It was a pitiful sight to come upon, really. He hadn't anticipated it when he'd left the car, and certainly not when he'd reached the house. Still, it came as far less of a shock and more of a pathetic happening. And not in the entertaining way.

A child, constructing a citadel of Legos, only to watch the greater half crumble in the wake of a cross breeze. That was entertaining. Or perhaps an old man, struggling to catch his hat just before you step in to assist him on that same windy day. Those things were funny or, at least, laughable.

However, this was almost too hard for Derek to watch. It was the kind of pity you felt for a wounded pup after his first fight. The sense of empathy that made you pick it up and hold it close. You'd stroke his fur, reassuring him that it would be alright. But this was no pup. And he'd sooner press wolfsbane to his lips before he 'stroked' any part of him.

"What?" Stiles spat, finally catching Derek's stare when he got close enough. He readjusted the bag strap over his shoulder in an attempt to inflate his size. It didn't work. From even a few feet away, the aura of defeat permeated around him.

"Where is he?"

"Inside."

Derek advanced only a few steps before he felt a forearm against his chest.

"He'll be out soon." He murmured, his voice, much like his expression, was stone. Almost as if it were a warning. Not sparing another glance, he turned from him.

And that's when Derek noticed it. Just below his brow, a deep violet bruise graced the crease of his eye, curving along to the start of his cheek in a crescent. Without thinking, he brought two fingers to the boy's face, barely touching the skin before the other winced.

"Hey-" He huffed, stepping back.

"Clumsy, were we?" He teased. But the brief pleasantry faded when it wasn't returned. Any other day and Stiles would have quipped back. Something about fleas or his inability to glare and blink at the same time. But no such jeer came his way. "Who was it?" He asked, curious.

Stiles sighed, looking elsewhere. "Nobody."

"Yeah?" Derek regained proximity. "Well nobody would have to be pretty strong to get you that hard."

"For your information," The other began, turning back with a curt frown. His head tilted slightly, the way it always did when he was annoyed. Derek had come to know the gesture well. "It happened at practice."

"Practice." He repeated. Hearing his pulse wasn't necessary, Stiles was the worst liar he'd ever met.

"Yeah. Practice. I wasn't paying attention and I got jammed in the face."

"Don't you wear a helmet?"

He paused, lower lip stuck out in thought. "Like I said, I spaced out."

Derek leaned in to give the mark one last look. The outer edges were spreading, no doubt the start of a swell, and clearly along the lines were three grooves resembling the imprint of a fist. "Have you spaced out before?"

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "Back off, dude. I'm the only one who plays cop around here."

He sneered, sliding his hands into his pockets, losing whatever interest he had in the subject. "Tell Scott to hurry up." He directed on his way back to the car. "And while you're in there,"

Their stares locked for a moment.

"Get some ice."