"Malia, you should go." he coaxes in her ear, "You're no good with heights. And you shouldn't be up here worrying about me."'

Malia stiffens her lip and shakes her head, "I can handle it."

"Stubborn." Stiles grumbles under his breath.

The wind swirls all around them, whipping through their hair and pressing against their backs. Stiles squares his shoulders trying to shield her from the brunt of it. The rusted-out metal bridge lurches and moans beneath them. Malia whimpers, her eyes screwing up tight. Stiles keeps her close, twisting his fingers in her jacket to hold her steady. Her hair lashes in the wind, brushing over his face and tickling his nose.

After a few seconds the wind dies down and eventually the bridge stops quaking. Malia takes a steadying breath and lifts her head. Her eyes dart to him, and he's suddenly very aware of how tightly he's still clutching her. His hands fall away and Malia scoots back from him and the ledge. Cold air rushes in filling up the space she had just occupied. He shivers at the bite of it. Malia slides back carefully until her back presses against the remains of a warped handrail. She curls her fingers tightly around one of the bars, her claws biting into the rusted metal.

"You should go," he says, flatly as he turns away. His shoulders hunch as his eyes fall back to the dark churning water below. He rubs his hands together to keep them from shaking with cold. He tries his best to ignore her. He wills the cold to numb his thoughts and feelings. He thinks he might be halfway to managing it when she breaks the silence.

"You were right about, Theo." she whispers "I should've trusted you."

His entire body goes rigid, "What did he do?—" He lifts his head his eyes searching hers urgently. "—What did he do to you?" He can barely keep the snarl out of his voice. A wild sort of anger slices through him, igniting his blood. He doesn't care that the guy is a werewolf and that he's hopelessly outmatched against him. If Theo hurt her…Then he's gonna break off a branch of mountain ash, roll it in mistletoe, wrap it in barbed wire, and shove it—

"He's twisting his way into everyone's head." Malia seethes. "He tried to tell me about what happened with Donovan. Tried to convince me that you didn't have to kill him. That you just lost it—but I know that isn't you."

Stiles drops his eyes, as the anger recedes and the guilt seeps in. "How do you know he wasn't telling you the truth?"

Her eyes cut to him, "Don't be an idiot."

Stiles shrugs, "I'm serious, you weren't there."

He refuses to look at her. Malia glares at the back of his head, before retracting her claws from the warped handrail, and skidding back out onto the ledge. Her shoulder knocks roughly into his as she settles beside him. Her fear of the bridge vanishing beneath a fierce and coursing need for him to listen to her.

"I know you're not a killer," she insists, ardently.

Stiles stares down at the black water, feeling more lost than ever.

"How?" He whispers in a broken voice.

"Because you're nothing like me."

His head whips up, "Mal—"

"Whenever I'm scared or I feel like someone is a threat my first instinct is to calculate how to take them down. It's a reflex I have to fight it every second of the day. You're not like that. You're different…you figure people out. You save them. I know how stubborn you are, how patient, how good. I know you're not a killer, Stiles. It's not in your nature. Anything you did you did to survive."

Even in the faint light of the moon he can see the conviction burning in her eyes. He feels so unworthy of it. He blinks rapidly, dropping his eyes. "It…it felt good," he says in a small voice. "I wasn't just relieved to be alive…It was more than that…It felt good that I killed him." he admits, disgusted with himself.

"He went there to kill you, Stiles. You were running on adrenaline and pure instinct. Things that kick in to keep you alive. If you really wanted him dead then it wouldn't be eating you up like this."

Stiles bows his head, "After I was possessed, I told myself that all that anger, all that darkness…it wasn't me. But now I'm not so sure. What if it didn't all come from the nogitsune? What if he just used something that was already inside me?"

He's so caught up in these dark thoughts, that he doesn't even realize that his hands have started shaking. Malia reaches out and gathers them in hers. Stiles sucks in a breath, as the warmth of her touch sinks into his skin. His eyes fall to her lap, where she's trapped his hands between hers. She's barely able to cover them with hers, so she rubs her hands along his trying to work heat into his numb fingers. Her hands are so small. He's always marvelled at that. At how such powerful hands can fit so easily between his long clumsy fingers.

"Hey," she says, roughly "If there is one thing that you are, it's good." He won't meet her eyes, so Malia just stares down at his hands in her lap. "When we met, you were locked up in Eichen House, you had an evil fox spirit in your head, and everybody you cared about was in danger. You were running out of time, starting to lose yourself to the nogitsune. You weren't sure if you were going to live or die. And even in the middle of the worst day of your life you, you noticed that I was cold," she reminds him with a shake of her head. "You reached out just like this," she murmurs, clasping his hands tightly between hers. "And you tried to make it better because that's who you are."

His eyes dart to her, his lips parting in suprise. Malia ducks her head and lifts his hands. Bringing them up to her lips, she cups his cold hands over her mouth and blows a warm breath into them. It's a trick that he'd taught her, to stay warm. And he'd done it for her thousands of times before. But in this moment he's struck by the intimacy of the gesture. Her lips just barely brush over his skin as she pulls back, and something deep inside him starts to thaw. Her hands slip down to his wrists and she shivers.

"Stiles, you're freezing," she hisses. "Let me take you home."

His throat clenches, "I can't," he says thickly, "I can't go home, I can't go to Scott's, the Jeep's gone. I—I've got nowhere to go."

Malia squeezes his hands, "Then come with me. I've got a place you can go to think and it's warm."

A freezing drop of rain falls on his head, jarring him from his thoughts. A few seconds later more splash down wetly on his shoulder and his leg before a pitter patter of rain starts falling all around them. Malia lets go of his hands and slides back from the ledge. Grasping the handrail she climbs to her feet and stretches out her hand to him. "C'mon," she urges.

He hesitates for a second before reaching out to take it, and Malia pulls him to his feet. She eases her way toward the railing, and Stiles even though he's shaking in earnest now reaches out to steady her as she climbs over it and off the edge of the bridge. Once her feet are on sturdier ground, she grabs him by the shoulders, and guides him safely over. With her hand on his back she navigates them across the rain-slicked rickety bridge. Stiles wraps his arms around himself, as the rain soaks through his jacket. His teeth are chattering and his shoulders shaking by the time they get to the car.

She pushes him into the passenger seat and then crawls over top of him and shuts the door. She pushes his wet hair off his forehead, and tucks in his seatbelt. Her fingers fumble with the keys and she curses. Then the old car roars to life and Malia cranks up the heater.

Rain splatters against the windows, and the windshield wipers squeak as they drive. Stiles is shivering hard, his chin pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. Malia's hands are tense on the wheel, and every few seconds she casts a worried glance his way.

The car starts to rattle as they turn onto an old gravel road. Stiles lifts his head, squinting through the windshield. His eyebrows quirk upward when he realizes where she's taking him.

As the car pulls up to the Tate's rustic two-story farmhouse Stiles glances her way nervously. Mr. Tate had never been his biggest fan. But this summer when Mr. Tate had discovered that Malia and him had been having 'sleepovers' Stiles had promptly been banned from the house.

"M-Malia are you sh-sure this is a g-good—"

"My dad's out of town this weekend," she says as she unclips her seatbelt. "He said I wasn't allowed to have my boyfriend over, but right now we're just friends…so technically I won't be lying to him," she says, with a slightly guilty expression. She hops out of her door and runs around the side of the car. She pulls him to his feet and hustles him up the front steps. Stiles leans against against the side of the house weakly as she unlocks the front door.

She tugs him inside and kicks off her shoes. Her dog Beau barks boisterously as they step inside. He wags his tail and brushes up against them both. Malia dodges around Beau and dashes into the living room. Stiles leans against the wall and Beau whines happily licking his hand. Stiles sluggishly scratches the dog's ears.

"Hey, fella." he says hoarsely. Malia grabs a towel from the laundry basket on the couch and rushes over to him. She rubs the towel through his hair, then wraps it around his shoulders.

"C'mon, lets get you warmed up," she says, tugging on the edges of the towel. Stiles nods shakily, following her lead up the stairs.