He started hearing Scott's voice three weeks into his torture. He was sitting in the loathed chair, head hanging to his chest, mindlessly observing his shredded clothes. He was covered in blood, and the smell of copper was overpowering his sense of smell. He hadn't eaten for hours, and the intervals between the food he was given seemed to stretch longer than before. But he couldn't be sure anymore.

Stiles.

Stiles squeezed his eyes closed against the tears. He didn't want to hear the voice again, open his eyes just to find empty air like he had so many times.

Stiles.

At first, hearing Scott's voice had seemed like a gift. But it was a curse. It was a reminder that he was losing his grip on reality.

Hold on, Stiles.

Stiles couldn't stop his eyes from opening only to be met not with the sight of his best friend, but his captor. Stiles began to cry in earnest, not loudly, but in soundless agony. He had stopped pleading for the man to say something to him, anything, just to hear a real voice again. The burn of alcohol stung his bicep, and its smell briefly filled his nose. He could feel a needle sliding into his flesh, the thread pulling his flesh together. He hissed as more alcohol was poured over the newly stitched wound. The man walked away, leaving no doubt to retrieve some new form of torture.

He hated the man for many thing, but none more than this. The first aid that kept him alive.

Stiles, hold on.

"Shut up, Scott," Stiles whispered. His voice was ruined. "Oh, God, I'm talking to myself."

Just a little longer.

"I can't," Stiles suddenly leaned forward as much as he could, dry-heaving as a panic attack loomed on the horizon.

Hold on, Stiles.

Stiles didn't reply. He was mostly convinced they wouldn't hear him.

Stiles woke to a dark room. The air was still and silent aside from the sound of the outside world, muted and softened by the walls and the comforter he had drawn around himself. He reached up with his still-bandaged fingers and felt the moisture on his cheeks. At least he hadn't woken with screams still tearing themselves from his throat. The first time he had woken without screaming, two days before, he had seen the hopeful look on Scott and Derek's faces. He couldn't help the small flame of hope that burned in him too, that maybe he was getting better.

He had screamed himself awake the next morning, but not tonight.

Scott muttered something and nuzzled himself closer to Stiles's back, pulling his best friend closer. Stiles let himself wonder when Scott had become more of an octopus than even him. He could feel Derek's weight in front of him making the mattress dip down.

Both were soundly asleep, exhausted from taking care of Stiles, he knew. It had been a rough night before with little sleep to go around.

Stiles looked over to the window. The moon was nearly full, and the sky was brightly lit. Stiles managed to somehow get himself disentangled from Scott and climb over Derek without too much pain and without waking either werewolf. He limped his way out of the room and to the living room where the moon was shining in front of the window. He sat on the floor and just looked.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there quietly, lost in his own thoughts, until a blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. Scott sat down beside him and looked at the moon with him. Stiles pulled the warm blanket around him tightly and scooted over until he could rest his head on Scott's shoulder.

"Why do you always ask me if I'm real?" Scott asked softly. He had to know why Stiles only asked him and not Derek.

"I heard your voice," Stiles mumbled after a few minutes passed. "You kept telling me to hold on. That you were coming to get me."

Stiles couldn't see Scott's face, but he felt Scott tense slightly before relaxing again almost as quickly.

"It was like you were standing right in front of me. But you were never there when I opened my eyes," Stiles took a shaky breath. "Over and over, I would hear your voice and at first I knew that it wasn't real. But...after awhile, it was easier to give in to the delusion."

Scott was silent as he rested his chin on Stiles's head. Stiles could feel Scott trembling.

"But then, I opened my eyes...eye, and you were there. Really there."

Scott still didn't reply. They sat in silence again, both ignoring that they knew the other was crying. Stiles's eyes were getting heavy and Scott's head was nodding when Derek found them. He took in the sight before him, the comfortable way the boys fit together better than most romantic partners did. He turned and headed back to his bedroom. Scott was asleep when he got back, and Stiles wasn't far behind. It was almost three in the morning, only three hours after Scott had finally succumbed to his exhaustion. He briefly wondered why Stiles had woken, but beyond sadness and salt, he couldn't smell any lingering traces of the terror that usually went along with his worst nightmares.

Stiles was just about to force himself to stand and somehow get Scott back to bed without waking him when he heard the soft thumps of pillows and blankets being dumped in a pile next to him. He turned his head and looked at Derek blearily. Derek continued his work, constructing a nest of sorts around them out of the supplies he had brought. Stiles carefully laid Scott down so his head was on a pillow and carefully turned him onto his side so he could spoon around him. A warm weights settled behind him, and Derek pulled himself close to Stiles so he was snug against the boy. Stiles shifted slightly until he was perfectly comfortable in his cocoon of werewolf.

Scott grasped the hand that Stiles had draped over him and pulled it tighter around him without waking up, and Stiles last thought before he drifted off was that Scott looked much happier when he was asleep.

Scott was conscious of warm arms around him, and he let himself float in the space between awake and asleep for awhile because it had been a long time since he felt this relaxed.

Not since he had found Stiles...

His eyes fluttered open and were greeted by blinding sunlight. He groaned and closed them again, rolling over to escape the light.

"It's alive," Stiles quipped. Scott pushed him lightly and stood, stretching his muscles. His back would have protested sleeping on the hard ground in the past, but the advantages of being a werewolf had included the ability to sleep anywhere. Derek was already up and moving around. If the smell of slightly burnt bacon was anything to go by, he was attempting to cook breakfast. He helped Stiles stand and helped him limp over to the kitchen area.

Stiles was gaining weight. Scott could still feel his bones a little too much when his friend leaned into him, but they didn't stab him anymore. They didn't stretch Stiles's pale skin over them to show every hollow and dip with enhanced detail. Now, he was beginning to look like himself.

Maybe the rest would follow along eventually. Not quickly, and not all at once. Some days he would take a step forward, and some days he would take two steps back. But Scott was determined.

Because this morning, Stiles woke smiling.

Thank you so much for the feedback so far. Not to prostrate myself, but I hope you like the direction.