Hey guys! I know it's been an obscenely long time since I updated – if you follow me on Tumblr, you know that I had some massive computer problems and then finals hit! All sorts of shenanigans ensued!

I found Nathan's reception particularly interesting. I'll just say this in regards to his character: I'm not a big fan of OCs myself and I'm not adding him as a main. But I do believe to move this plot forward, he is needed because he sorta represents where Stiles used to be – and that he needs to confront that darkness in him and stop pretending he's alright all the time. Obviously he's not handling things very well, and now he thinks he has to 'be together' for this kid. But I hope you'll be pleased how that arc ends up. Even if you hate me at certain places.

Let's get started!

Chapter 5

Memories, All Alone in the Moonlight

There's a rattling on the door, startling Stiles. "Come on, kid!" Someone shouts from the other side. He pounds his fist against the metal door a few more times, probably because Stiles spent the last two nights in isolation and they tend to get grumpy with trouble-makers. Every part of Stiles' body aches from sleeping in the same position for such a long time, but it hurt less than rolling on his back.

Stiles sits up, the familiar pain slicing across his back and he winces, twisting to reach the source. The lashes from two days ago are still raw, even though he's been by himself in a room for the remaining time. "So nice to hear from you again," Stiles mumbles simply because it makes him feel better, knowing that the man can't hear it at all.

He rises to his feet only because he knows from experience if he doesn't do so, they will use force to get him up. After experiencing that once, even Stiles isn't stupid enough to encourage that wrath again. The door opens and Stiles winces at the light, a few uniformed men standing at the doorway. "Stilinski, this way."

Stiles scowls at them for a lack of anything better to do, but it earns him a quick cuff to the head. Usually it wouldn't do much, but after spending two days in isolation, it makes his world spin. "Overreaction, aisle one." Stiles grumbles, moving out of swinging range.

"Maybe that will make you think twice before being insubordinate again," one of the men snaps.

"You said that last time," Stiles comments, rubbing his sleepy eyes. "And the time before. And the time before that. And yet here we are again. I think we're just going to have to break up. It's not me, it's definitely you. You are all psychotic."

That was the magic word. In a movement far too swift for Stiles to ever block, the man swipes a fistful of his shirt and throws him against the wall. Stiles can't help it – he cries out in pain as his injured back slams against the wall, but the man is there with his forearm under his neck, pressure increasing as time passed. For a moment, Stiles genuinely wonders if this man is going to asphyxiate him.

"What got you into this mess, kid?" The man spat, his eyes full of rage. "Because it sure as hell wasn't high school. It was the supernatural. And you're standing here telling me that you want to defend it? Maybe it wasn't the Nogitsune possession. Maybe you're really just fucked in the head."

"Screw you!" Stiles shouts, resisting against the hold, but he knows it's futile. "Not all supernatural creatures are bad and you guys are a bunch of psychotic lemmings trying to turn kids into killers!"

"It's not murder if the being isn't human." The man states menacingly. "Listen, kid. We could just eliminate you and all your problems would go away. We could tell your dad you were far too depressed and we did everything we could to help you. But the supernatural hold on you was too strong. What do you think a mourning father would do in that situation? Would he be all about supporting the monsters that killed his kid? Oh no, he would want vengeance. And here you stand, defending beasts and witches.

"We will break you, kid." The man says calmly and Stiles is finding it hard to breathe. "We will break you and you will want nothing more than to murder those dogs you think are your friends. If they didn't exist, do you think your life would be the way it is?"

Stiles doesn't respond because he doesn't know how.

"No, it wouldn't be, wouldn't it?" The man smirks. "No werewolves, no banshees, no Nogitsunes. When we're done with you, all you'll want to do is march back to Beacon Hills and shoot that bitch of a dog you call a best friend—"

"Fuck you!" Stiles shouts, bringing his leg up and kneeing him in the crotch. The man crumples and Stiles contemplates sprinting down the hall, but he genuinely doesn't know where he'd go. He was trapped, just like he had been for the past three weeks, two days, and seven hours with these anti-supernatural monsters.

Before he can make a decision, several sets of arms grab him and throw him against the wall. He cries out in pain and the man is back on his feet, his face red and his breath labored. "Throw him back in the pit. And give him ten lashes for all the trouble he's caused us. I have a promise, kid. I will break you and it will not be difficult. You came to us almost entirely broken. We just have to shove you the rest of the way."

Stiles struggles, his entire body trembling with the thought of what was to become of him the rest of the evening. "I will never do what you freaks do! Never!"

The man smiles. "Never say never, Stiles. There are people who believe there are no such things as werewolves."

"NO!" Stiles screams.

He tries to sit up, but he's restrained. He pulls against the restraints and surprisingly they come free. He leaps to his feet, but someone puts their hand out. "Woah there, man. Calm down, it's just—"

"No!" He shouts again. Stiles grabs the person's hands and twists them, causing the person to yelp. In a swift move, he shoves them backwards until they slam against the wall. "I told you – I will never do what you want, you psychotic bastard!"

"Stiles!"

He hears his dad's voice and it's like something inside him snaps. Stiles is brought back to the present, no longer trapped in that hell hole of a clinic. The person he has a hold of slowly comes back into focus and he sees his best friend's eyes full of worry and… pain? Stiles looks down at the twisted grip he has on Scott's wrist. "Oh shit!" He cries, letting go and stumbling backward.

As he does so, a wave of pain ripples through his body, drifting from his head to his toes and he stumbles. Someone's behind him and catches him under his arm pits. Everyone's still in the room.

His father grunts at Stiles' weight, but somehow manages to drag him back over to the hospital bed. "Woah, what's going on?" Stiles asks, realizing the restraints weren't actually restraints, but IV needles and heart monitors. It was Scott.

He was safe.

Well, safe…er.

His entire body aches. "Stiles, you're in the hospital," his father says slowly when his son is back in the bed. Stiles eyes all the machines and needles wearily and the Sheriff can already tell he's itching to leave.

"Funnily enough, I put that one together myself." Stiles says sheepishly, sending a guilty look at Scott. "Man, I-I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"It's like your true animal instincts kicked it. You should've taken my offer up – you would've made a wonderful specimen of a werewolf."

Stiles' eyes widen. "Who invited the psychopath?"

Peter Hale cocks his head. "I'm actually hurt at your response to my presence. After everything we've been through?"

Stiles stares. "You mean the time you tried to kill us all and we lit you on fire? Good times."

Peter shrugs. "To each their own. But I thought the reason I was here would be painfully obvious."

"Emphasis on painful. I'm assuming it has nothing to do with my well-being."

"Of course not," Peter smirks. "I hear Kate Argent is back. That is a new development I am very interested in. Speaking of Kate Argent, looks like she used you as her personal chew toy."

It all came painfully swarming back to him. The gym, the tossing around. "Oh god," Stiles groans, leaning back into the hospital pillows. "That's not embarrassing at all."

"Stiles, what happened?" Scott asks once he composed himself. He stretches his arm, twisting his wrist around a few times. "And holy crap, I need to get used to the new you. It's so weird that you can get the jump on me now."

He knows that it's supposed to be funny, but he looks at his hands in disgust. The worst part, it was entirely instinct. He continues to look at the ceiling, trying to keep the frustration of himself as minimally visible as possible. "Kate Argent is the worst," Stiles shrugs, unsure of what else to say. Well, it's not untrue.

I will take you all out. One. By. One.

Stiles shakes his head, trying to get the words out of his head, though unsuccessfully. He knows that everyone can tell what's going on, but he chooses to ignore it. He's always been a big fan of ignoring his problems, hoping they'll go away.

"What did she want?" Derek says, making Stiles jump.

"Dude! I really hoped that you evolved past the creepy, 'every step you take, I'll be watching you' phase." Stiles snaps. "What do you think she wants?

"Revenge."

XXX

Turns out, getting thrown against the school bleachers and breaking them means that you are allotted two days off. As annoyed as Scott was, Stiles convinced the doctors that he wasn't that bad and they released him the same day, even though Scott and the Sheriff shared a look that clearly stated that his 'I'm fine' lies were fooling them. Scott was pretty sure the only reason Stiles missed two days of school was because of the Sheriff.

When he does return, he looks worse. He's walking a little slower, but at least he's now wearing clothes that fit. Scott closes his locker, sighing. There are rings under Stiles' eyes a little darker than the last time he saw him. Something happened that he's not saying. Even though Scott couldn't detect him lying – doesn't mean that he wasn't withholding some information.

And then there was the moment he woke up. The frantic movements, the spastic yelling, and the proclamation. Moments before he woke up, he was moaning in pain, only a few words intelligible through his murmuring. "I won't" and "psychos" were the most clear.

But, as soon as Stiles catches his eye, he smiles. It's small, but genuine, if not incredibly tired. Scott carefully claps a hand on his back. "Hey there. You look like crap."

"Wow, you really know how to boost a guy's confidence," Stiles laughs. "True Alpha at work – you should go into motivational speaking."

"Part of my job description." Scott smirks. "You doin' okay?"

Stiles shrugs in that infuriating way. "I didn't really like the shape of my ribcage anyway. It conformed too much to the ideal standard of beauty. I like my new concave ribcage – it makes me feel like an individual."

"Stiles," Scott says, torn between his desire to have his friend continue joking around like he used to, but also getting some answers out of him. "Hey man, I think we really need to talk."

Stiles stops, his eyes wide and falsely innocent. "About what?"

"I think we need to chat and catch up. I mean, a lot has happened and… god, I'm so bad at this whole talking thing. I need to make sure that you're okay. Because I don't think you are."

Stiles doesn't move. He doesn't run away. Scott can feel the waves of emotions rolling off of him, but his face doesn't give anything away. Stiles takes a few moments before answering. "You should come over tonight. We can play Xbox and eat crap and pretend to be actual teenage boys for once." He shrugs. "Like we used to."

"Yeah," Scott asks, a little more eagerly than he wished to reveal. "You up for that?"

"Kicking your ass in Halo probably won't further damage my torso, if that's what you're thinking." Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "Listen, I'm trying. I really am." Stiles says softly, avoiding Scott's gaze. "I've never been good at being normal, you know that."

"So stop trying to be normal." Scott says simply. "You obviously suck at it."

"Again, the True Alpha motivation. I suddenly feel competent for the first time in my life."

"Not surprised it took so long," Isaac drawls as he approaches. "You might want to even reevaluate."

"I've always thought the letters F and U should be closer together in the alphabet, what do you think Scarfy?" Stiles rolls his eyes and the three boys make their way down the hall. Isaac says something in return, but it's a pathetic excuse for a retort. Scott has a feeling that he's secretly please Stiles is back and isn't sure how to act around him.

The three make their way into 'music appreciation class,' or as Scott likes to think of it – an easy A. He can tell Stiles actually enjoys it because he's always been a bit pretentious when it comes to music and this class allows him to be so. But when they entered the room, Scott's surprised to see Coach at the front of the classroom, smirking at their arrival.

"Yes, yes, I know what you all are wondering," Coach says when they all filter into the classroom. "You're wondering 'Mrs. Hannigan – you suddenly became so attractive and fit, how did you do it?' Now, I know that you little miscreant bastards probably think that since your music teacher decided that getting laryngitis would be fun, not to mention incredibly ironic, you wouldn't have to do anything or you'd get to harass a substitute. Well, jokes on you because we don't have money in the school budget for subs, so instead of taking my lunch hour, I get to deal with you little punks until she's back. So I already hate you. Where should we begin?"

Stiles snorts and sends Scott a knowing look. It's something he's missed for ages, and so his return smile is so enthusiastic, it draws attention from Coach.

"Don't think I see that exchange, Stilinski and McCall. Actually, I have a fun idea," Coach says, sitting down at the desk. "Since you so adamantly insisted that you spent the past five months play the piano, why don't you give us a little concert?"

Stiles' smile vanishes. "Um, I think I'm good."

"Up here, front and center Stilinski."

"What if I promised never to be happy in high school again?"

Coach muses over that for a moment. "While it would make me feel better, not enough. Hustle up!"

Stiles' eyes grow hard as he stares at the piano at the front of the classroom. Scott grows a little uneasy, watching as his friend slow approaches the instrument. Stiles sits down at the piano, staring at it as though it was insulting him. His hands hover above the keys and Scott can detect a small quiver in his fingers. He brings his hands down and plays a solitary note, closing his eyes and flinching when the noise resounds in the room.

"Just as I suspected, Stilinski. Why you would lie to get out of lacrosse tryouts is beyond me—"

But as Coach is about to enter his tirade, Stiles plays another note. And another. And a hauntingly melancholy chord that echoes in Scott's chest, rattling his bones and chilling his heart.

The song continues, beautiful and horrible at the same time. It bleeds onto the floor, seeping into the souls of everyone in the room. Scott isn't sure if people are even breathing.

When he finishes, the last note echoes like the wail of foreboding, playing long after the last sound was heard. It's enough to make Coach silent and staring, which is a trick in itself.

But Scott's attention is solely focus on Stiles. He's sitting rigid at the piano, staring at his hands. They're shaking even harder now and he's just staring at them. Why is he just staring at them?

"Stiles?"

Scott's broken out of his stupor when Lydia stands up, her voice small, but firm. "Stiles, are you okay?"

That snaps him out of whatever reverie he was in and his head whips up and he looks at the class as if he's just now realizing he's surrounded by people. His gaze falls on Coach and then back to his hands and Scott gets it.

Blood.

He's seeing blood.

Without a word, Stiles leaps from his chair and bolts from the room.

Scott moves to follow suit, but is almost knocked over by a 5'3", strawberry blond genius who's already out the door. Isaac grabs his shoulder. "Let her have this one," Isaac says. "She's been wanting to talk with him anyway."

For some reason, Scott's persuaded.

XXX

She finds him in his Jeep.

His fingers drum against the wheel and she can't help but be a little transfixed by their movement. She enters the Jeep without a word and he doesn't kick her out, so she takes that as a good sign. She doesn't say anything, but just watches him. Watches as hints of the old Stiles comes bursting through and he shakes his head while running his fingers through his hair.

"I read something somewhere that demons aren't musically inclined." He bursts out and it's so not what Lydia thought he'd say that she genuinely doesn't have a response. "I know that sounds like the beginning of a joke, but it's true. Apparently music is a human thing. Perks of humanity and all that. But demons can't figure out timing and rhythm. They actually used to make people play instruments to see if they were possessed. Some people just sucked, which sucked for them because they died unnecessarily.

"But I wasn't lying to Coach when I told him I spent a lot of time playing the piano. I used to do it all the time, desperately trying to convince myself that the Nogitsune was gone. But I look at my hands and all I see is blood. All the people who died because of me. And no matter how much good I do, it won't erase that fact."

Lydia remains silent. A part of her desperately wants to shout and shake the teenager, but she's afraid to stop the flow of words that have been so rare these days. Instead, she simply reaches across the arm rests and grabs his hands, intertwining their fingers. He's startled, but only for a moment, and then squeezes back.

"It hurts to play, though. There's an emptiness inside of me that I can't quite explain or even understand how to deal with. But when I play, it makes every part of that emptiness hurt. It rattles things and I don't understand."

"You're trying to piece yourself together." Lydia says softly. "Broken things don't have to remain broken."

Stiles turns to look at her, his eyes melting with sorrow. "You think I'm broken?"

Lydia's lower lip trembles. "Yes,"

Stiles turns away, looking out the window of his Jeep.

"I think that because you're carrying around guilt you shouldn't. You say you see all this blood on your hands and that you're empty inside. You refuse to be around people – around me." Lydia presses on, refusing to let go of his hand, even when he pulls it away. "And I know that telling you it's not your fault is futile because you're going to believe what you want. But you know what Stiles? You may be broken, but you're still working. You feel all that when you hear music because you're human and you have a soul, and you're healing. The fact that you can feel it means that something right is happening.

"I'm not worried about you," Lydia says matter-of-factly. "I know you'll be fine. But it's okay to be not fine for a while. It's not bad."

Stiles snorts. "My dad said something like that the other day."

"Because it's true. And no one understands how frustrating and hard it is like I do." Lydia says, her words soft. "I hid behind make-up, you hide behind jokes. Both great disguises, but not entirely helpful."

Stiles huffs, "You're amazing, you know that, right?"

"I do. It's pretty much proven at this point." Lydia says with a smirk. "So what do you want to do? Go back into school?"

Stiles makes a face. "Not really. People just stare at me there."

"Stiles. You're covered into tattoos, I'm fairly certain you gained thirty pounds of solid muscle, and you spent a week wearing obscenely tight shirts. Of course people are gonna stare at you."

Stiles smiles sheepishly to himself. "I never planned on coming back here, to be honest. I didn't really think the tattoos through. I didn't notice the muscle thing."

"If I haven't said it before, Stilinski, you are a moron."

He shrugs. "Some things don't change. But I don't want to go back inside. To be honest, I just want to drive somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere that's not here."

"Then drive."

And so he does. Lydia keeps her hand in Stiles and can't help but think as he spastically drums against the wheel of his Jeep that he's right: some things don't change. But then she looks at their hands.

Then again, some things do.

XXX

"So, you couldn't think of any better activity since you went and got yourself beat up?"

Nathan gripes for the millionth time as Stiles leads him through the mall. Stiles tries not to be annoyed, but it's not working.

"Your attitude sucks kid. I'm sorry that some psychotic were-mutant thing thought it'd be fun to ram me against bleachers. And you were super against lacrosse anyways. And I need new clothes. I'm tired of wearing my dad's clothes or my skin-tight ones and looking like a douche."

Nathan snorts. "You'll need more than a new outfit to not look like a douche."

"Wow, walked right into that one," Stiles murmurs, rolling his eyes. "Besides. You smell like day-old fries and self-pity. It's probably good you're outside and around people."

"But we're not outside," Nathan wines. "We're inside a mall."

"How astute of you!"

"You're the worst."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You always say such nice things to me. Save some flattery for the rest of the class."

Once Stiles buys Nathan a smoothie, he shuts up for a while, though. Stiles actually is enjoying himself, finding clothes that actually fit, although it's a struggle to find shirts that'll cover his tattoos.

"What's with tattoos, anyways?" Nathan asks, chewing on his straw.

Stiles is surprised, pulling a shirt over his head.

Nathan makes a face. "You look like Fratboy #3 in a B-rated movie."

"No to the shirt it is, then."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Stiles frowns. "You're the first person who's really asked me about my tattoos. It's usually just a jumbled mess of things that people ask and I don't really have to answer."

"So you're not gonna tell me?"

"I didn't say that," Stiles says, pulling on another shirt. Nathan merely shrugs, which seems to be the highest praise he'll get and he puts it in his 'buy' pile. "It's actually something stupid I researched. Apparently it's supposed to keep your body safe."

Nathan perks up. "So that nothing can take it over?"

Stiles nods. "Yeah, I tracked down a guy who could do it. I actually asked them to sedate me because I'm terrified of needles – which is why everyone's so shocked that I have them. I'm more terrified of being possessed again, though."

"Who did you—"

"You are so not getting tattoos all over your body. You're like three years old."

"Nine!" Nathan shouts, indignant.

"Same difference. You're still growing and you'll look weird as shit. I won't be the only douche."

Nathan frowns, but not in the angsty, I-was-possessed-now-fuck-everything way he usually does. "I killed my dad."

Stiles freezes, caught mid-shirt, pulling until he nearly gets his head stuck in his sleeve. He frantically pulls his head out, discarding the clothing and sitting next to Nathan. "What?"

"I killed my dad," Nathan repeats softly. "My mom watched. I know she's afraid of me. Even now. I can tell."

Stiles doesn't know what to say. What can he? It would be hypocritical to say it wasn't his fault when Allison's face haunts his dreams every night.

"I can't sleep because I watch him die every time I shut my eyes." Nathan says, tears filling his eyes. "I know I'm being annoying, but I can't help it. I don't deserve you being nice to me. And I can handle looking like a douche with crappy tattoos if it means my mom won't be scared of me anymore. I hate that she's scared of me. I hate even more that she should be."

Stiles notices he's shaking and takes wraps an arm around him. His skin is so cold – even for Stiles, who is perpetually an ice cube. He squeezes the kid close to him. Nathan doesn't pull away. Then he remembers.

How much he wants people around him. But that's why he pushes them away. Because Nathan was right. They should be afraid of him. Because it's true. And he's starved for affection and touch and warmth, but he's just so damn afraid to ask for it.

But Nathan needs it. And he's not warm. But he'll try.

A family rounds the corner in the dressing room and Stiles is suddenly very aware he's hugging a nine-year-old without a shirt on.

"Um…" he stammers. "This isn't what it looks like."

They make a disgusted face and whirl around, leaving Nathan to giggle as Stiles immediately lets go. "You might get arrested," he giggles, sounding like a kid for the first time.

Stiles shrugs. "Not a big deal for me in this town, seeing as my dad is the Sheriff."

Nathan laughs even harder at that.

Stiles joins him and quickly puts his shirt back on. As he's pulling his head through, his eyes catch someone in the distance. He freezes. Trying to stay as calm as possible, Stiles takes his phone out of his pocket with trembling hands. "Nathan," he says softly, but his voice gives him away. "Take the phone and go inside the dressing room. Text Scott."

Nathan grows still, staring at Stiles' phone. "What should I say?"

Stiles doesn't take his eyes off the woman. She smirks at him, her eyes falling to Nathan. Her grin stretches wider.

"Tell him Kate Argent is here."

A/N: Bum bum bum! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Relatively mellow, but piano!Stiles is maybe one of my favorite headcanons. Also, I wanted to give you a glimpse of the 'clinic' and FINALLY have Lydia and Stiles alone together.

Please leave a note if you have the time!