Two broken fingers. On his writing hand.

Someone could shoot Gerard Argent in front of Stiles, and he wouldn't lift a finger to help. Because his fingers were broken. His Fingers Were Broken!

Stiles perched on the windowsill in Allison's room and glared at his hand. His first three fingers were strapped together to keep the first two from bending, a metal slab was taped on to assist with the bending problem, and another couple of straps ran around his hand in opposite directions to hold the whole rig in position. His hand was a mummy. Stiles was furious.

"I'm a scribe, Allison," Stiles murmured darkly. He stood up suddenly, throwing his good hand out to the side. "I'm a scribe! How can I work if he breaks my God damn hand?!"

"I can't believe him," Allison agreed with a tight forehead. "I know he's been cruel and violent, but this is going too far. He's trying to take your livelihood."

"Screw your grandfather, Allison. And screw your aunt." Stiles paced several feet closer to her and then back to the window. "Actually. Screw your dad too. Screw everyone but you." He turned to the door and took a deep breath. "I hate all of you!"

Allison stood from her small table and slapped her hands down on the wood. "Now that's enough," she snapped. "My father has never hurt you."

"No. He just stands on the side and watches," Stiles agreed coldly.

"He hates it just as much as I do." Allison glared at him. "Don't turn your venom on him just because he doesn't cry for you. My father was in a screaming match with my grandfather for three hours yesterday while you were taken to the hospital."

"Oh no. I'm honored," Stiles answered sarcastically. "He got into a fight with daddy."

"He defended you!" Allison shouted.

"He doesn't care about me!" Stiles shouted back, throwing both hands out despite how it made his fingers sting. Allison flinched back at his volume, louder than her own. "Your father avoids me like a dirty dog, Allison! He treats me like I'm not even here! And you think, because he argued with Gerard, that he suddenly gives a shit about my wellbeing?!"

In the deafening silence that surrounded them, Stiles remembered his last fight with his own father. His voice, all these years later, sounded surprisingly like his father's. He could hear the same inflections, the same tone and deepness. He remembered how his father loved to smile – so unlike Christopher Argent – and he found his legs too weak to support him.

He fell back onto the window seat and covered his face with his good hand. A half sob tried to escape him, but he mostly managed to hold it in. His father was dead. His home and friends were gone. His only romance was in his head. And now his hand, his only source of remaining dignity and income, was broken.

"He doesn't care about me," he muttered into his palm. "My damn… My hand is broken." His eyes slipped shut and he moved his hand up to cover them. "I'm sorry." He was being a jerk, blaming Allison and her father, but honestly he was just so scared. If he couldn't write anymore, what was he going to do?

He didn't hear Allison moving, but he felt her arms when she reached him and slid them around his shoulders. "I'm sorry too." She pressed her face into his hair. "I'm going to get you out of here, Stiles. I'm going to find a way to free you from my family. I promise."

"Yeah," Stiles said with a hint of his normal sass. "I haven't heard that one before."

"I really mean it this time," Allison promised. "By the time I leave for school, I'll figure something out."

Well she better get a move on, Stiles thought. She was leaving in a few months.

The next week dragged by. Stiles stayed shut up in his or Allison's rooms for the first two days, but then his nervous energy got the better of him. He couldn't sit still. Despite his useless hand, he tried to be useful around the manor. The servants all expressed their condolences when they saw his hand and then pointedly refused to let him do anything strenuous. It was rather sweet.

He could carry one light bucket or basket; he could hand people things; he could let the dogs out into the yard and call them back in, and maybe even throw a ball for them to chase; but if the activity required his right arm at all, no one would let him do it. His hand was the broken part, but everyone assumed Stiles was going to ruin the healing process if he so much as leaned on a door to open it with his right shoulder. It was very annoying.

Still, Stiles wanted to be active, so bland tasks were better than no tasks. When no one needed him, he walked the perimeter of the yard like a guard dog. He wasn't really guarding anything, just watching the distant greenery, but he liked the image of himself as a protector so he didn't correct Allison when she suggested the idea.

Mostly the week felt long because Kate Argent was stressed out and making everyone around her extra on edge. Sir Derek Hale had not responded to her letter, and she couldn't understand why.

"When I last met him, he would have jumped at the idea of my interest. He was always aiming to please me, wanting my attentions. Did he grow dumb with age? Why hasn't he responded yet? Certainly he's had time, even if he is in training for his title."

And she was increasingly frustrated that Stiles was in no position to continue the conversation. He was not ambidextrous, so his letters looked nothing like letters when he made an attempt the day after his injury. Yep, because that's how long it took Kate to try and find a way around her father's 'gag'.

Every day, Kate found Stiles before breakfast and spent a good minute staring at his wrapped hand. She couldn't see the damage through the straps and bandages, but she sure liked to pretend she could. It was as if she expected to wake up one morning and find Stiles' hand miraculous healed. Maybe someone should have explained to her that broken fingers could take over a month to heal. Oh wait, the doctor had told her.

The broken fingers ached constantly. Pain relieving medication and teas could numb the sensation, but the fracture still tingled. Once a night in the first week, Stiles woke from a dead sleep because of the pain. Because no one shared his room, he had to sloppily find his medicine each time, in the dark, and brace himself against the pain until the drugs kicked in.

Yes. It was a very long first week.

Derek didn't write to Kate, and he also didn't write to Stiles. Sure, Stiles had told Derek that he didn't expect a letter after Kate's completely inappropriate proposal, but he'd still been hoping for a memo or telegram of some sort just so he'd know Derek got his letter at all. Sure. But Stiles didn't take his disappointment out on the entire household, and not only because his hand hurt.

At the end of the first week, Stiles woke, sweaty and suffering. He squeezed his eyes shut and reached for his medication but found a hand instead. Looking over, he saw one of the kitchen maids sitting at his bedside. He wanted to complain about being seen in his weakness, but the irony was that he was too weak to care.

She helped him with his medication and then produced his breakfast. It wasn't odd for a servant to help him eat this past week, what with him being down one hand, but it was a little surprising that he was being fed in bed. By the time the meal was finished, the medicine had also begun to work, and Stiles was feeling like he may actually be able to face the day.

"I'm sorry," the maid said as she gathered the dishes. "I wish you could lie here, unbothered, until you'd healed. I'm sorry."

Stiles didn't have to wonder long about what she meant. She'd barely left the room when Katherine Argent appeared and ordered him to the study. On a regular day, Stiles would think she wanted him to write, but as he couldn't bend his fingers, he knew that was impossible. So, curious, he followed her.

They passed Caitlyn on the way and she covertly handed him the sprig of mint she always kept on her person just in case he needed it. He mouthed his thank you and then she was gone.

In the study, Stiles instantly noticed that a stack of papers had been set up on the writing desk. Beside them, his quill and ink were prepared. But no-

"Lord Hale needs a reminder," Kate said, her tone frenetic, and motioned to the desk.

"You honestly can't be serious," Stiles replied, not moving.

His fingers were broken. Hadn't they already gone through this last week? Fingers didn't heal in a week. Kate knew that. Stiles knew that. EVERYONE knew that. How could she think he'd be able to write after only a week?

"Sit down, Stiles, or I'll break your other hand," she threatened. "Your hand might hurt now, but it's nothing compared to what we'll both feel if you fail to bring Derek Hale to me."

The threat in her voice and eyes forced him into the chair, but he still shook as he reached for the quill with his left hand. "It won't be pretty," he said.

"Use your actual writing hand," Kate ordered. "It might be messy, but at least that way it'll be legible."

Following orders, Stiles penned a short message to Lord Derek Hale. Kate would have liked it longer, but every stroke of the quill had Stiles clenching his teeth and wincing. By the last line, he could no longer hold the quill steady and dropped it. It rolled off the paper, a dribble of ink streaking the letter. Sighing in frustration, Kate signed her own name to finish the missive off.

'Dearest Derek,

I sincerely hope my last letter did not scare you off. I remember how fierce and brave you used to be. Surely you aren't shying away from the path of desire? If you are nervous, shake it off and be free. I will bring you to my breast and hold you until the nerves pass. I will release you from your restraints. Visit and I will show you a new way to live.

Katherine Argent'

"That'll do," she said. Stiles leaned his head on the desk and held his throbbing hand close to his chest. It was quite possibly the worst letter he'd ever written – sloppy and short and not particularly eloquent – but his mind was understandably on other issues.

Unlike normal, Kate was the one to fold the letter, seal it in an envelope, and deliver it to Reddick, the head butler. At first Stiles was thankful. He was able to ride out the aching until a maid brought a pack of ice to hold against his swollen fingers. Then Stiles, head clearer, realized the truth. His injury and Kate's impatience had just resulted in a letter being sent to Derek Hale that contained no accompanying letter from Stiles.

The only other envelope to leave without a letter from Stiles was the very first attempt. It had been so long since Derek's first reply, with the hidden note that called Stiles 'pretty'. They had exchanged countless letters in the interim – or not countless. Stiles had counted them many times. He had a full forty-four letters folded up in a box under his clothes in the dresser.

Stiles wondered what Derek would think when he opened the envelope and saw Stiles hadn't written anything.

Stiles wondered if Derek would open the envelope at all. Would he even care that he was missing a letter? Derek was a future Earl. Surely he had more important things to do than write to a scribe, to write even to Lady Katherine Argent. Surely he didn't let the letters distract him during his days.

He probably wouldn't even notice the change.

Stiles hoped he did, even if nothing came of it.

The next day, a letter arrived for Lady Katherine. To her disappointment, it was not from the Honorable Lord Derek Hale. Instead, it was from the apothecary in Greenburg.

'Dear Lady Katherine Argent,

I regret to inform you that the moringa root you requested is no longer within my power to come by. The cost of importing it far exceeded any reward from sales. I have another herb in mind for you, but alas I cannot obtain that for you either. I have written to a friend in your county who is known to stock the alternate herb. Hopefully she will contact you shortly and be able to deliver the cure you are so in need of.

Thank you for your patronage,

Mr. Adrian Harris'

The note gave Stiles some pleasure, since it meant that whatever was plaguing Kate would continue to plague her for a short while longer than she'd hoped. The note sent Kate into a rage. She ranted about the uselessness of men, the failures of the untitled. She was so distracted by her anger, in fact, that she didn't notice Stiles slipping from the room.

He really didn't want to wait for her to finish, because he suspected she'd force him to write a reply.

Stiles came into the main hall just as the Honorable Christopher Argent descended the staircase. The man paused on the last step and regarded Stiles with a strange sadness in his eyes that Stiles had never before seen directed at him.

"Sir?" Stiles asked, slipping his injured hand behind his back in case that was the cause of Lord Argent's anxiety. Stiles already had the servants treating him like a delicate fern. He didn't need Lord Argent to have another excuse to avoid him.

Lord Argent said nothing, and they stood in the entry hall, watching each other. Christopher Argent was a handsome older gentleman, the likes of which would have fit nicely into a novel to save a damsel from a life of abject poverty. The servants, including some of the men, had remarked on his looks and personality as a reason to like him above all other Argents, including Allison, but as Stiles knew nothing of this winning personality, he'd pick Allison every time.

It was true though that Christopher had compelling, expressive eyes, and his mouth often gave away his thoughts without him speaking a word. In the moment, pinned on the final stair, he seemed to be apologizing for something, and Stiles could only assume the expression was in response to Stiles' injured livelihood. He didn't want to be pitied – not by anyone, but definitely not by this man, who had ignored him for four years.

Kate's voice could be heard drawing nearer as she came in search of her runaway scribe. As soon as she was visible, Chris tore his eyes from Stiles to look at her instead. It was then that Stiles noticed the open letter dangling from the lord's fingers.

"Chris, what on earth is wrong with you?" Kate asked, snidely. "You look like a distracted drunk."

Glancing down at the letter in his hand, Chris took a deep breath, as though he was sad to report whatever it contained. When he looked up, he was back to ignoring Stiles. With eyes only for his sister, he said, "I have received a letter from Lord Derek Hale. He is coming to visit on business."

Stiles felt his stomach drop. Kate let out a cheer.