The lights are off when Stiles wakes up and he finds that so merciful he wants to cry. His head hurts. Everything hurts, even over the steady drip of whatever painkillers they have him on. There's something in his hand and he turns his head slowly, blinking his eyes into focus as he looks down at his dad's hand, clenched around Stiles's hand, and then up at John's face. There's so much worry there, so much pain that it hurts Stiles worse than what he's guessing is a broken leg, judging by the thick cast sticking out from under his blanket.

He must have made a sound because John starts, his eyes flying open. They go instantly to Stiles's face and when he sees Stiles staring back relief floods his expression. John drops his face then, covering it with his hands for a moment in a move that Stiles hasn't seen since his mom was sick. Stiles's hand twitches, reaching for his dad. He's not sure which of them it's meant to comfort. Maybe both of them.

"God, Stiles." The words come out like John's been punched, right in the gut. "I thought... You were... God." John runs his hands over his face again and it's possible that he's been crying.

Stiles made his dad cry. He doesn't know if he can ever recover from that fact. "Dad," he starts but he has no idea what to say after that. No reassurances come to mind, at least none that will work. He feels like he might start crying too.

John straightens, putting his Sheriff face on. "Who did this to you? Erica said they found you like that, but I... That's bull. I don't know who did this but I need to. You need to tell me."

Stiles opens his mouth, no idea what's going to pop out of it. He can't think of any good lies. His brain is too addled from painkillers and stress. He doesn't know what happened to Derek. He doesn't know if Erica and Boyd left him. He doesn't know who's alive and who's dead.

"Don't lie to me. Please don't lie to me." His father is begging. He never begs, not to Stiles, not to anyone. Not since Stiles's mom died and the doctors couldn't do anything. It's enough to make Stiles snap his mouth shut. "You could have died and I... I need to know who did this. I need to find them. I need to catch them."

It's left unsaid what John will do when he catches them.

"Gerard Argent."

The surprise on John's face is equal if not less than the surprise Stiles feels. He hadn't meant to say that but it's the only thing he can say. He's in the hospital and John deserves the truth. No more lies. He can't make himself lie anymore. It just might kill both of them.

"The principal?"

Stiles nods slowly. The movement makes the room spin.

Confusion tampers a bit of John's rage. Stiles can see him trying to work it out but it doesn't make any sense to him. It wouldn't. He's missing too many pieces. John starts to rise, ready to go arrest Gerard this instant, but there're too many lingering questions. The questions keep him from going far. John pauses two steps away from the bed and then turns, his brow furrowed as he stares at Stiles.

"What? Why would he do that? Why...?"

Stiles knows what it must look like. Gerard is an old man. A rather fragile seeming old man, kind and sweet unless you get on his bad side. Like Stiles did. He decides then that John needs to hear the whole truth. No more missing puzzle pieces. He'd thought he'd been protecting his dad but he's just been hurting them both and it ended up with them here, in a hospital room.

It feels too much like losing his mom. He can't lose his dad too. He reaches out, even though it hurts. He can't help the whimper that escapes him at the movement but it brings John back to his side. Stiles squeezes his dad's hand.

"Is Scott here?"

John frowns. "He's in the waiting room. Why..."

Stiles talks over his dad's protest. He doesn't need to shout for Scott to hear him. All it takes is Scott's name, said quietly, and then the door is open. Scott stares at him like it's the first time he's seen Stiles. Maybe it is. Maybe they hadn't let anyone but John in. Scott's fingers tighten briefly around the doorknob and Stiles can tell Scott is fighting off claws.

"Scott. Please."

Scott shuts the door slowly. He's frowning slightly, his concern obvious. Scott hasn't been there for him a lot since he hooked up with Allison but he's here now. That counts for something.

Stiles turns to his dad and begins. "What do you know about werewolves?"


He talks his dad into going home and getting a few hours' sleep before work in the morning. He regrets it almost instantly. Now that he's not passed out, the dark hospital room feels too empty, too lonely. He's never been afraid of the dark, not even after he learned that the monsters that went bump in the night were real. He's afraid now, not of the monsters, but of the men that become them.

He's afraid that Gerard Argent is going to come back and finish the job. Scott didn't know where Gerard was. He hadn't had many details for Stiles, either unwilling or unable to share information on what happened after Stiles was admitted while John was still present.

The door opens minutes after John leaves. He's surprised to see Erica peek in. She checks the room and then slips inside, Boyd following like a shadow behind her. They both meet his eyes, holding his gaze in a firm stare that conveys more than words could. They stayed. They are staying.

That point is made even more clear as Erica carefully levers herself over the railing and into his bed. He blushes automatically and shoots a nervous look at Boyd but Boyd just settles into the chair that Stiles's dad had just vacated. Erica stretches out next to him, on top of the covers, her head pillowed on the less sore part of Stiles's chest. There's blonde hair in his nose but he can't bring himself to move it.

Boyd's hand closes over Stiles's. His hand is bigger than Stiles's and stronger. His grip feels like safety.

Stiles lets his eyes fall closed. He sleeps, secure in the knowledge that he's got two werewolves watching over him.

He wakes briefly a few hours later, long enough to see a flash of red in the shadowy corner of the room, keeping watch while Erica and Boyd sleep partially on top of him. Warmth floods him. Derek is alright. He wants to say something, anything really, but all he gets out is a muffled groan before sleep pulls him back under.


The entire pack is in and out of his room in the days that follow. Everyone but Allison, who's disappeared like a ghost.

He hears the whole tale of what he missed on the night of the lacrosse championship, though it comes to him in bits and pieces as different people tell it and as he falls in and out of consciousness. He falls asleep during one conversation and wakes up halfway through the next. It makes the whole situation feel like something he dreamed.

Chris helped Isaac and Scott move Jackson's body, probably right after he dropped off Stiles, Erica, and Boyd. Jackson was dead and then not and then dead and then not. Peter is also not dead, and that thought makes Stiles shiver with fear. He doesn't think Peter's going to come after him, not with the way werewolves seem to be stuck to him like glue lately, but he's had enough near-death experiences for one lifetime to risk being alone with Peter ever.

Derek bit Gerard who didn't turn thanks to Scott's master plan involving switching Gerard's cancer medication for mountain ash pills, which is kind of a terrible thought but it couldn't have happened to a worse asshole, and now Gerard's out there somewhere as a black goo bleeding not-werewolf. That's another thing heaped on the pile of reasons why Stiles may never sleep again.

His leg is broken, which means six to eight weeks in the cast at minimum, and then a whole bunch of physical therapy after that. That's not the only thing that's broken. He's got fractures in his left wrist and hand—that's another six weeks wearing a splint—and cracked ribs plus extensive bruising. At least school had finished before he got injured. He can't imagine having to take his finals from a hospital room or attending classes on crutches. His summer is shot. He'll be lucky if he's healed up in time to play lacrosse next year.

At least all the enforced time at home means he can keep an eye on his dad who's been spending more time watching over Stiles than taking care of himself.

John lingers after he helps Stiles into his room, settling Stiles onto his own bed for the first time in what feels like forever. They haven't talked about werewolves or any of the other weird shit that's been going on in Beacon Hills after Stiles had spilled his guts but the memory of the conversation hangs like lead in the air between them.

"If I asked you to stay out of it, to not get involved in this stuff anymore, would it work?"

The resignation in his father's voice makes Stiles want to cry. He doesn't, barely. "They're my friends, dad. I can't leave them." He forces a grin. "Besides, they'd be lost without me. Someone's got to be the brains to their brawn."

John sighs, but the way he looks at Stiles has a hint of respect in it. "I thought so." He grabs a pile of papers off of Stiles's desk—papers that don't belong to Stiles—and sets them on the bedside table. He gives Stiles one last lingering glance before he leaves, not closing Stiles's door all the way so he can hear in case Stiles needs anything.

Once his dad is gone, Stiles gives in and reaches for the papers. They're pamphlets for self-defense classes, ranging from full martial arts to basic anti-rape prevention. He almost laughs but there's something about the situation that isn't quite funny.

At least John isn't forcing him to the sidelines. That's the last place Stiles ever wants to be.

He dozes for a bit only to wake up a few hours later when someone knocks lightly at his door. He expects to see Scott, but it's not. Boyd stands with one hand on the doorframe, carefully outside the border of Stiles's bedroom, as if he's not sure if he's allowed any further. "Hi."

"Hi," Stiles parrots back. He blinks sleep from his eyes and carefully shifts up into a sitting position. He's pretty sure his dad has piled every spare pillow they own at the head of Stiles's bed so he can sleep propped up like the doctor recommended. "Come on in."

Boyd pushes the door all the way open and only then does Stiles see the plate of cookies he has in his hand. Stiles's eyes light up and he makes grabby motions in the air with his good hand. He's seriously thankful for the painkillers he's on for making movement at all possible, even if they do make him sleep half the day away. His antics force a laugh out of Boyd, though it's muted somewhat, much like the rest of Boyd's personality.

Boyd settles at the edge of Stiles's bed and hands over the plate. "My grandmother made them."

Stiles doesn't even hesitate before peeling back the plastic wrap and shoving one in his mouth. They're chocolate chip—Stiles's favorite—and incredibly good. It's been ages since Stiles has had homemade cookies that were made by someone else. He's a pretty good cook but he's got nothing on Boyd's grandmother. There's something about a grandmother's cookies that just can't be beat.

"So good," Stiles moans around his second cookie, making Boyd laugh yet again. It's strange how much the sound means to him and he realizes belatedly that he's never really heard Boyd laugh before, at least not in a way that wasn't deprecating. "Thanks."

"No problem." Boyd looks at him for a moment before turning to stare down at his hands. "I heard... Scott told Isaac that you'd gotten out of the hospital. I mentioned it to my grandmother and she insisted I take some cookies."

"Your grandmother is a saint." Stiles wonders what kind of a woman Boyd's grandmother must be. He wonders if she knows. He knows very little about Boyd, which is a shame. He knows Boyd works at the ice rink and takes the bus to school and lives in a not-so-great part of town but that's about it.

"She is," Boyd agrees. The conversation sort of dies there. Stiles tries and fails to think of something to say that doesn't sound stupid or prying. Boyd beats him to it. "Thank you."

"What?" Stiles blinks and looks at Boyd with confusion. "What for?"

Boyd looks back at him then, and while his face is its usual blank mask, his eyes are a yellow swirl of emotion. "You didn't leave us."

Stiles stares. For one of the few times in his life, he's at a loss for words so he gapes, open-mouthed like a fish. He looks down at the plate of cookies, now settled in his lap, and for lack of anything better to do, he nudges the plate toward Boyd in blatant offering.

Boyd takes a cookie and smiles, the barest hint of upturned lips but it's there and it makes Stiles weirdly happy.

"You didn't leave either," he says. He means more than just the basement but he's not sure if Boyd reads it that way. Boyd shrugs, like it's nothing, like he hadn't blown his chance to get away from the deathtrap that is Beacon Hills. Stiles thinks that maybe he could build from this moment and actually be Boyd's friend. After all, nothing builds friendships like saving each other from life-or-death situations. It worked for Lydia, sort of. "Do you like Halo?"

Boyd stares at him for a moment before slowly nodding. "Yeah. Of course."

"Wanna play? The splint might get in the way, but I think I can fake it enough to play"

The small smile appears back on Boyd's face and Stiles thinks he may be on to something.


Scott shows up an hour after Boyd leaves. He drops onto the bed next to Stiles, rocking his shoulder into Stiles's very gently. It's late in the evening, just after dinner—pizza, which he will forgive his dad for just this once but something's going to have to be done while Stiles is out of commission.

"How are you feeling?"

That question started being old the second day he was in the hospital. It's really old now, a week later. "Painkillers are my friend." It hurts if he moves too much or laughs, which is why he's become semi-permanently bonded with his bed. Thankfully his dad is more than willing to play fetch for him and Boyd isn't exactly known for his jokes.

"Do you want to play a game?" Scott asks. It's been too long since they've hung out and gamed together. They use to be online together practically every night and then Scott had been bitten and things had just… changed. He can't pinpoint when they did, only that they went from being comfortably familiar to feeling like there was an unreachable depth between them.

He does, even though he just got done going several rounds with Boyd. He's missed this too much to say no. He has no idea how long they play, other than that it's dark outside his window and he doesn't want to go to sleep. Scott puts on Star Wars—the first of the original trilogy—after they get bored of Halo.

Stiles's eyes start to droop. He can't help it. It's the pills. His attention fades in and out until the movie ends and Scott's standing up, saying his goodbyes as he pulls the covers over Stiles. Stiles wants to protest but his mouth won't work, won't say the words he needs for Scott to stay. He doesn't want to be alone.

He sleeps.

His dreams are of the basement but Erica and Boyd are already dead when he gets there and he watches as Gerard butchers them in front of him before turning the knife on Stiles. His dad shakes him awake. Neither of them can fall back asleep after that.