Chapter Text
Stiles is trying desperately to remember what he'd done:
Two Weeks Earlier:
He remembers everything that happened last night. He remembers the pack fighting the bears, following Derek's lead and working together. He remembers Derek telling him to stay back, and he knows for a fact he'd listened. He'd followed directions and stayed back, because contrary to popular belief he really WASN'T stupid and he did not want to end up being gutted by bear claws, thank you very much! It hadn't been his fault there had been another werebear! And it wasn't his fault he'd gotten his ass handed to him and he'd been sliced open like an avocado before the pack had realized! He'd even called Derek for help!
They'd finally brought the biggest bear down and Erica had stuck him with the thistle, and the other one-the smaller one that had attacked Stiles- Allison had brought down with a dipped arrow. The last one had been wounded but had gotten away, and then suddenly everyone was there standing over Stiles, Scott begging him to "Stay awake, Stiles!" and someone yelling to "call Deaton!" Stiles even remembered the joke he'd made about the Three Bears and a snack before he'd passed out from blood loss and pain, the last thing he saw being Derek's plainly stressed and horrified face as he stood over them.
So when he'd woken up at Deaton's clinic, arm and side stitched and wrapped and an IV drip hanging above his head, he'd asked. Scott was there, and Isaac, and he'd asked about Derek. Scott had seemed glad he was awake but also...odd. Distant.
The whole time he was at the clinic it was like that. Deaton was professional and someone had called his Dad, who was worried and pissed and way too clingy. He'd gotten the good drugs and his dad had babied him, which was both cool and mortifying and he decided he'd milk that later. But the others, before they all left, were off. Acting cagey and almost like they were afraid to talk to him. And no Derek, of course.
The Sheriff had gotten to take Stiles home the next morning, with Deaton warning Stiles about keeping his stitches dry and resting. Stiles reported that he honestly had no plans to do anything other than sleep and take the good drugs for awhile, and that seemed to mollify both of them.
He couldn't help byt notice there was no one there to see him before he left. No Scott, no pack. And no Derek.
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Stiles had been homebound for nearly two weeks as he healed, barely allowed downstairs for the first week unless Noah was there to help him. Deaton had come by twice to check on him, and he'd removed the stitches on his abdomen partially once he'd declared he was happy with the progress. He'd told Stiles he could go up and down the stairs, could take a full shower and he could go without the bandages, but no strenuous activity, and no lifting or running. Stiles had promised-seriously- and been extra careful the rest of the week. He was going insane, honestly, and the tiny bit of freedom felt amazing.
In all that time, he'd only received one text message from Scott, and none from the rest of the pack.
He'd texted and called all of them, with no answers, and most texts went unread. That was...weird and a little hurtful, honestly. Scott never ignored him. And even Derek would shoot him a one word answer most of the time. Maybe they were busy? Or, there'd been new developments with the bear? Still, something felt off and Stiles couldn't shake the feeling that his friends were ignoring him.
So, halfway just into the third week, Stiles had managed to convince his dad that he was okay to drive. Felt great honestly, and he needed to get out of the house or he was gonna go nuts. It was summer break! Who the heck spent their last summer break before graduation laying around at home? Noah had caved, but not until after he'd set some ground rules.
"Home before 10 p.m., Stiles. And no crazy stuff! No rolling around with the pack, or...taking on werebears!"
"Dad, that was ONE time! And I wasn't even fighting them! I was staying out of the way like a good little squishy human! It wasn't my fault there was a surprise baby bear lurking! I was ambushed!" Stiled defended petulantly.
His father looked unimpressed " So the rolling around on the floor is true, then?"
Stiles sputtered "No, father! There is no floor rolling!" His dad's raised eyebrow was immovable, and Stiles threw his hands up " Fine! There is floor rolling. And puppy piling, maybe. But I'm not, like, wolfy, so there's no rolling for me. Okay?"
Stiles didn't miss the sad expression that flitted across his dad's face before he rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. Noah rubbed his forehead "Just, take it easy, ok? I don't think either one of us can handle you on bedrest again for awhile. Or ever, honestly. Home by 10 p.m.. And call me when you get there, and as soon as you leave. Please, son."
Stiles bit his lip, suddenly realizing his dad was actually worried. He smiled " You got it, daddio. 10 p.m., and I'll call. If it makes you feel better I'll ask Scott to text you too."
Noah sighed, rolled his eyes, and reached out to pat Stiles's shoulder. "Thanks, kid."
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Two Weeks Later:
Stiles is trying desperately to remember what he'd done.
He was standing in the middle of the living room of Derek's loft, the pack sitting around him-most of them very deliberately not looking at him- while he stares at Derek Hale in disbelief and hurt. He doesn't know what he's done, but Derek had been cold and firm when he'd told Stiles he wasn't welcome. That he wasn't pack. Stiles had knocked on the door, and Scott had let him in. He'd looked excited to see Stiles, for just a moment. Then Derek had been there, cold eyes on them, while he stood there looking gorgeous (shit!) and Scott had suddenly tensed and deflated. He'd turned to Stiles with sad eyes and told him flatly that
" You're not supposed to be here, Stiles."
Stiles had managed a shaky grin, eyes flicking between his best friend and his alpha "Uhhhh...is it not pack night? I know I've been stuck at home, bored outta my mind but my phone works. It's Friday, right?" His voice sounds a little odd even to himself, because he knows something isn't right. There's a reason no one has contacted him and he has this awful feeling, looking at Scott's submissiveness and Derek's accusing glare that he's about to find out.
"It's...it's pack night Stiles, but...you.. I mean. It's pack night for us."
Stiles cheeks hurt from the fakeness of his smile, cuz what does that mean? " For...for us. What does that, uh...what does that mean, buddy?"
"I---"Scott starts, but Derek cuts in, striding forward so fast Scott stumbles back, eyes wide and in the floor.
"It means it's pack night for PACK, Stiles. And you're not pack." He says coldly, eyes hard. And Stiles must be pretty stunned because for a second all he does is just stare, eyes flicking between Derek and the rest of the pack, who he's noticed are all cowering on the couch or floor, very pointedly not looking at Stiles.
"I--excuse me? Did I miss something, because, two weeks ago I was. I was doing your research and cooking you food and putting band-aids on your booboos. I don't get it. Is this...is this a joke? Like, ha ha, Stiles got beat up and now we're gonna haze him? Cuz that's...that's pretty rude, guys." When no one was forthcoming and the look on Derek's face hadn't changed, he looked back to Scott "Scotty?" His best friend looked miserable, but he made no move to deny it.
"It isn't a joke, Stiles. You're out of the pack. Don't come back here. "
In the end Stiles hadn't even really been able to argue. He'd stared at Derek, eyes big and embarassingly wet, because what the fuck? Wasn't that shitty and humiliating? And then Derek had pointed to the door like Stiles was a bad puppy, and Scott had followed him out. He hadn't said a word, but he had hugged Stiles before he'd turned silently and gone back inside, shutting the door with a finality that had left Stiles breathless and cold.
Stiles had stood there like an idiot for several minutes, before he'd stumbled down the steps and back to his jeep.
As he pulled back out onto the road, he realized belatedly he'd forgotten to call his dad.
And he tried desperately to remember what he'd done.