A/N: Thanks again to all who have favourited, followed, and reviewed this story! Your support keeps me going. Please enjoy a bit of a calmer chapter! :)


Scott watched the rise and fall of Stiles' chest, his friend in a deep – and so far peaceful – sleep. They were at Scott's house and Stiles was sleeping in Scott's bed, in the same place Scott had put them when they'd returned from the forest. Stiles had been sleeping for a day and a half now, not having woken once. Scott wanted desperately to talk to him and learn about everything that had happened, but with the way Stiles had all but collapsed on the ground, the deep bags of sleeplessness that had been under his eyes, and the way he was sleeping now – there was just no way Scott could bring himself to wake him up. After everything he had missed, after everything he had done and hadn't done, he was obligated to give that to his friend, at least.

So he waited.

He'd walked only ten minutes through the forest with Stiles on his back before he ran into Liam, who looked to be on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. After Scott had taken off and disappeared from his view, Liam found he had lost his scent, as well; he'd searched for nearly an hour until he'd finally found them. He quickly called Lydia, Malia, and Kira and informed them that Stiles had been found and was in one piece. Scott had been tight-lipped about what had happened, so he wasn't able to tell them much more than that.

They'd walked back to Scott's bike and much to Liam's surprise, Scott handed him the keys. He didn't say much, other than for Liam not to wreck it, then had continued on walking down the road with Stiles on his back. Liam had wanted so much to ask what had happened, to see if everything was all right, but his instincts – and maybe even his common sense, although everyone kept telling him he didn't have that yet – told him that this was not the time to ask questions, and that it'd be best to just leave his alpha alone. So Liam got on the bike and left.

Scott eventually picked up his speed, running the rest of the way until he finally made it back home. He'd thought about disregarding Stiles' demand not to go to the hospital and take him anyway, but after a quick phone-call with his mom he determined that the best route was to take Stiles back to his place and take care of him there. Melissa had said that it sounded like what Stiles needed the most was rest, along with anti-septic and bandages for his cuts and bruises. Being the son of a nurse, Scott was more than familiar with the procedure of fixing someone up, so once he'd placed Stiles on his bed, he'd proceeded to get out the bandages from the hall-closet and fix his friend as best he could.

He had to cut Stiles' shirt off, an act which he knew would get him an earful of complaints later on, but Scott didn't care. He doubted this was one of Stiles' favourite shirts anyway, as he didn't think he'd ever seen it before. The style looked old and the sleeves looked pressed, something which Scott knew Stiles would never take the time to do. When he'd finally removed the shirt he sat back, his breath catching in his throat as he surveyed all the damage that had been done to Stiles' body in the week since he'd been taken.

The injuries he had seemed as various in kind as they were in number. His chest and abdomen, along with a few spots on his sides, were covered in bruises ranging from a deep black and purple, to green, to a sickly yellow. Small, half-healed cuts littered his body, interspersed with deep, long cuts, some already scabbing over while others were an angry, vicious red, some of which were still bleeding. Scott quickly began running anti-septic over the wounds to stave off any infection, covering them with large cloth-bandages when he was done. It was a testament to Stiles' exhaustion that he neither woke nor flinched during the entire process.

Melissa had come home a couple hours later and re-checked Stiles' bandages, replacing some and tightening others. She'd stood over Stiles with a look of sympathy and fear, a look that clearly said she wished she could help him more. Scott knew that look only too well – it had been so often directed at him throughout his entire life. It was the look of a mother's pain for her hurting child.

Melissa had brushed the back of her hand over Stiles' brow, thankful to see that no fever had so far set in. She'd tried asking Scott what had happened, but he refused to say much, telling her only that he'd figured out Stiles was in trouble somewhere in the woods, and that when he'd found him, he looked as though he'd gone ten rounds in a ring, and that he'd shortly passed out after that.

Melissa knew he was lying – she always knew – but she didn't press him for the truth. Scott had become adept at keeping secrets from her over these past few years since he'd been bitten, but even now – and as when he was a child – Melissa knew that if she let him be, he'd eventually come to her on his own and tell her everything. She had long since come to accept the fact that Scott was an adult now, if not in age, then certainly in experience. Although it pained her that she could no longer protect her son like she used to – that she could no longer protect both her sons – she knew that he was more than capable of taking care of himself and those around him.

She'd offered to call Stiles' dad and Scott had quietly said that might not be a good idea. At this Melissa argued with him, as no matter how grown-up your children became, a parent was still a parent, and they deserved to know what was happening with their children. They didn't have to argue long, however, as shortly afterwards Melissa got a call from a frantic John, asking where his son was. She explained everything that she knew, and soon after John arrived at their house, grabbing onto his son's hand and not letting go.

Scott could smell the confusion rolling off him and listened as he explained how three hours ago he felt as though he had suddenly "woken up" even though he was already awake, suddenly wondering where Stiles was and realising that he hadn't seen him – that he hadn't thought about him – in almost a week. He'd tried calling Stiles' phone but it had gone straight to voicemail; he'd then called Scott, but his had been out of service. He'd spent the next forty-five minutes having his men scour the area for Stiles, but to no avail. Scott asked him if he remembered their conversation from earlier that day, but the Sheriff just shook his head, claiming that this was the first time he'd seen Scott in nearly a week.

They had all stayed by Stiles' side for another hour, before John got a call on his phone telling him to get back to the station. He'd refused at first, but Melissa encouraged him to go, saying that Stiles most likely would be sleeping for the rest of the evening and through the night, and that she'd call him if he woke up. John was still reluctant, but at his work's insistence, he eventually left.

It was now a day and a half later; John had returned a couple times to check on Stiles, but an emergency at work kept him coming and going. He'd just left an hour ago, along with Melissa who had to start her shift at the hospital, leaving Scott alone in the house with Stiles, his hand gripping his friend's arm, and wondering when – if ever – he was going to wake up.

He didn't have to wait much longer.

While Scott was staring absently out the window, he felt the muscles beneath his fingers move and he quickly looked down, watching as Stiles' eyes slowly drew open.

Stiles blinked a few times, trying to gather his bearings as his brain slowly started to come back online. He wondered where he was for a moment, unfamiliar with the blue walls and carpet on the floor. He tried to figure out where he was, when suddenly he realised with a vicious start that he was lying on a bed.

Adrenaline and fear started pumping through his veins and he immediately sat up, fighting against the sheets and blankets that had twisted themselves in his arms and legs. Visions of large, metal springs entered his mind, ripping through the mattress and spearing into his body, stabbing through his back, wrapping around his arms, his legs, his chest, holding him, suffocating him. Only one thought coursed through his mind, screaming at him to get out, get out, get out. It was only when someone grabbed onto his arms that he realised a voice was speaking – a very deep, not-female voice. He snapped his head up, his eyes wide, and saw –

Scott.

Stiles stared at Scott in confusion for only a moment, before the memories of all that had happened came rushing back, and he fell against Scott's arms as he realised that he was safe.

Safe. What did that feel like, again?

"I'm okay, I'm okay," Stiles said quickly as Scott frantically asked if he was all right. He pushed Scott away and fell back onto the bed, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. He was expecting to hear Scott say something, to ask him again if he was all right; when he didn't, Stiles opened his eyes and looked up at him, catching his eye – he immediately wished he hadn't.

Scott was looking at him with a pure, full-blown, trademarked Puppy-Scott-McCall look, his eyes already begging for answers to questions he hadn't yet asked and betraying the guilt that he undoubtedly felt. Stiles had seen Guilty-Scott before, but he hadn't seen a Guilty-Scott like this. He swore under his breath, trying to steel himself for what was to come. Stiles could stand-up against many things, but a quivering, guilty, upset-Scott-McCall had never been one of them. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said that they would be sharing manly bro-tears and bro-hugs; he just hadn't thought they'd come so soon.

"Hey man," Stiles greeted, propping himself up against the pillow.

Scott stared at him, his eyebrows knitted together in concern. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like I just woke up from the dead," Stiles half-joked. By Scott's expression, he clearly didn't find it funny.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked. "Water? Something to eat?"

Stiles was going to refuse on principle, as just because he'd been kidnapped and tortured by a crazy person, it didn't mean he was an invalid who couldn't take care of himself. But as his stomach clenched painfully and his throat grew suddenly dry, Stiles stubbornly realised that yeah – maybe he was. He was just about to begrudgingly accept when another bodily need suddenly made itself known – his bladder. He quickly sat up and started to get out of the bed. Scott was immediately by his side, grabbing his arm.

"Dude, it's fine," Stiles insisted as he swung his legs over the bed. "I just have to pee, that's all; you don't have to help." When Stiles finally made it to his feet, his legs suddenly turned to jello and started to fall out from under him; Scott's strong arms quickly caught him and held him up, much to Stiles' chagrin. "Okay," he said after a moment. "So maybe I could use some help."

"All right, let's just – let's just move here, for a second," Scott said, adjusting his hold and draping Stiles' arm around his shoulder until they were finally able to make their way out of the bedroom and towards that bathroom. Stiles shrugged off Scott's help once he'd reached the door and – thankfully – was able to make the rest of the way by himself. He actively avoided looking in the mirror as he did his business; he already knew that he looked like shit, he didn't need to actually see it, thank-you-very-much.

When Stiles was finished he slowly made his way back out into the hall, relieved to see that, bit by bit, the strength in his legs was slowly returning. Scott still grabbed his arm for support – which Stiles was secretly thankful for – and helped him back into what Stiles now realised was Scott's bedroom. He pushed away the fear he felt at seeing the bed and forced himself to sit back on it, but despite the knowledge that this bed was Scott's bed and he was in Scott's room, the uncomfortableness and unease never went away.

Scott sat down on the chair beside the bed and the two sat in an awkward silence for a few minutes, before Stiles finally spoke with a sigh. "I guess someone has to start this sob-fest," he said.

"I guess," Scott replied quietly. They were silent for another minute, until Scott finally began. "So what… what happened?" he asked. His eyes glanced down at Stiles' stomach before looking back up. Stiles knew exactly what he was thinking.

"'You wanna know how I got these scars?'" he asked jokingly, lowering his voice in mimicry. To his surprise, Scott didn't laugh with him; instead his eyes darkened and he leveled a disapproving glare.

"This isn't funny, Stiles!" he said harshly. "You were kidnapped by a witch! You nearly died out there! If I hadn't found you –."

"Fuck you, McCall," Stiles swore, suddenly finding himself sitting bolt-upright, glaring viciously at the other man, anger coursing through his veins like fire. "Fuck you! You think I find it funny that I was kidnapped in broad daylight? You think I find it funny that she strung me up by my wrists and tied me to the bed while she cut and stabbed into my chest like I was a fuckin' lab experiment? You think I find it funny that even when I was surrounded by hundreds of people and everyone I knew, that I was still her prisoner? I know what she was doing, I know what she was going to do – so don't you think for a fucking second that I think it's funny –"

"Stiles –"

"And let me tell you another thing! I did not need your help – I did not need you to save me like I was a fucking damsel; I didn't ask you to save me, I didn't ask to be your burden – I saved my own fuckin' self, you stupid, ungrateful, fucking bastard –." Stiles cut himself off, pressing the palms of his hands hard against his eyes.

No. No, no, no – he wasn't going to lose it. Not now, not in front of Scott, not like this; he wasn't going to have a breakdown as soon as he woke up. He couldn't. Pull yourself together Stiles, pull yourself together.

"Stiles, I…."

Stiles scrambled off the bed until he was standing and began to pace, suddenly needing to just move. He walked back and forth, trying to calm himself down and slow his racing heart. He could feel Scott's eyes on him, could feel his concern, his worry.

His judgement.

"I know what you're thinking," Stiles said after a few minutes, refusing to look up.

"No you don't," Scott replied.

Stiles continued like he hadn't heard him, "You think your once-sane friend – well, semi-sane friend. Let's face it, I was never really sane – you think he's finally gone off the deep-end; one kidnapping and he's completely lost it. Finished. Kaput. Psycho."

"That's not what I was thinking," Scott said firmly. Not giving Stiles the time to speak, he continued, "I was thinking that my best friend was kidnapped, right under my nose, and I didn't have the sense or wherewithal to realise he was in trouble. I was thinking that now my best friend – my brother – is going to have memories for the rest of his life that will haunt him every day, and there's not a single thing that I can do about it."

There was a pause, then Stiles sniffed, fighting back the sting that had started to grow hot in his eyes. They stood in silence for a long while; Stiles came back and sat down on the edge of the bed, but he still couldn't look Scott in the eyes. Finally, when it seemed like neither was ever going to speak, Scott opened his mouth. "Stiles, when we… when we were fighting Givens, you… I thought I saw… I mean, when you told me to get out of the way, it looked like you… like you had…."

"Attacked her?" Stiles finished. He stayed motionless, his eyes never turning to Scott.

He wasn't sure what to say. He'd barely had time to process that he had these powers, that he had actually used them against the Witch – it had been what, one day? Two? He'd barely had time to realise he had them, much less figured out how he was going to explain it all to everyone else. How could he explain something that he himself really didn't know anything about? How could he take something so personal, something that so greatly affected him and his life, and share it with everyone around him, like it was nothing at all? Like it didn't affect how he lived, what he thought of himself, who he thought he was? These powers, this prophecy of the Blessed – it was personal. It was personal. And how could he possibly pretend, even for a moment, that it was not?

But this was Scott. This was his best friend, this was his brother. They told each other everything, heck, they practically did everything together – practically lived in each other's pockets. When Scott was bitten and first learning about his own abilities as a werewolf, Stiles had been there for him, he'd been there every step of the way. How could he tell Scott that he couldn't do the same for him now?

Plus, he'd actually seen him use his powers, so in the end, he didn't really have a choice.

Stiles took a deep breath, and finally spoke. "There was, um… there was a reason, apparently, why Givens took me. Why she chose me out of everyone else in the world."

There was a pregnant pause and Scott frowned. "And why did she choose you?" he asked.

"Well, I mean – I don't know if it's true, or if she and everyone else is just making it up, but… but apparently I'm 'important', or something. Or I have something important. I mean, I know I have something kinda useful, I can't exactly deny that anymore, but I don't think it's that important. But she does – did – apparently, so that's why she decided to kidnap me and keep me as her pet in her little hell-hole of a house."

He heard Scott huff and could sense he was struggling to keep his annoyance in check. Stiles inwardly smiled. "So what is it?" Scott pressed.

Stiles' heart began to race again and suddenly he felt incredibly nervous. He ran his hand through his hair and tried to calm himself down, but it didn't really help. Finally, he took a deep breath – if he was going to say it, then he'd better just say it and get it over with.

"I can… do things," he spluttered out. Yeah, great – that sure explained everything. He tried again, "I can… I can move the… the air, or… or something." Geez, that sounded stupid. 'Move the air?' Stiles inwardly cringed. Finally, before he could stop himself, he spat it out: "I have magic. I'm an Elemental."

There was a long, heavy silence, then Scott asked, "What… what's an elemental?"

Stiles shook his head, finally turning around to face him. "Shit, man – I don't know. Alayna just said I was an Elemental, that I had elemental powers, that I could use elemental magic. Like earth, air –."

"Fire and water?" Scott finished for him, his eyebrows raised. "Seriously?"

"Hey man, I was as skeptical as you; I didn't believe her for a second. But then I got mad and it… it sort of turned out to be true. At least partly, anyway."

"What do you mean, 'partly'? And who's Alayna?"

"I mean so far I can only control air, though Alayna said I probably could control the rest in time. And Alayna is a woman I met in a mirror. She was actually pretty nice. Pretty helpful in the end."

There was a much longer silence after that and Stiles wondered if maybe he should have explained everything a little more gently. Or if he should have explained it at all. He finally chanced a look at Scott and saw his friend looking at him incredulously, his eyebrows raised high in disbelief, as though his mother had just told him he was going to have a new sibling. Stiles could no longer keep the grin from spreading across his face.

"It looks… it looks like you had a pretty busy week," Scott finally got out.

Stiles snorted. "Yeah, I'd say. Far from my most enjoyable week, I tell you, but definitely one of the most enlightening."

"Did you say you were 'blessed'?" Scott asked, his voice a slightly higher octave than normal. "Who – who the heck blessed you?"

This time, Stiles laughed outright. "Dude, if someone could give me that answer, I'd give 'em a million bucks. Look – I don't know what any of it means, I just know that it's true. At least the part about me having powers. The jury's still out on the rest."

"That sounds…."

"Remarkable? Exciting? Psychotic?"

"It sounds amazing."

Stiles gave him a look, a small grin tugging at his lips. "Amazing?" he repeated.

Scott returned the grin with his own. Suddenly he leaned forward, a curious look on his face. "Can you show me?" he asked. Stiles frowned.

"You wanna see me use my powers?" he said, his eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, I mean – I saw you use it against Givens, but… I didn't exactly know what I was seeing at the time."

"Dude, I'm not some wind-up monkey toy for you to laugh at."

Scott frowned. "I wouldn't laugh at you, Stiles. Come on – can't you show me? Or is it… is it like, something you can only do once in a while or in special circumstances?"

Stiles sighed, turning his body to fully face in front of Scott. "Fine, I just… I'm still figuring it out, okay? I seriously only learned about it a couple days ago. And with everything going on, I haven't exactly had time to 'practice'."

Stiles took a deep breath and closed his eyes, calming himself down enough so that he'd actually be able to focus. He held out his hand in front of him, his palm facing upwards, searching for the pull that he knew was sitting somewhere inside him. He waited a few minutes, but found that rather than feeling his power, the only thing he could feel was Scott's stare. He opened his eyes with a frown to see Scott staring intently at him, his eyes wide in expectation. When he saw Stiles look at him, he blinked.

"Did you… did you do it?" he asked unsurely. Stiles rolled his eyes.

"No."

"Why not?"

"'Cuz I can't exactly do it when you're lookin' at me like I'm about to grow another head!" Stiles hissed.

"I'm not looking at you like anything!" Scott insisted.

Stiles huffed. "Well, stop staring at me like that, at least." He closed his eyes again before Scott could reply and held out his hand once more.

This time the feeling came quick and Stiles latched onto it, suddenly becoming acutely aware of the air in the room, the oxygen that he and Scott were breathing, how fast they were exhaling, how still and calm everything was. He felt the air around his hand and he began to move it, turning it faster and faster while doing his best to contain it to the palm of his hand. He suddenly heard Scott gasp, and he opened his eyes.

A sphere of wind lay in the palm of his hand, similar to the one that had appeared when he was with Alayna. He looked up at Scott tentatively, hesitant to see the look on his face, but rather than seeing fear or disgust, Stiles only saw wide-eyed wonder.

"Holy shit," Scott said, never taking his eyes off Stiles' hand.

"Yeah, that's what I said," Stiles replied. He vaguely wondered how long he could keep the wind there, whether it would just dissipate when he lost focus or if he'd lose his energy before that. Nothing happened right away, so Stiles just shrugged.

"What can you do with it?" Scott asked after a minute, looking up to catch Stiles' eye.

Stiles frowned. "Well, I used it to get out of the room Givens was keeping me in; I used the air-pressure to break the rope she was hanging me from and to break the window so I could climb out. Other than that, though, all I've used it for is throwing it at people. And jars. People and jars."

Stiles saw Scott's face fall at the mention of being hung from the ceiling, but thankfully he didn't pursue it. Instead, he tentatively reached out his hand towards Stiles, his fingers slowly inching their way towards the wind that was being held in his friend's hand. After a brief pause, he placed his fingers through the sphere.

Stiles wasn't sure what he was expecting, whether he thought Scott's fingers would be ripped from his hand or if his hand would simply shake like a rattle. Neither or those things happened; rather, the wind began to weave through Scott's fingers, over his hand and up his wrist, sometimes moving it, but never with force. Stiles blinked, surprised, as suddenly the sensation of touch washed over him and he realised that, through the wind, he could actually feel Scott's hand. He could feel the rise and fall of his knuckles, the edges of his fingertips; he swore he could even feel the rush of blood that ran beneath the veins that lay underneath his skin. With a jolt Stiles ripped his hand away, his eyes wide in shock. At Stiles' movement, Scott quickly retracted his own hand, looking up at Stiles in confusion. "What?" he asked quickly. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Stiles replied, contemplating the new discovery only for a moment before pushing it to the back of his mind. "Nothing. I just… I'm still trying to figure it out, that's all." He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair. "So… do you believe me?" he asked.

Despite Stiles' odd behaviour, the wonder that had been in Scott's eyes hadn't disappeared; if anything, it had grown. "Stiles, man – that… that's probably the coolest and most amazing thing I've ever seen." Stiles couldn't stop the small smile from turning up his lips. Coming from Scott, who was a werewolf and fought supernatural creatures as a side-job, that was saying something.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, both taking a moment to just enjoy the silence and relish in each other's company, in the knowledge that the other was here and that they were safe. Suddenly Scott frowned and he looked up at Stiles, confusion creased slightly between his brows. "Hey, before in the woods when we first found each other, you said that you couldn't tell anyone who Givens was because she'd placed a spell over you…."

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Well, if you couldn't tell anyone, then… how'd you tell me?"

Stiles blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, then blinked again. "Huh," he said after a minute. "Yeah, uh… that… that doesn't make sense. Didn't think about that." Stiles leaned back against the wall, fighting back a yawn, fighting the urge to go back to sleep. He didn't know how someone could sleep for so long and still be tired when they woke.

They sat in a amiable silence for a while, before Scott suddenly jerked and stood to his feet. "Oh I forgot," he said. "I was going to get you something to eat! And to drink. I'll be right back!"

Stiles started moving off the bed and got to his feet. "I'll come with you."

"Stiles, you should be resting! Go back to bed; I'll get you something good, I promise."

Stiles shook his head. "Dude, I've been sleeping on your bed for the past two days. I am sick of beds and I'm sick of sleeping. I am not an invalid. Besides, someone has to make sure you don't poison the food, right?"

Scott sighed in defeat and waited as Stiles made his way over to him, his movements more than a little reserved as he walked. He tried to push Scott's hands away as he reached out to help him, but Scott determinedly grabbed hold and together they walked through the hallway and down the stairs; Stiles all the while completely unaware that while they walked, black tendrils wove their way up Scott's arm, taking his pain away.

Stiles ate the cereal that sat in front of him like a madman, finishing the bowl in a matter of minutes. What had been an absent hunger had turned into ravishment, and Stiles found that he couldn't remember when it was the last time he had ate. Without asking, Scott poured him another bowl, even adding the milk for him. Stiles protested slightly, telling Scott he could do it himself, but by then it was finished and Stiles' stomach insisted he continue to eat; so he did.

When he finished, he pushed the bowl away and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes tiredly, wincing as the movement jarred one of the wounds on his arm. Scott leaned forward, resisting the urge to reach out and grab Stiles' hand to take his pain away. "Do you want to go back to bed?" he asked instead. "Here," he said, moving his chair back and getting to his feet. "I'll help you up the stairs."

"No," Stiles quickly replied, shaking his head. "No, I'll just… I'll just go lie down on the couch; I don't need a bed." He didn't think he would ever need a bed again. He got to his own feet and Scott quickly came up beside him, grabbing his arm and leading him into the living room, slowly lowering him onto the couch. Sinking into the cushions felt like sinking into heaven and Stiles was unable to stop the sigh of relief from escaping his mouth.

They sat side by side in silence for a long while, Scott's bare arm pressed close against Stiles', black tendrils weaving their way across his skin and disappearing underneath his shirt. Stiles wished he had the strength to push Scott away and deal with his pain on his own, but he didn't, so instead he found himself leaning further into his friend, his eyes slowly closing as sleep warmly beckoned him into its depths.

A thought suddenly crossed Stiles' mind and his eyes snapped back open, his brows knitting together. "She killed Mrs. MacMillon," he said quietly. The memory had come out of nowhere, of Givens remarking on the teacher's temperament and waving the jar of eyeballs at him with a smirk.

Scott tensed, but remained where he was. "I guess… I guess that's not really a surprise," he said after a moment. "Some of the teachers mentioned that she'd left really quickly, that she hadn't given any formal notice or anything. There were some rumours saying she didn't even have any family; people thought she just decided to quit."

"She cut her up. Used her for ingredients in her… spells. She made me drink some of it." He didn't know why he was telling Scott this, why he was telling him this incident out of all the others, but he found that once he started talking, it was rather difficult to stop.

Scott was quiet for a long moment, his arm shifting and turning, grasping Stiles' hand and gripping it in his own. "I'm sorry I wasn't there," he said quietly. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you. I thought by pushing you away I was keeping you safe, when in reality, I…."

"I'm glad you weren't there," Stiles replied. "She said that after she got what she wanted from me, that she'd go after you. I didn't want her to go after you."

Scott fell silent and Stiles thought for a moment that the conversation was over, when suddenly Scott spoke, his voice raw and strained. "Why aren't you mad at me?" he asked. "After what I said to you, after what I did to you… you should be pissed at me. You should be angry. I was an asshole to you; I said – I said things that were complete lies, I said terrible things but you… but you're acting like it's just… like it's just not a big deal. I know you said you forgave me, but –."

"I did forgive you," Stiles interrupted, pushing away to get a better look at his friend. "And I still do."

"But you only forgave me because you thought… because you thought you weren't going to escape from Givens."

Stiles made a face. "You think I forgave you out of pity? Out of some sort of Last Will and Testament? Dude, Scott… I wouldn't do that."

"Yes you would."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Okay, yes – maybe I would. But I didn't. I forgave you because you asked. I forgave you before you asked. Because you're my best friend. I know we've said it a thousand times, but I'll say it a thousand times more if I have to – you're my brother. And believe it or not, I actually did understand where you were coming from."

"Oh come on Stiles; I may have had legitimate reasons but I was a complete asshole about it, admit it. And even if I did have reasons, it didn't mean I could just cut you out like that. It didn't mean I could decide your life for you."

"Okay, yeah, maybe I was pissed as hell at you for a while and maybe I wanted to punch you in the face and swear at you until my face turned blue, but I guarantee you that after –." His words caught in his mouth and Stiles came to an abrupt halt, his eyes widening. He turned to Scott, his words falling out in a rush. "It wasn't me," he said. "What I – what she said, it wasn't me."

Scott's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Stiles, what are you talking about? What wasn't you?"

"On the phone, before, last – shit, I don't even know when it was, but you called me; when you called me I picked up, but then I dropped the phone and –."

"Do you mean when you… when you were drunk?" Scott asked tentatively.

"Yes, yes but – but I wasn't drunk, Scott, it wasn't me talking to you. I mean, it was, but then I dropped the phone and Givens picked it up. She told you I'd been drinking, that I wanted you to leave me alone. She was using my voice, she was pretending to be me but it wasn't me, I swear to you it wasn't –."

The creases in Scott's forehead gave way to understanding. "That wasn't you," he repeated, as though affirming the truth for himself. "It was Givens."

Stiles nodded, the memory of that scene playing in his head and he leaned back into the cushions of the couch, seeking what comfort he could. "That weekend… when I stopped to help her on the side of the road… I didn't realise at first what was happening; I didn't realise that she was putting me under a spell, that she was taking me prisoner. When I look at it now I can see that something was wrong, that the whole thing was wrong. But I didn't see it at the time. I just… I just thought she was being nice."

"What did she do?" Scott asked quietly.

Stiles swallowed, licking his lips. "When I dropped her off at her house, the jeep broke down. I didn't think anything of it, I know I should have, everyone else in the world probably would have, but –."

"Dude, Stiles – calm down, it's all right. I understand. Just… keep going."

Stiles took a breath, then started again. "She asked if I wanted to stay there. I thought it was weird at first, but then she invited me for supper and we ate, and… and then after that everything gets fuzzy. It all just seems like a dream. A really vivid, horrible dream. She told me to stay at her house for the night and I did, and the next morning I just… I just forgot I was ever supposed to leave. So I stayed. It wasn't until you called me that I realised something was wrong, that she was doing something to me and I had to get out. I tried to get out, but she found me, and…." Stiles swallowed. "She kept me in a room in the attic and she… did stuff…." There was a long silence, then Stiles quietly whispered, "Please don't tell my dad or the Pack."

Scott frowned, shaking his head. "Stiles, your dad needs to know –."

"I know. I know he does, just… just not now. So please don't tell him. Especially about the magic. He doesn't need to worry about me more than he already does, y'know? He always worries about me, and… and it's over now, so it would only make him feel guilty if he knew everything that happened."

"Do you think… do you think Givens put a spell on him, so that he'd forget about you or something like that?"

Stiles nodded. "Yeah. Yeah that seems like something she would do. She didn't want anyone getting suspicious; she didn't want anyone to think I was in trouble. I think… I think maybe she was purposely keeping Dad busy at work, keeping him preoccupied, but she probably didn't trust that he wouldn't notice I was gone. It's okay. If that – if that's all she did to him, then that's okay." Scott squeezed Stiles' hand and Stiles' eyes started to shut as a wave of exhaustion fell over him. He looked back up, staring vacantly into the black abyss of the television. "I'm glad I got out," he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

Scott felt his heart clench and he closed his eyes, trying but failing to force back the hot sting of tears that had started to gather there. He squeezed Stiles' hand again, unashamedly leaning into him. "I'm glad you made it out, too," he replied.

The room fell into silence and a few minutes later Scott heard Stiles' breathing even out and listened as his heartbeat fell into a steady rhythm, as sleep finally took him. His whole weight was against Scott, but Scott was more than happy to take it. Grabbing a blanket off the arm of the couch, Scott silently but expertly maneuvered it until it was laying across both him and Stiles. He let go of Stiles' hand and instead wrapped his arm protectively around his shoulder, holding him close and relishing in the comfort that his best friend – his brother -was safe.