This Stiles-centric bromance is my first "Teen Wolf" fanfic, full of angsty goodness. This fic focuses only on events and information leading up to the end of season 2. (The prevalent theme of drowning is from episode 11).

Tag to season 2, episodes 10-12.

If you read, please review! =)

Bruised & Scarred

Stiles had anticipated something like this would happen.

For weeks, he had carried this unmovable weight inside his chest, this fear, as he waited for disaster and tragedy. For weeks, he had been one step away from a panic attack. His lungs felt tight with dread, as if his ribcage didn't have the space to contain both his vital organs and his anxiety. Something had to give. Part of him wished it would happen already. He wanted to get it over with, so he could breathe again.

Or at least lose consciousness. Open his mouth, release the scream that had been building until he felt he could no longer contain it. He wanted to stop fighting the inevitable, and just let the water in. Let it fill up every cavity, washing him clean. He wanted that one moment of peace after unbelievable agony – that sweet release before you drowned. A final freedom from pain, a quiet slipping into death.

The quietness – that's all he wanted.

Maybe it would be better for everyone if he just disappeared.

But as bad as things became, Stiles knew he wouldn't abandon his friends. He didn't have it in him. He would always stay by Scott's side, no matter how terrified he was. He needed to be there for his best friend, even if Scott wasn't always there for him. Because that's what you do when you care about someone.

Stiles may have had a lot of flaws, but you could always depend on his loyalty and his selfless devotion to those he loved.

Even if he didn't have the power to keep them safe.

He replayed in his mind, over and over, the night at the sheriff's station. How he had convinced his dad to take them there that night, how Matt had forced him to handcuff his father to the wall ("Just do what he says, Stiles," his father said gently. Worried more about his son than himself). How he had experienced a second time the total body paralysis of the Kanima's venom. How he had begged his body to move – but it refused to listen to him. When mobility started to return, he had dragged himself across the floor. Out of one room into the hallway. Painstakingly slow. The only clear thought in his mind was that he needed to reach his father.

Through the open doorway, he watched as psycho Matt reared back his fist and slammed it into his father's face. His dad crumpled, unconscious. Stiles couldn't look. It was the mechanic's murder all over again. The complete and utter helplessness, watching someone get hurt in front of him, knowing he couldn't do anything.

It could have been a lot worse.

Matt could have killed his dad.

Stiles was having nightmares every night now – since he first saw the Kanima. Every time he closed his eyes, fresh horrors awaited him. He was back at the mechanic's shop, waiting for his Jeep to be finished. Even in dreams, he could never get used to the feeling of the paralysis, the betrayal of his own body. Again and again, he was forced to watch the mechanic die. Blood, so much blood.

Sometimes the scene would shift, and it wouldn't be the mechanic. It would be Lydia, as Peter hovered over her. His teeth piercing her fair flesh. Blood soaking her dress. Pleading for Peter to kill him instead. Or it was his father, Matt standing over him with the Kanima. Claws slashing into his father's torso, ripping out intestines and an alcohol soaked liver. Matt's cold eyes sneering over the glint of the gun in his hand. Stiles would open his mouth to scream, but no sound would come out. All he could do was watch.

Watch and wait.

He had no power to stop anything.

For this reason, he would always be the Robin to Scott's Batman.

They'd use Stiles to get to Scott, just like the comic villains always used the sidekick to draw out the hero.

Lately, Stiles wasn't sure where he and Scott stood. After his mother had died, their friendship had been the one constant in Stiles' life. Scott had been the one person he knew he could count on; Scott had always been there for him. When his father was consumed in his own grief, and other people avoided him as if he carried Death within himself, Scott had been there. And he knew how important his friendship had been to Scott when his dad had left, turning his world upside-down, and making him the man of the house overnight.

They'd spend hours hanging out at Stiles' house without saying anything. They didn't need to; speech wasn't necessary. Their relationship wasn't hinged on words. Scott's presence beside him while they played video-games had meant more to Stiles than anything he could have ever said.

They had never had a lot of friends combined, and they had never been popular or cool, but they always had each other. They did the things they loved to do, simply because they loved doing them. They were nerdy and awkward and inexperienced, but whatever, they were united in those things. They had fun. They had been playing lacrosse together since they were kids, even though they sucked, because they'd enjoyed playing. They had made a lot of great memories, spending hot summer days trying to throw a ball into a net. Dreaming about making first line in high school had been nearly as fun much as actually playing the game.

But everything was different now. Scott had acquired superhuman werewolf powers; he'd made co-captain of the lacrosse team; he had a hot girlfriend he loved; he'd become the school darling. Scott had become better in every way, but Stiles was still just Stiles. The hyperactive tag-along. He knew what people said. He'd heard the other guys whispering in the locker room. They thought he was holding Scott back.

He was starting to think they were right.

Scott was out-growing him. Soon he'd cast Stiles aside, like he had his childhood toys, and he wouldn't think about him anymore. Stiles would sit in a corner somewhere, gathering dust. Waiting for the day Scott would come back for him. Waiting. Hoping. But he knew Scott never would. Not when he had shiny, new, awesome friends to play with.

He wouldn't even blame Scott. He only wanted the best for his friend.

If he was a better person, he would take himself out of Scott's life right now. Save them both the trouble of waiting for the inevitable. Make it easier for Scott to move on. But he wasn't strong enough to do that, not yet. He still needed his friend, even if Scott didn't need him.

Stiles' life had come to be defined by the level of anxiety he experienced on a daily basis. Everything blurred together - school, lacrosse, fighting werewolves, seeing people murdered. When Friday's lacrosse championship game came, he welcomed the distraction. He couldn't believe his luck when Coach put him in. Sucking the least, he thought, was better than not playing at all. He could practically feel his father's excitement when he joined the game. Even without canine hearing, he could hear his father proudly shout, "My son is on the field!" It made him nervous, in a good way, that his father could have that much faith and joy in him.

After a rough start, he'd actually caught the ball. The cheers from the stands, from which he could clearly identify the voices of his father and Lydia, spurred him on. He could do this! A strength and confidence he didn't know he possessed welled up inside him. The lacrosse gods looked down on him and smiled. He was unbeatable.

Stiles won Beacon Hills the championship.

From across the field, Lydia smiled at him, bright and glowing, her hair a strawberry-blond halo. Spectators were wild with excitement. His teammates surrounded him, grabbing his helmet and hitting him on the back. This was his moment.

Then it happened. The inevitable. The moment he'd been anticipating for weeks. The lights went dark. Screaming erupted from the stands. Hysteria replaced excitement. Survival instincts make people blind. No one noticed someone grab Stiles from behind. No one heard his cries for help in the ensuing chaos. People running, trampling each other. Panic made them animals. Others were gathering on the field. No one noticed or cared as the teenager was dragged to a car against his will.

There was someone lying in the grass. The silhouette still and quiet, bathed in shadow. Stiles couldn't see who it was, but he knew they were dead.

And I'm next.

The house they brought Stiles to was familiar: the Argents'. A massive house that put his to shame. The guy who had grabbed him pushed him into the basement. There was a current in the air he couldn't describe. Raw and electric. An earthy smell.

Erica and Boyd had also been captured by the hunters. That, at least, made sense in his mind.

"So what are you doing with me?" Stiles asked Gerard. He was acting braver than he felt. He wouldn't let the hunter see how confused and terrified he was. Nothing bad is going to happen, he told himself. Scott will find me. Scott always found him in time. "Because Scott can find me, all right? He knows my scent. It's pungent, you know? It's more like a stench. He could find me even if I was buried at the bottom of a sewer covered in fecal matter and urine." God, why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut? He didn't want to give Gerard any ideas.

"You do have a knack for creating a vivid picture, Mr. Stilinski. Let me paint one of my own. Scott McCall finds his best friend bloodied and beaten to a pulp. How does that sound now?" He wondered if Gerard could hear his breathing hitch.

"I think I might prefer more of a still life or a landscape, you know?" He watched as the old man's cheek twitched. It almost seemed laughable that he should be afraid of such a grandpa. "What are you, 90? Look, I can probably kick your ass up and down this room."

Gerard struck him. A knock to the jaw that sent him reeling to the floor. The image of Matt punching his father flashed across his mind. "Okay. Wait, wait, wait." Wait - that one word was all he could say as the man gripped the neck of his jersey. One punch after another. Stiles could already feel the bruises forming. A coppery taste filled his mouth.

"Wait. Wait." He had told Ms. Morrell, the guidance counselor, about how he and Scott hadn't been talking as much; about the tension between him and his father; about drowning. She was the one who connected what she called his "hyper-vigilance" to the sensation of drowning. Suffocating. He was being buried alive. She had seen right through him. "So if you're drowning, and you're trying to keep your mouth closed until that very last moment, what if you choose not to open your mouth?" she had asked. "If you hold off, you have more time, right? More time to fight your way to the surface? More time to be rescued?"

Wait. Who was he speaking to? Gerard, or himself?

Just hold on, Stiles, he told himself. Hold on. You can endure this. You just need to wait for Scott. Scott will find you. He won't let this bastard kill you. You just need to wait for him to arrive.

Only, Scott never did.

Stiles blacked out. When he woke up, it was over. He was in the back-seat of an SUV, and Gerard's thugs dumped him – broken and bruised – a couple blocks from his house. Stiles limped home, sore and exhausted. But he focused on the pain, because it kept him from thinking. In that moment, he earnestly desired Scott's healing powers more than he ever had.

Stiles wondered briefly if he should have accepted Peter's offer to bite him. No, he dismissed the thought. He didn't want anything from the man who had almost killed Lydia. He would not align himself with some psycho murderer.

On the other hand...if he and Scott had been bitten by the same Alpha, they'd be on the same level again, wouldn't they? They'd be brothers. The same wolf blood pumping through their veins. He and Scott would be able to hear each other miles across town.

And he wouldn't need anyone to save him. He could have fought off Gerard's men back on the lacrosse field.

Then again, if he was a werewolf, Gerard wouldn't have been content to just beat him to a pulp. He probably would have taken his sword and cut Stiles in half, leaving pieces of his body scattered around Beacon Hills for Scott to find. And his dad.

From down the street, Stiles could see that every light in their house was on. His father had probably turned over every room, checking to see if he was there, if he had left behind any clues. He likely had the entire sheriff's department out searching for his son. Seeing Stiles' Jeep abandoned in the parking lot had freaked him out. His son never went anywhere without it.

What was Stiles going to tell him?

He opened the door quietly, and followed the sound of his father's voice up the stairs. He could hear him talking on the phone to someone at the hospital. Probably Melissa McCall. Stiles paused when he heard his voice catch when he asked her to call him if Stiles showed up there. His dad was standing in the middle of his room. "Come on, Stiles. Where the hell are you?"

"Right here." He hadn't had a chance yet to assess the extent of the damage done to his face, but judging by the look in his father's eyes, it wasn't good. "It's okay. Dad, it's okay."

Sheriff Stilinksi rushed to his son and inspected his injuries. He had to keep himself from yelling when he asked, "Who did it?"

"It's okay. It was just a couple kids from the other team." Liar. He hated lying to his dad. Since Scott had become a werewolf, it seemed that was all he had been doing lately.

"Who was it?"

"Dad, I don't know. I didn't even see them really." Why couldn't his father just leave it alone? He couldn't tell him the truth. He had to protect him. But his father wanted descriptions, wanted to call the school, to "pistol-whip those little bastards."

"Dad! I just...I said I was okay." Wait. Okay. Maybe if he said it enough times, he could convince himself it was true. His father grabbed him in a hug, and he couldn't stop the tears that had been collecting at the corners of his eyes.

TEENWOLF

Monday morning dawned bright and clear. He'd been awake since 5am. The circles under Stiles' eyes were as purple as the bruises on his cheek. Dark and angry against his pale skin. He felt like he would never sleep again. "You don't have to go to school today," his father had offered. He spread his hands out before him, as though he wished he could lift everything from Stiles' shoulders, take from him everything he had witnessed.

Stiles examined his father's face – the lines and wrinkles that seemed to appear almost overnight. He looked worn down. A rock that had been chipped away at with increasing ferocity over the last year. But he was still a rock – steady and strong, dependable.

At Lydia's birthday party, Stiles' worst fear had manifested in a wolfsbane induced hallucination. He had imagined his father, dressed in black like he had been the day of his mother's funeral, angry and mean. The bottle of whiskey from the night Stiles had gotten him drunk clutched in his hand. He had blamed him for his mother's death, had told him how stupid he was, how he regretted having to raise him. Accused Stiles of slowly killing him. All the things Stiles had feared were true, but had been too afraid to say.

"It's fine, Dad. I'm okay." There's that word again. He didn't think he knew what it meant anymore.

Sheriff Stilinski looked doubtful, but nodded. "Alright then. Just, uh, keep your phone on. And call me if you need anything..." His father was considering his face as intently as he had his. Stiles wondered what he saw when he looked at him. He hoped he still saw someone who made him proud, and not weakness.

His father had called him a hero. He may have been Scott's Robin in everyone else's eyes, but in his father's he was the Dark Knight himself. Maybe he wasn't the most talented or the strongest, but he was dedicated and courageous even when he was terrified. He had sat on the bench for years, never giving up, until his time to play finally came. He was determined and intelligent. He was growing into a fine young man, without the presence of a mother he dearly missed. Sheriff Stilinkski thought those qualities made his son heroic.

He only hoped Stiles could see this in himself.

He wished Stiles would stop comparing himself to boys like Scott and Jackson and recognize how important he was. How much the world needed a Stiles Stilinkski, not another McCall or Whittemore. He hoped his son knew that he didn't want any other boy for his son. Despite everything, he had never - even at his lowest - wanted a child other than the one he had.

"I guess I'd better get going, or I'll be late," Stiles said, grabbing his keys from the kitchen table.

"Alright. I'd prefer if you came right home after school."

"Dad!" he groaned.

"Stiles."

"Fine..."

"You know I love you, right?" He didn't say it often, but the sheriff felt today it needed to be said. Today, he needed to make sure his son knew he loved him. That he would die if anything happened to him. That on his worst days Stiles gave him a reason to get out of bed in the morning. That having Stiles was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He knew he didn't tell him often enough.

"Yeah, I know. I love you too."

"Okay," he smiled crookedly, both affectionate and sad. "Have a good day, son."

When Stiles walked into class, he was welcomed with several pats on the back and congratulations for a job well done. It seemed that to many of his classmates, he was – as his father had said – a hero for the way he'd turned things around at the championship game. It all felt rather hollow to Stiles. He wished he could be a normal teenager and enjoy it. After the game, he wished he could have joined his team for celebratory pizza and illegal beers. He wished he could feel the same excitement he had Friday night, hearing people cheer each time he scored another goal. He wished a lot of things.

Scott was late for Chemistry. Before he had even taken his seat, Harris gave him detention. "There may be only one week of classes left in the term, Mr. McCall, but I expect you to arrive on time. If I have to be here, so do you. At least have the courtesy to be puntcual."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Detention, three o'clock."

"But-"

"Please take your seat."

Stiles had taken Scott's usual seat on the right side of the lab bench. When he sat down, Stiles gazed out the window. He didn't even turn to say hello. Scott lifted his eyebrow quizzically. He opened his mouth to speak, but Harris had already resumed his lecture. He'd have to try again later. Once Scott had started jotting down equations and chemical properties in his notebook, Stiles fixed his eyes on the board. He didn't shift his gaze once.

Scott shrugged, and tried to listen to Harris's lecture, but the man's voice seemed to drone on and on, penetrating the deepest recesses of Scott's brain like white noise. An indistinguishable hum. He tried to block out all other sound, zeroing in on Harris's voice, writing down everything he said word-for-word, though teachers warned students not to do this. He concentrated on the scratches his pen made on the crisp paper. It was all he could do to stay awake.

The minutes dragged by. Near the end of class, Scott chanced a glance at Stiles. The boy's head was buried in his arms, and his eyes were closed. Stiles was asleep. Scott started to smile, but then he noticed his friend's heart rate. It was much too fast for restful sleep. It was hammering in his chest. His eyelids flickered and twitched. And before Scott could wake him, Stiles started whimpering and moaning. Frightened cries that shook Stiles' body and upset Scott at his core.

He put a hand on his friend's shoulder and gently nudged him awake. Stiles gave a strangled shout and bolted upright. His hazel eyes were wide and wild, still trapped in his nightmare. "Mr. Stilinski." Stiles glanced from Scott to Harris, clarity dawning. The entire classroom stared at him, their snickers partially concealed behind textbooks and beakers. "Since my lecture doesn't seem to be worth your time, perhaps you'd be so kind as to lend me some of yours. Detention. Three o'clock."

"But Mr. Harris, I -"

"I have no sympathy for whatever late-night jock shenanigans kept you up last night. You will report back here at the end of the day, with Mr. McCall, for an hour long detention. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, let's discuss the final exam with the time remaining before the bell."

The rest of the day was long and tedious. Scott couldn't focus on anything, and he was becoming increasingly worried about Stiles, who seemed to be avoiding him. He'd seemed okay Friday night at the warehouse, but they hadn't gotten the chance to talk. In fact, Scott couldn't remember the last time he and Stiles had just sat down and talked, like they used to. He could tell something was wrong, but he didn't understand why Stiles wouldn't just come out and tell him. Usually the trick was getting Stiles to shut up, not open up.

He tried finding his best friend at lunch, but Stiles had quickly grabbed his food and left. Allison waved him over to their table, and he sat down between her and Lydia. He was glad that even though they were broken up, she would still invite him to eat with her, like they were old friends.

Stiles ate lunch under the second floor east stairwell, near the music room. He and Scott had eaten there quite often during their first weeks as freshmen. He wondered if Scott remembered. The high-schoolers had all seemed so big and intimidating, with their long legs and facial hair, and their feudal claims on cafeteria tables and spots in the auditorium and parking lot. It was like navigating a minefield, trying to find a place you could sit without someone blowing up in your face. They had eaten their lunches here, discussing movies and comic books, chewing soggy sandwiches and drinking from straws shoved into milk cartons, until they got to know people and had mapped out the cafeteria in their heads. The two of them had turned surviving highschool into an art form.

Stiles sighed. He never thought he'd be eating here alone. He guessed Scott was eating with Allison or Lydia or one of their lacrosse buddies. He knew he could have joined them if he wanted, but he was too tired to put on his usual show. To play the fun, witty, highly sarcastic best friend who wasn't bothered by anything important. Act like everything was fine, and he wasn't a time-bomb waiting to explode. He didn't have the energy today.

Still part of him hoped Scott would come find him.

He didn't on Friday night, why would he today? Stiles could feel the absurdity of his own contradictory feelings. He hadn't wanted Scott to see him bruised and scarred, hadn't wanted him to see the way Gerard had hurt him. He didn't want Scott to see the depth of his fear and pain, to feel responsible in any way. He wanted to protect Scott from this, if he couldn't from anything else. But more than anything, he wanted Scott to take the initiative. To decide that his first priority was his best friend. For Scott to brush other things aside and come find him. He wouldn't have to say anything. Stiles just wanted him to show up, to sit beside him and let him know he was there with him.

Since Scott had started dating Allison, everything had changed. Of course, Stiles was happy for him. Happy that he had found someone he cared that deeply for. And he liked Allison well enough. She wasn't the kind of girl he normally went for, but she was pretty and friendly, and she really loved his best friend. He was happy for them. Really. He just hadn't been aware that romantic relationships could drastically change decade-old friendships. That Scott could become so wrapped up in a girl that she would come before everything else in his life. That the only times Scott opened up to him, they would talk about his relational problems and the sexual bliss Stiles could only imagine. That he'd be demoted from brother to messenger, to third wheel. That he would get left behind.

Scott asked Stiles to look after crossbow proficient, knife-wielding Allison, but did he ever ask Allison to keep an eye on Stiles?

Maybe he didn't mean as much to Scott as Scott did to him.

Stiles shook the thought from his head. He couldn't think that way, or he'd go crazy. He considered skipping the last couple periods and going home, but he knew running home would be an admission of weakness. Besides, he didn't want his father to worry about him more than he already was.

Harris would probably birth a cow if he missed detention. And as much as he would have loved to witness that, he didn't particularly want to be the cause of it. Especially when the teacher clearly hated him. Harris could start a club, with other members who hated Stiles: Derek, Peter, Matt, Gerard, the losing lacrosse team, the woman he had spilled his extra large slurpee on yesterday in a 7-11 downtown, Mary Anne Willingham from fourth grade computer camp, Mrs Peters's fox terrier. They could get "We Hate Stiles Stilinski" printed on cool t-shirts, and spend their meetings planning his ultimate demise.

When Scott arrived in dentention, Stiles was already there. "Hey, where have you been all day?"

"No talking!" Harris barked. He was clearly in a bad mood.

Scott lowered his voice, "Where have you been?"

"Around."

"Boys, I suggest you use this time productively and get some homework done." Scott pulled out folders and paper, and made a show of scratching his pencil across a page.

"Dude, talk to me."

"I don't think we should get Harris riled. He already hates my guts, and I don't need to give him another reason to fail me on the upcoming exam, you know?"

Stiles bent over a textbook and lapsed into silence. Scott knew he wasn't reading. He could feel his puzzlement slowly flaming into irritation. What the hell was going on? Stiles knew how much he had going on right now. Why couldn't he just talk to him? He wasn't being a very good friend.

"I'm going out for a few minutes." Harris sighed. "I suppose it would be too much to hope you won't talk in my absence." He was answered by an uncomfortable, stony silence. "Alright."

The anger in Scott's heart seemed to boil with each squeak of Stiles' highlighter and rustle of paper. "Could you do that any louder?" he snapped.

Stiles looked at him. A sharp guilt pierced Scott's heart. He hadn't seen Stiles' face this closely until now. He hadn't realized how bad the damage was. Without thinking, he grabbed Stiles' chin between his fingers, pulling his head to the side so he could examine his cheek. "Does it hurt?" he asked. Deaton had showed him how he could ease pain by absorbing it into himself - but he couldn't heal the wounds themselves. He wished he could transfer his healing energy to Stiles. His face looked terrible.

"I'm fine." Stiles jerked away and looked down at his textbook again.

"You're not fine," Scott said. As soon as he heard the words aloud, he knew they were true. His guilt deepened into a searing, throbbing pressure in the pit of his stomach. He thought about how restless, even panicked, Stiles' Chemistry nap had been; about the bags under his friend's eyes, and the bruises; about everything they had been through recently and the number of times he had left Stiles behind, left him vulnerable in potentially dangerous situations. He realized suddenly how many such situations Stiles had found himself in the last few months because of Scott, and how much worse they could have ended.

How many times had blood been spilled that could have easily belonged to Stiles?

For as long as he lived, Scott would never forget the night of the showdown with Matt. He'd never forget the fear, his mother's tears, her horror, the bullet as it ripped through his flesh. The way he could actually hear Sheriff Stilinski's fear in his heartbeat when Matt held a gun to his son's head. How Matt had threatened to kill Stiles if Scott didn't cooperate. His best friend, temporarily paralyzed, Matt's boot crushing his windpipe. His face turning a deep red as he struggled for air. He couldn't even move to help himself. If Scott wouldn't have agreed to play along, he knew Matt would have killed Stiles without even blinking.

True fear wasn't physical pain, or even death. It was realizing in a single moment how much someone means to you, and almost losing them.

If he wasn't careful, he would lose Stiles. Not to guns or supernatural creatures, but to the nightmares and fear, the insecurities and doubt, and the darkness already consuming him.

"No, I'm not," Stiles admitted. Scott would be able to tell if he was lying. The lying just made everything worse. But he didn't know how to talk about it, how he could begin to describe: how he woke up screaming in the middle of the night, and would see Gerard's face in the darkness. How seeing his own bruised face in the mirror everyday reminded him of his own weakness, confirmed in his mind every hurtful word anyone had ever said about him. How he was always one second away from a panic attack, and when his chest tightened he remembered watching the mechanic die, crushed to death, and he felt like he'd never be able to catch his breath. How bittersweet it had been having Lydia in his room, when he knew he'd never be the one she loved, when she had come not to check on him but because she needed someone to talk to. Stiles would be that person – the listening ear, the problem solver, the burden carrier. He'd make everyone's troubles his own. But, damn it, he just wished there was someone who would do the same for him. "You didn't come on Friday."

Scott's momentary confusion quickly subsided into shame. When Sheriff Stilinski had texted to tell him that Stiles was safe at home, the relief he felt hadn't been matched with a desire to see Stiles himself, to know with his own eyes that Stiles was okay, to find out what had happened. It wasn't until later, far too late to have been acceptable, Scott found out what had happened to his best friend through fragmented explanations and painful memories thickly disguised in sarcasm.

He'd been so worried about Jackson and Allison, so consumed with winning her, "the prize," from the influence of her grandfather, that Stiles hadn't been a priority. He was only now realizing how this oversight might have affected him. "No, I didn't. I should have. I'm sorry."

Stiles shrugged. "It's fine."

"Stop saying that. It's not fine. I should have been there. I should have made sure you were okay. I should have known on the lacrosse field that something was wrong."

"You can't be there all the time. You're a werewolf. You're not omnipresent."

"No, but I should be there when it matters."

Stiles shrugged again. Scott was quickly learning to hate the gesture. "Would you stop doing that?!"

"What?" Stiles' cheeks flared in indignation.

"Stop shrugging. It's like you're giving up. Like you're saying you're not important to me."

Stiles started to shrug again, but stopped himself. "Maybe I'm just not the friend you need me to be."

"Stiles," Scott grabbed his shoulder. "What the hell? You're my best friend, my brother. Always have been. Always will be."

Stiles shrugged off his hand. "Things change."

"What's changed between us?"

"Try our species. You're a werewolf. I'm a fleshy morsel of a mortal." Scott wished Stiles would stop trying to insert humor to distract him from the matter at hand.

"Do you think I care? Do you think I would want this for you? Shit, I can't believe you don't understand...Look, Sty, maybe I should have made this clearer, but I appreciate you dude. You've been helping me figure this out, and you've taught me a lot more about how to control myself than Derek ever could. Only a true friend would handcuff you to a radiator and sit outside the door, even when it's possible you could break loose and kill them. You believed me from the beginning. And you've stuck by me no matter how much of an ass the full moon makes me. That's awesome, dude."

"Yeah," the right side of Stiles' mouth lifted in a smirk. "It kinda is. You're worse than Superman and red kryptonite. You're a bitch when you're on your cycle."

Scott punched Stiles' arm playfully. When he winced, rubbing gently at the tender bruising where Gerard had thrown him to the ground, Scott asked softly, "Why do you think Gerard came after you that night? Why not just have Jackson claw himself, if all he wanted to do was distract me?"

Stiles thought about what he had told Lydia, how if she died it was the people left behind who would be broken beyond repair, struggling to put back the pieces of their lives. "And look at my face!" he had shouted. "Come on, you actually think this was meant to hurt me?" Gerard knew that if he wanted to hurt Scott, he needed to hurt those closest to him. In a twisted way, by kidnapping and beating Stiles, these guys were admitting that he and Scott had a special bond, that he was important to him.

Stiles smiled, then stiffened. "I don't want people using me against you."

"They can only do that if we let them. I don't know about you, but some further training is in order. Since Allison and I are broken up, my summer is wide open. Why don't we get you ready for first line this September? You could use the practice."

"Hello, did you see me on Friday night? I was amazing."

"Yeah, you were." Scott laughed. "You're quite the lacrosse hero."

"I'll leave the real superhero stuff to you."

Scott rolled his eyes. "Thanks, that's so gracious of you." They lapsed back into silence. "Listen, are we okay?"

"Yeah." Stiles held out his fist, and Scott pounded it. "We're okay."

"And what about you?"

"I'll be okay, eventually."

"You know I'll be here every step of the way."

"I know."

Stiles needed time, he knew that. He couldn't expect things to get better right away, for the insecurities and nightmares to just disappear. But he knew it was a beginning. He didn't need to do this on his own. He wasn't alone.

END