Chapter Text
Gerard had taken him, lured him away, from under the noses of everyone at the lacrosse game that night, the werewolves and his dad not noticing a thing. Gerard had sneakily ensured that Stiles ran into the woods as if he was running away from the field and the destruction happening, rather than attempting to rescue the betas who had been taken before him. Then, with Erica and Boyd both passed out and unaware, Gerard and his fellow corrupt hunters kidnapped and beat Stiles in the Argent house to the verge of death. When they woke up, Stiles was terrified for them.
At one point, he himself passed out, and woke up nearly naked and tied up, but that was a time he would never recount, ever. At least on purpose.
Erica and Boyd were tied up beside him, wolfsbane-covered chains giving a heavy electric shock every so often. Each time they woke up, the hunters gave a choice to Stiles; he could take twice their torture, and they would stay unharmed, or they could suffer their own amount of torture and he would not go through it. And each time, Stiles took the torture, unwilling to cause his friends more pain than was necessary. Erica and Boyd tried to convince him to stop, but Stiles never gave up.
When the hunters got bored of him insulting them and blabbering on about everything except the pack, they yanked him off the wall and threw him into a conveniently placed car outside. Despite the extreme pain he was in, though, Stiles still noticed Erica and Boyd blinking, bleary eyes slowly coming into focus on Stiles’s pained look. They immediately began to thrash painfully as they heard his screams and felt the agony coming off of him in waves. He gave them a reassuring look.
Stiles, of course, did not leave them there. After Gerard literally dropped him off at Scott’s doorstep, he had quickly and silently patched himself up using some supplies he had found in the (luckily) empty house. While the many lashes on his back were hard to clean up, and the many bruises would be hard to hide without his long sleeve shirts, very few were on his face.
He then threw on a few clothes that he kept in Scott’s room. He debated whether or not to steal the baseball bat, but eventually decided against it. While the puppy was extremely oblivious, his mom was not. And, Stiles didn’t want to leave her without any protection, either. While Scott had been pretty distant for the past few weeks, and mostly just abandoning him, Melissa was an amazing woman who Stiles cared about very much.
Then, using the last of his strength, he ran to his own house to get his Jeep (why was it not at school, and where did the keys come from?) and thanked the heavens that his phone was thrown, haphazardly, in the backseat, as well as the fact that his dad was not home yet.
He opened the notification-bursting messaging app, ready to reassure to Scott that he was fine, but was instead met with information about how Jackson was a kanima and that they needed his help. A few from him and Isaac even said that ‘it was okay if you ran away, but we really need your help’. The poorly hidden annoyance in the texts surprised Stiles. The shocking realization that Scott had not been looking for him, thought he was cowardly enough to run away, almost outweighed the entire situation.
BUt, Stiles eventually got himself back together, pushing back a heavy panic attack, before driving off to pick up Lydia. The two barely communicated, Stiles only explaining the bare minimum about past few months or so then falling silent. He could tell Lydia was curious about his face and his obvious injuries, but she, wisely, stayed quiet. Stiles didn’t think he would last emotionally if she said anything more than the bare minimum. They reached the warehouse the pack was at a short time later.
Seeing the pack was no better. Most of them were hurt rather majorly, but they were healing. Whispers filled the air. They were still under the impression that he had ran away at the lacrosse game, and he was able to pass off the blood and cuts on his face as lacrosse injuries. Needles stabbed his heart when none of the wolves detected his obvious lie, except for Peter, who was creeping in the corner. He probably wondered a few things, seeing as he stared at Stiles with more intensity, but luckily did not say anything. Stiles, tired of the pitying and betrayed expressions on everyone’s faces, got a quick and simple overview of what happened and left immediately to go rescue Erica and Boyd.
He almost missed the murmurs from the pack, rumors saying he was afraid that Jackson would attack him. To be honest, that was what hurt him the most; the fact that basically everyone thought of him as a useless, cowardly human who was too afraid to stand up to a half turned lizard. His breaths were labored and panic-filled on his way to the Argent residence.
As soon as Stiles hopped out of the Jeep, cuts on his back regretting it, Gerard slammed open the door of the house, flanked by three other hunters. He grabbed a knife from his trunk before taking a calming breath. His lungs burned and his injuries flared with pain, but he knew he had to help his pack, even if the rest wouldn’t help.
“Back for more, Stilinski?” Gerard smirked predatorily.
Stiles snarled, feeling the heat of anger bubbling under his skin. “Get the hell out of my way, you disgusting old man.”
Gerard simply chuckled insanely. “Oh, of course, we’ll just let you in. Tea or coffee?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t fit you.”
“Funny, but bloody skin definitely fits you.” Stiles winced, but pulled himself together.
Stiles stalked forward, eyes narrowed. He pulled out his knife, watching the blade glimmer in the light of the half-moon.
“I’m not afraid to kill you.”
“And I, you.” Gerard replied before pulling out a gun, pointing it at Stiles’s head. The silent hunters behind him followed, because of course, guns. Why wouldn’t they have guns.
Inside of the house, Stiles could hear screams of pain from Erica and Boyd, despite them being in the basement. That was the final straw. He lunged forward, aiming the knife into Gerard’s neck. He watched, satisfied, as the expression of shock overtook the monster’s face. The other three hunters immediately shot at Stiles, barely deterred by the murder. The bullets, however, simply bounced off of an invisible shield that had, somehow, appeared. Wasting little time in questioning it, he pulled the knife out of Gerard’s neck and attacked the other hunters.
The next half an hour or so passed by in a blur. After pushing aside the dead bodies, he had ran downstairs, killed the hunters guarding the basement, and freed the werewolves. The two were drifting, on the border of being asleep. When Stiles came into sight, they snapped awake, glad to be rescued. Although questions were practically floating around, Erica and Boyd stayed quiet.
After dropping the duo off at the edge of the preserve and making sure that him being kidnapped stayed a secret, Stiles drove back home, happy to see the Sheriff’s cruiser in the driveway.. His dad had gotten home a little earlier, and after explaining (lying) to him about how he got the injuries, he basked in the comfort of being near his father. It wasn’t often that the two could spend time together, so both of them were happy to eat dinner together. It was obvious that their relationship was still strained. Lies filled the space between them and the lack of contact was taking a toll on the both of them.
But when they said goodnight to head to their own bedrooms, Stiles stared down the hallway to his father’s bedroom at the end. He stared, and thought. When he went into his own room, staring at the ceiling instead, he made up his mind. He was going to tell the Sheriff about the supernatural. He couldn’t handle the amount of damage it’s done to the two, and he didn't want to cause it to break entirely.
He also felt a little guilty about leaving Erica and Boyd so far from the loft, and telling the two betas not to say anything, but his house was on the other side of town- Erica and Boyd said it was fine, too- and he couldn’t let the pack think he was weaker than he was already thought of. He also felt bad that he left them to make up a lie themselves, but he was tired and needed a break to think of the impossible.
From all he knew, a Spark was simply a person with the ability to have magic. When Deaton had, very evasively, explained that Stiles most likely was a Spark, he absolutely did not think that he would become as powerful as he did. He had doubted that Stiles could go beyond manipulating mountain ash. Stiles tried not to be disappointed. But, according to the new research, Deaton might have been wrong.
After sifting through expansive sites of fake witches, he found the contact of someone who seemed to be an actual witch, who, luckily, lived the next town over. The site explained that she was similar to a supernatural consultant who also acted, slightly, as a therapist. He set up an appointment for exactly a week from that night, then promptly fell asleep in his bed right after.
He might have been impossibly overwhelmed, but he didn’t want to deal with the aftermath of both lying to and running away from the pack. He didn’t want to deal with the slam of the Sheriff’s cruiser outside. He didn’t want to deal with the pain that was slowly coming soaking into his muscles, earlier held back by adrenaline and too-strong painkillers.
His nightmares came in quick, but few, flashes. Gerard’s face occupied most of it. He woke up four times throughout the night, too afraid to stay asleep. He was miserable.