[Stiles was so used to Scott just bouncing back from all manner of horrific accidents, blood, gore, clawings, arrows, bullets, that he didn't once imagine that Scott might have any lingering damage from the weird encounter in the basement. Surely if Stiles was okay, Scott was, and Stiles--well, Stiles felt okay. He'd hit the bookshelves kind of hard, but since he didn't have any burns or brain damage, he figured a few scrapes was something to be cheerful about.
He was pretty sure the nightmare thing was from the Nemeton sacrifice, even though Scott hadn't yet showed any signs of real distress, and Allison hadn't confirmed... well, he still thought it. Maybe he, Stiles, was a little squishier than the other two. That would actually make sense.
Stiles tossed his stuff on the heap at the bottom of the stairs and followed Scott into the kitchen. He spent half his life here, so he just took a cheeto and then fished a coke out of the fridge. Juice, ha.]
Juice doesn't count, man. Believe me. You're worse than my dad. He's always trying to say that french fries are vegetables.
[Pop, goes the coke can.] People leave due to family emergencies all the time. It'll work. [Confident.] Derek hasn't returned any of my texts either. I don't exactly have Peter on speed dial, but Isaac hasn't shown up either. I don't really like it. I'd be more worried except, well, superheroes are talking in my notebook. So. [He swigged.]