Chapter Text
Our Ties Have Come Undone
It was funny how fast jitters could be relieved once the threat that caused them was no longer in sight. In this case, it was the ability to get out of bed that alleviated such tremors. The brunette teen had opened his eyes that morning and found the modest two story home to be strikingly quiet for the first time since he had learned how to speak. The usual strawberry-blond vulture looming over his bedside was missing; which had been his first wonderful clue. One that had actually caused him to breathe a sigh of relief so loud he had then been afraid that every werewolf in Beacon Hills would have been alerted to his plans and come charging after him, more than willing to put him back in his place. It wasn't so much that he had gotten sick of having the likes of Lydia Martin at his bedside so much as he had gotten sick of just lying in bed. He hadn't been able to so much as get up to go to the bathroom or get himself a cup of water ever since they had gotten rid of the Nogitsune and the Oni. Not without either her or his dad breathing down his neck like a couple of rabid dogs anyway.
He loved the both of them very much, but they were starting to smother him. And despite popular opinion, he did not do smothering well. So, reveling in the stillness that seemed to have been missing from his life for the last several years, Stiles had sat on his mattress for a long moment, looking over at his full trash can, covered past capacity with empty orange Adderall and Xanax bottles. He swore the bright orange perscription bottles were mocking him in some way as they sat there, but at the moment he didn't have the resolve, energy or the time to do much about them.
Sitting still had never been his strong suit, and forcing him to do so had not only made this obvious, but all the underlying problems worse. Deaton had told him that he'd had to take it easy after the Nogitsune had been dealt with, but he was pretty sure that this house arrest was going a bit far. The druid had said something about how making a duplicate of his body had taken an immense toll on a body that hadn't ever been meant to be a conduit for the magical forces racing within and through it, and he'd need a chance to recoup the natural energy that had been lost. Apparently, although he wasn't a supernatural being like his friends, he'd made enough of a connection to the Nematon to hemorrhage a great deal of magical energy when the Nogitsune had been in control of it.
Honestly, it had all sounded like something that would have killed a normal human to him. He should be dead, especially if you went with Deaton's explanation, where there was really no reason for him to still be alive. And if he remembered the events of that night well enough, it nearly had killed him. He could still remember how cold he had felt, how lifeless and listless. How fatigued and confused, shaken. His father had jumped on that information with his natural overbearing and overprotective demeanor born of being both a single parent and a long time county Sheriff to mean immediate and interminable bed rest.
But still, forcing a confirmed case of ADHD with natural panic tendencies into house arrest over something like that was more cruel and unusual even for his dad. Especially for his dad, knowing all the issues that he'd been through in his life. The psychiatrists, the therapists, his regularly appointed dates with the guidance councilors at school, of which his dad was well aware since he was still a minor. And the almost abusive rate at which he'd been taking his pills was proof positive of how much this was bothering him. He'd been taking way too much of both of them lately, and he knew that the behavior was worrying the Sheriff. Worrying him enough to be happy to leave him alone with Lydia, who thanks to recent events he now knew was a member of the growing supernatural community of Beacon Hills. Nothing could have worried him so much as having to leave his only child in Eichen House though. Seeing those CT scans either, the ones that had looked identical to his mother's. The last few months had been trying, disheartening, and not to mention horrific for the two of them. Hence why Stiles had been taking so many more of his anxiety pills lately. The Adderall was one thing, but he'd never been this dependent on his Xanex. Not since right after his mother had died, anyway.
As for the rest of his friends, the rest of his "pack" as they were starting to call themselves, he couldn't even begin to venture a guess on where they were or what they were thinking. Lydia had filled him in on bits and pieces of what happened while he'd been possessed by the Nogitsune. After what she'd said, he was surprised that she was actually the one who'd decided to sit around with him. Allison was gone, killed by an Oni under his control, after he had used Lydia herself as bait to turn them to his cause. Not only that, but Aiden had been killed as well. From what he had seen and understood of the two of them, the banshee and the former Alpha had been... close. He hadn't been able to understand why she'd been able to bring herself to come in and sit with him day after day while he healed from all the strain that had gone on within his body that time. She had to have a stronger character to her than even he had realized in the beginning.
But now, now they were gone. Lydia was who knew where. His dad was more than likely at work. Scott... well, Scott had never come in to visit him anyway, though Melissa had. She'd given the same motherly spiel that anyone would have expected her to give him. She'd said Scott was doing well, that he wasn't mad at him, just busy trying to keep the pack together. She'd filled him in on how Isaac had been doing, how he'd been wanting to leave Beacon Hills since Allison was gone now, and how Scott was trying to convince him to stay. All because of what he had done. Melissa tried to convince him otherwise that it had been the demon fox inside of him, and not his own actions that had done any of this. The fact that Isaac was hurting, and that his best friend hadn't even bothered to show up when he could have used a friendly face told the whole story, though. There was nothing Melissa could do to sugar-coat it for him.
He was glad though that his dad seemed to have gotten back to work, more than likely also thanks in part to Mrs. McCall. It didn't take werewolf hearing to take in the heavy footfalls of the sheriff even on the best of days, lately it had just gotten to be a bit ridiculous. But if there was one person that could get his dad to do something other than Stiles himself, for some reason it was Mrs. McCall. The fact that he couldn't discern anything in the house now meant that he was free to move about. First order of business was to peel out of the stale pajamas he'd been wearing for far to long. Next was a nice warm, though shower and a fresh flannel shirt over a tee that had been shoved far too liberally into a drawer when he'd been putting away laundry. He was actually surprised that his drawers still looked like that, after having had Lydia here and all. She had been long enough while he'd been sleeping to have wanted to organize, no doubt. But she'd left everything just the way it was, which made him wonder a bit. Maybe she'd just been doing homework for those smarty-pants college courses she was already enrolled in and he had never noticed. He shrugged it off as a coincidence as he moved from his bedroom down the hall to the bath.
The shower and new clothes made him feel a little bit better, but to be honest he was pretty sure that the only thing that would get him feeling human again was hearing the one sound that he had truly missed in the past few weeks. His fingers scrapped up the faded old key ring from the bowl by the front door as he made his way down to the first floor, locking it behind him. He hadn't heard the growl of the old Jeep since Derek had managed to drop it off from wherever it had been abandoned last, and hoped that when he turned the key in the ignition that the engine wouldn't end up seizing on him - again. The Stilinskis had never been anywhere near the definition of a rich family, but after the CT scans and the trip to Eichen, they didn't have the money for him to bring the beast down to a mechanic. Not that he particularly wanted to spend his first day of freedom sitting in one of their waiting rooms, either. He'd made sure to ask his dad to let the engine run for him at least once a week when the keys had been dropped off to them, but he knew that the old man had his reasons to shy away from the powder blue CJ-5. After all, it had belonged to Claudia, and his dad had been so messed up after her death that he hadn't been able to do anything with the thing for years after she'd been gone. And so, when it had come time for him to get his license, Stiles had taken it. It was the last thing he had of his mom. His dad had been happy to see the Jeep driving around again, but there had also been pain there. It was some sort of strange understanding that they two of them had, and never talked about. They just knew, and let each other grieve in their own way.
A smile crawled across Stiles' face at the expectant creek of the thirty-year old door hinges as he opened them, crawling up onto the leather seats, turning the key in the ignition. He waited for a second and pumped his fists against the hard top in jubilation with an excited crow as he heard that rhythmic purring break through from the engine compartment. Knuckles smarting, the teen leaned forward, rested his head against the steering wheel, and ran a hand over the top of the dash, bringing up the dust of disuse in on his fingertips. "Thanks mom..." he murmured, his other hand finding the faded corners of an old picture that he kept tucked into the side of the instrument panel. It was of himself and his mother, before she got really sick, started forgetting who he was, the two of them playing some game of make believe or something, and he couldn't help but to trace the dusty outline of her as he shared that moment. He usually only reserved such hushed tones and talk to when he was completely alone and out of earshot of any supernaturals. Lately he just couldn't be sure of that and had just been resorting to calling the Jeep 'baby', but, it wasn't his baby, and that always felt wrong to him. It had been her baby, other than him of course, and that was why the blue beasts' name was Roscoe. It had just stuck afterward. A little piece of Claudia Stilinski still left in this world that couldn't be lost to fading memories, stolen, smashed up by fool kids or- He frowned and refused to think of the abuse the jeep had been going through lately. "I love you mom." he murmured as he sat up straighter in the seat.
He didn't know where he was going to go, but he just wanted to drive. Get out of the house, off of the same old street, hell out of the state if he could. Unfortunately, his dad would probably put out an APB before he could get that far. So instead, he closed the squeaking driver's side door with another satisfied little sigh. He then leaned down to crank his window open, leaning over the seats to do the same with the passenger side window. Maybe the Widlife Preserve? It seemed to be about the only option he had left. It wasn't like he could go to the High School's field by himself and toss around a ball or two with his lacrosse stick. That wouldn't help anything at all. No, he needed Scott or Isaac or even Danny for that. But Danny had graduated, and he had a feeling that even if he wasn't prepping to go to whatever school he'd gotten into, he probably wouldn't want to run drills anyway. So Beacon Hills Preserve it was.
He'd driven all the roads between his house and the deep, dark woods so many times in the last few years that he could do it blindfolded by now. If, you know, it wasn't incredibly dangerous and down right illegal. It was at least a drive that he enjoyed. Unless there was a psychotic black druid hell bent on killing his dad and every other adult that he had ever liked for some stupid revenge plot. One that, by the way, had made him susceptible to that damned Nogitsune to begin with. A plot that hadn't even worked, by the way. He was happy when he got to the reserve, parked, and gotten out.
The air out here was somehow more crisp, more clean than it was even in at his house, a few miles away from downtown, and the breeze knocked all the stale thoughts out of his head. There was no point in going over things that had happened last semester, not now anyway. Not when there was a day this beautiful to be enjoyed. Old leaves from previous seasons crunched under the souls of his converse as he walked to the chained wooden sign and used his long legs to step over it. There was a wide path here, one that had once been used for ATVS before the sheriff's department had restricted the use of vehicles in the reserve.
He had always loved it out here ever since he was a little kid. He had the haziest memories of coming out here with his mom when his dad was at work, just hiking after school or on the weekends. He missed her a great deal, especially on days like today, when he could use a calming presence. Lately the place had taken on a darker sort of tone, what with dead bodies, crazed alpha werewolves, and homicidal werecoyotes out here. But yet, somehow, he still wasn't afraid. It was peaceful, quiet. Maybe it was those old memories of collecting pine cones and looking for the biggest acorn he could find. Whatever it was, out here he could get his thoughts in order and not worry about someone lurking over his shoulder. Someone like Lydia or his dad. He had to admit though, he wished that Scott was here with him. He missed having the familiar footfalls of his friend's too-worn-out sneakers behind his own. Hell, he even missed Scott's inane questions. 'Do you think Allison-?'
The name burned into Stiles' brain like a well heated brand against cool flesh, reminding him why Scott wasn't there right now. "Allison." he breathed, hiccuping a little after coming to a studdering stop in the middle of the pathway. Of course. That was it. It all came crashing down on him at once, like an avalance of books in the library. All the information that he had garnered about werewolves over the last few years, and everything that he knew about his best friend came together in a massive supernova that had him seeing spots. It was so simple, so clear. Scott might not come out and say it, but of course now that he was a werewolf at least part of him acted upon deep rooted instinct. He had loved Allison, and, possessed or not, Stiles had been the one who had taken that away. It was almost as if he was a heartless hunter who had shot the alpha's mate whether or not they were together at the time, at least to that instinctual part of Scott.
"You're such an idiot..." he murmured to himself, sidestepping off of the path a piece to take a seat upon a downed log. His feet dragged through the leaf litter as he did so, leaving shallow trails of dirt in their wake. The fallen tree was covered in moss and lichen, smelling of rot and decay. Mocking him, just like the pill bottles back in his room, because it was the smell of what he felt right then. The decay of his friendship, of what was going on in his life, of the bonds within it. What had the wolves of Beacon Hills always said? The Hales always said? Especially since Scott had made ascended to the rank of an Alpha? That the McCall pack was one of the most unconventional that had ever been formed. Not only was it full of werewolves, but it also housed a banshee, a kitsune, whatever the hell Parish was, hunters and... up until recently, himself. Sure, the Hale pack had been inclusive of family members and mates that had not been born or changed wolves, had been human. According to some stories, though, they had been seen in a lesser light than the supernatural members of the family. It depended on who you talked to. Derek and Cora tended to ignore those tails... but Peter?
But this, this felt different. Different than those stories that that snake Peter twisted to make himself come out on top. This felt like ostracism. He hadn't felt this bad about anything since Lydia had thrown away his macaroni-art valentine in the third grade. It was an absolute crushing sort of hopelessness that made someone feel utterly alone. Dead inside. He couldn't help but to think what could have happened if the Nogitsune hadn't split from him when it had. Or if he hadn't had completed that sacrificial right with Allison and Scott. Would things have been any different? Would they have been able to save his dad and Argent and Melissa? He didn't know, but maybe he would have been able to keep his friends, keep his pack. The teen could feel his eyes stinging, like they hadn't since his mother had died. Looking for comfort, and only having himself for it, he brought his legs up close to him, tucking his head behind the sanctuary of his knees as he held them tight against his chest. A sob or two wracked him for long moments, and he wished that he had brought that stupid bottle of Xanex with him, as it almost felt as if he were on the verge of a panic attack. A bad one.
One of his hands snaked down into the pocket of his jeans, finding the outline of his phone and dragging it out. He held it in shaking fingers, a whimper moving past his lips as he peaked out from behind the sleeve of his over shirt. He needed help, needed his pills. He was recognizing the signs early, the rapid breathing and the inability to focus or calm down. However, as he looked down at the little device he shook his head, another thought coming to him. No. He couldn't call anyone when he was like this. He couldn't possibly be that pathetic, could he? His dad had finally gotten back to work, he wasn't going to drag him away from the station.
And Lydia? No... he couldn't even think about calling Lydia either. As much as he hated to admit it, she was probably feeling the same way as Scott was. And that meant that she hadn't been staying with him to keep an eye on his health, but because she had felt pity for him. She was trying to be a sort of salve over a wound that she knew he would eventually figure out was there. The wound that he had caused himself by killing his own friends, with his own hands. Even if he couldn't remember doing it exactly. Even if it had only been a hazy sort of dream to him, like he had been a spectator to his own life as part of some twisted take on "A Christmas Carol". As if he'd been Scrooge forced to watch as his hands had twisted a katana in his best friend's stomach, as he had ordered the Oni to attack the pack... And to be condemned to have only the haziest of memories of it all. It was the worst. And she was trying to be good, and trying to be kind to him, giving him one last connection even though she was grieving for Aiden and Allison. The worst part was that he couldn't even talk about it. Not with them. Not with anybody. There was no one, no one at all, who would know what this had felt like. He was on his own. Completely cut off.
And the more he thought about it, the worse he felt. The more his body began to tremble, and his breath came in short, panting, aching gasps. His head popped up from a midst the folds of his flannel like a wine cork suddenly freed from its bottle as his honey-brown eyes immediately began searching for something off in the middle distance. Something in the atmosphere around him. A face, anything. Something that was familiar and safe. Something to run to, to bury himself in and never come out again if that was what it took. Like back when he was a little boy and his mother would fold him up with her in this giant frumpy quilt from the 70's when he was scared and they were alone at home. But there was nothing. Nothing there. No where to go. He couldn't even see the Jeep anymore from where he was, and for the life of him couldn't remember how long he'd been walking before he'd stopped. But his heart was racing, pounding, sprouting pain like daisies against his sternum. The jitters from before were coming back and worse now, worse than anything he'd felt in a long time. Probably because for the first time in his life, there was no safety net to catch him as he plummeted headlong into the throws of the attack. The last few times he'd had one, and they even hadn't held a candle to this, Scott and Lydia had both been there to get his mind off of things.
Standing, spinning, not really seeing what was around him, dizzy with loss of control over his breathing, he tried to get his bearings. Nothing was coming to him, nothing at all. Not even the lessons from his therapist when he'd been younger, from when he'd had to learn to calm himself down, back when he and his dad hadn't been doing so well. The same one that had taught him to recognize the signs of the attacks. It was like his mind had just been wiped blank. Completely and utterly devoid of rationality, he just started to run, run in the first direction that looked safe, that looked open and free, at least in his mind.
Clear wasn't so much the word that his body would have used for the path that his mind had taken though as branches and brambles stung at his face and arms. What rocks and broken branches that he couldn't manage to jump over in time in his wild flight he ended up tripping on. They cut into his jeans, his legs, picked at the fabric around him and into his skin. One such lucky object just happened to be on the leading edge of one of the many water fed ravines in the park. He tumbled head over heals, cursing as stones bit at his skin, bruising his muscles. When he hit the bottom finally, his face half covered in the mud from the brook that formed the bottom of the ravine he tasting blood on his lips and gave out a little whimper. His body ached, his chest heaved, but somehow, someway, he felt better. The anxiety was gone. Dissipated, as if by some of Deaton's magic. The physical exertion had worked it right out of him, even if he was now in a more physical, visceral sort of pain.
His knees and his ankles screamed at him as he tried to stand, but he managed it, putting weight upon his shoulders and leaning against the walls of the steep gully. On his way vertical, he used his hands to start wiping dirt and leaves off of his now ruined clothing as much as he could. Blood stained the knees of his jeans, and the lower sleeves and elbows of his flannel shirt, where the fabric had been cut up by his less than graceful tumble. He grunted, shaking his head as he started to walk, feeling dizzy from some hit or another. Circling a bit, he tried to get his bearings, but no such luck. Great. Of course he wouldn't have known where he was at this point, after something like that. Dumbass.
The most he could do was just keep walking, he guessed. He hissed as he tried to put weight on one of his feet, immediately picking it back up when he reached its threshold. His ankle was messed up, great. Really... spectacular ending to a wonderful day. No more running, and who knew how far from the car he was now? A grumble passed through him as he followed the creek, looking for a way out of the steep ravine that he had just stumbled into. He wouldn't be able to climb out in this shape. He couldn't. His only hope was if the terrain happened to flatten out farther downstream. He just better get going. The sooner he found his way out of here, the sooner he could get back to Roscoe, and the sooner he could get home.
He was trying not to think too much as he walked. All he wanted now was to get back home and crawl back into bed. Maybe stay there for the rest of his life. Wasn't it funny how your perspective on something like that could flip after one little revelation? Just this morning all he had wanted to be out of bed. He had wanted to be away from everything, and in that moment he had condemned himself to thought, to knowing what was going on. And now here he was, all alone. In more ways than one. Or so he had thought.
The growling from behind him was what caught his attention. Not a growling that he had grown accustomed to. Not the guttural vibrato of a werewolf. Of the supernatural. No... this was something much more real, more natural, and far more menacing. And right behind him. Oh god.
He turned, the jitters once again coming back into his motions as a rigid hiss came to his ears. This however, was not from anxiety, but from sheer fear. Oh no. Oh no oh no. Out of all the times he'd been out here, he'd never ever run into any of the natural wildlife of the preserve. Of course it would have to be today that he met up with something. And it would have to have been a mountain lion and her cub. Claws reached out for him, and teeth, and there was no where for him to go, nothing for him to do except to try and make himself as small as possible. Try to make himself hard to get at. But with that cub...
Fire exploded across his skin in raking lines. His back, his chest. Punctures at the back of his neck that made his head pound as he tried to curl into a tightened ball against the onslaught. He didn't know how long it took for the cat to get bored with him, but when it did he was laying on his side, fingers clutching the shattered face plate of his phone. It had been all that he could do to dig it out of his pocket. He needed help, and he needed it now. His vision was failing, his world turning black, and he managed, just barely, to press the number of one of his contacts.