SELECT chapter 4 ↵ FROM union all

When dinner was called, Isaiah's room was messier, and more of the kids had quietly filtered in. Stiles was the newest, shiniest, most interesting thing in the house. So there were wide curious eyes on him. Farah had taken over the bed, the rest ranging out in the room on the floor or curled up around each other. Isaiah had glared at the others at first, not liking that His Tiles' attention was being taken.

The inevitable breakdown happened, a hungry tired kid was a hungry tired kid regardless of wolfy demeanor or not. Stiles now sported several shiny new bandaids, delivered reverently by the oldest boy, Nash. Isaiah had popped claws and fangs, screaming at the top of his lungs. Stiles just sighed and held him, watching the siblings cover their ears and wince.

When auditory torture didn't send them away, Isaiah settled exhaustedly in Stiles' lap. After all, he was supposed to be babysitting anyway. He started a game of twenty questions, then iSpy, and falling back on a brand new one of 'what smell am I thinking of.'

Which was a last ditch effort to entertain the wandering minds.

Star had been the one to call for dinner, Stiles only knowing because the kids perked up before draining out of the room like a herd of sheep through a gate.

"Come on, Grubbin, time for dinner." Stiles said, hoisting the petulant pup onto one of his shoulders.

He hadn't been touched this much in years. It made his skin ache as if it was bruised. Him and Scott hung out together, wrestled some, sure. But the absolute inundation of physical contact from the pup and the other kids was both comforting and scary, it left him feeling over full and his chest warm and fluffy.

The fear was due to the fact that Stiles was very aware that he couldn't rely on its long term longevity. Talia was humoring him because Scott was a brand new wolf who needed guidance, and Stiles was his +1. A cold fear clutched at his sternum randomly, like spasms of a dying desire to be part of something.

Because god. He did. After seeing the warmth and affection of Talia's pack. It was all he wanted. How easily the kids could speak to the adults and be heard. How confident that they were loved and cared for.

A finger went in his ear.

"Shit!" Stiles jerked his head away, turning to look at Isaiah.

"That's a bad word. Your faucets broken." The kid grumbled, angry and annoyed. Face clouded and splotchy from their tantrum earlier. "It hurts. Here. When I smell it. So stop it. I don't like it. "

"Huh." Stiles said, a little stunned. "You know, Espurr. I'm getting the feeling you don't like it when my faucet is broken."

"No." Came the short response.

"Well. A by-product of a broken faucet, is the fact I can't fix it. So. If you don't like it spewing everywhere, then I can set you down so you don't have to smell it." Stiles said, head cocked as they stepped into the large open room. The long dining table was set with dishes and food.

"No." Was the short response.

"Okay." Stiles drew the word out as he dropped onto the long bench. "Then, I'm sorry but my faucet's gonna be broken."

"What?" Phil asked from across the table. "What are you talking about?"

"Tiles' faucet's broken." Isaiah said, the spitting image of someone tattling on another. "Mom said that hot plumbers who know how to lay pipe can fix it. But Stiles doesn't want to fix it."

Phil's face paled and choked laughter rippled across the table.

"You know what, Pancham?" Stiles said, lips stretched in a wide toothsome grin. "I don't think I've ever met someone as cool as you."

Isaiah's face brightened, instantly distracted. "Yeah?"

"Yep." Stiles nodded, settling the pup on his lap more easily. "So why don't we celebrate by eating this wonderful food that Star made and complimenting them. That way, if they do a good job, you can give them a gold star."

Appropriately distracted for the long term, Isaiah bubbled excitedly about the potential for giving others gold stars. Telling Stiles that he couldn't get one because of the bad word earlier. Stiles shrugged at Phil and the other wolves who were glaring at him. It wasn't his fault the kid had a memory like a steel trap and a mother with a love for…pipe.

Scott sat near Talia, their heads bowed together in deep conversation.

The meal was good, a bit rowdy because the excitement of having guests hadn't yet worn off. Isaiah slipped off his lap at some point to find a gold star for Star. To reappear on the lucky winner's lap.

Without a little person to keep an eye on, Stiles' hands felt empty.

He excused himself from the table and found his medication still on the kitchen counter, dry swallowing it with a click of his throat. The need to piss drove him back to the room and he turned his phone back on in passing. Stiles saw the flashing of a missed notification when he came back from the bathroom. One thing was for sure, he'd become obsessive about washing his hands if he stuck around weres for too long.

He thumbed open the screen and a text from his dad glared up at him.

Ok, Talia stopped by. I gave her the extra medication. What time will you be home tonight? I have tomorrow off, so we can go to the diner for breakfast before school.

Stiles ground his teeth and checked the time. Almost 8. He didn't want to go back, but Scott didn't really need him here. He felt guilty for not wanting to go home. Stiles scrubbed a hand through his hair harshly, glaring down at his feet.

I'll be home in a bit, breakfast sounds good

Stiles found his ruined clothes and shoes in the pile he'd left them in that morning. With jerky movements he tied the converse on and bundled his pants, shirt, and underwear into a ball. Then he stood at the door taking very deep breaths, trying to get himself excited about going home.

Surprise. It wasn't really working.

Then Stiles thought about Peter's gifts of Pokemon cards. The curiosity that hadn't really dimmed since he'd stepped foot in the Hale home flared bright in his chest. The excitement for new knowledge filtered through his body slowly, and he took a deep breath with it. Letting that excitement settle deep in his belly.

Having total awareness of oneself and a were's abilities were crucial in hiding in plain sight. Years of hiding from his father and Scott had been the preliminaries to this. Stiles ground his teeth and stepped out into the hall, heading back to the large main room.

The main room was tall ceilings and a lot of glass, open with little separating the kitchen from the dining from the living room. The wings of the home were the ones that held the individual rooms, and they centered on the large open living space in the center.

Stiles quietly padded up to Talia, shoulders relaxed, ball of clothes slung under one arm.

"Hey yo, Talia." Stiles said as he approached her seat, "Papa dearest is requesting my presence, so I'm heading out. Scott, do ya want a ride, or are you bunking here?"

Scott shifted uncomfortably in his chair for a moment before responding. "I'm gonna stay here."

"Coolio nimbus." Stiles said, turning to Talia. "Then I'm outtie five-thouttie. Did you need anything else?"

"No, dive safely, let me know when you arrive at home." Talia said, shaking her head before opening her palm. "Your phone?"

Stiles grunted before opening it and handing it over. At least now he had a legitimate source of Talia's cell phone number. It was memorized anyway. He nodded thanks when she passed it back.

"Nice, I'm heading out." Stiles waved to the rest of the table. "Lovely meeting you all. We'll have to do it again, I'll bring the milk-bones and greenies."

Isaiah was entrenched in a conversation with Star, so Stiles grinned at the glares he was getting and headed towards the front door. Talia didn't follow him, letting him leave and close the monstrous thing on his own.

Safely in the Jeep and on the road, Stiles shivered and shifted in his seat. He felt as if he was going to fall apart. He chewed on his lips anxiously until the bloom of metal wafted over his tongue. It was like a pin around which he could flail.

The house was quiet when he pulled up.

"I'm home!" He called when he stepped in the front door, listening for the muffled response. None came and he made his way to the living room, toeing out of his shoes. His dad was passed out in the recliner, a recorded baseball game quietly playing in the background.

Fear made him look for the bottle. Relief so great he sagged with it, when he didn't see one. Just a half empty glass of one of the sugar free powdered drink mixes. It had been a compromise since they'd hated everything else. At least his dad had changed out of his uniform and into a plain t-shirt and plaid sleep pants.

Stiles sighed silently and grabbed one of the throws off the couch, delicately wrapping it over the sleeping man. He turned the tv off and tossed his clothes in the laundry, adding some extra detergent and setting it to soak in cold water. He wasn't super concerned with getting them clean, he'd never feel clean wearing them again so it didn't really matter.

His room remained the silent haven it had always been. But he stepped into it a different person than the one who'd left it the day before. Now, he wanted to know what it smelled like. Wanted to know what he smelled like. Stiles sighed, realizing that he would be switching out his detergents, soaps, and deodorants. Scott wouldn't care right now, but he'd never want to put on something that aggravated his friend's brand new sniffer.

Stiles wandered over to his desk and plopped down. His backpack was still here, but the bag he'd taken camping would still be lost to the officials. He hadn't brought anything super necessary on the camping trip, but he was annoyed at the loss nonetheless. He'd finished his homework that was due next week after the camping trip already, and tomorrow was the start of a new day.

Fucking Wednesdays.

Peter drifted through his mind once more. Stiles regarded his computer. He'd wanted to dive right into finding the elusive supernat, but he simply didn't trust someone not to track something back to his house. So he settled for re-reading some of his notes on alphas and feral wolves.

He woke from a gruesome nightmare at some point, slumped over his desk. With the cold, tacky, sensation of drying sweat, he started re-reading at the top of the page in his notebook. His own cramped handwriting, having gotten leagues better after having to write literal thousands of words, staring blankly back at him from their place on the thin paper.

Maybe if he ignored the nightmare, it would ignore him.