A/N: This is a nogitsune recovery story, so it takes place after most of the season 3b stuff. Derek is still around (although he doesn't have a large role), so think of it as an adventure that happened between expelling the nogitsune and Derek's disappearance. Rated T for canon-typical violence and some mild profanity.

It is mostly written already, the thing is all outlined and I should probably only have a chapter or 3 left to write, so the story will all told be less than 10 chapters I should think. I am working on it a good amount each day, so the updates should be timely - I figured I could go ahead and publish already and use the knowledge that people are reading it as the motivation to make sure I finish it.

The disclaimer is of course that I did not create the characters or the world of Teen Wolf and I'm not making any money on this pet project. This holds true for the entire story and I will not likely include author's notes in any other chapters.

These guys had come up to Lydia in the parking lot, giving her a hard time, asking the usual creepy questions. What was she doing out so late, where were her friends. It seemed at first like an average altercation with a pair of skeezes – not safe, of course, but not dangerous in the way her life skewed towards these days – until the shorter one let her name slip.

"You're all alone out here, aren't you, Lydia?"

"I never told you my name," she breathed out. His hand closed around her wrist.

As his fingers wrapped tighter, Lydia could feel the world was wrapping tighter around her, closing off like his hand around her wrist, so that all that was real was this little pocket of time, penned in by her attackers.

But a shout rang through the air, bursting the moment. "Lydia!"

And then Stiles jogged into the orange streetlamp light.

She had no idea was he was doing at the school so late at night, but it didn't matter when his entrance felt like the arrival of a superhero. Probably because she was currently functioning as a damsel in distress, but even so, it was hard to deny that since being possessed by the nogitsune, their 'skinny, defenseless' Stiles had become someone different.

The hyperactive, excitable teen he had once been was muted, a version of their friend with quieter quirks and an armor of steel that glinted in certain lights. Somehow, having all of his vulnerabilities exposed had left him with a burnished, hardened edge. He was slight as ever; probably even more so than before, but at times, something in the way he carried himself spoke of a lean strength.

Which was to say that having Stiles come to her rescue was as reassuring to Lydia as any werewolf protector.

"Hey fellas, having a nice evening, are we?" Stiles nodded to them and smiled, never stopping his steps towards Lydia. "Love to stay and chat, but the two of us have got to be going."

He reached out to Lydia, but his progress was cut short when the second assailant shoved his own hand into Stiles' chest. The grip on Lydia's wrist tightened.

"You bothering this lady, buddy?"

The thug in his way was taller than Stiles, and he had to look up to talk to him, but Stiles was clearly not intimidated. "No, she's my friend, and we're leaving."

The two men exchanged quick glances, and Stiles pushed his way past the hand.

"Come on, Lydia," Stiles said, but the grasp on her wrist was still painfully tight. Over Stiles' shoulder, she saw the tall man give a shrugging nod, then raise a fist.

"Stiles—" she warned, but his turn wasn't quick enough, and the fist was crashing into the side of his face, sending him spinning.

"Stiles!" she screamed. But not that kind of scream, thank God.

"Sounds like he'll do," said her captor and the other man slammed down a second blow.

This one knocked Stiles off balance. He hit the ground and curled up to protect his head and stomach as the man kicked at him.

Lydia tried to bolt forward and help, but was held back by an arm crushing around her shoulders and pulling her flush against her captor. Her wrist was freed, but only so his other hand could press a damp cloth over her nose and mouth.

She struggled but could do no more than watch as the tall man bent over a winded Stiles, then slammed her friend's head into the asphalt.

"He's out. Help me get him into the car, Mark," she heard the man say as her vision blurred and darkened.

"Let me take care of the banshee first," was the last thing she heard before all her senses had left her.

Now the two of them were stuck in a dingy basement. From the dim light filtering in through the tiny window that sat just above ground level, Lydia could see that the place must have been out of use for a while.

Grimy and faded, a water heater tank next to a washer and dryer took up most of the far wall, some cracked hoses poking out from their sides. The back wall must have been the workshop side, with a dusty workbench and a rusted metal cabinet that probably held paint, judging by the splatters on the floor. A circular saw was pushed in the corner.

Lydia swallowed, hard, not letting herself dwell on the dull glint of the saw's metal teeth. Instead, she turned her attention to Stiles, who was slumped up against the cement support column in the center of the room. His head was pressed into the heels of his hands, his fingers tugging at his unkempt brown hair.

"Stiles?" He looked over at her as she stirred into a sharper wakefulness. "What's going on?"

He smiled glumly. "The same old thing, it looks like." His head went back into his hands, his eyes downcast.

Lydia didn't like the barren scrape of his voice, devoid of his usual expression, or the bitter huff of laughter that followed his words. This lingering desolation of his, though, was a conversation for another time. A time when they weren't being held prisoner by a pair of creeps.

"What do you think they want from us?"

The only response she got was a tiny shrug, a small shake of his head.

"They knew my name, and that I was a banshee. That must mean something. And it didn't seem like taking you was part of the plan, but they did it anyway."

Nothing.

"Stiles. Care to join me in figuring out how to save both of our lives?" she snapped at him.

A deep sigh. "It doesn't matter."

"I guess you're right. Scott and the pack will save us." She watched closely for his reaction, but he just muttered, "Yeah."

Lydia spent a few moments scrutinizing their cell, determining immediately that the window was too high and too small for either of them to get through. The workbench was blank of any tools, and a rattle of the paint cabinet doors didn't budge them open.

No wonder they weren't restrained; there was nothing they could do in here to fight their way free. No escape, and no tools. And no Stiles and his superhuman brain. He was still in the same defeated position, famed motor mouth silent.

Lydia sank down in front of him. She could see the darkness of a bruise coloring his cheek, the dark crust of blood matting the side of his face. Her heart clenched to think of him in pain, again, and because of her.

"Stiles," she whispered gently, and then, when that got no response, she tried again, sharper. "Stiles. We need to find a way out of this."

"It doesn't matter," he sighed, eyes closed.

"It does matter! This is your life, and it matters, so snap out of dreamland and get back to reality, okay!"

Stiles eyes flew open at that. They darted around for a moment, his 'putting things together' face finally appearing. Then he looked up at her.

"No one has ever said anything like that before. Why'd you say that?" His voice broke a little on the question.

This reaction had her at a loss for words. Stiles didn't seem to be looking for a response, though. He continued on, muttering, "That's new, that's never happened before."

"Of course that's never happened before," Lydia tried. "This has never happened before!" She gestured to the room around them, but her drawing attention to it only made her realize this situation wasn't exactly a brand new experience. Which just made it even more difficult to understand why he was taking this kidnapping so hard. "I mean, this sort of thing has happened before, once or twice—"

That made him snort, a twisted smile ghosting on his face, and even though it was the thinnest of victories, she felt relief at seeing any sort of a smile on him.

"Come on, Stiles, what do we do?"

He looked up at their surroundings for the first time. As his eyes squinted in the dim light, he brought his fingers to the side of his head and pressed them into his wound. He winced at the contact, then studied his fingertips as he rubbed flakes of dried blood between them.

After another glance around the room, he asked her, "Lydia. Is this really happening?"

"Of course it is, what does that even mean?" Her mind spun as she worked it out.

Stiles sighed and leaned his head back onto the pillar, closing his eyes heavily.

The world slowed to a stop with the churning gears of her brain as it clicked into place.

"Stiles," she said carefully. "This isn't a dream. Do you have nightmares like this a lot?"

Their eyes locked in contact for a quiet moment. Then he broke it by letting out a shaky breath and getting to his feet.

"We've got to find a way to get you out of here," he said, all business now.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, her mind reeling with all the possibilities held in the confirmation that he didn't say. But she pushed aside the thoughts for now and stood up, too.

"Let's find a way to save both of us," she said.

Stiles shook his head and continued his inspection of the paint cabinet. "I want to make sure you're safe." He tugged on the rusted handle.

"That thing's locked, I tried."

"Not locked, I think, just stuck." With a hefty yank upwards, he swung the door open.

The cabinet was mostly empty, only three cans of paint on the shelves. The lowest shelf was up fairly high, leaving a good amount of space below it, and Stiles gestured to it proudly. "There. You can hide in there."

"It won't take them long to find me in this tiny room," Lydia said.

"Not if they think it's locked, too. They won't even bother checking. Trust me."

"I don't think—"

"Trust me," Stiles said again, taking her arm and guiding her over to the musty cabinet.

Lydia's instincts were all telling her to take any chance she had to stay hidden from their captors. But still, she hesitated. "What about you?"

"Don't worry about me," he said, brushing her concerns aside. "Just don't make a sound, no matter what. It'll ruin the plan."

"What plan? Stiles—"

A floorboard above them creaked, and the two froze. In a moment, the thumps of a person coming down stairs sounded, and Stiles sprang into action, pushing her inside the cabinet.

Lydia had to crouch down to fold her body under the shelf, and by the time she had settled, Stiles was already closing the door and shoving it firmly latched with his shoulder. It shut tight, barely a line of light to outline the door. Her eyes were immediately drawn to a series of small ventilation shutters that she hadn't even noticed from outside.

Stiles must have spotted them, though, because his face appeared in the slots and he whispered, "Stay quiet, no matter what happens. Don't forget. No matter what."

And then his face was gone, and she heard him set back down in the center of the room, and it was all she could do to stop her quick breaths from echoing too loudly.