BEFORE

The rest of the school year after Jackson turns from a Kanima into a werewolf goes without an unusual occurrence, and they make it through the first two weeks of July without an incident. Gerard is still missing in action, but there's been no word from him or his other band of dirty hunters. There are no unnatural deaths or crazy animal attacks; the Sheriff comments to Stiles one evening at dinner that it's as if the mountain lions have turned tail and run for the hills. Stiles is grateful, really he is, but it's also been a lonely beginning to his summer. Allison is off with her father trying to remember how to be a decent human being while still mourning the loss of her mother. Scott is mourning the loss of Allison, and has buried himself into helping Isaac train. Lydia has Jackson and Jackson has Danny and Stiles really doesn't want to think about that odd combination so he pushes it to the back of his mind.

(Derek is Derek and Stiles only sees him once that entire time until Allison returns sometime in mid-July and then all hell breaks loose.)

The Alpha pack is mostly quiet, apart from defacing Derek's front door and stays relatively hidden amongst the shadows. A part of Stiles looks and searches every new face in town for some clue, some hint that they're a part of the Alpha pack, but he never has any inkling.

Peter, unlike Derek, is an incredibly present and annoying new factor in Stiles' life. He's constantly there, watching him from afar or "bumping" into him while getting coffee. Isaac is wary of him too, but he tells Stiles that "Derek thinks he's harmless for now." Stiles agrees, only because the Alpha pack is a much more present problem than a creepy, lurking Peter Hale.

For how creepy Peter is, he's courteous and warm towards Stiles. It unnerves him, but no matter how hard he tries to keep his distance it's as if Peter tries just as hard to stay that much closer.

"You don't think he's planning something?" Stiles asks Scott one Saturday afternoon; Isaac is on the other side of Scott, smashing his fingers down onto Scott's XBox controller with grunts and growls. "I mean it's creepy that he's just lurking around like he's such a saint. Like he didn't kill a whole bunch of people."

"Derek seems to be fine with it," Scott replies; his focus, however, is mostly on the game he and Isaac are playing.

Stiles huffs, and asks the question burning in the back of his mind, knowing that he won't get a straight answer anyways, "When did you start talking to Derek?"

He doesn't stick around Scott's for much longer. He doesn't see the point in being ignored by his own best friend so he heads home to his own couch and his own TV. He makes it as far as the front door, his hand on the knob as he sticks the key in the lock before something hard and heavy hits him on the back of the head and all he sees is darkness.

Derek is annoyed. He's annoyed that the Alpha pack chooses the moment that the Argents return to town to make their first move. Scott isn't distracted, thankfully, mostly because Chris Argent and Allison stand with them to help. They don't want this new pack of werewolves here anymore than Derek and his pack do so they agree to a truce. Derek's also annoyed that the night before the Alpha pack strikes that Boyd and Erica are unceremoniously dropped on the front porch of the Hale House. They're battered and beaten so severely that they're rendered useless in the sudden attack the next day. He's not stupid; he knows the Alpha pack must have done that purposely.

Derek is also annoyed that he's sent several text messages to Stiles and the annoying teenager has yet to join them. He doesn't expect much because Stiles is a human, but he could use a little technological help and maybe someone to watch over the pack he's left back at the house. Instead he has to leave Boyd and Erica vulnerable and open; Allison eyes him warily the entire time, but she fights fearlessly.

Derek is the most annoyed at how easy it was to fight off and kill the werewolves that have attacked them.

"It's like they've sent their weakest members. Do Alpha packs have weak members?" Isaac asks and even Peter looks a bit confused and worried not only at the question but also at the situation.

"Let's get back to Erica and Boyd," Scott says, his eyes are darting around the woods as if more wolves are going to jump out at them again any moment. He instinctively grabs for Allison's hand and finds that she doesn't pull away or resist. They share a small smile. Even Chris and a few of his hunters come along so they can regroup and think about their next move.

Derek tends to Erica when he returns; her wounds are the worst and she's in and out of consciousness. She's moaning in pain when he sits down on the bed next to her, and he's startled when she grabs the hem of his black t-shirt.

"Stiles," she moans; she squeezes her eyes shut and gasps in pain. He wipes her blonde hair out of her face and tries his best to soothe her, but she keeps moaning Stiles' name until she's passes out once more. Boyd isn't any better, but he only moans for Erica.

They make a plan to meet in the morning, to let Boyd and Erica recover a bit more before they try to question them about what happened. Peter is lingering in the doorway of Erica's room when Derek moves to go to bed and finds his uncle watching her sleep.

When Derek wakes up the next morning Peter has moved from the doorway to the chair in the corner of Erica's bedroom. She's still healing and in pain, but she's sleeping more comfortably. But the only thing she says in those few days while she's in and out of consciousness is Stiles's name.

The first thing that Stiles is consciously aware of is that it feels like his lungs are red hot and burning. Each breath in is like adding lighter fluid to an already raging fire. The second thing he notices is that there is a chain attached to his leg that trails across a dirty, concrete floor and is connected to the nearest wall. His arms are bound behind his back; though Stiles can't tell what it is that's holding his wrists together so uncomfortably. He only knows that it isn't metal that's cutting into his skin. There is a piece of silver tape stretched over his mouth. He notices that he isn't wearing a shirt or pants, and the pair of briefs that he was wearing earlier had been switched with a pair of black boxers.

"Well hello, young Stilinski," the last thing Stiles notices is a tall man looming over him. He's smiling, but it makes Stiles shrink back against the wall. "Don't be scared, sweetheart. It's nice of you to finally join us. We've been waiting forever for you to arrive. I'm sure you have questions, but for now I'll introduce myself. My name is Andrew, but you—" he strokes the back of his hand down one of Stiles' cheeks and smiles even bigger when Stiles shivers at the touch. "—you may call me Sir."

When Erica wakens she instantly bolts into a sitting position. Her pulse increases so much that Peter and even Boyd come running into the room. Boyd looks pained because of his own injuries, but Peter looks—Derek stares at his uncle for a moment and almost laughs out loud—Peter looks terrified. Her eyes dart around the room and she takes in how Boyd looks; she runs her hands along his body to make sure his injuries are healing and that he is actually okay. She sighs in relief, but Derek can still feel her panicking.

"Where's Stiles? They're—oh god, Derek, they want Stiles. That's all they wanted. I heard—they kept talking about "the human" and I didn't—they want Stiles, Derek. It was never about the pack, it was never about us, it was always about Stiles."

Derek is out the door before she can even finish her sentence because everything clicks into place—the weird timing of their attack, the lack of abilities the wolves that attacked them had, the fact that he (and no one else) had been able to get ahold of him. He dials Stiles' number, hangs up when it gets to his goofy voicemail message and then tries again. He keeps trying until he reaches the Stilinski household; he finds Stiles' jeep still in the driveway, he can sense that other wolves (another pack, another wolf) have been there, and he stops when he sees Stiles' keys are still stuck in the lock of his front door. There's no sign that the Sheriff has been home in a few days, but Derek remembers Stiles saying that it wasn't all the unusual for him to sleep at the office and pull multiple shifts over a few days.

The stench of fear is strong, almost strong enough to block out Peter's scent as he arrives behind him.

"They took him," he says; it's not even a question.

"While we were fighting a small group of defenseless idiots," Derek says and slams his fist down onto the hood of his car.

"I'm angry as well, Derek, but there's no need to take out your frustrations on the car."

"Would you rather I take my frustrations out on you?"

"Not particularly," Peter deadpans and when Derek doesn't reply he rolls his eyes dramatically. "We know Stiles' scent."

Derek nods and runs a hand through his hair, "We'll start there. Gather the rest of the pack. I'll have Scott call Allison and Chris."

"First name basis now, hmm?" Peter questions and slides into the passenger seat of Derek's Camaro. "Are we going to be inviting him for tea and cookies next?"

Derek waits to get his revenge for the comment until they're halfway back to the Hale house before he reaches across the center console, pushes the passenger's side door open, and shoves Peter out onto the road.

The only problem is that Stiles' scent leads in six different directions; each leads to a dead end somewhere in the forest—a tree or a giant cave where it's obvious that Stiles isn't being held. While calling in Chris and Allison, Scott pays a visit to the Sheriff at the station. Derek isn't sure what Scott says to Mr. Stilinski or how he puts the past year into a few minutes, but the Sheriff looks a mixture of bewildered and terrified when Scott brings him along.

"I told him."

Lydia glares at Scott, "Everything?"

"Everything. This is Stiles, okay? This is my best friend and I'll be damned if—"

"Stop it. Sheriff I apologize. Stiles didn't want you finding out that way, but Scott's right—it had to be done."

"Let's just move on and deal with finding Stiles first and dealing with Barney Fife here second," Peter suggests with the wave of a hand, and after a moment they're all gathering in the Hale living room.

Stiles can't count the days; there's a constant stream of darkness that surrounds him except when Andrew enters and exits. There's a light bulb dimmed above him that Stiles is sure this guy bought straight from a "We Sell Things From Horror Movies" store, and when he tells the man so he gets backhanded across the face. He assumes he's in a basement only because he's surrounded by concrete.

"You can scream all you want, boy, but no one can hear you."

"They're going to come for me," Stiles bites out angrily and rubs his face where Andrew's hand had connected. Andrew has long since cut the bindings from his wrists, but his leg is still attached to the wall next to him.

"Oh my sweet, sweet boy," Andrew laughs and taps Stiles' cheek softly. "You have a rather high opinion of your place within Derek Hale's pack, don't you?"

"They care about me. They wouldn't just—"

"Wouldn't just what, sweetheart? Wouldn't just leave you here? My pack went to Derek with an offer. He sacrifices one of his own, and we would leave his territory alone. I guess you were the only expendable one he could think of.

"Derek may be a giant asshole, but he would never do that," Stiles says, but his voice wavers and Andrew smiles.

"Then why, my dear boy, are you sitting here with me? They're never coming for you; why would they want a simple human like you?"

Andrew brushes a hand over the top of Stiles' head and down the side of his face before he ascends the stairs. Stiles sits back against the wall; his mind swimming and crawling with thoughts and Andrews' words. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and silently wishes that Andrew had at least had the decency to knock him out as he left.

Days blur together easily and the next time he sees Andrew is when the man returns with a bucket of water, a rag, and a shaving kit. He sees other members of Andrew's pack when they bring him the littlest amount of food and water. It feels like it's only been a few days, but when he asks Andrew what day it is the man only smiles and continues to add soap to the bucket of water. Stiles realizes slowly that his hair has grown a bit and he has a bit of stubble growing on his face.

"You've been with us for a few weeks now," Andrew holds out the shaver to him and Stiles bites his bottom lip. "Either I can do it for you or you can do it yourself. I thought I'd give you a little bit of freedom today, my sweet boy."

Stiles shakily takes the shaver between his fingers and ignores the way Andrew smiles and says, "good boy." He shaves quickly, miraculously not nicking his chin with how shaky his hands are, and hands the item back to Andrew.

Andrew washes him with the cloth rag; he dips it into the bucket of warm, soapy water before wiping the dirt and grime of the floor from Stiles' chest and arms. He repeats the motions for Stiles' back and legs. "We're going to get you something softer than this floor to sleep on, sweetheart, to make you a bit more comfortable. I realize now that it was hasty of me to bring you here before we had it ready for you, but I just couldn't wait any longer. For now I have a few blankets we can use." Stiles' breathing hitches in the back of his throat and he stills when Andrew begins to lower his boxer down to his ankles. "As long as you obey me I will be kind to you. I don't want to hurt you, my sweet boy, but if the punishment fits the crime…"

Andrew cleans him, inside and out despite Stiles whimpering and squirming away from him. His grip is tighter and stronger and even if there were no such thing as werewolves Andrew is clearly bigger and stronger than Stiles.

"I know you're scared, sweetheart, but I promise to be gentle."

The next time Stiles wakes he's lying on something soft and rectangular. There's a pillow supporting his head and he's covered in a pile of blankets. Despite what Andrew had said or promised Stiles feels terrible. He's sore and achy and he has no desire to move from his spot on the mattress unless an army of friendly faces come to his rescue.

"No one wants you, boy. They gave you up without a single fight,"Andrew had whispered harshly into his ear as he thrust hard into him. "Derek was more thanhappyto give you to me."

Stiles whimpers when he tries to pull his knees to his chest, but his ass burns and his knees hurt from kneeling so long on the concrete floor.

Andrew had grunted, "Be a good boy and I'll be so good to you, sweetheart."

Andrew leaves him again, a pile of skin and bones, in the middle of the floor every single night. He presses a kiss to Stiles' forehead and whispers his love and affection to him.

It isn't until the fourth time that Stiles fights back, scratching and clawing at Andrew like it means something, like it'll actually help in the long run. He mouths off, constantly, as Andrew is fucking him and when anyone brings him food or water. He's sarcastic and snarky, the old Stiles that Scott and Derek and Peter would be proud of. He keeps talking, keeps his mouth moving even when no one is around to hear him, until Andrew barrels down the basement stairs and slaps him so hard across the face with a wooden paddle that he swears he sees actual stars. Andrew continues to beat him, yelling and cursing at him, mercilessly until Stiles is bloody and bruised and unable to even move his arms or legs.

"Let's play a game, boy," Andrew sneers when his assault on Stiles' body is done. "You make a single noise without my permission, and I will beat your ass bloody and raw." Andrew takes Stiles' whimper as his confirmation and then leaves him alone in the dark. It isn't until he's alone that Stiles wipes the tears from his cheeks and realizes that it's the first time he's cried with Andrew still in the room.

It's the moment that Andrew begins to chip away at Stiles' faith in his friends and family.

And the faith in his pack.

Stiles has been missing for six months with no leads and no ransom calls. Derek has searched every inch of his territory and has found a fair amount of witches and lone werewolves, but hasn't found the Alpha pack or Stiles. The Sheriff keeps searching, but even Derek can feel him giving up hope.

"The longer they have him the less likely they'll keep him human," Peter says. The words less likely they'll keep him alive lingers in the air, but they're all thinking it anyways—even Derek.

Stiles doesn't believe them. Doesn't trust their words that no one is coming despite the fact that no one has yet. He thinks, hopes, wishes that anyone (anyone—Derek, Scott, his dad, hell, he would take Jackson or Peter at this point) will burst through the door at any moment, and he has to be ready, he has to be strong so he can help them, help Derek and Scott and his park fight. He doesn't believe them that it's been months despite the fact that his hair has grown out and he's had to shave more quite often.

He doesn't believe them at first.

Every time he opens his mouth a waterfall of words cascade out and circle down around him. He doesn't have anyone to talk to, so he talks to break the long, deafening silences, but when Andrew emerges from the part of the house that Stiles is not allowed in—Stiles keeps talking. Keeps disobeying. Andrew beats him until Stiles' throat is sore from screaming, his breathing ragged and uneven. Andrew smiles the entire time, and there's a weird pang of sadness that settles deep in Stiles' chest when he realizes how much that creepy smile reminds him of Peter. It hurts even more so when he realizes that he actually misses Peter's creepy, smiling face.

Andrew gets some sick pleasure out of visiting him every day, taunting him with how many minuteshoursdaysmonths have passed since they took him, and pushes and waits until Stiles bursts. Stiles is yelling, "fuck you" over and over again until Andrew grabs him firmly by the throat and throws him down onto the mattress. He's punished every time. He gasps and pleads and claws at him, but Andrew is too strong and Stiles is only a human.

And humans can very easily break.

Peter mopes. Erica mopes. Isaac sulks and only leaves to lure Scott out of his own hiding place. Scott holes himself up in his house and doesn't leave for weeks. Isaac comes back every afternoon, moping more than when he left. Derek watches. Watches as his pack falls apart, watches as Sheriff Stilinski runs himself ragged searching and searching. Derek's there though, to clean up everyone's messes and to make sure everyone is still in one piece after they do their damage. Lydia and Jackson and Danny are off, constantly moving, constantly sniffing out Stiles' scent. He hears from them every few days, but it's usually the same—no news, no leads.

No Stiles.

The kids at school have forgotten, moved on and moved forward, but his pack is stuck in place. Stuck where they were exactly one year ago to the day. Derek doesn't see anyone except Isaac the entire weekend. He watches him leave the Hale house, bounding down the front steps and towards town. Derek follows him just in case. Just in case it happens again, just incase, he tells himself. Isaac isn't stupid so he probably knows, but if he does he doesn't say anything when Derek returns to the house only a few minutes behind him.

They're still mourning; still hurting, but Derek needs his pack strong and as much as he hates to admit it—they need to move on.

Stiles doesn't speak unless Andrew gives permission. He bites his bottom lip hard and fights every instinct he's ever had and stays silent until Andrew gives him the okay. He doesn't move a muscle until Andrew says that it's okay.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Andrew says softly and kisses him. "It's okay. I want to hear it."

Stiles cries out and whimpers but doesn't claw or scratch or push Andrew away. He does what he can do now, what he's allowed to—he presses his face into the soft pillow underneath his face and cries. He calls him Sir, softly, when he's allowed to speak and responds when spoken to and asked questions, but he spends his days and nights without Andrew and his pack in complete silence. He spends his days counting the number of bugs that crawl along the base of the walls and drifts in and out of sleep.

He's slowly forgetting; slowly forgetting his life before this, before the Alpha pack (former Alpha pack, he corrects in his head, they've all splintered off and spread across the country now leaving only a small group of Alpha werewolves) took him from his family. The memories of his mother are fading, full of blurry edges and quick fuzzy moments that he isn't entirely sure are correct anymore. He can barely even remember his family, his pack, anymore, can barely picture Lydia and Derek and Peter's creepy smile.

"You're my family now, boy," Andrew growls.

He's been there a year, six months, and five days. Andrew still taunts him with that information. "Everyday is a day of celebration. Everyday is a new celebration of how long I've had you, " he tells him when he's finished using him as a rag doll. Andrew collapses down onto the mattress next to him and sighs. "I think you're ready to sleep upstairs, my love."

Stiles eyes him warily, watching Andrew's eyes for the telltale signs that it's a test or a trick to trip him up and earn himself a beating; something he hasn't endured in weeks. He's been good. He's obeyed, submitted. He's been good, he chants in his head, panicking as Andrew's eyes roam.

"You may speak, boy."

"I—" Stiles stammers, not sure of what Andrew wants him to say. "O-of course, Sir."

Andrew hums and kisses him quick before retrieving his own clothes, "We will clean you before you come upstairs. We must have you looking your best."

Stiles regrets it almost immediately. He's racing as fast as he can in no particular direction through the woods over rocks and fallen trees. He stumbles on a pile of sticks, falling face first into a large pile of leaves, and scratches his hands. He wipes his palms on the sweatpants Andrew had given him and brushes the leaves from his matted and dirty hair before he sets off again. He's not even sure where he is let alone how far it is to the road. But he runs.

He regrets it though. Despite being moved into the actual household, Stiles' feet are still bound together, shackled just far enough so he can walk around easily. Running isn't as easy, and as soon as he's passed the edge of the compound he knows he isn't going to get very far like this. Not once they realize that he's gone.

He just needs to find someone, anyone.He can hear their howls in the distance and the forest floor rumbles beneath his feet so fast that he doesn't even get the chance to see them coming from behind. He's pushed head first into the nearest tree and then everything goes completely dark.

Derek gets a whiff. Just a small taste of Stiles' scent. It's only for a moment and it has him racing through the woods and has Peter instantly worried for his nephew's sanity.

"Stiles is dead, Derek," Peter tells him when he returns, arms crossed firmly over his chest. He isn't mad, he repeats it over and over when the kicked puppy look crosses Derek's face; he's only worried. "You need to stop this."

It isn't until Scott skids across the ground in front of them at full speed seconds later, eyes wide and shiny with tears, exclaiming, "It was Stiles. I—" that Derek turns to Peter, his eyes filled full of I told you so.

They resume their search. It's almost two years. The pack hasn't healed, but they deal with day to day life. The Sheriff retires early and settles into a routine—the diner in town for an early breakfast and the McCalls for dinner, almost like clockwork. But he continues to search, spreading further and further out from town as time goes on. Derek still keeps an eye on him for Stiles' sake, but for himself as well. He finds Derek sitting on the roof on evening, perched against Stiles' dark window, and invites him inside. It's easier then; they can search together and include the Sheriff (ex-Sheriff, Derek reprimands because every time he calls Jonathan Stilinski "Sheriff" the man glares at him like he's been insulted).

Stiles' ass is on fire, red and angry and bloody. Every time he passes out, Andrew waits until he's awake again before continuing his assault, his punishment for trying to escape and run away. He's never seen Andrew this angry. The beatings, Stiles thinks, go on for days. When Andrew is tired another pack member steps forward to take his place. By the time they're finished Stiles is curled into a ball against the wall. There's no blankets, no pillows, no mattress. They've taken his clothes and what little food and water that he had left hidden.

They leave him for days alone and bleeding in the dark. Andrew must hear his cries because he brings him water, just a few sips, but it's enough for him to breathe out and chant "thank you thank you thank you." He's surprised when Andrew smiles, doesn't beat him for speaking without permission, and the next time he wakes there's a blanket laying at the foot of the stairs.

It isn't until a few hours later that it dawns on Stiles that this is probably what Andrew had wanted all along.

There's a spell surrounding the house. It isn't keeping the pack's wolves from coming or going, but no one from outside packs can seem to cross the line. Lydia scoffs when they tell her what they've found; she already knows she can fix it, but demands that they take her with so she can investigate for herself.

Derek doesn't want to wait. They are technically on Hale territory, and his wolf especially doesn't want to wait to chase them away, but Lydia insists that these spells take time. She's practiced, but she's no expert, and she wants to get this right.

They surround the house three days later, Danny brandishing a shotgun and Allison clutching her bow. The rest of the pack is waiting for Lydia to finish her own spell, one that will reverse whatever barrier spell the wolves have somehow managed to conjur. When the invisible "walls" go down Derek can smell it—two witches, six wolves. One human. Lydia stays outside, Jackson growls at Danny to stay with her or else I'll have your balls.

Derek drags several wolves out by their necks and kills them, slaughters them, on their own muddy front lawn. She isn't entirely used to it yet, she doesn't think she ever will be, but she's dealt with it more than Danny has by now and forcefully turns him in the other direction before he can see too much.

"S-Stiles?" Scott stops dead at the foot of the stairs. He can smell the blood, the urine, and the foul stench of sweat and—he swallows hard and stepsbackwardsinto the stairs. A pair of strong hands, Derek's, catches him before he falls.

"They're all de—" Derek stops mostly because Scott isn't listening and while it would normally annoy him his own nose takes over, and he follows Scott's line of sight. "Get Lydia." Derek pushes Scott towards the stairs, but he doesn't move until Derek turns back and yells it once more, "Get Lydianow, Scott!"

Stiles whimpers at the noise, flinches back against the wall, and shivers violently at the cold air coming down through the open basement door. Derek steps forward to pick up the blanket, but Stiles presses himself further against the wall.

"It's okay, Stiles," Derek says as softly as he can; he's cautious and careful because it's been two years and god only knows what they have done to him. Lydia is pushing past him, and he stands behind her awkwardly holding onto the blanket. She drops to her knees, at Stiles' level, and only scoots forward a bit more when Stiles doesn't move away. She's not harsh or angry or sarcastic, and if anything Derek has never been more proud of her being pack in this moment.

"—Derek?" She's looking at him, her arm outstretched towards him for a few moments more before he realizes that she wants the blanket that he's holding. "Don't worry I'm sure Danny has more of these in his trunk. And Derek will find you some clothes to wear so you don't freeze to death, won't you, Derek?"

He hadn't even noticed that Stiles wasn't wearing any clothes until now. He nods once and quickly exits the basement. Scott is sitting in the hall, back pressed against the wall with his head resting on the palms of his hands. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac look panicked and worried.

"He won't tell us what happened," Erica says quickly, her voice soft. "He won't—"

"Clothes. Get clothes," Derek says and he can hear Peter circling the perimeter. Derek feels crowded, but at the same time he feels incredibly whole being surrounded by his entire pack. Isaac runs towards the direction of what Derek thinks are probably the bedrooms, but he's still faced with the rest of a very confused pack. "Stiles," he says breathlessly when Isaac returns with a shirt, a pair of pants, underwear, and socks. "It's Stiles. Find me shoes," he growls out and every werewolf in a five-foot radius scatters in different directions to look for a pair of shoes.

Getting Stiles into the clothing that Isaac finds isn't the hard part. Lydia helps him, and the way he leans into her makes Derek's heart ache in ways that he can't even describe. The hard part is convincing Stiles to leave the basement. He shakes his head violently, eyes wide and fearful, but he doesn't say a word. He pushes Lydia away gently and backs against the nearest wall.

When Lydia finally coaxes him from the basement, he shakes his head and pushes her away hard when she tries to lead him towards the front door. She skitters back onto the floor at the force of his shove. His eyes widen in fear again at what he's done. He drops down next to her and lays his head on her lap and cries. He opens his mouth to speak, to say sorry sorry sorry, but Andrew isn't there to tell him to speak and so he closes his eyes and waits for the beating.

She swipes a hand through his hair, gently massaging her fingers against his scalp and whispers to him softly to calm him down. He's still shaking when she's done, but the tears have ceased and he's clutching to her thigh tightly like she's a lifeline.

"I called my dad," Allison says softly. "He's going to see Mr. Stilinski right now."

"We need to get him to a hospital," Lydia says, her fingers still combing through Stiles' hair. Stiles squeezes Lydia's thigh. "I won't leave you; I promise."

When Lydia makes a promise, she damn well keeps it no matter what a group of police, doctors, or nurses say. She's defiant and threatening with her words as Stiles clutches her hand in his own. He won't meet anyone's eyes and he won't answer their questions so Lydia fills them in on what she knows. Stiles' father barrels into the waiting room half an hour later and Derek can hear his heart beating faster and faster once he sees Derek and the blood down the front of his shirt.

Derek looks down at himself, "It's not mine." And then he realizes, "It's not his either. Lydia is with him. He won't let anyone else near him." When Jonathan is finally allowed back to see him—he's my son, god damn it, and if you don't let me see him there will be hell to pay!—Lydia is sitting by his hospital bed and holding his hand. She smiles up at him softly; Stiles is sleeping and he looks so peaceful despite the bruises covering his face.

"They sedated him, but I promised I wouldn't leave him," Lydia brushes the hair from his face with a sad smile. "He probably wouldn't know, but I don't want to chance it right now."

He doesn't let the tears fall until he touches his son's face, and feels that Stiles is real and alive. He reaches out to squeeze Lydia's shoulder and whispers, "Thank you."

"Do you want to sit with him while I go clean up? He should be out for a while so I don't think he'll—I don't want—"

"We'll be fine for a few minutes," he nods and she gives Stiles one last look before stepping into the hall.

She finds the pack huddled in the waiting room after she cleans up and changes into the clothes that Jackson brought for her. She hugs Allison and keeps holding her close after.

"They told Stiles' dad all about his injuries," Scott says softly. "But he wouldn't tell us what they said."

"He's going to be fine. He was lucky that there were no internal bleeding. Broken bones, cuts and burns and bruises, but no ruptured or punctured organs," Lydia repeats what the doctors told her, and she holds Derek's gaze when she doesn't say the rest. "He'll have to stay for observation, but his dad should be able to take him home in a few days."

"We found Stiles," Allison says softly, buries her face into Lydia's neck, and let's out a heart-wrenching sob. "Lydia, we found Stiles."