“seriously, homes, are you the baby whisperer?” ray calls over baby screams while trying not to wake the sleeping baby on brad’s chest.

brad shakes his head, palm gently splayed over wes’s back as the four month old sleeps on his chest, feeling his heart beat steadily under his own palm, “just takes a delicate touch, ray.”

ray glares, still bouncing around, still rocking. noah continues to scream, loud and pitiful, and ray is really trying his hardest to remember what nate and walt said, but it’s all being drowned out by the screaming baby in his arms.

“ray, try a bottle, try singing, try something,” brad suggests, not budging from where he’s got wes cradled on his chest.

“tried singing, guess it’s bottle time,” ray murmurs, wandering in to the kitchen and following the instructions written in nate’s block handwriting on the fridge.

ten minutes later, he’s slumped on the couch next to brad, noah working his way through his bottle, looking around contentedly with blue eyes, “remember when i said i wanted kids?”

“mhm.”

“i changed my mind.”

walt’s acutely aware of nate watching him, before nate’s fingers even start tracing over the marks along his chest. he traces over the obvious ones first, pink and rough, then over the others, thin and silvery.

it’s something he’s gotten used to. nate tracing along the scars he had. on his abdomen, on his upper chest, on his back, all over his body in general. he hasn’t told anybody what they’re from. not any of the guys from the squad, no one from home, but he wants to tell nate.

he’s always wanted to tell someone, really, it’s something hard to keep to himself, but no one felt like the right person. until nate. okay, so maybe it hadn’t been like this for long. it started after the first time they slept together, mostly because nate was the first person that walt had ever let see him - where he had actually had the choice. first person that he had let touch the scars.

it takes a minute to collect his thoughts, pull together courage, rubbing his hand over nate’s back, through the light sheen of sweat still there. “most are from jagged beer bottles,” he states softly, drawing nate’s attention.

“you don’t have to tell me, walt,” nate looks earnest, like always, but it doesn’t cover the bit of curiosity sparked in his eyes.

walt nods a little, “i know,” he replies, hand stilling on nate’s back. “i want to,” he adds, manages a little smile when nate nods.

he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “most are beer bottle edges, there’s some from other sharp objects. kitchen knives, glass pieces, stuff like that,” walt states softly, can feel nate’s fingers still tracing over the marks. it’s comforting in a way that almost unsettles walt.

“it happened until i was fourteen, gym teacher wouldn’t let me go until i gave a reason i wouldn’t change in front of the other guys,” he continues on, voice strong. “social services picked me up at the school. my parents were arrested. four months later, i testified. three months after that, another family a few counties over adopted me.”

nate looks, walt isn’t sure what that look is. if it’s shock or worry or pity or well, he can’t place it. he stares up at the ceiling, lets nate work things out in his head. his attention is drawn back at the feel of nate’s lips along the scars and walt’s fairly certain he’s murmuring ‘i’m sorry’ between each one.

it’s been an adjustment. a big one. walt’s world is reduced to sound, touch, taste, and barely there blurs of light in front of his face. it’s a drastic change for someone used to having nearly perfect vision their entire life. also for someone used to being able to do everything on their own now having to rely so heavily on others.

nate’s been there though. he was there when walt woke up, he was the one to tell walt why he couldn’t see, he was the one to offer his apartment to walt. walt’s world had narrowed down to nate, with occasional appearances from ray, brad, and mike.

without his sight, walt loses track of time and days. the first months are the hardest, filled with frustration, yelling, tears, and bruises.

his honorable discharge comes in about two months in.

maybe five months in, things are getting better. walt’s used to the layout of nate’s place, used to having nate guide him around. it backslides when walt goes out with ray one day, because ray forgets that walt can’t see, forgets he needs to guide walt. walt doesn’t blame ray, but it’s still a set back.

it’s eight months when things start to change between walt and nate. it’s when walt’s nightmares start. vivid and realistic and…for a lack of a better term, blinding. walt wakes up screaming three nights in a row. the fourth night, nate lets walt stay in the bed with, curls around him like he’s trying to protect him. the nightmares don’t come.

at ten months, walt doesn’t need as much help as before, has adapted - like any good marine, starts learning braille, starts learning how to walk with a stick. it’s hard, especially in public places because other people are unpredictable, but he adjusts.

it’s been a year before things between him and nate really change. walt is longing for his sight, wanting to see the seasons change, wanting to watch a movie, wanting to look at nate’s face. he’s running his fingers over nate’s face, bringing up images in his head from iraq. he rubs his thumb along nate’s lower lip, following the full curve over it. he isn’t sure who leans in, who closes the space, but the kiss is soft, gentle, and it’s everything walt has needed since he woke up in the hospital with bandages wrapped around his head.

cackles.

stiles has to pick his way through plywood, 2 by 4s, nails, and various other testaments to derek’s remodeling before he even gets to the porch. skipping the second step, he walks into the house without even knocking, opening his mouth to call out to the werewolf but finds himself staring at the ceiling dazedly. “wha-?”

derek is crowding him into the newly done wood floors, nosing along his neck, and stiles is pretty sure he’s got a concussion. “dude!”

stiles lifts an eyebrow when the older male pulls back, pupils blown wide, and swallows heavily, “oh.”

“yeah, oh,” derek replies, voice rough as he leans back down, this time mouthing along stiles’s jaw. “did you just get out of the shower?”

“huh? oh, yeah, totally, after lacrosse practice,” and he definitely doesn’t squeak when he’s suddenly off the floor, hanging on to derek for dear life as the older male walks further into the house.