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“Why are you putting him in here?” There’s a hint of accusation in Scott’s voice when he looks at the sheriff. At Stiles’ dad. Like he can’t believe the man capable of locking his son up in an asylum -- especially not after his mom. Not even after what the nogitsune has done.
Stiles shakes his head, looking at Scott intently, immediately correcting him because there’s no reason for Scott to be upset with his dad. For anyone to be upset with his dad. “He's not. It was my decision.”
“Stiles, I can't help you if you're in here.” Scott stares at him with worried eyes, and he feels a moment of shock, of fear. Not of Stiles. For him. Always for him and not of him. Even now.
“And I can't hurt you.” The sincerity and guilt laced in Stiles’ voice when he says those words cuts through him worse than the sword the nogitsune had twisted in his gut just hours before.
“You don’t have to do this. Deaton’s working on a way to fix this,” he whispers urgently. “We’ve got at least 72 hours before --”
“I can’t --” Stiles closes his eyes, pained expression on his face. “I can’t risk it, Scott. I can’t. And if there isn’t a way to get this thing out of me, if there isn’t --” He swallows hard.
Scott swallows hard, too, because he knows what Stiles is going to ask and he hates it. He hates it worse than anything he’s ever hated before in his entire life. Please don’t ask me that, he thinks, desperation starting to settle on his shoulders. Please don’t.
“Then you have to make sure I never get out,” he finishes, just as Scott knew he would even as he was hoping he wouldn’t.
He can’t promise that. He won’t. And it won’t come to that, because one way or another, he’s going to find a cure, a way to fix this, to save Stiles, because there’s no other option. There just isn’t. He needs Stiles, and he knows that for as many times as Stiles has saved Scott’s ass, he needs Scott to save him now. And he will.
“I’m going to fix this,” he whispers fiercely, wrapping his arms around Stiles in a tight hug. He feels Stiles shudder against him as he returns the hug, nodding.
“I know,” Stiles whispers.
______
He has the keys to Eichen House’s basement in his hands. There are answers there, he knows it, feels it in his bones. He’s been in that basement before. He doesn’t remember the details, the whys or hows, but he knows he’s been there. And he has to get in there again. He tries each of the keys until finally one slides into place and he grins because there. One thing is going right finally.
Until it isn’t.
He doesn’t even hear them coming.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Brunski sneered, grabbing him none too gently, inside of his elbow pressing tightly against Stiles’ throat as the orderly pulls him away from the door. Stiles chokes even as he reaches up with his hands in an attempt to pry his arm away.
He should have known it wasn’t going to be that simple. That easy. Nothing ever works out the way he plans.
“Take him to the quiet room,” he told his fellow orderlies, shoving Stiles away from him and sending him stumbling into two larger men.
Fuck. That doesn’t sound like a great place where staying awake is going to be easy, he thinks, and moments later he’s shoved inside a small room with padded walls, knees hitting the ground.
“Search him.” Brunski is standing in the doorway with a smug look, arms folded across his chest.
One of the orderlies pins him down while the other searches his pockets and finds the bottle of amphetamines that Morrell had given him.
“Well now. Where on earth did you get these?” Brunski asks, arching an eyebrow.
“The vending machine,” Stiles responds with a smirk of his own, because as much as Morrell makes him nervous, she’s his only sort of ally in this place who knows what’s going on. Who’ll stop him if she has to, to keep him from hurting someone else. And as much as that terrifies him to think about, he doesn’t want to hurt anyone else. Not ever.
“I love the sarcastic ones,” Brunski tells the other orderlies. “Hold him down.” He pulls a syringe from his pocket as he approaches.
“No, wait,” Stiles protests, struggling violently to get loose from the orderlies. “Is that a sedative? I can’t go to sleep. I can’t sleep. I’m sorry!” Terror shoots through him as Brunski grins wickedly and stabs the needle into Stiles’ arm, injecting him with whatever is inside.
Oh god coming to Eichen House is definitely my worst plan ever, he thinks as his heart pounds hard in his chest. He knows how fast injected sedatives work because Melissa had injected him with one not that long ago and he’d been out in less than a minute. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s not getting sleepy.
This is something else. Something familiar.
Stiles recognizes the feel of his arms and legs going numb. Of being unable to move. Oh shit, he thinks, eyes widening. Brunski injected him with fucking kanima venom.
“Why don’t you give us a little time, boys?” Brunski suggests in a tone that Stiles is more than alarmed to hear because wow, he knows evil and that is definitely an evil tone and he knows he’s in trouble.
Why didn’t I listen to Scott? he wonders. Why don’t I ever listen?
Brunski waits until the other orderlies have left the room, shutting the door behind them and Stiles’ heart is beating frantically in his chest. So frantically that he prays to god that Scott can hear it, that Scott is somehow outside the place waiting just in case he needs him, and he knows it’s not true because if it were true, Scott would have managed to save that guy from killing himself the day before.
He is alone, and he is terrified.
“Stiles Stilinski.” Brunski sneers down at him, something dark in his eyes. “You’ve been causing all kinds of trouble lately haven’t you, little fox?”
Stiles stares up at him because there isn’t anything else he can do, and he’s alarmed in so many ways by the realization that this guy knows that Stiles is possessed even if right now he’s the one in control and not the nogitsune.
“You’re wondering how I know.” He trails a fingertip down Stiles’ throat, fingernail scratching lightly into his skin. It doesn’t hurt exactly but his chest is tight and he feels like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. “My sister had the misfortune of being at the hospital a few days ago, you see. Your little electrocution stunt’s left her in a coma.”
He shuts his eyes, the only real movement he can manage under the influence of kanima venom. The guilt sweeps over him, enveloping him in its arms even as Brunski leans closer.
“At least you’re not denying it. So, Stiles. We’ve got a couple hours before you can actually go anywhere. Why don’t we make the most of it?”
“What are you --” He opens his eyes again, anxiety flickering through him as Brunski grins at him and he suddenly knows what’s going to happen and no. No. He’s read about these kinds of things happening in mental hospitals and god, why didn’t he even stop to consider that it could happen here? To him? “Please don’t.” His voice is choked.
“Just look at it at a form of penance, Stiles,” Brunski tells him as he unties the drawstrings of the scrubs that Stiles is wearing and jerks them down his waist.
“It wasn’t me. I tried to stop it!”
“You, it. It’s really all the same thing at this point. You’re a monster. Monsters need to be punished.” Brunski rubs a hand over Stiles’ boxers before pulling those down, too, and Stiles grits his teeth, eyes shutting so the orderly doesn’t see the tears forming in his eyes even if there’s nothing he can do to hide the humiliation coloring his face. He hears the door open and he thinks thank god.
He’s never been more relieved to see another person in his life as he is to see Malia Tate right then. The relief is short-lived as she shuts the door and walks over, watching with clear interest.
“Hello, Malia,” Brunski greets with a smile.
Stiles’ heart sinks and he feels nauseous as he realizes that Malia has played him. That she hasn’t been working with him at all. In the back of his head he can practically hear Derek’s voice telling him he’s an idiot for trusting her to begin with.
“I do get to watch, right?” Malia asks, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow. Too perfectly shaped for someone who’s been living in the wilderness for so long. God, how has he missed the signs?
“You can even play if you’d like,” Brunski assures her as he strokes Stiles and then moves so he’s hovering over Stiles’ face.
And he knows what’s coming even before the man divests himself of his pants, stroking his hardness and smirking at Stiles before straddling his chest and rubbing the tip of his length over Stiles’ mouth. Panic sweeps through him and then he’s choking, unable to breathe, gagging but unable to move, unable to do anything but take it as tears leak down his reddening face. And it feels like dying because he can’t get air, and there are hands on his own length, stroking and teasing, light and he feels his body responding involuntarily and he feels sick for all new reasons now.
“Enjoy this part while you can,” Brunski advises casually, thrusting harder and deeper into his mouth and throat, and Stiles’ throat hurts like he’s swallowed razor blades, and his jaw aches in a way it never has even when Jackson socked him in the fifth grade and Stiles tried to intervene in a fight between him and Scott.
He can’t shudder though he wants to, because when you are being brutalized, shuddering is something you should be free to do, but he can’t move and why didn’t he listen to Scott?
Brunski is moving away, pushing Malia’s hands away from Stiles and he’s flipping him over onto his stomach and Stiles retches but they don’t move him away from the puddle of vomit he expels and it hurts so much more than throwing up has ever hurt before. His head rests against the cold, white tiled floor and he knows that things are about to get so much worse for him.
As anticipated, there is new pain and he screams now that his mouth is free, and he feels himself being torn apart as Brunski leans over him heavily, his chest to Stiles’ back, scratching his nails down Stiles’ neck and sides, grunting. “Good thing I let you suck me first. Woulda hurt a lot more without any kind of lubrication. Besides the blood, anyway. First time, huh?” He laughs and Stiles shuts his eyes against the flood of tears and he prays for an end to this. “God you’re tight. What a good little bitch,” he grunts, as he forces himself deeper, seating himself as deeply as possible inside of Stiles.
“Please stop. Please, please stop,” he whispers, voice barely audible and he hates how weak and broken he sounds and he wishes Deaton had killed him last night instead of injecting him with the lichen.
“How many people do you think you’ve killed so far, Stiles?” Brunski asks, breath hot in his ear as he thrusts viciously, ragged nails digging into his hips.
The memory of twisting the sword in Scott’s stomach the night before assaults his mind even as Brunski assaults his body, tearing him apart. He remembers the feel of blood slickening his hands. Scott’s blood. Remembers how Coach’s blood was on his hands, too. That deputy’s. Isaac’s. Brunski’s sister, even if the last two are only metaphorical.
“Kanima venom works on werewolves, too, right? Even alphas. Too bad banshees are immune. I bet I wouldn’t even need it for the pretty little redhead though.”
Cold fear rips through him at the thinly veiled threat there to his friends. To Scott. To Lydia. “What do you want?” he whispers, knowing there’s something.
“You’re not going to tell a soul about this. This is going to stay our little secret. Yours and mine and Malia’s. Assuming you survive your stint with possession.” Stiles feels Brunski’s tongue licking at his ear and he tries to suppress the urge to throw up again.
Like he wants to tell anyone about this. Like he even could.
Suddenly Brunski grips his throat tightly, yanking his head back and squeezing, digging his nails into Stiles’ skin. “If it gets out, I will come after them. All of them. And I’ll do so much worse to them. I’ll make you watch.”
Stiles chokes again. “I won’t say anything!”
“Good boy.” He releases his throat and a moment later Stiles cries out as Brunski thrusts one last time, hard and deep, and he blanches as he feels a glob of saliva running down his cheek from where the man has spat on him. He weeps even as the orderly flips him over again, smirks in his face and stands, pulls his pants up. He pats Malia on the shoulder. “All yours.”
Stiles goes numb as he feels fluid trickling out of him, blood and semen pooling on the floor beneath him.
Malia smiles up at him, eager as she turns her attentions back to Stiles, stroking him, pulling hard on his length and it hurts, and he shuts his eyes tightly, hoping this is all just a nightmare except he’s not supposed to be sleeping. He feels Malia’s weight sinking down on him a moment later and he thinks, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. It’s not ever supposed to be like this, and he’s in so much pain from the damage that Brunski has done to his weakened body already.
Malia leans over him, presses her mouth to his, bites his lower lip none-too-gently, and he wants to throw up again. He feels the prickle of sharp claws on his ribs and he opens his eyes reluctantly as she moves atop him, thrusting her hips down against his own.
She smiles down at him, a smile that is all feral and not at all sincere. “Aren’t you glad you helped save me, Stiles?”