The teeth of the clamps bit down on Stiles's fingers painfully. He was trembling uncontrollably, a gag shoved in between his teeth. His heart was racing and he was beginning to panic. A clicking sound was his only warning before molten heat ripped through his body. His muscles spasmed and locked and he bit down on the gag so hard that he would have cracked his teeth if the gag wasn't there.

He couldn't even scream.

The voltage was higher this time. He was certain he would die.

The electricity shut off, leaving Stiles panting and sagging into the chair he was strapped to. The leather straps around his wrists and ankles were biting into him hard enough to leave deep bruises, and his right wrist was bleeding where it had broken the skin. Tears trickled down his face leaving tracks in the dirt and blood that had accumulated there. His skin was damp and clammy in the cold air, and his heaving breaths were the only sound in the room.

He hadn't heard another voice in two weeks.

His body was weakening, sustained by enough water and food to keep him alive but not to help him heal. The deeper wounds were bandaged, some even crudely sewn shut to stop him from bleeding to death. He could smell his own coppery blood, and other smells he couldn't bring himself to focus on.

But it was harder to wake up now, even with the water being thrown on him.

The electricity flipped on again.

"Stiles, wake up," Derek shook him slightly. Stiles had started mumbling in his sleep, a warning sign of a particularly bad nightmare that Derek had picked up on in the two weeks that Stiles had been in his loft. Stiles opened his eyes and groped his hands out clumsily as if pushing against something. Derek waited for Stiles to calm down, whispering into his ear that he was safe, that he was still here in Derek's loft. Scott was there too, looking on with the same worried expression that seemed stuck there.

Stiles settled back against Derek and sighed. He was still so tired even though all he seemed to do now was sleep and listen to his friends read to him like a child. But the smell of blood lingered in his nose from his dream, and he was suffocating in the small room. He needed to get out.

"Do you want to clean up?" Scott asked from the side. Stiles didn't question the way Scott always seemed to read his mind. He was too grateful that he didn't have to ask to care. Derek helped Stiles sit up, placing his hands gingerly to avoid pressing any injuries. Scott helped Stiles stand up with an arm around his friend's waist and one steadying his shoulder. Derek took the other side, offering his arm to Stiles in a way that reminded the teenager of an old-timey gentleman courting a lady. Usually, the thought would have made him smile and say something sarcastic.

The odd little trio made their way to the bathroom where Stiles sat on the toilet. Derek left after having a hushed conversation with Scott, and Scott turned around to face his friend. Stiles was hunched, small, different from the boy who always took up as much space as possible with flailing limbs and endless energy. Scott helped Stiles strip and then stripped down to his boxers as well. Even if Stiles wasn't too out of it to be embarrassed, he wouldn't be. Lacrosse and a friendship spanning to elementary school had eliminated that. Scott tried not to stare at the criss-crossing bandages on his friend's body and helped Stiles into the warm spray of water, sitting him down on the plastic chair they had put in there for him. He couldn't stand on his broken foot and it was easier for Scott to help him wash if he wasn't also supporting his weight.

Stiles relaxed as the water touched his skin, washing away the days. Scott started to sing pop music, badly, as he always did in the shower. Stiles had often told he sounded terrible, but it filled the silence with welcome noise. Scott was washing his hair with the shampoo that Stiles liked, rubbing and massaging his scalp with heavenly fingers, when Stiles finally spoke.

"Who's song is that?"

Scott paused. Stiles didn't usually say much.

"I think it was One Direction," He said after he thought for a bit.

"Maybe you should let them sing it," Stiles twisted to look at Scott, a ghost of a smile on his face. Scott smiled at him.

"Don't judge me, it's catchy," Scott replied as he angled the shower head to wash away the suds. His heart constricted with sadness and hope. Derek was right, Stiles was trying to be better. It was a tiny step, but it was there. Stiles suddenly reached back and grabbed Scott's hand with his own.

"Thank you," Stiles whispered. Scott cocked his head to the side. "I can't remember if I said it when you...then. And for everything."

"You don't have to thank me, Stiles," Scott admonished lightly.

Stiles nodded and squeezed Scott's hand as much as his broken fingers would allow.

"Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't play lacrosse with you anymore," Stiles touched the bandage around his eye. "Can I?"

Scott froze. He knew that Stiles was going to ask eventually, but after two weeks of silence on the subject he was half-hoping the Stiles hadn't noticed.

"No, I guess not."

Stiles nodded and fell silent again. His shoulders started to shake and Scott quickly came around to his front and Stiles wrapped his arms around Scott's waist, burying his face in his friend's stomach as a panic attack swept over him. Scott held him close, stroking his hair and trying to comfort him through his own tears.

"Hey, it's alright. I'll help you, we'll practice every day until you don't even notice anymore. Breathe with me, hey, come on. Breathe," Scott held his friend closer, sinking to his level. He cupped his hands around the bandaged face, "Hear me?"

Stiles nodded, but he couldn't seem to stop.

"Derek?" Scott called. Derek entered the room and saw Scott being held tightly by Stiles, and Scott pointing at the sink. They kept inhalers in every room of the house now, and Derek grabbed the one they kept in the bathroom out of the drawer and handed it to Scott.

Scott encouraged Stiles to take a few puffs and the boy's frantic heart rate and labored breathing finally slowed. Derek stood awkwardly to the side, watching Stiles pull himself together with all of his will. It was amazing, really. Derek had been outside the door, waiting, pacing, and listening. He had felt uncomfortable being too far away from his guests, and had ended up just waiting for them. Hearing Stiles finally ask about his eye had made his chest hurt, the physical manifestation of sorrow. Stiles collapsed in on himself, slumping in the chair. Derek reached in a turned off the water.

When they had gotten Stiles dry and clothed and re-bandaged,they tucked him into bed. Stiles was drowsy and fell asleep with his pain medication circulating in his blood. Scott and Derek both laid down either side of Stiles. Derek's chest was to Stiles's back, and Scott was facing Stiles, holding his hands and stroking them with small circles. Stiles had taken to sleeping on his side sometimes, sandwiched in between them this way, as his wounds healed. Derek rubbed his nose into Stiles's neck, sniffing him. Scott watched him, fascinated. Two years ago, Derek would have never done something like this.

Stiles smelled like himself now. Not so...wrong.

There was no screaming when Stiles woke.

He woke crying.

The werewolves didn't know if this was step forward.

They hoped it was.