Welcome to the thrilling and angsty sequel to "Runaway." (You'll want to read that fic before checking out this one.) Set post season 3b: When bodies with the same strange wounds start piling up in the Beacon Hills' morgue, Stiles and Scott begin their investigation, and someone from Stiles' past returns. Rated Teen for violence and gore, mentions of sexuality, and some coarse language.

I'm excited about this one. I had fun writing this, and I hope you have fun reading! Thank you for everyone who read, reviewed, and faved "Runaway." Your support made this sequel possible. Don't forget to leave a review! =)

Please note: Stydia is my OTP, and there will be elements of that pairing in this fic. If you squint, you may be able to find some Sciles.

The One That Got Away

Chapter One: Head Case

You're a trouble-maker, aren't you Stiles? You're a bad boy. I'm going to show you what happens to naughty boys. The monster always gets them in the end.

"Dude, are you even listening to me?" Scott McCall asked, his tone a mixture of annoyance and confusion.

"What?"

"Did you zone out on me or something? You were just staring into your locker with this blank look on your face."

"No, I heard what you were saying," Stiles said, slamming shut his locker. Closing the door on the eerily familiar and intimate voice, as though he could trap it within the confines of his school reality between math textbooks, gym socks, and a half-eaten bologna sandwich. "You have feelings for Kira but losing Allison really hurt – of course it did, she was your first love."

Scott nodded.

"I don't know what to tell you, man. You're the one with all the relationship experience." If the two of them weren't talking about supernatural creatures, trying to solve this problem or defeat that villain, they usually seemed to be talking about girls. In that, at least, they were typical teenage boys. But part of Stiles was getting sick of it, sick of talking about the same things over and over again, the same issues, hearing the same sentences and anxieties surging from Scott's mouth. He had literally only had sex once – with a werecoyote.

He missed the days he and Scott talked about things other than raging, homicidal paranormal monsters and the equally complex world of dating – especially when all the girls around them had secrets and mysterious abilities. Talk about complicated. Normal girls were hard enough to figure out.

When was the last time the two of them had played a video game or gone swimming, sat on the McCalls' porch swing and made grandiose plans for after graduation – success, fame, fortune, getting out of Beacon Hills once and for all.

"Are you alright? You don't look so good."

"Yeah. I'm just tired. I didn't get much sleep last night."

Maybe an hour in total, broken up by periods of unrelenting nightmares. The nogitsune, the darkness, the kanima, werewolves, the man with the smirk and blue eyes.

Scott raised one eyebrow skeptically. Stiles could feel his best friend's brown eyes boring into him, searching, penetrating the mask, trying to see within. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Stiles wasn't sure "okay" existed for him anymore - a golden and contented state that had once been possible before. Now it was just some mythological and transcendent state of being he had heard existed but could never quite reach. Between werewolves and hunters, dark druids and ritual sacrifices, lacrosse-playing kanimas and having a demon take up residence inside his body and mind, Stiles surprised himself each day he climbed out of bed and found the strength to get showered and dressed, go to school and resist the urge to put a bullet through his head. Live another day pretending everything was normal – whatever the hell "normal" was.

Scott was still staring at him.

"I'm fine, Mom. Stop worrying." Stiles chuckled lightly and heaved his backpack over his right shoulder.

Scott eyed him doubtfully, but didn't push the issue. Stiles had gotten so good at putting on an act, performing his little charade of survival – Best Actor in a Never-Ending Tragedy – sometimes he even fooled himself.

Scott suspected Stiles was repressing his pain, keeping his fear and anxiety bottled inside, holding onto secrets that were slowly tearing him apart. It bothered him that Stiles wouldn't talk to him, lay it all out on the table; it bothered him that Stiles felt he needed to conceal his suffering, like he had hidden the amount of physical pain he was in after the nogitsune was wrenched from his body; but Scott was too absorbed in his own grief to ask. The pain in his chest kept him from determinedly pressing Stiles, digging deeper until he discovered the truth, no matter how many walls Stiles put up to keep him and everyone else out.

"You know you can talk to me, right? About anything."

"What is this, a Dear Susie column?"

"I'm serious."

Stiles sighed. "Yeah, totally. I know I can."

Liar. Stiles couldn't talk to anyone, least of all Scott. Couldn't begin to explain the guilt and fear inside, the suffocating darkness, the prison of his own mind. The nightmares. The images that haunted him even in the light of day, empty spaces where familiar faces should be, horrors where none existed, the consequences of everything he had done – the nogitsune had done; where was the line? He saw, or imagined he could see, the resentment in the eyes of those closest to them. The anger at what he had done, the blame and contempt. It was right they should blame him, he thought. It was his fault they had all suffered, his fault Allison and Aiden were dead.

Just when Stiles had started to hope he was free of one monster living inside his head, another had taken residence. Returned, after all this time. Maybe he never really left.

Scott didn't know about Marshall Landry. Stiles had never told him what had happened the night he ran away freshman year. It had taken him days after that night to finally work up the courage to face his best friend. Scott had been so worried Stiles would be mad because he had broken his promise, had broken down and told his mother Stiles had run away, and then told Sheriff Stilinski, though he had promised he wouldn't. Stiles had hugged him and told him, over and over, that he was glad Scott had broken his promise, that he had sent Stiles' father after him. But Scott didn't know the fullness of that gratitude and relief, didn't know that the consequences of keeping his promise and staying quiet would have been far more catastrophic and horrifying than breaking it.

Stiles couldn't tell him. He could never describe how cold the gun barrel felt pressed against his exposed skin, could never explain how sometimes monsters wear the masks of friendly and benevolent strangers. He could never tell him how it felt – repulsive and frightening, wishing he could jump free of his own skin, could crawl into a hole and hide, die, rather than have that man's hands all over his body, desiring him, violating him; those blue eyes – ravenous – ravaging him; that slick, smug smile on his face, and Stiles powerless to stop any of it. To have come that close to a four letter word policemen and broken women spoke in hushed whispers, having always consoled himself with the belief that "it will never happen to me." The trauma, because it almost had happened, caused him to see malice in the face of every dark-haired man. Woke him up in the dead of night to see Marshall standing over him. The sickening, paranoid, and inescapable idea that somehow he had it coming, that he deserved it, that he was disgusting and dirty – damaged goods. The fear that if anyone ever found out they'd see him differently, that no girl would ever want to be with him, that everyone he knew would shun him, turn away in disgust, whisper about him in the hallways; rumors battering and oppressing him, reshaping him, defining him based on that one night, holding him down, keeping him from ever being anything but a victim. Loathed for having been what they themselves were fearful of becoming.

No one would understand.

Not even Scott.

The bell rang for class. Scott and Stiles walked down the hall together, Scott's shoulder bumping into him periodically. "How's Derek doing?" Stiles asked, redirecting the conversation away from himself. "I haven't seen him lately." Not that this was overly strange; Stiles had barely spoken to anyone recently. He hadn't yet discerned if this was because he had imposed isolation on himself or if everyone was avoiding him. Probably it was a combination of both.

"I haven't seen him either," Scott admitted, eyebrows knitting together. He hadn't noticed Derek's absence until Stiles mentioned him. "I wonder why he hasn't contacted us."

I'm probably to blame for that too, Stiles thought bitterly, but merely shrugged. "He's probably busy."

"Doing what?"

"Being the epitome of manliness? Doing ab crunches while eating raw steak with his bare hands? Shooting a new commercial for Axe body-spray? How should I know?"

Scott smiled at Stiles' attempt at humor. It was kinda lame, compared to the high quality of his usual wit, but it was good to hear Stiles' sarcasm again. It gave him reason to hope everything was going to be okay.

They took their seats in American History, one beside the other. Kira slid into the vacant seat in front of Scott and smiled gently. Scott smiled back.

Stiles glanced out the window or, rather, in the general direction of the windows, where Lydia sat. Her strawberry-blond hair a perfect halo, illuminated by the afternoon sun. Her cherry lips rested in a preoccupied pout as she traced designs on her notebook with a pencil, waiting for class to start. She didn't look at him, though she knew he was watching her. Even from a distance, he could see the hurt in her lovely green eyes.

But maybe that was because he noticed everything about Lydia Martin.

Scott leaned over and whispered, "Maybe you should talk to her."

"I can't. Not yet."

It was a vague, non-committal answer, but Scott nodded in understanding.

The teacher had just begun to take attendance when Malia Tate sauntered into the room, her denim-clad hips swaying confidently. She claimed the empty seat beside Stiles, all cool energy and self-possession, the kind of assurance that only comes with having been at the top of the food chain. She grinned at Stiles, her canine incisors sharp and dazzlingly white, flipping back her long brown hair.

Being a girl again was certainly working well for her. It didn't hurt matters any that she happened to be a hot girl. How could he – and every other guy in their grade – not think about sex just looking at her?

Stiles returned her smile, remembering their oddly-timed night of passion in the basement of Eichen House. The taste of her mouth; the touch of her hands; her fingernails clawing into his back; the almost primal hunger that overtook them, as they explored each other's bodies and gave into carnal desires. He was her first, and she was his.

Stiles felt a rush of pleasant heat at the memory, dulled only by the bittersweet and intrusive realization he had always imagined Lydia would be the girl he gave his virginity to; that his first time with her would be passionate but also tender and gentle, his love for her making up for his inexperience. And she would teach him, showing him where to place his hands, revealing to him how she liked it best.

You'll like it, I promise.

Suddenly, the voice was there, smooth and sly as the serpent in the Garden of Eden. Genial, knowing, triumphant, even affectionate, as it whispered such horrible things in his ear.

Stiles tried to prevent the onslaught of memories that overcame him, to shut them out of his mind. But it was useless. He hadn't had any real control over his thoughts since the Nemeton. Snatches from that night played out before him like scenes from a movie. Real and vivid, nightmares he couldn't escape even when he was awake.

Marshall's fingers on the back of his neck, his thigh. "You have a very fair complexion, a wonderfully articulate face, very poignant...like a vampire prince." The impersonal metal of the gun pressed into the small of his back, his temple – biting. Its cold touch more welcome than the warm hands inside his shirt; his first caresses from a serial killer. Eyes raw with tears, the ignored protests cried from a parched throat. "You're such a nice-looking kid." The earth hard and damp, sticks and rocks poking into his stomach, a knee rammed into his spinal cord. The clink of a belt buckle, reflecting the glow of a campfire and the waning light of the moon. The jeans his father had picked out for him being tugged down. "You'll like it, I promise."

I'll show you what happens to misbehaved boys.

"Stilinski. Stilinski. Mr. Stilinksi are you with us?"

"Stiles." Scott nudged him in the side. Stiles jumped and blinked several times, clearing the images from his brain.

"Can you repeat the question?"

Students around him snickered.

"I didn't ask you a question. I'm simply taking roll-call, Mr. Stilinski."

"Oh, well, present." Stiles did his best to paste on a smile.

"Are you sure about that?" The history teacher glanced at him over the top of his black-framed glasses.

"Actually, can I go to the bathroom?" The teacher lifted a hall-pass from his desk and gestured towards the door. "Thank you."

Hushed laughter and sneers followed him as he walked to the front of the classroom. "What a head-case," someone jeered. If they only knew.

Stiles hid himself in a stall, ignoring the stench of urine and hand-soap. He pressed his back against the wall, knees bent and tucked close to his chest. He covered his head with his hands, and took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. This couldn't be happening, not again. He was supposed to be over this. He had spent the entire summer before sophomore year working through this ordeal – had talked to a therapist, swallowed the pills she had prescribed, and done all the mental exercises she suggested. He stopped shrinking away from physical touch, and he stopped being afraid of his own shadow. After months of waking up in the middle of the night, drenched in a cold sweat, he had finally stopped seeing Marshall in his nightmares.

Now he was back, and Stiles didn't know why.

Maybe the nogitsune incident had jarred loose old and painful memories.

Fifteen minutes passed before Scott came and found him. "I thought you'd be here sooner," Stiles admitted, opening the door to his friend's light knock. Scott slid down the wall to sit beside him.

"I didn't think you'd actually go to the bathroom."

"Just needed some privacy, I guess."

They were silent for a minute. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"This doesn't seem like 'fine.'"

"If you're worried I'm losing my grip on reality or that I'm slowly being possessed again, you can relax," Stiles snapped. "I can read just fine. I know this isn't a dream." But he silently counted his fingers on both hands just in case.

"I'm just worried about you, Stiles."

Stiles sighed. Here he was, being the bad guy again. "I know you are. I just, I'm dealing with some stuff right now – alone. I need some time to figure out what's going on, okay? Then I'll let you in, I promise." He saw that Scott was about to protest. "That's the best I can offer you right now, man."

Scott considered. "Alright, but if anything weird starts happening, you gotta clue me in."

"Deal."

The bathroom door opened, and a trio of juniors entered. Stiles and Scott stilled instantly, smiling humorously to each other, both wondering what the teens would think if they found the two of them sitting alone together on the toilet floor.

The unmistakable click of a lighter being flicked, followed by the heavy stench of marijuana, and a deep sigh. "Damn, that's good." Stiles recognized the voice of Matteo Venturini. "I couldn't have gone another fifteen minutes listening to Moore discuss human reproduction."

"Was he using his wooden models again?"

"You know it."

"Gross." The second voice was Matteo's weaselly little friend, Dale. Or, as everyone called him, "Rodent." The joint was passed to him, his breathing as nasally as his voice when he inhaled.

Scott motioned to Stiles that they should leave or they'd both end up reeking of pot. Stiles nodded. As they stood, the third voice asked, "Hey, did you guys hear?" Stiles grabbed Scott's shoulder to express that they should stay and listen. Trigg Andrews, he mouthed, referring to the younger brother of one his father's longest lasting deputies. He and Trigg had hung around some when they were younger, attending Christmas parties at the station and that kind of thing. Now the only times Trigg entered the station were when he was being booked. Yet he and Stiles had one thing in common - having a police member in the family meant being privy to information.

"Hear what?"

"They found another body this morning. A hiker found him out in the woods or something. Same wounds in the neck as the others, a real bloody mess. Drained completely dry."

"Gnarly."

"Gross," Rodent repeated.

Stiles glanced at Scott.

"That's the fourth one in less than two weeks. The police think there might be another serial killer on the loose."

Stiles threw open the stall door. It crashed loudly, startling all three potheads. Trigg dropped the joint. Matteo regained his composure first. "What the fuck you two homos doing?" Stiles crossed the room in two easy strides. He ignored Matteo. Punks like Venturini didn't bother him; he'd faced much worse and lived. He stared Trigg down, and smiled knowingly. "Hey, pal. If you don't want the principal finding out who has been smoking pot in the bathrooms, I suggest you tell me everything your brother told you."