AN I do not own Teen Wolf or any of its characters! Sterrish full steam ahead hope you like it!

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There was something…. a captivating quality to it. It was sick and twisted but there was something addictive about the way the torture seemed to resonate in Stiles. Like a tuning fork, the impacts and hits went right to his core and only seemed to radiate energy through him, sustaining him rather than tearing him down. While the majority of Parrish's focus was, and always had been, on Stiles, he couldn't ignore the man bound beside him.

Derek Hale stood chained to the chainlink with a low dose of electricity coursing constantly through his body, but he was still. His eyes were blank and empty-dare he say void. Parrish didn't like the way Derek's head lulled slightly to one side or the way his eyelids wavered at half-mast, never raising or lowering. In a situation like this, Derek should have been pumping with adrenaline and more than concerned for Stiles but instead he seemed… calm? Resigned? Whatever it was, it only made Derek even easier to distrust. Parrish wasn't particularly fond of Derek. He hadn't ever been, especially given all the warnings the sheriff had drilled into them over the years, to keep him away from Stiles. But Stiles…. Parrish had a soft spot for Stiles.

Maybe it was working under his dad, seeing the admiration and love for the kid in his boss's eyes for years upon years, but he liked Stiled. He had a mischievous, clever, and amusing way of always skirting right on the edge of trouble that he seemed to have mastered years ago. But even in handcuffs at the station, Stiles had always remembered him. He called him Parrish like everyone else but that hadn't ever put any distance between them. Stiles was one of the few at the station who knew about his daughter-through some less than legal investigating-and always remembered his birthday. Sometimes, it seemed like Stiles was only nice to him to get some leeway whenever he was caught in the middle of something. But, most of the time, especially on Christmas or birthdays or whenever Stiles stopped by to give his dad an apology coffee, Parrish was always reassured with the mysterious appearance of a piece of lemon pound cake on his desk, signed from a friend. Stiles went to no great length to conceal that he was the friend, but he never faced Parrish about it if he could help it unless it was his birthday. On his birthday, Stiles would always approach the desk (or leave a note if he was out in the field) with a present that was somehow exactly what he wanted. Every time. And he loved it.

Against his better judgement, Parrish was kind of endeared to Derek by his genuine concern for Stiles wellbeing. But he didn't like that emptiness in Derek's face watching Stiles writhe in pain. Nothing about that situation should have made Derek so quiet-it should have made him scream and fight in rage and indignance. Just looking at it made his stomach churn. The first few times it happened, he yelled to Stiles to hold on and promised that he was going to find a way out but Stiles didn't seem to hear him. He knew it wouldn't take long for Stiles to shatter. Parrish had seen other officers tortured in the field before he knew how easy it was for the torture to overtake everything in a person's reality. But no matter how many times the hooded figure flicked his whip into Stiles' naked flesh or how many times Stiles' scream pierced the air, Stiles refused to answer any of their questions. Derek just watched.

Parrish felt the raw pain deep in his core, but if either of the other two felt it too they did their best to hide it. Derek was stone cold and silent, consistently. But Stiles wouldn't let up, cracking jokes and laughing at his own jokes more than he or Derek ever did. They'd been there for too long-long enough to lose track of the days and the nights-but Stiles couldn't be stopped. No amount of pain or hopelessness seemed to deter him. Maybe it was a coping mechanism, but it made Parrish feel better.

He knew the whole thing was real and he had no doubt that no one was coming for them any time soon or that the wounds in Stiles skin put them in a grave situation. But it never really seemed to sink in how bad the situation was. Until Stiles looked up at him with a bloodied grin, skin torn to shreds and face as pale as death itself, and laughed.

"We're in a hell of a mess, huh Jordan?" Maybe it was the blood in his teeth. Or maybe it was hearing his first name from Stiles' lips for the first time. But something about it just shattered him. He felt the horrible, overpowering urge to do something-anything-to get Stiles out and protect him somehow. And the hopelessness of being just as stuck as he was could have killed him for how strong it was. Beside him, Derek was silent, looking to Stiles across from them. Derek was usually silent, he'd realized. It'd been weeks, maybe months, since they'd been captured and Derek had hardly said three words. To either of them.

"Stiles, we're gonna get out of here, okay? I promise." Stiles just smiled at him and looked to Derek. There was something horribly ominous in Stiles' smile, though, that reeked more of a dying man's last words than of casual banter.

"What do you say Der? You think the pack is coming anytime soon?" Something in Derek's face must have told him no, despite the silence, because Stiles grimaced and nodded. "Didn't think so." He sighed, and kind of sagged in place despite already hanging all his weight on his restraints. Parrish honestly felt for him. Stiles was only nineteen-Parrish kept track of Stiles' birthday as carefully as Stiles' did his-and already he seemed to be accustomed to the torture. As if it didn't bother him. That wasn't true, because it couldn't be, but the impression was eerie nonetheless.

"Hey Jordan, maybe you wanna hand Derek that scrap of metal by your left hand?" As per the new normal, Stiles eyes clouded over as he fell back into the semi-conscious delirium he spent most of his time in. The lucidness left Stiles as quickly as it came but Parrish trusted Stiles without question and stretched his hand despite not being able to see anything. It wasn't like they hadn't tried before, of course. For the first month or so, Parrish and Derek had both tried to reach anything in any direction with any limb but every attempt had ended in a sharp jolt of electricity. This time wasn't any different and Parrish braced against it with a hiss but Stiles' certainty pushed him through it. If Stiles was sure, then he was sure.

His hands clasped around a shard of metal.

It cut deep into his palm as he tried to wrench it from whatever it was attached to. Warm, wet blood dripped down his fingers onto the floor but he grabbed again, feeling the edge slice deeper into his palm. It stung but one glance at Stiles' mangled body was all it took for him to shake that feeling and blink away the tears to keep going. If nineteen year old Stiles could persevere, then dammit so could he.

"Parrish?" He was surprised and almost jumped at Derek's voice next to him. "Don't push too hard. You're losing a lot of blood." The little hint of concern was kind of endearing, actually. Was it possible that Derek's emotionless statue appearance was just an act? Did he actually care about Stiles? About him?

"I almost-" And then it was free. Slippery in his palm and wet with blood but a definite shard of metal with enough arch and edge to be a blade. He couldn't really believe that it was actually in his hand, even though it was throbbing. On instinct, he turned to celebrate with Stiles but was met with glassy eyes and a slack jaw. With a sigh, he turned back to Derek.

"I got it. How do I give it to you?" If he could have turned his head to look, he would have because he was more than afraid that Derek's answers would be as nonverbal as his answers to Stiles were.

"Just push it towards me as far as you can." Thank god. Parrish was not in the mood to waste time or play charades. He did push it, as far as he could without the shard slipping out of his hands, but Derek couldn't reach it. The metal teetered in his grip, slick and slippery and dangerously on the edge of falling to the floor.

"Closer, Parrish, you're almost there." Closer? But it was so close to falling… Like a game of jenga, one move from toppling everything to the ground and with it their only hope for escape. He tried to inch it further but instantly pull it back the second it started to slide.

"I can't. It's slippery and I can't hold it very well." Derek sighed. The deep, soul wavering kind of sigh that came from within and hit just as deep inside Parrish. They both knew what dropping it meant. It meant no freedom. It meant watching Stiles and each other die.

"Do it, I'll catch it."

"Derek, this is our only shot…"

"I know. I'll catch it, Jordan." The first name, combined with the strange newness of Derek's voice in his ear, made him trust Derek a little tiny bit. But a bit was better than nothing, right? So with a deep breath he pushed the shard out towards Derek as far as he could without dropping it and then a little more.

"Derek..." He started to tell him it was slipping, that he wouldn't be able to stop it from falling, but-

"I've got it." When the scrap of metal slid from Parrish's hand, he truly believed that he was sacrificing their only hope of escape. Derek's confidence gave him strength but it didn't stop the doubt entirely and once it was out of his hand, the dread sank like rocks in his gut. His only chance to save Stiles was gone.

But there was no telltale clatter of metal against cement, sealing their fate. To his surprise, he heard a quiet, sawing sound. There was no way… was there? Derek couldn't have actually caught it, not from over a foot away. Could he? Parrish couldn't see anything and, honestly, the blood loss was starting to make him a bit fuzzy but he could have sworn he saw movement to his left. Was Derek loose? That wasn't possible because the shard had fallen and even if it hadn't there was no way to make that saw through chain but… He wanted to believe. He wanted to trust Derek. More than anything, he wanted to put his fate in Derek's hands and have it all miraculously work out.

And then felt Derek's hands on his arm.

"Hey, breathe. It's okay. We're gonna make it out of here. Just stay conscious. I can't carry both of you." Parrish nodded, and felt his wrists fall to his sides. He was… free? It didn't really register but he was a little happy, as if daring to hope it was real. But then Derek's hand was on his arm again, steadying him and helping him take a step forward.

"You can stand?" He nodded. Though it was blurry, he saw Derek move to Stiles and, as he cut the ties, Stiles fell into Derek's arms. The completely trusting and halfway conscious was Stiles collapsed into Derek and the immediate strength with which Derek supported him was inspiring. It made Parrish want to do the same, to have someone else worry about their currently life or death situation for a minute. As if heaven answered him, Derek returned and linked an arm in his. They hobbled, moving slowly but steadily, towards the egress window that Derek had apparently picked as their escape route. He couldn't believe it they were actually escaping!

Derek handed him a cloth and it was caked in dirt or some kind of oil but it stopped the bleeding in his hand so he took it. Had Derek always been this much of a caretaker? Had he really just never noticed? Even with the pack Derek never really seemed to care who was okay and who wasn't as long as no one was dead. Stiles, he understood, because it was hard not to want to protect Stiles from the world around him but Derek was taking care of-was comforting-him too? Oblivious, Derek balled his fist and wrapped it in another cloth before putting it through the window.

The tinkling of glass against the cement was quite possibly the loudest sound Parrish had ever heard. Against the silence, it sounded like a bomb. An alarm, just screaming for their captors. For a second, they all hesitated as if waiting for their hooded torturer to come rushing in at the sound. But there was nothing. They couldn't actually be getting away with this, could they? Not after so long trapped in that hell…

Derek hoisted Stiles up through the window and then turned to him. He'd always heard about the famed werewolf strength but the way Derek lifted him like he was made of air was impressive and maybe kind of hot? No, there wasn't time for that right now. He shook his head at himself and gripped the window's edge with his good hand to help pull himself onto the grass. Soon he was through the window and he pulled Stiles into his lap, hoping to quell that urge in his chest just a little bit in knowing that Stiles was alive, but it did nothing. As he watched Derek's hands and then his upper body appear in the window, he marveled. Derek was certainly strong outside of the electrocution. To his surprise, again, Derek hoisted Stiles into his arms and braced Parrish against his side. With a deep breath, Derek began to walk, doing the work of three men by himself and saving them all. Parrish had secretly expected the wolf to run for it and save himself as soon as they were out.

Clearly, though, he'd been wrong. Together, they huddled in a little pack of three and headed for the treeline. Only once they were safely blanketed in the forest did they finally start to slow. It felt like it had been hours since they'd escaped but if he thought about it, maybe it'd been seconds? Losing the ability to tell time was one of the smaller concerns Parrish had been dealing with over the span-however long it was-of their torture.

"We should get him to the hospital." Derek nodded, but didn't stop moving.

"You too. That hand is getting worse." Parrish at least gave a sorry attempt at a nod in Derek's direction. Again, that slight undertone of concern. It was almost kind of sweet, actually, the more he thought about it that Derek Hale-a man who had lost everyone he ever loved, according to the police reports-was taking care of him. Stiles was pack or at least close to it and Parrish had always wondered if there was a little something more between him and Derek, enough to warrant concern, but to Derek Parrish was a complete stranger. A nobody. And here he was, looking out for him. Taking care of him. That idea was just so foreign to him it was almost more disconcerting than any of the physical symptoms he was experiencing.

As they walked, Parrish gradually faded in and out of consciousness. But, every time he did come to, they were surrounded by darkness and foliage and a terrifying silence that made him feel like he was a little kid again, afraid of the dark. Derek was always right there, though. Sometimes carrying him, sometimes holding him up or acting as his crutch, and sometimes just keeping his hand reassuringly on Parrish's shoulder but always touching. Somehow that warm, that energy and reassurance, gave him the ability to keep walking. He still faded, but just because his mind lapsed didn't mean his legs did. Until, suddenly, when he opened his eyes, he was looking up into Melissa's.

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