[The thing is, Stiles used to not give a crap if things didn't go well with Derek. That was kind of their default state of existing, for a long time, maybe edging into tolerating and trusting each other back home before they all got unceremoniously thrown into this mess.

And that's exactly what this is: a mess. He doesn't know when he started caring and he hates that he does, feeling the tell-tale numbness in his fingertips that comes with a fresh buzz but the wine isn't really helping him to not feel like shit. It's just amplifying the fact that he feels like shit.]

I kind of refused to talk to him until he texted me and asked about my whole girl... [Stiles gestures vaguely.] Problem. And offered to help with it. Again.

[He sets his mug down on her table for a moment, jaw working as he rests his elbows on his knees.]

So he did, and he was really--into it? Which I thought was maybe just, you know, the vagina thing, if it weren't for the round we had once I switched back. Chip influence-free. And he was really into that.

[His throat's tight, because this current problem is Derek-related but it's not all about Derek, and Stiles doesn't even know how to get into the rest, lacing his fingers together and bouncing his leg, not quite looking at Lydia.]

I could probably deal with him being an asshole if sex wasn't involved, you know? But he insists there's nothing wrong with me and then turns around and is a complete dick and I can't-- I spent the first sixteen years of my life being completely undesirable to basically everyone [There's an unspoken to you in there, because Lydia was everyone, for about as long as he can remember.] so it's a lot easier for me to wrap my brain around someone being totally disgusted by me than really wanting me. And it feels like shit.