, but he would never forgive her for that.

The panic attacks got worse when Claudia had died, then stayed consistently bad for about a year, until the therapy really started working. Stiles got better at calming down by himself, and as far as Noah knew, Stiles hadn't had a panic attack in years.

But as Noah had learned today, he didn't know everything about his son.

"How often have you been getting them," Noah asked, trying to be matter-of-fact in hope that it would make Stiles less ashamed about answering truthfully.

Stiles shrugged. "I dunno. A bit." Noah waited. He knew Stiles would cave eventually, needing to break the silence. "Really, it's not that bad. Not as much as it has been lately," Stiles's eyes widened, and Noah watched him dig the hole deeper. "Not that it's been bad, just more than it has been in the past. Just a few, really. Once a week or whatever. It's not like when Mom was in the hospital or anything–"

"Once a week?" Noah interrupted. Christ.

"No, I mean, maybe, but it's probably less," Stiles backtracked, looking everywhere other than Noah, and Noah didn't believe him.

"Stiles, look at me," Noah said, and waited for Stiles to meet Noah's eyes for longer than a second. "I need you to start telling me the truth. I know you have a big secret, and I won't press about that," –the 'right now' was heavily implied, but neither of them addressed it– "but you need to start telling the truth about your health, both physical and mental. I need to help you and I can't do that when you lie."

Stiles clenched his jaw and his eyes darted away, but Noah moved into his line of sight, forcing Stiles to make eye contact again. "I can't say I won't ask you questions, but if it means you come to me if you're injured, then I will leave it be. I'd rather not know everything but be able to help you than be completely clueless about this. Understand?"

Stiles looked away again, and Noah let him. He could see Stiles's internal debate and wished his son didn't need to stress about these sorts of things– he should be worrying about asking out girls, not about asking Noah to stitch up a gash on his side that could make him bleed out.

Stiles made eye contact again and nodded. "Alright. I'll try." Noah's heart swelled. He hoped Stiles was telling the truth. Even if he wasn't, Noah felt like it was progress.

"Okay. Now you said you patched yourself up last night," Noah said, and Stiles nodded again. "And you said it wasn't the first time," Noah continued, and he left the statement open like a question, prompting Stiles to explain.

"Yeah, it's not usually this bad though. I was really tired last night, so it was messier than usual– the ones on my back would look better otherwise," Stiles reassured, and Noah slow blinked.

"That's not what I'm worried about," Noah said, and Stiles blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not worried that your injuries are getting treated wrong, though that is something we need to talk about. I'm worried that it's you patching yourself up, and that Scott– or anyone– isn't helping."

Stiles blinked again and frowned. He opened and closed his mouth a few times and ended up shrugging. "Scott's got... I don't know, he's got bigger things to handle."

Noah pursed his lips and took a deep breath. "I would hope that your well-being would be the top of his list of 'things to handle.'"

◈❖◈

"Okay. Now you said you patched yourself up last night," Stiles's dad said, and Stiles nodded again. Thank God for the change of topic, he thought. "And you said it wasn't the first time," the Sheriff said, and Stiles knew he would want an answer.

"Yeah, it's not usually this bad though," Stiles said. "I was really tired last night, so it was messier than usual– the ones on my back would look better otherwise," Stiles reassured. He didn't need his father to start giving him first-aid classes, because Stiles could say in confidence that he would be able to outshine the teacher any day. Unless it was a practiced nurse like Melissa, of course. He was confident, but he wasn't about to mansplain to a literal nurse.

"That's not what I'm worried about," his dad said, and Stiles blinked. Huh?

"What do you mean?" And Stiles's father looked a little heartbroken at that. Stiles wanted to panic again. What did he do wrong this time?

"I'm not worried that your injuries are getting treated wrong, though that is something we need to talk about." Shit. "I'm worried that it's you patching yourself up, and that Scott– or anyone– isn't helping."

Stiles blinked and frowned. Sure, that had bothered him in the past. Sometimes it bothered him now, too. He wouldn't lie, it would have been really nice if Scott or Allison could have stayed last night to help with his back, but it just wasn't realistic. He shrugged. "Scott's got... I don't know, he's got bigger things to handle."

His father pursed his lips and took a deep breath. I fucked up, Stiles thought. "I would hope that your well-being would be at the top of his list of 'things to handle,'" his dad said, and Stiles blinked again.

"He's the..." True Alpha. "He's like the leader of the friend group, I guess. And he's the lacrosse team's co-captain. And he and Allison are finally in a steady relationship, he's got a lot on his plate."

"What about last night? Either he or Allison could have helped you," his father pointed out, and Stiles shook his head.

"No, Scott was Allison's ride home, and she–" Wait, shit. Stiles's eyes flew to his father's, whose face was unreadable. Shit shit shit.

"So Scott and Allison were there last night?"

"No," Stiles rushed to say, which definitely made him look more guilty. His father was still going with that unreadable face, stony and quiet, and it made Stiles squirm. "I mean, I told you we went out to eat. They just left before this happened. They were already home, and I took a walk and then got jumped, and then it was too late and I didn't want to bother them, so I just came straight home," Stiles said. He hoped he was making a cohesive timeline.

"Through the window," his father said, and Stiles cringed. "With all those injuries?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Kid," and Stiles just knew he'd fucked everything up again with the way his father said that, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, "We really need to have a talk about your pain tolerance and what you should and shouldn't do with injuries like this."

"I'm–"

"You are not fine. Stiles, you can't go climbing through windows with bruised ribs and a twisted ankle and your arms all torn up," he said, and Stiles fell silent. Technically, I can and I have, Stiles wanted to say. "You– Christ, kid, I've watched officers get downed with lesser injuries."

"Must've been really wimpy officers," Stiles joked, but it fell flat and Stiles sighed. Worth a shot.

"Or you're really strong," and Stiles laughed, then winced at the ache in his ribs. It wasn't fair that Dad got to make jokes and Stiles didn't, but when Stiles looked at his dad's face, he was serious.

Stiles scoffed again. "Okay, sure."

"I mean it, Stiles," his father said, and Stiles shook his head.

"I'm not. I just run off an unhealthy amount of caffeine, spite, and Tylenol. I'm nothing special."

"Yes, you–"

"Dad," Stiles said, and he sounded more tired than he'd intended. He carefully dismounted the table and pulled on his shirt. "I can appreciate what you're trying to do, but if I'm supposed to start telling the truth then it's only fair you do the same."

"I am," his dad said, putting his hands on Stiles's shoulders, careful to miss any of his cuts. "And I'm not done talking with you."

"Maybe I'm done talking to you," Stiles challenged.

"Then you don't need to say anything, just listen until I say we're done."

◈❖◈

"Or you're really strong," Noah said, and he watched Stiles laugh. A real laugh, as if Noah was joking, as if he would joke about something like this. Then Stiles looked back at Noah and saw Noah's sincerity. He scoffed again.

"Okay, sure."

"I mean it, Stiles," Noah said, and Stiles shook his head, disbelieving.

"I'm not. I just run off an unhealthy amount of caffeine, spite, and Tylenol. I'm nothing special."

If Stiles wasn't so insistent on Noah's eating habits, Noah would swear this kid was trying to make him die of heart failure. Noah couldn't believe he'd failed his son so badly that he could say, wholeheartedly, I'm nothing special.

"Yes, you–"

"Dad," Stiles interrupted, sounding every bit as tired as he looked. Noah stepped back as Stiles carefully got off the table and pulled on the shirt. Noah wanted to help, because Stiles was injured and that must have been painful, but Stiles did it without a problem. "I can appreciate what you're trying to do, but if I'm supposed to start telling the truth then it's only fair you do the same."

"I am," Noah insisted, and he carefully laid his hands on Stiles's shoulders, sure to miss any of his cuts. He needed Stiles to understand. "And I'm not done talking with you."

"Maybe I'm done talking to you," Stiles challenged, and Noah wasn't surprised.

"Then you don't need to say anything, just listen until I say we're done." Stiles huffed and sat down in the chair. His father pulled up one so he was facing Stiles.

He stared into Stiles's eyes, and Noah could see enough time had passed since the panic attack, because Stiles was more confident than he would be otherwise. He looked like he was ready to sit and let Noah talk a fool of himself, but Noah would be damned if he couldn't make Stiles see what he did, or at least try.

"I don't think you'll believe me, but what I say is true," Noah started, and Stiles raised his eyebrows. "You are strong. You are special. You are brave. You are a caring, good person."

Stiles scoffed and broke eye contact with Noah. He wasn't surprised Stiles didn't believe him, but fuck if it didn't hurt to see.

"You are important, and Scott is an idiot if he doesn't see that. Allison too. And everyone else who fails you every time you come home injured, leaving you to patch yourself up."

"It's not their fault," Stiles snapped and made eye contact again, and it was Noah's turn to raise his eyebrows. He indicated for Stiles to explain. Stiles worked his jaw for a second, then tried. "They... don't know. I don't tell them, and they're always too busy to pay attention and notice. They have their own shit to deal with. I'm sure I miss things as well."

"They shouldn't need to be told that you're injured. They should be able to see it with just a glance," Noah said. "And from what I can tell, it's become a pattern. If you've really been the one to patch yourself up every time, then that's an issue."

"Maybe I don't want them to help," Stiles offered.

"Yes you do," Noah said softly. Stiles clenched his jaw and shrugged. He opened his mouth but closed it again, and looked away. Noah saw Stiles's eyes tear up and sighed. "Kiddo," he muttered, and tentatively offered Stiles a hug.

Stiles surged into the hug, gripping the back of Noah's shirt tightly. It was a little awkward with how they were sitting, but Stiles obviously needed it. Hell, Noah did too.

Noah and Stiles clung to each other for a while longer, feeling the trembling in his son's body slowly subside. He could feel Stiles's exhaustion and pain in the way he leaned into the embrace, clinging to the stability Noah provided.

After a few minutes, Noah forced himself to gently pull back, keeping his hands on Stiles's shoulders.

"Listen, Miezsko," he said, hoping Stiles would find comfort in a childhood nickname. "I know you don't want to tell me whatever it is that's going on. To some extent, I can respect that. But please, know that I'll always believe you, and I'll always love you."

"I know, Dad. And I'm sorry. I really am."

Noah pretended not to notice the tear that traced its way down his cheek and pulled him back to his chest.

7,516 Words

A/N: Next chapter will be posted tomorrow