He was sat on his bed, staring at his fingernails. Derek had cut them the day after he'd brought him home. The boy's tormentor was quiet for now; the Nogitsune.

Gone, said the Sheriff and Derek and Scott and Lydia.

Sleeping, said Stiles.

Waiting. Torturing him as per usual. Making him sit anxiously in his room, staring at the eight red crescents that just wouldn't go away, no matter how hard he scrubbed, how long he picked at them. It was his own blood, at least, to match the eight red crescents scabbing over in his palms. But that didn't ease the paranoia. Stiles would see a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

A fly, said Derek. Harmless.

A fly, said Stiles. He shuddered.

Lithe fingers trembled. They hadn't stopped trembling in weeks. Stiles was used to it now, though. Just like he was used to how thin he'd gotten; the way his hipbones and ribs and collarbone jutted violently out. Just like he was used to the dreams. The nightmares. The terrible visions that fueled his incredible lack of sleep.

But he was fine, right? Just fine.

It was only seconds later that the damaged boy heard a deafening squeal erupt from the other side of the room. He jerked, springing under the covers in surprise before realizing it was the door. The door was… open. A bandage-wrapped figure, warped and twisted, stood quietly, backlit by the hallway light. Stiles, immediately petrified and trembling, blinked. The hell-bringer was now a smooth silhouette throwing a long, graceful shadow across the wooden floor.

Stiles squinted at the sudden abundance of light, hands and covers reaching up protectively, covering all but those bestial eyes. He wasn't accustomed to so much light yet. The fox had also managed to turn the dour teenager into a creature of the dark.

"Uh… hi." A rough voice started. It was higher than Derek and the Sheriff and Scott's low tones that Stiles was so used to. It was a girl. And a painfully familiar one, at that.

The boy shrunk back even further, wedging himself tightly against wall, using the thick mess of sheets as a shield.

The girl paused, her face still shadowed by the hallway light. "So… can I come in?"

The boy swallowed audibly, not moving a muscle, his eyes still wide and staring at the form from his past. Memories of the girl were not too distant, but far enough to feel bitterly nostalgic.

Malia sighed and shut the door behind her. The only remaining light source was the rosy sunset making its way through the window. It cast a strange glow on the boy cowering in front of her. His eyes reflected the gold and pink lighting the room, making them shine like fire. Malia had always liked Stiles' eyes. They were so expressive. This, in this case, was not necessarily a good thing because they held so much pain and fright she felt the overwhelming need to turn away.

Silent minutes passed.

Stiles was barely recognizable, she thought, once he lowered his blankets enough to see more than those tortured eyes. He was of a sickly pallor with dull hair hanging limply over his forehead and wet eyes and cracked lips and hollow, grey cheeks. He looked like an old homeless man, and the sight forced her to swallow a fat lump in her throat. Seventeen year olds should not look like old homeless men.

"Hi, Stiles," Malia started, fighting to keep her tone casual. It didn't work. Her voice was thick with emotion.

Stiles sighed. "Why are you here?" he hummed lowly, his voice cracking and weak like the rest of him.

"I'm here to... you know. Talk. Derek said you'd like some company." Malia said tentatively, taking cautious steps towards the bed.

He felt to her like a wild animal, and all she could think about was making sure she didn't scare him off. And those eyes… Goddamn, those eyes…

The boy shifted back a little; dropped his hands that were clutching the covers so tightly in little balled-up fists like a newborn. He watched her smooth movements with a hard, calculating stare. Stiles didn't know what to say. What to do. What was he supposed to talk about? Surely not his months-long possession? Or that one night at Eichen House? God, that felt like eternity ago. But something inside him – something dusty and underused – thudded and fluttered haphazardly like a dying butterfly. He was happy to see her, underneath it all. She was a comfort, a tie to reality, that he hadn't had the pleasure of seeing or touching in a long, long time.

She was an intoxicating mix of innocent and mature and the combination attracted him in inexplicable ways. Maybe it was because she reminded him of everything he wasn't – or what he thought he wasn't. Stiles didn't feel innocent. He had too much blood on his hands, too much pain and suffering that was obviously his fault. And he definitely didn't feel mature. On the inside, he was a small child, lost and panicked, without parent or guide. He was absolutely helpless. Stiles felt like the five year-old who wandered away from Mommy at the grocery store, frozen in place in the middle of the soup aisle, everything so big and overwhelming and people rushing by so, so fast. It was all too much. He didn't know where to turn, where to go, what to do. He was destitute. And he was alone. Except, now, for her. Malia. The coyote to keep the fox at bay.

"I'd like some company," Stiles mumbled, avoiding her deep eyes. He was suddenly embarrassed by his appearance. He was dirty and unwashed and skinny and out of the blue, he wanted to be healthy and fit again. For her. For Malia. But he wasn't.

He swallowed thickly and stared again at his blood-stained fingernails. Abruptly, he wanted them off. He wanted his gruesome fingernails gone and his limp, dirty hair gone and he wanted the earth in the creases of his palms gone and the sharp outline of his bones gone. The boy wanted himself gone. He hated himself and what he'd done and what he'd surely do if the beast got to him again. He hated the way his friends sacrificed so much to save him and he hated how Allison had died…

Stiles suddenly stood up, flipping his blankets off violently. Malia stepped back, surprised. He stared intensely at her and she found her eyes glued to his until he turned and stormed out the door, wobbly and unsure on his underutilized feet.

Malia strode forward, catching him by the shirt and he whipped around. Tears were heavy in his eyes.

"What?" he shouted, hands twitching and tensing reflexively at his sides.

"Stiles, stop. You're going to hurt yourself." She soothed.

"No," he chided, head tilting to one side. "I'm going to hurt someone else. That's what happens with me around. That's just what I do." he cried, a wild insanity filling those whiskey-coloured eyes.

"Calm down, Stiles. It's okay. You're okay and I'm okay… we're all fine, see? Now just… come back to-"

The deranged boy shook his head, ripping his arm out of the girl's grasp and he forced his way toward the stairs.

"Stiles, stop!" Malia screamed, lurching again for his sweat-soaked t-shirt.

"Malia," he grunted, twisting around to shove her away. "Leave me al-"

Stiles had stepped too far. His foot missed the top step and two bodies went tumbling down the stairs, grunting and squealing and groaning until they hit the last step in a crumpled heap, legs and arms and bodies tangled, one indiscernible from the other.

Malia, blinking heavily and clutching her head, glanced up to see a panic-stricken Derek rushing towards the pair, but shook her head quickly, laying a protective hand on Stiles' shoulder. He was alright, she was telling the werewolf. She would take care of him, she assured. Derek eyed them cautiously but moved slowly back to the living room, surely listening to every word and moan and grunt that was to be uttered.

The girl rubbed the boy's back soothingly until he started shaking. Sobbing, she came to realize. Crying bitterly into her stomach, hands and arms wrapped defensively around his head, dirt-stained fingers twisted into and tugging at his own hair.

"Hey," Malia cooed. "Stiles, you're fine. I'm fine. Everything's okay," she hummed lowly.

"It's not." He choked through a heavy breath.

"It is." She insisted.

The broken boy huffed a breath, too tired to argue. "I hate myself, Malia." He groaned. "I hate what I've done and what I'll do and I hate how ruined I am." Suddenly, his eyes darted up to meet hers and she clenched her teeth hard. "I'm barely even human anymore…"

He was so far gone; she had no words for him. She didn't know what to say or what do to. Was there any way to comfort a boy who's lost his most precious piece? A boy who's lost his sanity?

"Stiles, you're human," she assured him forcefully, unfortunate panic filling her tone. "The fact that… you're feeling how wrong the things the Nogitsune made you do are, the fact that you regret and feel guilt… all that means you're human. It means you're good and you have a conscience and it most of all means you're not really responsible for all the damage that... thing has done."

The boy stared at her, full-on. She sighed. He didn't believe her. But he didn't argue, either.

Malia averted her eyes. "Come on, Stiles, let's get you cleaned up." She mumbled to the floor.

Slowly, and not without struggle, the two made it up the stairs and Malia steered a weak and wavering Stiles towards the bathroom.

She shut the door and cranked the bath tap until steaming water was gushing from the faucet. Stiles stared at her and she stared at him and he'd never felt so naked before in his life, despite his abundance of warm, cozy layers. Malia was biting her lip, the pink swell darkening from the pressure. Judging brown eyes followed his skeletal figure over sharp collarbones and swollen-looking elbows and wrists and the way his clothes hung so loosely over his frame. He felt ashamed and embarrassed by how bad it'd gotten. Unfortunately, though, the pull of food had lost its power over him when all he saw, day and night, were garish nightmares.

Malia cleared her throat and stuck a finger in the water to test it before rummaging through the cupboard. From who-knows-where, she found some bubble bath and dumped the green goop in.

"Uh…" she hesitated, turning to Stiles. "You can… you know. Get in. I won't look; Scout's Honour." She held up three shaking fingers, the other hand to her chest. "I'm going to… go get you food." Malia latched onto the idea like a lifebuoy. "Yes. You get in, I'll bring you food."

She hurried away. Stiles watched her leave, not a word leaving his lips.

He stared accusingly at the bubble bath, chewing his lip until he tasted the familiar metallic tang of blood. With a heavy sigh and one last forlorn look toward the door, Stiles stripped quickly and hopped into the foggy water. It was too hot, was his first reaction. The water made his skin shine red and every hair follicle stand at attention, but he did nothing about it. He sat, foaming bubbles building a wall of touchable clouds around him, until the heat no longer burned and he could sink down, almost completely covered with bubbles and liquid steam.

Too soon, Malia returned with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast and a massive bowl of Lucky Charms and some Poptarts and a sippy cup of orange juice.

He cracked a smile for both the large feast and her cautious face. She was trying so hard and the sentiment made the boy's heart both ache and melt.

"Thanks, Malia," Stiles croaked, tone hushed, and she suddenly beamed at him, crouching beside the tub and laying the smorgasbord across the sink.

"Derek helped." she confessed.

Stiles had guessed this. Derek knew Lucky Charms were his favourite.

He stared at the food. He wasn't really very hungry. But with a last glance at Malia's painfully hopeful expression, Stiles, for the first time in a very long time, began to stuff his face.

When he was on his second piece of toast after finishing the soggy cereal, the observer moved. Paranoia easily overtook Stiles. Without meaning to, he jerked away from her soft, tan hand, the half-eaten toast landing in a thick pile of bubbles. Malia's hand pulled away almost as fast as Stiles had.

"Sorry," she amended quickly.

The boy gulped, and shook his head, staring gravely at the sinking toast. "I'm sorry." he corrected.

Seconds passed until Malia held her hand out again, this time tentatively and ever so slowly. Again, in her eyes, he was a beast; not yet tamed. Stiles, eyes lowered, head hung in shame, glanced up at the hand from the tops of his eyes and finished the gesture apologetically, hand pressing against hair with a soft brushing sound. He sighed, leaning into the anchoring palm, eyes closing tiredly. He was ruined, he knew. Deranged. He swallowed a thick lump building in his throat. She pulled her fingers soothingly through the untended bristles until Stiles' shoulders dropped and he let his head fall back without realizing it, eyes shut in euphoria.

It had been so long since someone had run their fingers through his hair, since someone had touched him like this. He thought of that night at Eichen House. The one moment everything seemed like it was going to be okay. Malia's slender fingers had been entwined in his hair then, too.

Slowly, as to not startle the boy-turned-beast, the girl cupped water and bubbles in a hand and lifted it gently to the boy's scalp. The water dribbled off his hair and down his back, making him shiver and release the ghost of a grin in long-lost delight. Malia used two hands now, massaging the water and bubbles into his hair as he tipped his head back and reveled in the tickling water and tickling fingers. Unhurriedly, the consoling hands made their way lower, softly but firmly scrubbing and massaging the tender skin on Stiles' neck and collarbones and shoulders, both sin and grime being therapeutically washed off. Stiles was barely aware. He was absolutely blissed out, head cocked to one side, eyes closed, approving hums making their way through softened, parted lips.

Malia, strangely enough, found almost as much pleasure in massaging Stiles' tired and worn muscles as he found in receiving it. It had been ages, it seemed, since she'd had someone to care for, someone to tend to other than herself, and her selfless nature had protested. Now, suddenly, she had Stiles again. She felt a swell in her chest and a skip in her heart. Malia had thought she'd never see him again after that night. She laved his warm back with the palm of her hand, pressing fingers into muscle and bone, letting those curious digits explore as they wished. Cupping more water and bubbles, she brought the froth to his neck. It cascaded down his body in smooth rivulets and, pulling her hands along the slippery paths, she shut her eyes and let her senses run wild. She could feel the smooth, hot skin sliding under sensitive fingertips and long, hot breaths mingling in the little space between them. She could smell the flowery bubbles and the salty sheen of sweat developing on their upper lips and the arousal emanating off both of them. She could hear the water pleasantly splashing and Stiles' soft hums of approval and gratitude. And she could almost taste his sighing lips against hers.

It was when Malia's hands had no where else to go, when they reached the spot where his hollowed stomach and protruding ribs disappeared into the effervescent froth, that Stiles came back to himself. His eyes snapped open and, stunned as he was, his nose was an inch from Malia's. Her eyes were half-closed, the pleasure of her hot, greedy hands on hot, supple skin intoxicating. Eyes met eyes and Malia cracked a half-grin.

"Hi, Stiles." she murmured.

He swiped his tongue nervously over his lips, her eyes tracing its every move. But the way she was looking at him was... not pitying. Not all condolences and sympathy. She was looking at him the same way she had at Eichen House that fateful night. And his heart threatened to beat right out of his chest.

Against all odds, she had managed to make him feel like a man again.

"Thanks, Malia." he mumbled, unexplained, lost in her eyes, unknowingly leaning closer and closer every second.

There was that sexy little half-grin again. "Anytime." she whispered against his lips.

Her hot, soapy hands were suddenly on his bony shoulders, splayed across his skeletal back.

Her lips were suddenly on his.

It didn't matter that his mind was ruined or that Malia hated life almost as much as Stiles did. It didn't matter that they were both messes and that Stiles was all wet and soapy and splashing water all over Malia's clothes. They were only a nuisance, anyway. It didn't matter that Derek was cringing downstairs at every needy groan and hiss as eager lips found a sweet spot.

All that mattered was that Stiles started to hate himself a little less and they both started to find a new reason to live.