AUTHORS NOTES: Wouldn't it be cruel if this was an April fools joke? I mean, it's not but still, that would be so mean.

Life isn't nice and it isn't easy. I'm not going to make excuses, but it's fact. Things happen and then months pass - more months than you intend. Regardless, I'm sorry. I hope you all enjoy.

I'm still looking for a beta if anyone is interested.

I should probably look over this at least one more time before posting... oh well.

Who hear can guess what part wasn't originally part of my plan?

Anyways, I hope you guys like it. Malia is a big part of this story. She is going to have her own little plot line, one I hope starts to show itself in this one. I'm going to make you like her, because I know there are some of you who don't. But this Malia, MY Malia deserves better. Or at least she deserves more then we saw in the show.

PLEASE LET ME KNOW HOW MY CHARACTERIZATION IS GOING! Who seems too OOC? Who is most accurate?br /

Please let me know if you find any spelling or grammar issues.

Tony strolled from the ship and across the roof landing pad with a relaxed confidence. The kids, from what he assumed, were behind him. Malia tensed when they exited the ship. Her body was tight, claws digging into Stiles' arm. "Ma-"Stiles began only to have the girl to finch back, cupping her hands over her ears. Her eyes flashed and fangs grew. She let out a long whine that stopped Tony in his tracks.

"What's wrong with her?" The man asked, glancing between the teens with a raised eyebrow.

It wasn't until Malia to look at Stiles with pleading eyes. "Sensory overload," He realized.

Malia whined again.

Stiles grabbed her arm, tugging towards what he hoped was the elevator. Malia resisted only for a second, allowing him to pull her down the stairs and across the gravel rooftop. Tony jogged to keep up and then past them, leading through the sliding elevator doors. They closed with a quick whoosh and the elevator jolted to life. Malia relaxed almost instantly her arms dropping but claws still sharp and eyes bright. Tony mumbled something about metals and the doors, neither of them were paying attention. She pressed in close to Stiles, tucking into his side. Stiles kept them standing as the elevator came to a sharp stop. The door opened, not that either teen noticed.

Tony watched them curiously. "Jarvis, take us to eight." He said at last.

"Sir, if I may," A speaker above interrupted, "the team-"

"Doesn't matter." Tony waved a hand at the ceiling. The door slid closed in response, heading up. Tony herded them out once they stopped again. "So here's the deal chickadees," the man started, tossing the bags next to the door. "The floor is yours. Rooms are there and there," he pointed passed the open concept living room and connecting kitchen. "Bathrooms on both. Fridge has the basics, tell Jarvis if there's anything specific you need. And don't worry about the internet, Jarvis will connect you automatically."

"Floor?" Stiles parroted.

Tony powered on, "Cap is on the floor below you, Widow is above. The communal floor is on two. The top eighteen floors are private, everything below is part of the Stark industries. Feel free to go down, but don't leave the building without one of the team. Feel free to ask Jarvis if you have any questions or need anything. Gym is on three and my lab is four. Other things are other places, Jarvis can make you a map." Tony backed into the elevator. "Someone will be up to check on you two sometime tomorrow or just come down to the communal floor, someone is usually around."

"Floor?" Stiles said again.

Tony flashed a large smirk before the doors closed.

"We have a floor," Stiles muttered, "Why do we have a floor?"

Malia shrugged, elbowing Stiles in the side in the process. "Let's go."

Stiles wasn't sure what to expect when moving into the Stark – turned Avengers – Tower. At most two beds and an attached bathroom. To be fair he wasn't wrong, just it was on their own floor and included a kitchen larger than what Stiles had at home and two separate bedrooms.

Malia blatantly ignored the door with her name on it, choosing instead to follow Stiles into his.

It was floor to ceiling windows, taking up the entire of the opposite wall. The bed was to the right, neatly made in gray sheets and bigger than anything he had ever seen. There was a TV across from the bed, imbedded into the wall just like at the SHIELD medical bay. A small text box bounced around the screen telling them 'I AM A TELEVISION'.

Stiles fell face first into his bed, a few seconds liker Malia followed him down, curling into his side. "I was just asleep," stiles grumbled, voice muffled by the unfairly soft and oh so comfortable mattress. Malia grunted in response. They fell asleep in seconds.

Stiles jerked awake from a sharp poke to his side. He tried to roll away, but it only followed. He groaned, the room was dark, either night or the windows were blocked, it was hard to tell. Malia poked him in the side again, she lay with her eyes still closed, facing him. "Door," she grumbled, "you answer." She rolled over and went back to sleep.

Stiles hauled himself out of bed, trudging blindly to the bedroom door. He stumbled, blinking in surprise when he realized it wasn't his bedroom. He trudged out the door, down the hall – almost falling over the couch and nearly knocking over a lamp before finally reaching the front door. He frowned at it, trying to figure out why Malia thought someone was there.

"The Captain is on the other side," Jarvis offered, scaring Stiles enough to jump back and take out that lamp he barely save the first time.

Stiles let out a small "oh" looking at the pieces of ceramic around his feet.

The front door opened to a concerned looking Captain America. Stiles blinked at him then the mess on the floor.

A small roomba-like robot darted out from under the couch. It circled the mess, pulling in the smallest pieces of yellow ceramic. Stiles watched it work, wondering if he should help. Steve watched Stiles with a frown. The robot nudged the larger pieces and fallen cord under the side table it came from. It let out a couple beeps, sounding proud, before disappearing again. "Should I..." Stiles asked glancing at Steve.

"Don't worry Mr Stilinski, another will be here by tomorrow." Jarvis announced from somewhere above.

"Oh," Stiles mumbled, "That's good," he turned to Steve again, "What can I do for you Mr Captain America?" he asked.

"Just Steve is fine," The man blushed a light pink around the ears, " I just wanted to check on you two. We haven't heard anything from you since you arrived."

Stiles frowned, looking around for a clock. "How long has it been?" he asked. There was one on the microwave reading six something - the information completely useless when Stiles realized he had no idea when they actually arrived, let alone if it was AM or PM. The feeling of lost time wasn't a new. He was used to living life in bursts, lost between sleep and awake.

"Fifteen hours," supplied Jarvis.

"Oh, I guess - I guess we were tired? Stiles offered, "The hospital place wasn't very restful once they take you off the good meds. Counterproductive really."

Steve nodded in agreement, "I spend a lot of time in one as a kid. Buck-" his face contorted, it was too fast for Stiles to catch before settling in something unreadable. "Bucky always insisted I did better when in my own bed." His voice was fond, but his eyes far away.

Stiles knew who Bucky was. James Buchanan Barnes was Steve Rogers best friend and right hand during the war. He disappeared shortly before the Captain crashed and was assumed dead. There was something on the hero's face, guilt and determination that reminded Stiles of Scott. It gnawed at Stiles, making his chest hurt and mind itch. It was familiar for all the wrong reasons and he wanted to know why. He pushed it away, everything was still too foggy from sleep, it wasn't his problem anyways. He shuffled his feet, "Did you want to check on Melia?" he offered.

Steve jerked back to himself, smiling a paparazzi ready smile. It showed too much teeth and didn't reach his eyes. "No, it's fine. But I'd - the team that is - wanted to invite you both down to eat. Something casual tonight, around five."

Stiles glanced back at the clock. It was a little after seven. "You came to wake up two teenagers at six in the morning?" he asked.

Steve looked sheepish and opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted by laughter. "It's all good, dude." Stiles said before the man could get anything out, "To be honest, I'm surprised I was asleep for so long." He added, more to himself then Steve. "Nightmares." He explained when he caught Steve's frown of confusion, only to have it turn to concern.

"What time is Dinner?" Stiles interrupted again.

"Five - but Stiles-" Steve kept frowning.

Stiles shook his head, "No," he said, turning sharply on his heels and heading back to bed. He couldn't handle a concerned Super Soldier with Scott-like puppy-dog-eyes. He got actually sleep, his brain was fuzzy in ways he wasn't used to, at least not anymore. It wasn't a drugged haze like in medical or the confusion that gripped his mind after a nightmare. It felt normal. It was weird. "We'll see you on five." Stiles answered.

"On two at five," Steve called.

Stiles waved over his shoulder, closing the door behind him. He stumbled into bed, curling up under the sheets. Malia pressed back until Stiles' forehead rested against her shoulder blades. There was a few seconds of silence then, "Oh my god. I was just rude to a freaking American hero".

Malia groaned and pressing back harder.

The Sheriff contacts everyone on a Tuesday with a mass text.

Talked to Stiles. They're staying."

He gets messages the rest of the day, everyone asking questions. John ignored them all, focusing on work. He went to the dinner down the street for lunch. Parish followed at his heels, interrupting his order of fries and a burger by insisting the older man get a salad. It threw John off, leaves him quiet long enough for Parish to order himself and the waitress to leave. Jordan looks hesitant now, the confidence gone. There was a line - they both saw it. John took a deep breath and centered himself again. There was a beat of silence before they made eye contact, "I'm getting extra dressing," he said at last.

The Sheriff sends out a second mass text the next morning.

"chickadee1and2 "

The next time Stiles wakes up, hands are wrapped tightly around his neck. The lights were too bright and everything muffled as if underwater. Something or someone was pulling at him, he couldn't move his arms - ropes, no, hands. He stared back with that smirk, his own hands wrapped around his neck. Stiles fought against the hands, his and theirs.

Malia begged him to let go. She begged for him to wake up. Her face floated into frame, she looks terrified. She starts to apologize.

His fingers hurt. It's a sharp quick pain but he could breath again. He blinks back to reality, holding his left hand close to his body. A familiar panic settles around him, his heart pounding over time. Malia chanted sorry next to him, but not touching. She reached out and brushed her fingers against his elbow, causing Stiles to flinch. He looked away in shame and Malia ignored it. She wrapped her hands tightly around his arm, a bit harder than necessary. Her veins turned black, bleeding away the pain in his hand.

They stayed like that until a calming piano jingle interrupted followed by Jarvis announcing the time and reminding the duo of dinner in an hour. His voice was calm, but there was something else, something akin to worry, "Sir would like me to remind you that bath products are provided in each bathroom and all dirty laundry is to be put in the hampers for the laundry service." A map of their floor popped up on the television. A small "you are here" sticker was under the room labeled Chickadee One. Three plus signs were highlighted, according to the key in the bottom corner they were first aid kits. One in each bathroom and one in the kitchen.

"You do smell," Stiles said, his words sounded forced even to his own ears.. Malia rolled her eyes and played along.

A little while later, while Stiles was off in the shower, Malia wrapped shaking hands around herself. She took slow even breaths trying to focus on Stiles heart beat under the sound of rushing water. Her coyote clawed under the service.

She was scared. Not of Stiles but for him. Her instincts cried for pack and to protect but she didn't know how. Stiles needed her human, Malia wasn't sure could be.

They arrived fifteen minutes late to dinner. Seven of the minutes were spent standing in front of the elevator door, Malia waiting patiently for him to take the first step. The nine minutes before that they were debating on whether or not they needed to bring a gift or dish to contribute, only for Jarvis to announce that nothing was required. The half an hour before that involved both of them changing multiple times, as instructed by Stiles.

They arrived to an oddly domestic scene. Blackwidow was working through a pile of vegetables with scary efficiency. She handed them off to Hawkeye to transfer into a pot on the stove. The man was shooed away almost instantly by Bruce Banner. "Don't touch," he said, waving the archer away. His tone was teasing, "You know the rules."

Clint whined, sagging into an exaggerated pout, "Come on Bruce, how much damage can I really do by just standing there?"

"Too much," Tony yelled from across the room. He sat at a large table by the window, feet propped up on the table and his chair balanced on the back two legs.

"Reykjavik," Natasha added.

"Iceland?" Stiles asked before he could catch himself. He and Malia stood in the doorway, on the edge of the room.

Natasha nodded and Clint groaned. "We agreed to never talk about that," the man whined.

Something was off the banter, not necessarily forced but scripted. Like they were playing roles - it made Malian tense up and put them both on edge.

Tony perked up, dropping his chair on all fours, "Well now we need to know." The SHIELD agents seemed to ignore him.

"Also, Paris," Natasha mused, smirking at her partner. She held out the cutting board, offering the last of the vegetables.

Something was off the banter, not necessarily forced but scripted. Like they were playing roles - it made Malian tense up and put them both on edge. She pressed in close to Stiles, wrapping his left wrist, her veins subconsciously pulling pain from his bandaged fingers. If any of the Avengers noticed, they didn't show it. Stiles pulled the hoodie tighter around himself, hiding the bruising he left around his own neck.

"France?" Steve guessed from the edge of the island, manning one of the ovens with Thor at his side.

"Texas," Natasha clarified, passing the food to Bruce herself. There was something in her tone, ending the conversation.

"Come young ones," Thor bellowed from the oven. There was an oven mit on each hand: one with cartoon puppies and the other realistic purple flowers. "Friend Bruce has prepared what he calls a vegetable stir fry." Natasha cleared her throat, suddenly at Clint's shoulder. "With help from Lady Natasha and the Hawk."The god added, earning a nod in approval. "Steven and I have made a loaf of meat. He as reassured me it is a traditional midgardian meal. " The man smiled proudly as he pulled out a bread tin of ground beef and offered it out to the teens.

Tony pulled a face from behind them, once again ignored.

Stiles smiled back, it was small but real. The man's genuine enthusiasm was contagious.

"Then let's eat," Tony called, waiving the teens closer to the table and at the two chairs closest to the door. "Serve us up Point Break." he called, "I'm so hungry I'll willingly eat Brucie's healthy thing."

Stiles let Malia direct them, placing herself between him and the doorway. She was tense, and twitchy. She had been since they woke up, she hadn't been able to settle. The coyote was just under her skin.

"Tony," Bruce scolded, carrying the pan of stir fry and a wicker mat to the table.

An alarm cut off what the man was going to say, a red light flashed from the ceiling.

Malia shoved Stiles off his chair and under the table. Her eyes flashed and claws scraped against the table as she crouched on top of it.

Natasha and Clint drew weapons, each training a gun on the shifted werecoyote. Thor dropped his dish, instincts calling for his hammer.

The alarm shut off and a female voice called for the Avengers to assemble before shutting off.

The room calmed in a wave, the Avengers lowered their weapons one at a time. Stiles slid out from under the table, moving slowly and deliberately for Malia. Bruce was a few feet away with food still in his hands. His eyes were closed and knuckles white around the handle. He took slow deep breaths, relaxing a bit at a time. Malia watched him with glowing eyes, growling deep in her throat.

Bruce let out one last breath before opening his eyes, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the werecoyote. His placed the food down with extra care, before fleeing the room.

Stiles placed a hand on Malia's back, rubbing small circles. "Go," Stiles whispered, "We'll clean up."

Clint and Natasha slipped after the Doctor, carefully to move slowly as Malia tracked their movements. Tony followed close behind messing with something on his wrist, "This better be important," he grumbled. Thor glanced mournfully at his fallen meal before disappearing after his teammates.

"Are you sure?" Steve asked glancing hesitantly at the door.

"We're fine," Stiles tried to smile, "really."

Steve looked wary but nodded, leaving the teens alone. Stiles leaned in closer and pressed his forehead into Malia's back. It took time for her to relax enough to get off the table, and even longer before her teeth dulled and claws disappeared. Her eyes kept their supernatural blue as she watched Stiles clean up the fallen meal and put the leftover stir fry into a container.

They went back to their room, stopping long enough in their kitchen to put together a few peanut butter sandwiches. They crawled back up in bed, Malia scarfed down three sandwiches then curled into a tight ball and fell asleep. Stiles nibbled at the crusts of his own food, watching the channel seven news company report on the latest disaster.

It was somewhere between late at night and early in the morning when Stiles stumbled into the communal kitchen. Memories clawed at his mind making it hard to sleep. He grew restless, his feet carrying him where they please. Malia was still asleep upstairs, tired from draining his pain and wolfing out.

Clint was already in the kitchen when Stiles got there, sitting on the floor next to an open back of oreos. His eyes went to Stiles' neck, then fingers, before settling on his face. "Cookie?" he offered, shrugging at the open space on the other side of the package.

Stiles leaned heavily against the wall, sliding down to the floor. Neither male said anything, the matching bags under their eyes said enough.

Scott started seventeen different letters, he finished six, and sent none.

Allison was the first to write, her message was three sentences.

To: chickadee1and2
"It's not your fault. I don't blame you. I'd do it all again to save you."