Stiles turned sharply, whipping his head and arms a little as if the shock recoil was vibrating through his body. Not a smart move, he remembered too late as the usual post-panic attack exhaustion paid him back for his insolence with a crashing wave of nausea. Fucking Jackson. His limbs suddenly felt a lot heavier as he reached to grip his bag and he hoped he was being suave as he lurched back a little for balance. He also hoped that the repetitive blinking might come across as incredulity rather than him trying to chase the dark spots that were speckling the edge of his vision.

"Don't –yeah. Don't want my guts on the ground? Alright" He scoffed, voice pitching a stretched range of vocal chords. "No," he considered, looking down at his fingers as they began to twine themselves in the straps of his rucksack "not if they'd stain your paint job."

His knee was tapping a violent rhythm as he unclipped his seatbelt with the hand that wasn't currently turning purple at the fingers. He remembered Derek's little safety lesson that morning and felt a spiteful surge of resentment at the thought that maybe he knew exactly what he was getting Stiles into, shucking him with Jackson. Free from the belt he turned his back to said coiffed asshole, flinging the door forcefully, and was about to surge free until he found himself throttled by his own hood as Jackass caught his fist in it.

"I. Don't. Want. You. Dead." He wasn't looking at him, still staring out of the windshield at the peeling paint of Stiles' battered garage door with his jaw clenched in a manly (read: petulant) fashion. "Think about that" he muttered "next time you're mouthing off about killing me."

Stiles huffed, falling back into his seat, "Yeah no shit Jackson I could kill you right now and feel no guilt after that little stunt down misery lane" He dropped his head back to stare at the roof in resignation, as if the map to Jackson's manic mind might happen to be carved up there.

"Yeah, you would if you had the chance." Jackson muttered.

"Oh yeah and what's the supposed to mean uh?"

"It means" Jackson spat, turning his head slightly towards him " that when you had me chained up in that piece of junk police van you couldn't wait to see me die, you were fucking begging for it, so why the hell should I look out for you?"

"Hey, whoa-whoa-whoah now," Stiles threw his head in Jackson's direction, blinking slowly this time to savor the surreal moment, "Are we just forgetting you were a murderous lizard" his hands were surging wildly forwards now with outstretched fingers hoping to get a grip on this bizarre twist in scenario, "with –at most- a dubious moral compass? And I-"

"You wished I was dead two days ago." Jackson growled.

"What. No. To Allison? That was a jo-"

"Last week, you offered to sacrifice me to the wood nymphs"

"Right but-"

"You offered Scott a 'Lucky Lizard Foot' when he told us he was leaving"

"Not yours"

"You tried to drug my coffee the next day"

Jackson's face was thunderous and Stiles hesitated on the joke hovering on his tongue, just a taste of you own medicine, it had been the kanima's venom after all. They sat in silence for a moment, Stiles looking anywhere but Jackson, before he dared to speak again.

"Hey man" He hedged, scratching at the back of his neck "You don't think maybe you're taking this all a bit, ah… personally?" Stiles' rolled his hands a little to paint the picture, "I mean, man, half the people you meet probably want to kill you."

That sounded more placating in his head.

"You're not a warm guy man".

Stiles was a digger. He liked to dig.

Jackson just turned the key in the ignition; scowl deeply embedded like a caricature of his mentor.

Well, that felt like Stiles' cue.

He ducked out of the door before Jackson could say anything else confusing, but before he closed it he popped his head back in for a parting word. Several parting words.

Fuelled a touch by the disorientation that came with the standing.

"You know, maybe I'd have a little more love for you if you didn't attempt grievous bodily harm every time we meet." He caught Jackson's gaze and refused to let it go as his own hardened. "No point getting up on your I don't want you dead high horse if you're gonna slip and snap my neck any day now."

And with that he turned and stalked away, leaving Jackson's door hanging open in one last rejection of maturity.

Stiles sighed once he entered his house, door closed securely behind him, deadbolt one, deadbolt two, deadlatch which used the little silver key, and then Mr Big Gold Key in the lock at the bottom. One of these days he was going to fashion a freakin' drawbridge to finish the picture, or just start old-fashioned nailing boards across the frame.

He pocketed the mildly weighty keychain that came as a slight downside to the heightened securityhe insisted on having installed 'Stiles, a criminal with the balls to break into the Sheriff's house isn't going to respect a locked door' and dragged himself to the sofa in a sort of half skip, before catching his toes and face-planting bodily into it's mushy, ancient goodness. Sometimes if he twitched just right he could catch a whiff of the 70s off the thing.

Stiles was just drifting into what looked like to be a promising nap when a creak brought him jolting sickeningly back to full consciousness.

"Trying something new?"

The voice was barely grunted above a whisper but Stiles' sleeping pattern was so naturally disturbed these days he was already spinning towards its origin before he had time to process the sound of light treads behind him that betrayed the speaker already on the move.

"Mmrnf?" Was his eloquent reply as he continued turning the full 360 to follow the trail of the words, ensnaring himself in his own limbs as he pressed deeper in the folds of cushions, peering out at his disruptant from the wreckage of the couch with bleary eyed annoyance.

Derek stood half-silhouetted in the moonlight, the only indication it was him and not a mass murderer with a conversational curiosity being the familiar stoop of his shoulders pulling him forwards as if he were cracked in the spine. Stiles squinted into the darkness, trying to make out the finer details of the scenario he had awoken to in the hope that they might clue him in as to why there was a man striding around his front room shooting questions at the unconscious. Not that the basic view of this particular stern brow complete with the shadows of enviable eyebrows couldn't be regarded as an explanation in itself.

Derek was holding himself with a stillness that might seem powerful and ethereal to someone without an intricate knowledge of his flair for the dramatic. Or someone who didn't know full well that the backdrop of sullen darkness could have easily been broken by a casual flick of the light switch as Derek had passed through to the table in the kitchen. He had been inside this house (and outside, prowling, no doubt) often enough to know that like most other residences in Beacon Hills it was actually connected to the grid. Stiles didn't buy his caveman act for a second considering he still drove that sleek black piece and picked up Starbucks no foams when he thought no one was looking. Plus he always smelled like fresh spice. No way he was taking dog baths in the river wafting Armani White through every other pack meeting.

If you got up close, leaned in while they were leaning over the dubiously procured blueprints of whatever abandoned real estate they were investigating this week, you could almost taste the sweet undertones of it and Stiles had learned, through precarious and undoubtedly necessary scientific research, that if you breathe slowly and shallowly through your nostrils without betraying any focus on the act, Alphas don't throw up their hackles so easily and you can take the time to pick apart their scent at your leisure. Important data for future reconnaissance. Sniff and be sniffed.

Derek's figure was starting to become a little clearer as Stiles' vision began to adjust and focus and a nervous nausea began to travel up his chest as he began to comprehend the picture unravelling before him. Derek was holding something up to his broad chest and peering down at it with apparent curiosity. It's a dog sniff dog world.

"Look, they're not mine ok? Jesus would you stop-" he was tugging items of, arguably feminine, clothing out of Derek's hands and trying to clear the tabletop of them at the same time but somehow every time he released one from Derek's grip the man managed to procure another with yet more complicated detailing and increasing embarrassment factor out of seemingly nowhere. "Do you have a secret stash back there?" Stiles accused, sounding increasingly rattled as he peered around the edge of the table past Derek.

"I'm quick." Muttered Derek, almost inaudibly, taking advantage of Stiles' distraction to lean over him and snag a light floral pattern that turned out to be a dress of some description. "They smell like you" Derek announced louder, a bored accusation in his tone that Stiles suspected disguised his sick little amusement.

"Yeah, well, what can I say. Women can't help throwing their clothes at me. Who am I to deny pure unbridled passion?"

"-Allison's unbridled passion?" The scepticism was clear in his tone without Stiles needing to look up and catch the familiar cocked eyebrow. He wriggled his own in what he thought was a sultry manner before shooting back.

"Well, man, what can I tell you? When the cat's away…"

"You wash his girlfriends clothes?" Derek had, thankfully, stopped clawing at every item of said clothing in sight, seemingly satisfied that each was more mortifying than the last, however this left him free to smirk darkly at Stiles, arms tight across his chest with a singlet still dangling from one of his loosened fingers.

"We ah -have an intricate agreement- if you must know." Stiles muttered, still stashing the leftover clothes away in their plastic bag, now torn a little from the previous veracity of his attempts. Eh. Still functional.

Derek remained silent. This irked Stiles.

"An intimate agreement which you've just sullied might add with your big grabby bear paws. Thank you, as per usual, for making my life that little extra bit difficile." He finished by lightly snatching the last tank top from Derek's possession and flourishing it as a magician would a deceptively-sized hankie before stowing it away with the rest.

Derek had no reaction to Stiles' added flair, he wore an expression of wide eyed disbelief shrouded with confusion which came to a head when he slowly uttered, with a quiet hint of hysteria "Bear paws?"

Stiles huffed a little choked laugh before turning to hide the goods once more, he'd have to start from scratch ironing them out again once Derek left and this little fact hardly had him feeling particularly more hospitable than usual.

"So, what can I do for you oh all-knowing leader?" To Stiles' irritation Derek seemed to preen a little at the wording of his heavily sodden sarcasm, before returning, crashing, to his usual expression of dark disdain. Daddy doesn't like it when the step-kid mocks him.

"You got home ok?" Was Derek's bizarre segue into what Stiles was beginning yo suspect might be an attempt at -small talk? No. Couldn't be. Stiles was missing information. He considered following this suspicious path to a realm where he and Derek exchanged polite discourse but temptation got the better of him and he chose, instead, to respond by simply waving a hand down the length of himself as if to say I'm here aren't I?

Derek seemed, unsurprisingly, unimpressed. He rolled his eyes and his neck in that signature 'how to avoid killing irritating teens' handbook move of his before reiterating.

"I mean no problems on the way? Nothing suspicious when you left school - nothing strange at the house?"

"Now you mention it" Stiles was having sudden, urgent flashbacks to a fair few problems that all pointed towards a culprit in front of him "I did seem to manage to get a ride home from a guy on the brink of psychological collapse, know anything about that?" He was staring Derek down and Derek, the bastard, was staring right back like he had no shame or autonomic instincts to blink.

Stiles' eyes had begun to water before Derek replied with a disappointing "You couldn't leave him alone for five minutes?"

"Ye-eah!" Stiles laughed from his throat, turning to see what he could rummage from the fridge and coincidentally breaking the staring contest he was most certainly about to lose. "I doubt it even took him five minutes to run the track from school to here" He popped his head over the fridge door for this one "Did you know you're raising little boy racer hellions too?"

Derek, to his surprise, pinched his nose and sighed through his nostrils in an eerie impression of the sheriff when he's reached his maximum bullshit quota for the day (and Stiles was usually there to witness the tipping point or… nudge it). Stiles skin felt uncomfortable and shifty.

"Stiles, I swear to God-" Derek started, but Stiles had had enough.

"Did you know, in fact, that he's currently having a meltdown over the fact that I may or may not want to murder him. Which, I do, now!" He impressed by throwing his hands up. "And," he swiped a bottle of milk and pointed it at Derek in an accusatory fashion "and he felt the best way to talk this out, man-to-man, broyo-e-broyo, was to give me a play-by-play experience of exactly what sensations run-away train passengers experience just before they tip over the bridge into fucking oblivion." He'd departed the fridge now, twisting the cap off the bottle in his hand with savage brutality.

"It's cool though, I mean, yesterday a wolf woman tries to devour me in my own cab and today my old buddy Captain Sociopath -sorry, co-captain-" at this he swirled the milk around towards Derek with a nod "shares his own take of fast and furious. Emphasis on the fur. No." He took a righteous swig of milk that turned out to be an overshot of the amount he could swallow mid-monologue and managed to cough out "Emphasis on my fury" in a husked voice before turning a little to cough it out in a manly, tearstreaked, fashion.

Derek, who seemed to have been stunned to stillness, shifted uncomfortably before slowly raising a leather-sleeved arm to wipe the specks of milk from his cheek in mild disgust. "Stiles, if you think I somehow orchestrated a show-down by putting you two together you wildly overestimate my interest in your little spats." Stiles could tell he was aiming for that 'distant boredom' shtick he liked to play so much but it seemed the big wolf was having a little trouble holding the concern back in his eyes.

"Oh please as if you didn't know exactly how that would go, sending me home with Jackson? I mean come on man why not leave me to the wolves last night instead. At least they were a little less feral." Stiles face was twisted in incredulity, one eye squinting while his neck bobbed disparagingly, and he was brandishing the milk again. Outrage still coursed through him, spurred by embarrassment as he remembered clinging desperately to Jackson's dash with his head to his knees. But Derek was approaching, arms out and placating as if Stiles had a grip of a switchblade and not a gallon of 2%.

"He's not feral Stiles. He's just taking it hard. If you would just give him a break-"

"Taking it hard?" The milk was sloshing dangerously again, he took this as a sign that maybe this particular prop had run it's course and started heading back to the fridge to return it. "Taking what hard? What could that douchebag possibly know about hard?"

Milk secured. Argument nailed. Stiles out.

He turned to extricate himself from the fridge door but Derek was suddenly there, trapping him in with those wafts of designer fragrance and God was Stiles glad for the biting cold behind him keeping his thoughts grounded because Derek seemed to be having one of those personal space negating moments again.

"He's sick of being the bad guy Stiles." Derek was staring uncomfortably again and Stiles really hoped he'd readjust soon because the cold was getting uncomfortable and the warmth in front of him was getting concerningly inviting…

He scoffed half-heartedly. "Maybe he should consider a path he's less practiced in then hey? Maybe he can go on some sort of soul-searching retreat rather then cutting fast and loose with my personal safety. Hardly good guy behaviour."

Derek turned his head away again, another expression reminiscent of the sheriff that did an excellent job of killing any personal enjoyment Stiles may or may not have been getting out of this particular part of their encounter. "You're hardly much for 'good guy behaviour' yourself" Derek said lightly to the corner of the cabinet he was now focussed on.

Stiles shrugged. Trust Derek to make him the asshole here, go figure. "I do what I have to. It's different." His voice was nonchalent but there was a steeliness settling in his stomach now and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be alone with his …ironing. "I protect people. He protects his fragile little ego." Derek's eyes snapped back to him at this but Stiles wasn't finished. "My Dad'll be back soon by the way. Better get out of here big man, I don't think he was too impressed by your wake up call today I doubt he'd appreciate returning home after a long day shooting his gun to find my new carpool buddy holding me hostage with the cheeses." He made to pat him on the shoulder but rerouted his hand last minute to pick at the stubble on the back of his head.

"Right." Derek muttered distractedly. He was turned as though to leave but by grabthars hammer the roadblock of a man wasn't making any effort to free Stiles from his frosty cage. "You can ride with me tomorrow. Your jeeps at the shop, that's," he looked around like he was lost in the depths of Stile's dingy little kitchen, "what I came for." He was still searching aimlessly it seemed. "We can check it out after class tomorrow."

And with one last intense look at Stiles Derek Hale drifted out of his kitchen without any further explanation. Great. When he trudged back into the lounge a minute later there was no sign of the man and his locks looked suspiciously undisturbed. Son of a gun. Maybe it was time to board up everything.