She blinks for a second before she figures out where he’d gone with that, then shakes her head, little bits of hair flying around. “I mean the … werewolf stuff. I thought that was better.” She ignores what he says about his ADHD — it doesn’t seem correct, based on what she’s studied, but he has bigger problems. That’s really not relevant in the face of the dementia, or whatever he thinks is trying to kill him now.
The fact that she even has to think that last bit makes her shudder and feel vaguely sick.
“Oh.” Stiles seems genuinely surprised that she was asking about that, even as they finally get into the parking lot of the clinic and he pulls Roscoe to a stop. “Yeah, no, I mean…it also kind of is? Scott’s a werewolf, that isn’t changing. We protect the town, kind of, when we aren’t making things worse, which also isn’t changing and is just something I’m gonna have to learn to cope with. Right now there’s nothing attacking but who knows how long that’ll last. It’s nice to have some time to breathe though. Maybe enough time to get myself a new bat.” He grins at Summer, briefly, and then he’s hopping out of the Jeep, apparently unconcerned about anything like whatever is trying to kill him now.
Instead, he’s bounding towards the clinic doors, poking his head in to warble into a seemingly-empty waiting room. “OOhhHhh Scottyyyy~.”
It seems poor Summer is about to get a full dose of Stiles in maximum obnoxious mode. The sounds from the back indicate that somebody is coming forward.
Summer is impressed at the way Stiles just stonewalls that discussion without even seeming evasive. He just nopes out of it, and her expression is bemused as she watches him bounce toward the clinic like nothing in the world is wrong. She exchanges glances with Helios, then heaves him up to her shoulder and wraps an arm tightly about his middle.
She knows what’s coming next.
It takes point five seconds for Helios to realise he’s been betrayed, and then he scrabbles his paws over her shoulder, clinging to the fabric of her shirt and dragging desperately. Summer gets the door open, wincing slightly as hind feet score at her middle, and kicks the door shut to get both arms around the squirming cat. One hand grabs the back of his neck, and he unlatches one paw to move it to the other shoulder and wrap around her neck, making a pitiful, high-pitched mew of distress.
She takes advantage of the brief cessation of struggling to open the door and slip inside the clinic.