The little red lights on the cameras have stopped blinking. Stiles takes note of it as someone might take note of a leaf blowing in the wind. It's there, but it has nothing to do with him.

(Only it does; it does.)

He's stretched out on the floor, Derek on top of him like a snoring, warm mattress. Not a blanket; a blanket would be lighter, and this feels more like being smothered. The funny thing is that it's not even a bad feeling. It's comfortable in an odd way, like Derek's mass is protecting him from the unseen eyes of the – no longer blinking, no longer filming – cameras, which stand in for the men, which stand in for all people, the whole world.

Stiles drifts.

The world is made of soft colors. The gray of the floor, the khaki of Scott's pants, the color of flesh that is Derek's right arm next to his face, black hairs covering it. Stiles's arm is flesh-colored too, but the hairs on it are finer, lighter, stand up whenever a fresh wave of cold cascades down his back, unannounced, independent from what his mind chooses to focus on.

(His body is telling him that something is wrong.)

"Am I attractive to werewolves?" Stiles asks the world, and Scott, but Scott stares at him unblinking, not comprehending, as if Stiles were speaking in tongues like a man possessed by demons.

What he wants to ask is this: am I attractive to Derek Hale?

(What his body wants to ask is: is that why he wanted to fuck me? Is that why he bit me?)

Another rush of ice goes down his spine.

"Only you wanted to kill me, and Derek didn't. I don't blame you, by the way. It's all good." He thinks he should probably repeat that when Scott's back to himself.

The door to the room opens. Stiles watches feet, boots, Army boots, come in, and feels Derek suddenly tense above him.

Hands, picking up the box. "You looked great there on the screen." A laugh; Stiles doesn't reply, but Derek starts growling, and the boots retreat, unhurried, to the door and out.

Derek huffs and snuffles at his neck.

(Licking the wound.)

Stiles's mind continues to drift.

"I'm sorry." Those are the first words Derek speaks when he comes back to himself. That is, after he rolled off Stiles and scrambled backwards, back to the corner he was in before.

Stiles's body misses Derek.

Stiles misses his mind.

Stiles's mouth is missing words. It's utterly failing him in terms of running off and distracting people and talking about anything so he doesn't have to talk about what just happened.

Stiles rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

They're sitting with their backs to the wall, as far from Derek as the cage will allow, Stiles pressed against the bars of the cage, while Scott's body forms a barrier between him and Derek. Scott is sort of awkwardly patting his shoulder and glaring at Derek. Stiles wishes they both would stop, stop growling at each other, stop fighting, stop existing, just stop. "Stop."

"Stiles?"

"Just stop it, Scott." He rubs a hand over his face, exhales. "We can have this fight once we're out of here." Stiles can't play referee and nurse to both their egos while feeling like he's falling apart. He just can't.

"But–"

"Scott."

Scott sighs, stops patting his shoulder. "Right, so, hey. They got what they wanted. Maybe they'll let us go now? That would be awesome, huh?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, "it would be."

None of them believe it.

The downside of an 8-by-8 cage– aside from it being a cage – is this: there's no privacy.

There's not even a bucket.

There is a small grid set in the center of the floor and a drain underneath, and Stiles is going to relieve his bladder there as soon as he can figure out how to position his body because he's either facing the cameras – fuck, no, even if they're not on – or he's facing the back wall and then Derek and Scott will get an eyeful, or he's facing one of the side walls and then either Scott or Derek will get an eyeful.

His penis is not on board with that either. His bladder, on the other hand, keeps telling him that it so does not care and it will soon care even less about the how and where.

Stiles rises to his feet. He shuffles forward, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes following his every step. He stops before the grid.

The cameras are still off. There's no reason not to stand like this – if he closes his eyes – no, bad idea. His aim might be off. Stiles reaches for his belt with shaky hands, pulls himself out, tries to ignore the voice that's telling him that he's having a panic attack over peeing and that this is so fucking pathetic. Pathetic, Stilinski. Because that voice isn't doing any good. It's not helping; it's harming.

Letting go is a struggle. He feels more exposed than he did while Derek was humping against his ass, but when he squeezes the first drops out, it's like a dam breaks.

He shakes off, puts himself back to rights. Would like to wash his hands right about now, but that's out.

When he turns back around neither Scott nor Derek are looking at him, which – good. Stiles takes a step towards Scott and hesitates. Scott's staring at the ceiling. Derek is staring at his own hands, looking like he wants to murder someone and that someone is himself.

Stiles doesn't want to play nursemaid, because Stiles cannot deal right now and he can't figure out how to feel right now either because if he starts thinking about what there is to feel about he'll probably just sit down where he is and start rocking and gibbering.

He shuffles back towards Scott. Best friends trying to kill him he can and has dealt with after all.

Stiles's stomach is growling and so is Scott's. Can't be good, Stiles thinks. Hungry werewolf can't be good. Hungry werewolf might eat anything in sight once it's drugged again. If it is.

(Do werewolves eat each other?)

He's thirsty, too.

If they try to – they have probably gotten – they might try to shoot another scene with – no, no. Think about something else. Like his dad. His dad's good.

Stiles rubs the palm of his hand over his knee, over and over again, thinking. His dad is the sheriff again. That's good; that's awesome, in fact, and not just because Stiles didn't manage to screw up his father's life forever.

"I think my dad will be looking for me by now." For him; for Scott, too. Derek's pack might be looking for Derek right now. Stiles can't figure out if he wants the pack to find them. These people were well-prepared, hitting hard and fast, almost like a drive-by shooting, only Scott, Derek, and Stiles were standing in the warehouse district, which is on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, and not some ghetto, when the truck came down the street.

Freaking lost, Stiles's ass.

"'Course, he probably won't think to grill our principal."

Scott's head whips around. "What makes you think Gerard Argent is involved in this?"

Stiles gapes at him. "Jesus, Scott. Really? Who else? He's probably been keeping tabs on you, and as soon as it looked like you were selling him out? Bam!" Honestly, Stiles should have been able to see that sooner. Of course, Gerard Argent has to have been spying on Scott.

Question is how, of course. The cameras in the school couldn't have given him a clue about where they were going or why they were going there. How could he have known?

"There wasn't anyone close by when we talked about going to Derek," Stiles states, only briefly noting that Scott nodded. "And you would have noticed someone following us."

"Uh, probably?"

"Dude, yes or no?"

"Yes...no. I don't know, okay? I didn't notice anyone."

In the corner, Derek snorts. Scott grits his teeth but doesn't react.

"Okay, fine." Getting that team together would have taken some time anyway. He has to have known sooner. Stiles leans his head back against the wall, hand coming up to rub his temple. Or maybe – maybe they were there for Derek, and Scott and Stiles were just incidental.

If that's the case, they'd probably have grabbed someone else to play chew toy if Stiles hadn't been there. It should make him feel bad, but Stiles really wishes they had grabbed someone other than him.

He's a bad person and a shitty human being, but he can't help himself.

God, he's getting a headache.

Scott jerks suddenly, looking towards the door. Stiles follows his gaze in time to see the door open and two of the men come in. One is carrying a small bag of – Stiles squints up at him, trying to get a good look at the letters, then hisses when he recognizes it.

"Thought you might get hungry." The man pushes the bag between the bars, careful to keep his hand as far from the bars as possible.

The bag of Purina One falls to the floor, landing with a soft thud. "Enjoy."

He's grinning.

"Fuck you." Stiles wants to tear him to pieces. Scott is growling. Only Derek remains eerily silent.

"I think your lover will do that for you. Again."

Stiles can't remember how he got from sitting on the floor to being pressed against the bars, hand stretching forward to – to do something to that asshole, but there he is and there that fucker is laughing at him before turning his back and just walking out.

Someone's hands land on his shoulder, carefully but firmly pulling him back. "Don't touch the bars."

Stiles twists around, the hands falling away, to stare at Derek. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask why, but he swallows it down. Mind skittering away from the question.

Derek takes a step to the side and bends over, picks up the bag of dog food and hurls it straight through the bars at one of the cameras. The tripod shudders and the dry food spills all over the equipment, but that's all the damage it does.

His mouth is pressed into a thin line, and his cheeks are reddened, and he refuses to meet Stiles's eyes

"I hate them," Stiles says to Derek's back, ineffectually – or maybe not. "Them," he repeats, because even if he's confused and feeling slightly sick, he knows that that, at least is true.

Derek's shoulders stiffen for a moment, then loosen, but don't actually relax. He shakes himself, and returns to his corner.

Stiles feels like a boxer, pummelled by his opponent until someone rang the bell and saved him. He sinks to his knees right where he is, finally sitting cross-legged, back to the bars.

There's something nagging on his consciousness, something or someone. It creeps into his mind through his nose and mouth, blocking his airways like a black film of oil, settling on his synapses, drawing image before his eyes.

He's at the parking lot, standing next to his Jeep, his phone in his hand. He's staring at it, trying to remember who he wanted to call. He wanted to call someone. It's important.

But first? But first, he needs to talk...no, he doesn't. He turns around–

He's in school, in the chemistry lab. He's alone, but the loudspeaker up in the corner is crackling with static, and Stiles needs to get away from it fast. He twists, runs towards the door, out, through the corridors, into the locker room, jumping and – landing in the swimming pool. Underwater, he can't breathe. Needs to get to his phone, but there's something stopping him. He should dive farther down, dive to the bottom to talk to–

He's in the woods, near the Hale house. There's a body on the floor and Lydia set it on fire. Scott slashed its throat. Someone touches his shoulder, a hand dark and oily.

"Do you want it?" Peter Hale asks in his ear. "He can give it to you."

"I don't," Stiles replies, but Peter is talking over him. "I could hear it in your heartbeat. You wanted it. You just didn't want it from me."

No.

"No!"

Stiles wakes to the same bright light that's been glaring down at them for the past ten hours, a pounding headache, and the sound of Scott relieving himself. He keeps his eyes closed, not exactly pretending to be asleep – can't really do that with werewolves – but trying to cling to that sense of unreality.

It's no good.

He has to face facts...even his dreams – nightmares – are telling him that.

Stiles has been bitten, by a werewolf. An alpha werewolf. He's a werewolf now. Werewolf werewolf werewolf.

"Dude."

It's like he doesn't know himself anymore. Werewolf.

"Stiles."

He's, he's always been the human ever since Scott got the bite, and he didn't want to be in Scott's shoes. Being a werewolf sucks. You're constantly getting drawn into weird shit even if you just want to live your life and maybe want to have sex with Allison and subject your best friend to way too many sappy moments with your new girlfriend.

Your life. Your werewolf life. Werewolf.

"Stiles.."

"Leave him."

"Don't tell me what to do," Scott snarls.

Stiles's eyes snap open. "Stop bitching at each other."

He turns his head upward to see Scott's standing over him, looking kind of lost, like Stiles just kicked him or something. Stiles sighs, rolling over. He rises to his hands and knees, wobbling a little as he tries to get to his feet. Scott's hand clamps down on his elbow, steadying him.

"Thanks."

Fuck, this headache is killing him.

And he's still a werewolf. He tries the word out on his tongue, can't quite bring himself to attach "I am a" yet. Not out loud.

"Yeah," Scott says, pauses, opens his mouth, closes it again. "Uh, it's not so bad? I mean..." He flinches, looks to the side. "You were there."

"Yeah," Stiles says dryly. "I was. Am. I'm still here. Why am I still here? This whole werewolf thing is so bad for my health."

Scott ducks his head and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like, "Thanks, you're awesome, Stiles." Well, maybe not the last part, but the gratitude was there. Definitely.

Stiles is a werewolf now. "How much time before...?" He twists his hands to look like claws and makes a sort of grabbing motion, like he's groping someone, and crap, bad mental image there.

"The changes are already taking place," Derek replies. "Your senses should sharpen soon and – it takes about twelve hours before the body's adjusted."

That knowledge's likely gleaned from Erica, Isaac and Boyd, Stiles thinks. Derek wouldn't need to know that as a born werewolf.

"So." He checks his watch. He's slept maybe three hours, minus the time before the biting, that's roughly eight hours since infection, and fuck. It's only been thirteen hours since they got here, how could so much have happened in such a short amount of time?

"They might be waiting for you to change first."

Stiles blinks at Derek, suddenly derailed from his earlier thoughts. "Uh, why would I change?"

Scott huffs. "The wolfsbane? On the bars? Dude, remember when you took the flowers from around the grave and–" Scott bites himself off suddenly, darting a quick and shamefaced glance at Derek. Stiles can feel an answering lurch of shame in his own gut.

"When you desecrated my sister's burial place. Yes, go on, Scott."

Stiles doesn't need him to go on. He remembers all too vividly Scott's reaction before Stiles flung his backpack out of the car, remembers Scott's disappearance, too, and his own panic. "Crap."

"Yeah," Scott says, rubbing his neck. "I'm surprised you're not feeling anything yet. My head's been pounding ever since we woke up here, and I've been this close to wolfing out the whole time since then." He holds up thumb and index finger and indicates maybe a quarter inch of distance.

Stiles presses the palms of his hands against his aching forehead and groans. Well, hell.

Stiles doesn't stare at his watch obsessively only because he's more or less constantly feeling like someone's shoving a hot poker through his brain. This is worse than the time he got hung-over after drinking with Scott in the woods, and he felt pretty much like dying at that time. It doesn't help that everything is incredibly, glaringly bright and loud. There's Scott's breathing, Derek's breathing, his own breathing. Scott's heartbeat, Derek's heartbeat, his own heartbeat. The sounds all of them make when swallowing, the sound of clothes rasping against the floor. A bug that's flying around the door outside, the hum of electricity of the cameras which have been turned on again, the hum of the lights which is slightly different.

Scott licking his lips.

Scott existing. Derek existing.

And then there are the scents. Worst of all, and overlaying everything the wolfsbane.

It drives him up the wall.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Thud.

Rustle. Scent of wolf and sweat.

"Stiles."

"Go away."

Rumbling, laughter. Unhappy laughter. "I wish, yeah." Derek leans into his personal space, hands clamping around Stiles's wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. "Look at me."

It's a request, one Stiles doesn't feel like granting. "This is awful," he grumbles. "How do you stand it? It's like the monster hangover from hell, now with 100% more jackhammers in the brain."

Derek moves his fingers to gather both Stiles's wrists in one hand, and Stiles's heart skips a beat. His other hand grabs Stiles's chin, fingers pressing into his skin, and pushes upwards. "Look. At. Me." The words are growled this time, and Stiles's eyes snap open to meet Derek's gaze, a rush of warmth settling somewhere below his stomach, spreading everywhere. It chases away the reddish film around his vision that has been drawn over his eyes like crimson-tinted gauze.

"I bit you," Derek grits out. "You're my responsibility – Shut up, Scott – and I will get you through this." He releases Stiles.

"Not going to tell me this is a gift?" Stiles snaps once he's recovered from the loss of Derek's hands on him. It should have made him feel threatened, but he'd felt protected, of all things, and clearheaded (and aroused too), and he wants that back.

Derek sucks in a breath; he turns his head away, a semi-submissive gesture, and that is just wrong. Something inside Stiles goes cold, and he's left blinking and struggling with the urge to duck his head and make this right again. "It can be a good thing, if you let it."

Stiles's shoulders have drawn up almost of their own accord and his head is tilted sideways when Derek looks back at him, and this is just so unfair. Derek shouldn't look like Stiles has just turned his life upside down and bit him.

"It really can be a good thing, Stiles," Scott offers from the sidelines and if he sounds any more encouraging, Stiles is going to cry.

He's going to blame this on the werewolf thing. His emotions aren't usually this helter-skelter; okay, they are but. He'll blame the werewolf thing.

"Right," Stiles says. "Werewolf. Awesome. Awesome powers. Awful headaches, too." The crimson is starting to really get to him, and he's beginning to feel lightheaded and sort of unreal. His breathing is loud in his ears, drowning out every other noise.

"It's starting."

"Starting?" Stiles asks, hand groping for something to hold onto while his vision goes infra-red, and his brain starts to shut down its cells. It feels pretty close to a panic attack. A really ugly one, and – "Oh God, starting." The transformation. That's what starting. He's changing now. "Scott?"

Hands on his shoulders, a voice in his ear. "I'm here. Stay calm. I'm here."

This should not be so terrifying. He knows what's happening. This should not be so fucking terrifying.

But it is.

There's a clack, the thud-thud-thud of booted feet, the thump of – Stiles turns his head – of a box being deposited on the ground, the sound of it being opened, the retreat of feet, the closing of a door.

Hands grasp his. "Don't look at it now. We'll deal with it." Skipping heartbeat. A lie. Derek is afraid, and lying, and – Stiles breathes in – some other emotion that Stiles can't identify.

"It's taking your control," Stiles whispers. One of them should be in control and it can't be Stiles because Stiles isn't feeling real. "Derek, you won't have control."

"I know. I'm sorry." And he sounds so sad, and wrecked, and guilty.

"Why?" Stiles forces past lips that don't feel like lips, and shakes his head and –

Why is he–

Why–

– red.