A/N: I know I've been terrible at updates, I've just had a lot of uni work piling up but I promise I will be a better updater and try to at least get a one-shot out when I'm struggling with my multi-chapters. A big thank you to the people continuing to read and review even during long update breaks, it really inspires me to continue knowing people are out there viewing my stories. Anyone reading this gets a big virtual hug for putting up with me and I hope you enjoy the latest chapter :)

When he woke the next day, his cheek was stinging, the pain searing his face like a hot poker. It wasn't so much the pain that hurt. He knew eventually the physical pain would go, but the knowledge that it was her who'd done it caused a pain that wouldn't wash with time. His own mother had hurt him, and no matter how much he told himself that it was her illness, he just didn't believe himself anymore. When the doctor had diagnosed her, she'd gone and she didn't want him anymore.

That's all he could think as he packed away his things. He grabbed his little league duffel bag, packing clothes and toys, all the things he would need when he left. The plan had occurred to him when he had thought over his mother's words, tossing around his head as he wriggled around in his bed. He would run away to Scott's house where Melissa would love him like a mother should. Obviously his father could visit and he would never have to see the shell his mother had become ever again. It was the perfect plan. Perfect that is, until his father came bursting into the room with a plate of pancakes, catching him in the middle of trying to fit his lightsabre into a bag half its size.

"Stiles, what's going on here?" John put the pancakes down, prying the lightsabre from Stiles' hands before leading him to sit on the bed. The boy sat reluctantly, wanting desperately to just run and leave but under his father's gaze, he knew he couldn't. However, the idea of admitting what was happening made him squirm. Although he loved him, his father could be terrifying at times. Instead of answering the question, he pursed his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. It was a particular gift the young boy had, to be evasive, something he was extremely proud of and that adults told him was completely annoying. "Come on buddy, you can talk to your old man." John's tone was soft which terrified Stiles more than it should have.

"Nope, it's nothing daddio. Uhm, well…" His eyes started to dart around the room, searching desperately for a convincing lie, which is when it hit him. He didn't have to lie, just omit certain truths from his confession. "I didn't tell you but Scott said I could go for a sleepover at his house. I'm sorry I didn't say. Can I go? Please?" He dragged the pleading out, making a hiss until his father held his hands up in surrender. Annoying people into submission was a special skill he'd managed to perfect over eight years. He'd created the perfect balance of annoyance, knowing how to push the right buttons but always careful not to push them too far.

"Right, so Scott's mom knows about this?" Stiles nodded quickly, eyes on the floor to avoid his father's gaze. "And if I call her now she'll know about this?" Again he nodded, a little less confident this time, pretty sure he knew where this was going. Under his father's gaze, Stiles couldn't keep up the lie, terrified of what would happen if he continued to avoid the truth. Slowly, he began to shake his head, moving to his feet to pace the length of the room, too nervous to sit.

"I wanted to run away." He confessed the truth almost silently, barely able to bring himself to think about it. His eyes remained glued to the floor, his feet stopping from their nervous movement the second the words left his lips. Running away had been a terrible solution, he realised that much now as he carefully darted his eyes towards his father, the man who he'd looked up to all his life who was now looking down at him with tears in his eyes. One thing Stiles prided himself on was that his father never cried, even when he'd seen him scared or hurt, he'd never seen his father crying. So as John watched on with tears in his eyes, Stiles couldn't help but feel like the one to blame. "I'm sorry. Mommy didn't want me so I thought you and her would be happier without me and Scotty always wanted a big brother. I don't like mommy anymore and you shouldn't either daddio. You can come with me!"

John let his lips lift in the corner, showing his son he wasn't angry but his words were making him think. Maybe it would be better for the both of them if Claudia wasn't around. As important as it was for Stiles to spend as much time as possible with her, it wasn't helping his development that Claudia was taking her anger out on their son. "How about you eat your pancakes while I call Melissa and see if you can stay for a few nights? Does that sound okay?"

Stiles nodded, liking the idea of being away for a few days. Being away from his mother would be good for him, would give him a chance to be himself and not have to worry about angering anybody. He looked over at the plate, contemplating stuffing all three of the pancakes into his mouth but he thought better of it, knowing that his father would only give him a lecture about pacing his food intake. He took a bite out of the first pancake, a pit in his stomach as he did. Suddenly he wasn't very hungry anymore, even with the problem resolved. He couldn't help but feel just a little guilty at abandoning his mother. "Pops, will she be okay?" He looked up, wide eyed as he nibbled on the pancake, feeling completely exposed and vulnerable.

At the question, John sighed, putting the phone down to sit by his son. They'd promised no lying, but seeing him so afraid, it made his heart sink. "Stiles, they're going to do everything they can. But sometimes Mommy isn't going to be the same person. Some days will be tough but we'll be okay, we're Stilinski men. And what are we?"

"We're a team." Stiles was hesitant as he gave his answer, relaxing his features into a soft smile, despite still feeling the guilt. It was a mask he was used to wearing ever since the diagnosis. "Okay, I'm gonna keep packing, can you call Ms McCall?" He waited for his father to leave before dropping the smile again, stuffing toys into the bag. The tears sprung to his eyes before he could stop them, falling silently, another skill that he had adopted since the diagnosis. He tried to gather his breath, struggling as the pit grew ten times larger than it had been before. His legs buckled beneath him as the weight hit him, like a train slamming repeatedly into his chest. He was terrified, gasping for breath as he reached around blind for his inhaler. When he finally grabbed it, he inhaled the medicine deeply, the weight lifting as he did. It was a solution but he knew deep down it hadn't been an asthma attack. This was something new and this something was much, much worse.