A/N: So, a couple things: firstly, my knowledge on the legalities and technicalities of what I discuss in this chapter is minimal at best, so sorry if I get anything wrong. Secondly, I wasn't kidding when I said I wasn't planning on finishing this fic, but for some reason I couldn't stop thinking about it this last month lol. Take it as a blessing or a curse. But yeah, thanks for the reviews and favorites! They mean a lot.

"All right, you've done your check up or whatever," Stiles said crossly, absent-mindedly scratching the white bandages wrapped around his left forearm. "Can I leave now?" It had been an hour since they had brought him to the hospital. He was about fed up with this.

Dr. Emmerson smiled blandly at him. Stiles wasn't sure if he meant for the smile to be condescending, but it definitely was. "We've got to get a couple things sorted out first, okay?"

Stiles wanted to roll his eyes. He knew what that meant. His dad was the sheriff, for crying out loud. Someone, most likely an officer, was going to come in and try to get him to tell them who had hurt him. Which was fine, that was a great system, but not for this situation. "I already told you, I fell while climbing a tree." Okay, yeah, so his lie was a little weak, but the doctor had no reason to know the only physical activity Stiles did was sometimes run from supernatural creatures at night.

The only good thing that came with this interrogation was that Scott had been told to return to his classes. The werewolf had scowled at this news, but he had reluctantly complied after whispering to Stiles, "I'll see you after school, all right?"

Stiles hadn't responded. He wasn't sure what he wanted right now (everything was falling apart), but he did know that Scott couldn't help.

"Of course, of course," Dr. Emmerson said soothingly. "We just have to have a record of it, so you'll explain what happened to someone, that's all."

Stiles wasn't six, and he didn't like being treated like he was. Calm down, don't freak out. If you lash out, they'll be even more suspicious. "Seriously, there's no need. I just took a little tumble. I'll be more careful next time."

"Yes, yes," Dr. Emmerson said. Stiles wasn't even sure if the man was listening to him anymore.

A sharp knock rapped on the door. "Come in," Dr. Emmerson called out.

A woman with dark hair pulled up in a bun and horn-rimmed glasses poked her head in. "Stiles Stilinski?" she said, looking at the boy in question.

Stiles stiffened slightly as he nodded. She definitely didn't look like a cop. Stiles had been around law enforcement enough to recognize them. Then she walked into the room, and his suspicions were confirmed. She didn't even walk like a cop. "Who are you?" Stiles bit out. A little too angrily, he realized after the fact. He needed to remain calm, calm, calm. Only people who had something to hide would display this much hostility.

The woman didn't look fazed at his outburst - she simply smiled, straightened out her pleated skirt, and held out one hand to him. "I'm Debra Lanners. I'm just here to talk."

Something was screaming wrong about this but Stiles didn't know what yet. Play it cool, remember? "Listen," he said slowly, ignoring the proffered hand, "Debra, or Mrs. Lanners, or whatever you want me to call you, I've already told Dr. Emmerson everything. I fell while climbing a tree."

Debra nodded as she took a seat across from him. "Yes, I heard about that. I'm just here for some clarification. When did this fall happen?"

Luckily, Stiles had spent the whole examination coming up with details to his lie. "Yesterday."

The rest of the questions came rapid-fire. "What time?"

"4:30-ish. After school."

"Where were you?"

"In the woods behind my house."

"Why were you climbing a tree?"

"I dunno, it's always been a habit of mine."

"Were you alone?"

Uneasiness made Stiles falter for a second. She clearly wasn't a cop, but then who was she, asking all these questions? "Uh, yeah."

"Mr. Stilinski, were you climbing that tree to get away from someone?"

Oh, no no no. Stiles did not like where this questioning was headed. "No," he said in what he hoped was a calm tone of voice, "I already told you, it's just a habit of mine." The response sounded weak even to his own ears.

"You have four long marks in your side. How did you get them?"

Stiles shrunk in on himself. He was rattled to the point where he couldn't remember if he had even come up with a lie for that one. "I - um, I don't remember."

"Then allow me to help," Debra said, leaning forward. Based on her questions and tone of voice, Stiles was expecting her blue eyes to be angry, but they seemed to be full of something else, like sympathy, almost. "They're too far apart to be from any kind of animal. However. . . ." She held out her hand, splaying out her fingers as far as they could go. "A grown man's hand could just about explain the distance between each cut perfectly."

Panic was starting to claw its way to the surface of Stiles' brain. He could tell because breathing was getting harder and harder to do. "I don't -" he said, each word forced out of his dry mouth feeling like it was scraping the inside of his throat into a bloody mess, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Debra studied him with those intense blue eyes for a moment, then leaned back in her chair. "Okay," she said quietly. "We'll talk about something else.

"How often does your father drink?"

And that is when Stiles remembered that he was seventeen, and of course she wasn't a cop, she was Child Protective Services.

"I have to see him," Sheriff Stilinski told Melissa.

Melissa winced. "You can't. They won't let you in."

He clenched a trembling fist. "Please, Melissa." His voice broke.

She looked at the floor, exhaling slowly. "You didn't hear this from me," she said, "but he's in room 113." She looked at him shrewdly. "I can get you past the double doors, but after that you're on your own."

He clasped one of her hands in between his own. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

"Of course," she said, leading him out of the room and into the hallway separating the hospital from the waiting room.

He split off from her as soon as the hallway branched, mentally checking off the signs of the doors he was passing. 107, 109, 111. . . .

The door that led to room 113 was partially open, but his view inside was blocked by the two women standing directly outside of it.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" one of the two people, a woman in a skirt and hair pulled up in a bun, snapped at the other.

The other, a young female nurse Sheriff Stilinski recognized, turned red. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Lanners, he asked if he could get a glass of water, so I left to get it, and when I came back -"

The first woman, Mrs. Lanners, sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers as she closed her eyes. "It's fine," she said finally. "Based on his behavior, I'm guessing he left of his own accord, but we can't be too careful. Alert the authorities."

Those words, coupled with the fact that they were standing outside what was supposed to be his son's room, caused the sheriff to do the exact opposite of what he was supposed to do - remain unseen. "Excuse me?" he said, his voice barbed wire. "Alert the authorities?"

Both women turned at his approach, each with a vastly different reaction. The nurse let out a relieved smile, although something in her features was still pinched. "Sheriff!"

Mrs. Lanners' face immediately closed off, but not before the sheriff caught something like ire in her icy gaze. "Mr. Stilinski," she said coolly. "You aren't supposed to be here."

"I have every right to be here," he responded. "Stiles is my son. What is going on?"

The nurse hastily began speaking. "Stiles was here, sir, but when I came back, he wasn't in his room."

Mrs. Lanners shot the nurse a disapproving glare, which caused the latter to look at the floor, her face burning. "Please let the police know about his disappearance," the older woman said in a clipped tone.

Stiles isn't here? The sheriff nearly groaned out loud. What else could go wrong today? Perhaps he should be more worried than he was, but this was not the first time his son had run away from the hospital. Stiles wasn't exactly a fan of hospitals after spending the majority of his mother's final moments in one.

Come to think of it, neither was the sheriff.

As the nurse hurried out of the hallway, Mrs. Lanners redirected her attention to the sheriff. "Someone has been abusing your son," she said bluntly.

Sheriff Stilinski winced, but nodded. "I've been informed," he said quietly. Ashamedly. He should never have been told - he should have recognized it.

She studied him with an unflinching gaze. "I'm with Child Protective Services, and in my eyes, you are the number one suspect."

Immediately the rage was back. "I would never -" he spat, but she cut him off.

"The people at this hospital who know you and your son that I have spoken to all claim that it is not you, and they are earnest enough that I am somewhat convinced," she said. "So I am hesitant to separate Stiles from you completely at this time. Especially seeing as you are the only family he has."

Something broiled just beneath the sheriff's skin. His fingers twitched, and suddenly the room felt very hot. "Separate him from me? How dare you even consider taking my only son from me?"

"However," she continued as though he had never spoken, "it is clear to me that you have a temper. And even if it turns out that you are not the culprit, someone else is, and you have never said or done anything to prevent this abuse. The least you can be charged with is neglect."

The sheriff sputtered, vitriol just waiting at the base of his tongue to be spewed all over her, but he was unable to force it out of his mouth. Her words hit home. He had neglected his son by not noticing this sooner, by not preventing this, by not murdering the one responsible for hurting his boy.

She let the silence stretch out between them until she turned on her heel. "We will discuss this further, once your son is found," she said.

Maybe he didn't deserve it, maybe he was a terrible father, but

Please, he screamed, don't take my child away.

Stiles hefted the baseball bat in his sweaty hand. Don't look nervous, he commanded himself. But that was a joke, because who would Stiles Stilinski be without his bundle of raw nerves?

Maybe one of these days, the hospital would learn to lock their windows, but Stiles was going to take advantage of this flaw in the system until it was fixed. After his talk with the CPS lady, he was majorly freaked. They couldn't take him from his dad, right? There was no way. He was all Stiles had left. Stiles was all he had left.

Except he knew exactly how it looked. No matter how Stiles tried to spin the story, it always came out with dad as the bad guy.

Which was just so incredibly unfair. The whole reason he was putting up with this stupid charade was so he wouldn't lose his dad, but if things continued the way they were, that's exactly what was going to happen.

So Stiles had an epiphany while sitting in the hospital bed, after Debra had left the room to talk to somebody and Dr. Emmerson had been replaced by a nurse. Stiles would fix this situation himself. He could do it. He knew how to deal with werewolves. He knew what their weaknesses were.

(But Stiles was just one big walking weakness, so did it really matter?)

He'd asked for some water, then immediately left the hospital via the window when the nurse left. He'd taken a bus back to his place in order to get his extra-special, supernaturally empowered supplies (a baseball bat he'd taped silver jewelry to), then strode into the woods behind his house.

Which was where he was now.

He took a step forward, dead leaves crackling underneath his foot. "I know you're here," he said to the empty woods. "You've been following me ever since I got out of the hospital."

The sky was steadily darkening as the sun sunk lower into the horizon, but the forest was still illuminated enough for Stiles to see the tall figure step out from behind a tree. "Impressive, Stiles," the figure drawled in an Australian accent. "Not many werewolves would have noticed my presence, let alone a mere human."

Ha! Stiles almost shouted hysterically. I was just guessing! Who's the idiot now? But he didn't. He didn't want those to be his last words.

"Yeah, um, well, I did," he said.

Oh my gosh! his mind shrieked at him. That was worse! That was so much worse! What part of "last words" do you not understand?

The figure, a young, blond man, tilted his head. "Stiles," he said, his voice silky soft, "I can't help but notice what you have in your hand." He slowly smiled, his teeth gleaming. "Are you planning on actually fighting me?"

Stiles' throat was as dry as sandpaper, but that small fire kindled in his stomach was keeping the mind-numbing, paralyzing dread at bay for now. "I don't want to play your game anymore," Stiles said in a low voice.

For an instant, neither one breathed.

Then the young man began laughing. He doubled over, one hand pressed against his stomach as he guffawed. Eventually he straightened, wiping tears out of his striking green eyes. "Oh, man," he said, still chuckling. "You are a riot, kid."

Stiles fumed. "I'm serious, Emmett!"

He blinked, and suddenly Emmett was right next to him. "That's what makes it funny," the man said. Faster than Stiles' eyes could follow, he slammed a fist into Stiles' already aching ribs. Stiles doubled over, letting out a strangled groan at the unexpected pain.

Emmett bent down with him, his lips brushing Stiles' ear. "What makes you think you ever had a choice?"

Stiles jerked away from the hot breath, swinging wildly with the bat and just managing to graze Emmett's arm.

Emmett withdrew with a startled curse as his skin sizzled. "Silver, huh?" he said, sounding mildly irritated.

"Yeah," Stiles said, trying not to sound afraid (because he wasn't) or in pain (because he wasn't entirely), "and there's more where that came from."

"Stiles, Stiles, Stiles," the werewolf crooned, the grin returning to his face. But this time the smile was sharper, more crooked. "By the time this is over, you'll beg for the punishments I've given you up until now. And when I'm through with you, I'll move on to the others. Maybe I'll start with Scott, how does that sound?"

"Scott could beat you," Stiles said.

Emmett gave him a pitying look. "If you really believed that, you would have told on me a long time ago."

He was right, of course he was right, and if Scott, werewolf extraordinaire, couldn't take him on, then what made Stiles, human nothing, think that he could?

I didn't, Stiles realized with sudden clarity. I didn't think I could beat him. But the other option was -

The other option was being stolen from his dad. And maybe he was selfish, for risking it all not to lose his family, but it wasn't just for his sake. It was for his dad's as much as it was for him.

"I'm not here to kill you," Stiles said slowly. "I don't want to fight. I just want you to leave."

"Cute, Stiles," Emmett said. "I'd almost believe you if it weren't for the silver and the bat."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Well, I wasn't about to confront you empty-handed."

Emmett sighed. "You're right clever, ya know? It's one of the reasons I chose you. Well, that and the fact that you, despite being a human, were absolutely covered in werewolf stench. You were the perfect piece I'd been looking for." He stretched one hand forward and gently ran a finger down Stiles' cheek, ignoring the boy's hard flinch. "And I've so enjoyed playing with you."

Each throb of Stiles' heart seemed to pound against his bruises. Pain undulated across his skin so fiercely that for a brief, frenzied moment, Stiles imagined tearing it all off until he was left with nothing but blood and bones and see, doctor, there are no more marks, so please, let me go home let me go home.

"I'll tell you what," Emmett said. "Let's play one last game. You win, I leave."

Stiles wanted to laugh hysterically. They both knew he would never win. He never had. "And if I lose?" He didn't bother asking if not playing the game was an option. It never was.

"You lose, I'll still leave." A slow smile crept across Emmett's face. "But you'll be leaving with me."

Stiles' stomach churned. He felt like throwing up. A lifetime of this nightmarish game? For however long it took Emmett to grow tired of him? But -

"It's a win-win, right?" Emmett said. "Either way, I'm out of Beacon Hills. I won't touch your friends or your dad."

Stiles wished he'd known that today would be the last time he saw everyone. He wished he'd been able to tell them goodbye or something. He couldn't even remember the last thing he said to his dad. Had it made him laugh? Had it made him worry?

He suddenly halted his train wreck of thoughts. Why was he acting like he'd already given up? He still had a chance. Granted, it was a small, improbable, statistically impossible percentage of a chance, but it was still there. If Emmett thought Stiles was going to take this last game lying down, he had another thing coming.

Strengthened by this sudden resolve, Stiles Stilinski looked Emmett dead in the eye. "I'll play."

Emmett grinned. "Excellent."