But of course,

Chapter Two

Stiles went a full month without getting any serious injuries. Not to say the month passed with no altercations, he acquired a few cuts and many bruises, but it was better than it had been.

But of course, it couldn't last.

It wasn't even a werewolf this time. Deaton had explained it to be a strange Nordic variant of the Baba Yaga, but it was a witch. Simple as that– good old-fashioned witch. And turns out? Witches are serious bitches.

Derek was out of town, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac were all unavailable, and Allison and Lydia had a girl's night where they had turned off their phones. There was no way Stiles was asking Peter for help, and the same went with Jackson. It was just Scott and Stiles, and Stiles was privately excited for the old team to be back. But then Deaton had tagged along. Which was fine. It was whatever.

For the witch, they had of course tried mountain ash, but it didn't work. Stiles hadn't thought it would, seeing as it didn't work on him either, but it was worth a shot. Besides that, Stiles assumed Deaton would have a plan.

But of course, Deaton was as helpful as Fuck All and did not have a plan.

So Stiles had improvised. He'd gotten better with his Spark, so he was able to channel small bursts of energy from his hands, almost like miniature bombs. He had to have physical contact for them to be most effective, but he'd made do.

Thus caused the injuries. Stiles had tried something new– pressing his hands to the ground and channeling his energy through it to the witch– which had worked. Sort of. His hands had gotten all scratched up with how hard he'd shoved them on the pavement. The witch hadn't found his magic impressive, even though he had managed to knock her back a few paces. She'd told him so, right before trying to stab his eye out.

Stiles had saved his eye, but he had used most of his Spark energy with the stunt. He'd only been able to deflect the stabbing motion. She had kept the momentum of her swing and continued down, which just barely caught his side. It hadn't actually stabbed, just grazed, but it still hurt like hell.

One thing had led to more injuries, and then another, and eventually, the witch was apprehended. Deaton (who had been a useless fuck the whole time) had taken her God knows where, and Scott had rushed off with a, "Sorry, but I really need to catch up on summer school."

Stiles drove home in his Jeep, and this time he didn't need to sneak in. It was only 8 PM, after all, well before his curfew. His dad was probably in his study or at the kitchen table, working away on the latest case. Stiles could easily yell, 'Dad, I'm home,' and limp off to his room. His dad wouldn't be any wiser.

But then Stiles remembered last month and his father's face when he'd seen Stiles. When he'd realized Stiles had been hiding his injuries for years. When Stiles had said he couldn't come downstairs for the first aid kit, because his father was awake and Stiles didn't want him seeing what had happened.

Stiles killed the engine of the Jeep. He would go inside and ask for help. How hard could it be? He'd done it before, back when his math homework had been hard, or when he'd needed his Dad to tie his tie.

But this was so different. Before, it had felt like asking for assistance, or his father could tell him to look it up instead (not that he ever had, but he was able to). Now, he was asking for help.

He unclipped his seatbelt. Asking for help isn't a bad thing. He opened the door to the Jeep. You tell Scott to ask for help all the time, this isn't different. He opened the door to the house. It's nothing to be ashamed of. He walked through the house and to the study, where his father sat with his head low, examining papers on the desk. Abort abort abort abort abort–