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Can't we communicate without technology gumming up the works?

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For obvious reasons, many medical and diagnosed, Stiles just could not just sit still. No matter what else was going on in his life, a huge freaking portion of it revolved around helping out. Whether it be his friends or his father. He had been doing this for years, and still, he wasn’t as adept at it as he should have been. And, well, as awesome as his friends went, he was in the freaking dark. His mind kept going over what could have happened. What might have been.Better yet, he couldn’t help the twists and turns that his brain took when he was aware of a certain situation. Even if he was supposed to-- told to, more like, by a brooding sourwolf-- keep completely out of it. Stiles liked to help, he had to help. It wasn’t in his nature to sit idly by and just wait for the end result.

And, yet, here he was at one in the morning sitting at his computer desk while all of the pack (or packs, depending on what drama was going with the whole ‘who was trusting who as much as they possibly could at the moment'; and seriously, the wolves he knew had some serious, and he meant seriously serious trust issues) was out there dealing with some probably intense and dangerous Alpha pack business. Allison probably got a free pass with her badass crossbow capabilities and sure Stiles was good enough for research but not for actual re-con. And, okay, he got it. He really truly and totally one hundred percent A-okay got it. Stiles was not a werewolf, no matter how much time he spent around the werewolves, which meant he was a terribly breakable, fragile human that could be more of a distraction then an actual asset to the whole team.


Except he really wanted to be there. Stiles left knee bounced as he bit down on his fingernails, chewing them down probably way past where they should be. He needed to be there in the thick of it, fighting for his friends and getting rid of the big bad even if that meant he was just driving the getaway car or throwing some self-made chem lab bomb at the douchebags. Seriously, anything was better than the waiting to hear any sort of news from them; good or bad. Hopefully good. Stiles didn’t think that he could take any more bad.

It seemed like after Gerard incident, even with his oh-so-heroic way that he brought in Lydia to save the day with neutralizing Jackson from becoming some bigger and badder form of the killing machine he already was, they were treating him differently. Were they waiting for him to crack? To shed some tears and breakdown? Hell, even Scott knew better than that. Even with everything that had happened with his mom... Stiles had internalized. Sure, he talked a lot. Hello, understatement of the year going on here if he did say so himself. If he needed to talk about something, it was only when he was ready to; if he was ever really ready to delve into that ultra vulnerable under belly of his emotional psyche.

Wait, why was he thinking about all of that? Right. Too much adderall and not enough tasks to occupy his addled mind. Screw this. All of it. He was sick of being put to the side when they saw fit. If he wasn’t there in whatever the hell was going down right now, he at the very, very least needed to be in the loop.

Stiles grabbed his phone from his desk and angrily sent out a mass text to everyone in the pack. At the very least, they would know how he felt. Bad idea or not, at least he would get some of his feelings, base as they may be, out in the open.

To: Scott, Isaac, Derek, Jackson:
Alright, I know this is all super secret important pack stuff you’re all dealing with but I really and truly appreciate being a part of your “pack” business when it’s convenient to all of you. This is me calling bullshit. Tell me what’s going on or I swear to god, The Boy Who Cried Wolf will have nothing on me. Sincerely, your ever-devoted, slightly-jilted Stiles. (Devoted is a strong word, Jackson, don’t get any ideas).

Huffing out a sharp breath Stiles hit send and dropped his phone onto his lap. There were probably going to be some serious ramifications due to that particular text message but he was done. He wanted it all over and done with. They needed to know, right? Right. They had to know how their constant ups and downs hit him and that it was un-freaking-acceptable to just leave him in the dark. Especially if he happened to be kidnapped and tortured, he had some serious information that could be leaked if he were a lesser person. They had to know that it was a factor, that it had to be considered that the human side of things could hold some freaking cache. But as seconds turned into minutes he found himself worrying, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck in a quiet frustration.