Chapter Text
The oppressive humidity of the tunnel only makes it harder to breathe. Oxygen comes in short, minuscule bursts. There’re arms around his shoulders, guiding him as he focuses on placing one foot in front of the other. Before him, things are blurry shapes, molding and shifting into only a few shades of spotty grey.
Without these arms around him, he probably would have already collapsed against the wall. They grasp him tightly, steering him in supposedly the right direction as the person pushed against his side tries to take some of his weight onto themselves, since he can barely hold himself up as it is. The person smells sweet, like a vanilla perfume, and in his peripherals he can see curls of strawberry-blonde hair; it’s frazzled and a bit dirty, but so-very Lydia, he thinks.
His memories are somewhat distant, and for a brief moment he has to stop and ask himself what he’s doing here, because this tunnel is long and feels never-ending and all he wants to do is just stop and sleep—he doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s slept. But then Lydia is muttering something that sounds one part encouraging, two parts desperate, and it comes back to him in pieces. She’d been taken. Taken by him, by his face, but not him. The nogitsune. They’d come to save her.
Yet, she hadn’t been happy to see them at all. In fact, there wasn’t even a hint of a smile, instead a deep frown of confusion and a whispered, shaky sentence, “You didn’t get my message?”
It wasn’t the reaction he had been expecting, that either of them had been expecting (Scott, his mind supplies, was there with him too). In all honesty, back when he was just a love-struck middle-schooler, he’d dreamed of being the hero. Of rescuing Lydia, of her being grateful and thanking her knight in shining armor—maybe with a kiss. But he’d grown out of that. It was different now, at least somewhat, and while he doesn’t expect her to be that grateful to see them, he certainly wasn’t prepared for her to be upset that they had come for her. He’d always come for her.
That’s when everything had turned to chaos again. Scott had dashed away from them and when he had tried to follow, his legs gave out and suddenly Lydia was there, tying to stop him from hitting the floor. They had to go, though—they both knew it, despite his condition. They had to help, because clearly something bad was going to happen.
So they walked through the tunnel, albeit a bit slowly, but they were making progress. And then…he doesn’t really know what happened then. One foot in front of the other, he’s reminding himself repeatedly, and then his vision turns from shades of grey to a dark black, and he’s collapsing. This time, the arms don’t stop him, and a light sob comes from next to him, a desperate plea.
He’s only sure of one thing in that moment: he’s not strong enough. The realization hits him full force, and it’s like all the energy has been drained out of him in an instant. Thoughts slip through his fingertips. He’s drifting—knows he has to get up, to keep going, but the motivation to do so is completely absent from his body.
Nothing can prepare him for the scream though. Before it happens, it’s almost like there’s a shift in the atmosphere. The already-suffocating humidity becomes even tighter, even more constricting, and then there’s one name ringing throughout his head: Allison. He knows what’s happened the second Lydia opens her mouth, raw grief and pain slicing through the air as the banshee mourns the loss of her closest friend in the only way a banshee knows how. Then Lydia’s head is laying across his chest, a sorrowful cry wracking his ears as she pulls him into a hug.
Time moves both too slowly and too fast after that. It feels like forever he’s sitting there, wanting to help Lydia—to hug her back and reassure her. But his vision only continues to dim. And then, out of nowhere, he’s outside, not sure how he got there. It’s not the strangest thing to have happened to him before, and he finds the sudden loss of time hardly a priority.
He'd assumed it would get easier to breathe once he was out of that damn tunnel, but at the sight before him, all hopes of that vanish. It’s a sight he won’t forget. Scott is kneeling on the ground, Allison wrapped in his hold. She’s limp—gone. And for the briefest moment, he tries to convince himself that this isn’t real, that it’s just another one of the nogitsune’s cruel nightmares that he’s been placed in. It’s fruitless, though, because he’s somehow standing on his own, and he’s here and Scott is here and Allison is dead. The nogitsune wouldn’t bother making this a dream when it could so easily just be a reality.
He can’t tear his eyes away. Scott is crying, shaking, and he just wants to will himself to move and comfort his best friend. But like in the tunnel with Lydia, he can’t. He’s paralyzed, rooted to this spot, and forced to watch. A strained sound escapes his throat.
Allison is dead.
It’s like that for a couple minutes, everybody standing in shock. Lydia finds Isaac and Chris—and god, Chris is here. Kira is off at the side with Noshiko, her face contorted into one that radiates disbelief. And he just stands there…paralyzed. Alone. He knows why nobody wants to be near him, of course, and his suspicions are only confirmed when Scott finally looks up with a tear-stained face.
It’s his own gaze that Scott’s catches first, and in that moment he wishes he wasn’t here. That he was the one that was bleeding, laying still, and that Allison was in his place instead, alive with that determined spark her eyes always seemed to hold. Because the moment Scott sees him, the werewolf flinches and his eyes flash a bright red.
It’s then that he understands completely. This is his fault. He is the reason that his best friend’s lover is dead.
Memories that aren’t his own dance in his mind, of the Oni swinging their swords, of an arrow piercing one’s chest, where it then bursts into a shower of green light. A feeling of interested shock—again, not his own, but it feels so real—as the unkillable dies. Then there’s a gasp as another sword is thrust through Allison, her bow still gripped tightly in her hands. Satisfaction washes over him, and it feels so wrong, but despite himself, he smirks.
These are memories that aren’t his memories, and these are emotions that aren’t his emotions, but once again, he’s asking himself the question: “Am I me?”
The answer “More you than the nogitsune,” doesn’t comfort him this time, like it did before. Because he can still feel the fox, its psyche still connected with his own. These are memories that aren’t his memories, he tells himself again, but deep down there’s a voice arguing, “They’re our memories.”
This is why, as he stares at Scott, as the red eyes angrily stare back at him, he knows he won’t ever be able to look away. That he deserves what’s coming. He can feel the power of the alpha. It’s nearly tangible. Then there’s a growl, a flurry of movement, and someone shouts, “Stiles!” as Scott charges at him.
He takes the claws directly into the chest, and they’re ripping at him, tearing at him. He thinks he might scream in pain but honestly, he’s no longer sure of anything that is happening at this point. Yet, he realizes through the haziness that Scott had seen him—not him, the nogitsune—slip away, smiling, disappearing along with the Oni after leaving Allison a bloody mess. Scott thinks he’s the nogitsune, and he himself can’t help but wonder whether he is, too.
“Stiles!” someone yells again, and while the name brings him to attention somewhat, he can’t look away from Scott, his best friend, slashing at him. He can only watch, thinking that he supposed he deserved to go out this way. That it was only fitting—
And then there’s freezing cold water on his face and Stiles is shooting up out of the covers of his bed. He’s no longer paralyzed, that’s for sure, as he flails his arms about, trying to grab onto something, anything that is real. He finds someone else instead, who is grabbing him with strong hands around his upper chest. His chest that isn’t a bloody canvas of claw-marks. Subconsciously, he fights against the limbs. They’re too similar to Lydia’s, holding onto him as their world falls apart, and he doesn’t want to be back there, he doesn’t want to go through that again.
“Stiles—Stiles! It’s me—hey, it’s me, it’s okay.”
Except it’s not Lydia, and he’s not in the tunnel, he thinks. He’s not—he’s not there, Scott hasn’t torn into him.
“It’s okay, kid, it’s okay…it was a nightmare. You’re okay. It’s okay,” his dad soothes.
“It’s not,” Stiles gasps. It’s then that he realizes it’s no easier to breathe here than in the dream, than in the tunnel, and with that a whole new wave of panic sets in. With renewed vigor, he shoves his way out of his dad’s clutches, but doesn’t make it very far. In fact, it’s only two steps he takes before he drops down to the carpeted floor of his room, one hand making a fist in the fabric and the other grappling at his chest, as if he could simply rub some oxygen into his lungs.
Things blur once more—as they so often do, recently—and he focuses on trying to ground himself. His fingertips are tingling, and his face is becoming numb and flushed as his body becomes starved for oxygen. Realistically, Stiles knows it’s there. It’s all around him, and all he’s got to do is inhale and breathe it in, but he’s trying and it’s not working. He’s breathing so goddamn fast that he should be getting all the oxygen in the entire world, yet there’s still not enough somehow and Stiles is too occupied to be trying to figure out the logic behind that.
There’re arms on him again, then. Touching him, maneuvering their way around his body, and Stiles at this point is so tired of people trying to hold onto him, to steady him. He wishes he was capable of doing that himself. Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes and his heart is thrumming in his ears. He can barely make out his dad, trying to talk to him, get through to him.
“Stiles…please. Just look at me, okay? Look at me goddamnit, you need to breathe.”
He understands the words, what they’re trying to say, despite the fact they sound all muffled and underwater. If Stiles was capable of replying he’d say sarcastically, No shit…you think I’m trying to suffocate on the floor of my bedroom here? That where I want to die is in my room from a panic attack, after everything I just went through?
It’s by thinking this, that he suddenly understands what is happening to him. A panic attack. Right. Those things he would get all the time after his mother died…that he was continuing to get now even as a high-schooler. Another thing that the stupid nogitsune had brought back, either intentionally or unintentionally (probably both) in order to torment his mind. And then, it’s by thinking of the nogitsune, that he hears the raspy words:
What is harder to catch the faster you run?
Oddly enough, the riddle doesn’t set him off even more like it should. In fact, he stills for a moment, feeling a mix of emotions. Anger, the most primary; skepticism, behind that. Not fear.
The answer comes to him like a figure stepping out of a shadow, slow and revealing and taunting.
Your breath, he replies quietly.
The oxygen returns. Clarity a little more plentiful, he forces himself to ration it. Takes one deep inhale, then another. He remembers being eight years old again. Remembers being told to just count for five seconds as his lungs expand, and then for another eight as they deflate. The tactic, he discovers, still works with present-him, and his surroundings begin to realign in his vision. He can make out his whiteboard, completely blank, to his left. His dresser in front of him, a picture of him and his dad on top of it. He can hear his heart-rate slowing. His dad shuffling next to him, maybe still trying to talk to him and pull him out of his panic. He can feel the carpet in the grasp of his left hand, the cotton of his shirt in the right. Can taste the dryness in his mouth from the bounds of air he had swallowed in such a short period of time.
“Stiles?” he hears his dad cautiously ask. “You back with me?”
Is he? He can still barely feel his face, and his breathing is still exceptionally shaky, but Stiles knows the worst of it is over. It’s the rush of fatigue that never fails to hit him after a panic attack that tells him this, where he just wants to lay back down and let his body rest and recover. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I think so.”
Readjusting himself, he turns so that he’s sitting down normally. His dad moves in front of him, distress and concern on his features. Stiles understands he’s the cause of it, and the knowledge certainly doesn’t help him settle. He hates this. He fucking hates every minute of this. Of waking up screaming, of the panic attacks, of not knowing what’s real or not. Hates that he has to put his dad through this.
He tucks his legs close to his chest with trembling fingers. “Sorry,” is all he can manage to get out.
His dad blinks, then sighs. “Why are you apologizing?”
The question makes Stiles hesitate. He’s apologizing for a lot of things, he knows. For not being strong enough. For letting the nogitsune in. For Allison’s death. For forcing his dad to have to deal with another family member slowly losing their mind. He can’t bring himself to say any of this, though. His dad won’t understand.
“I don’t know,” he eventually says.
“Well, stop.”
“Stop…?”
“Apologizing. You have nothing to apologize for,” his dad lightly admonishes. It’s the same thing Stiles has been hearing the past two weeks—that this wasn’t his fault, and that he shouldn’t feel guilty. But his dad doesn’t understand. He wasn’t there, he doesn’t know the whole story, and Stiles cannot bring himself to fill in the blanks.
Despite himself, he finds himself saying, “Okay,” but it’s not because he believes it. It’s just easier to agree.
He finds a loose thread on his pants and begins picking at it, avoiding his dad’s gaze. He knows that his dad is freaked out, and rightfully so, but Stiles literally doesn’t think he can take anymore discussion. He just wants to curl up in bed and forget. He doesn’t get let off easy like he wants, though—he never does.
“Do you want to talk about it?” his dad inquires gently.
His response is immediate, and comes with a bit of a defensive bite. “No.”
The Sheriff looks at him studiously, and Stiles can’t help but feel like he’s the focus of a detective’s case right now. He does wish that he had the courage to answer that question affirmatively, because he’s so exhausted of keeping it to himself, but talking about it means accepting it, and he knows he’s in no position to do that right now.
“It was just a bad dream,” he says, like that’ll explain everything, and before his dad can object and keep prying, he pulls himself to his feet. “What time is it?”
His dad seems disappointed. Stiles tries to ignore it. “I don’t know. Late. Still a couple of hours until it’s morning.”
Stiles looks around his room. It’s dark, except for a light that had been turned on in the hallway outside his room. He’d hoped it was a bit closer to dawn, so that he didn’t have to try to go back to sleep and could just stay up, but it’s not like he’d be able to go back to bed after what had just happened anyway.
“Okay. Well, I’m just gonna…” He motions toward his bed, trying to bring this conversation to a close.
His dad arches an eyebrow. “You are?” he says, clearly unconvinced. They’d been through this routine enough times.
Defeated, Stiles admits, “No.” He can only tell so many lies.
His dad gives a partial smile. “You need some food,” he says. “Come on.”
Stiles wants to protest, wants to honestly just be left alone, but again, it’s not like he’s any stranger to going through this. That’s the thing with panic attacks. They take a lot out of you, and when they had first started over eight years ago, his dad had made a system. After he has one, he gets some food and water into him, and then tries to relax and calm down. He’s got to let his dad do the usual ministrations or else he’s never going to hear the end of it.
He follows his dad out of his room and downstairs to the kitchen. As his dad moves to the fridge, he grabs a bottle of water off the counter and takes a seat at the table, feeling drained. It’s quiet as he watches his dad work on making him a sandwich. Nothing too heavy to make him sick, but at least enough to restore his energy.
“You know, we’re going to have to address this eventually. It’s been two weeks, Stiles,” his dad says casually, and Stiles directs his focus to the wood of the table, tracing a finger over the grooves. “Even if it’s not to me, you’ve got to talk to someone.”
Stiles chews on his lip. “Yeah, who?” he retorts, and it’s obvious the question is rhetorical. “It’s not you, Dad… I just… I’m not ready,” he says truthfully.
His dad moves over to him, placing a finished sandwich down. Stiles rips off a piece and eats it. It tastes like rubber in his mouth, but that has nothing to do with how it was made or by whom. Food in general wasn’t really appealing to him anymore.
“Are any of us ever ready?” his dad asks. “It's just, it might help. Venting.”
Stiles shrugs. He doesn’t really have a response to that.
“Talking with your friends might help, too.”
Stiles drops the sandwich, looking up sharply. “I’m not avoiding them,” he says. He doesn’t know whether he’s trying to convince himself or his dad, though. “They’re… I don’t really know. They’re dealing with this, too. The last thing they need is me around them as a constant reminder. It’s like salt in the wound, you know?”
It’s the most he’s said out loud about the subject since it happened. And it was mostly the truth, too. He hasn’t seen, heard from, nor talked to anybody from the pack since that night where he got rid of the nogitsune. Not that they had reached out to him, either. He’d been checking his phone fairly religiously, waiting for something, someone, to send him anything. Whether it was to check in on him, or tell him they never wanted to see him again, he didn’t care. The silence was worse.
Stiles likes to think he’s a realist. He can approach things from a level manner and look at the whole picture. See things where others can’t. Part of it came from being the son of the sheriff, he supposed, and a bit of it from his ADHD, but most of it was simply because he didn’t stop until he had all the information and could see the whole board. From there, it was just moving things into place. Stiles didn’t do not knowing. Not since he was eight years old, visiting his mother’s hospital bed daily as she lost more and more of her mind to disease, asking why this was happening. Why the doctors couldn’t just fix her.
So, it wasn’t any surprise to him that they hadn’t made a move to contact him. It was abundantly clear why. His dreams might just be a more dramatic manifestation of it, but it’s not like they came from nowhere. Deep down, he knows that Scott despises him—at least partially. Maybe not to the point of killing him by ripping him to shreds, sure, but there’s just logically no instance where his friend can forgive him for what happened. And that’s why, while anybody in the pack hasn’t reached out to him, he won’t reach out to them, either. It’s just how it is.
“Hey,” his dad says softly, drawing him out of his thoughts. “Personally, I think you’re wrong.” He holds up a hand before Stiles can get the objection past his lips. “Look, I know I’m still new to…all this…but I don’t know they could possibly hold anything about what happened against you. It just wouldn’t make sense.”
“I do,” Stiles says adamantly. “I mean, I’m the one who—”
Shit.
He cuts himself off there, pausing, regathering his thoughts. He’d almost said a lot more than he had intended to. That he was the one—no, the nogitsune was?—who ordered the Oni to attack them, and that he could remember it—remember every bit of it, and how good it had felt, feeding off the explosion of strife and pain that had come from her death.
He’s still not sure about the intertwined memories that remain even after the nogitsune’s departure. Stiles is confident that the fox is completely gone; they had trapped it in the box made from the nemeton, and there was no way that any part of it could still be in him. But, he gets flashes sometimes. Of walking through the hospital, the Oni at his command; of the animal clinic, and how he’d stuck Kira’s sword through Scott like it was the easiest thing he’d ever done; of placing the bomb at the sheriff station, setting deputies he’d known since he was a child up for their deaths.
The memory of Allison is the only one that is one-hundred percent, unadulteratedly clear. His punishment.
“You’re the one who…” his dad prompts, trying to get him to finish his previous admission.
Stiles gives a meek smile. “Good try,” he commends. “You almost got me.”
His dad frowns and runs a hand through his hair, but plays along. “Perks of being the sheriff. I’ve got experience with stuff like that I guess.”
Stiles takes another look at his half-eaten sandwich, then pushes his chair back. “Yeah, and I guess being the son of one, I’m not that gullible.”
It comes out harsher than intended. He doesn’t hold anything against his dad, knows how frustrating it must be to be kept out of the loop, and regrets the words the moment he says them.
“I’m sorry,” he amends. His dad shakes his head, but Stiles plows on. “That wasn’t fair. I… I’ll try and do better. I’ll try and trust you more, I know you just want to help. I just…I have to start trusting myself again first.”
For the first time that night, Stiles looks his dad straight in the eyes and sees the emotion in them. Suddenly he just wants to be held, his previous grievances he’s had about just that dissipating. He walks over to his dad, and pulls him into a hug. It feels nice. Comforting.
“I think I want to go to school on Monday,” he murmurs into his dad’s shoulder. He’d taken the past two weeks off, for obvious reasons, and he’ll have to pick up all his make-up work—but after tonight, he’s realizing just how desperately he wants things to go back to normal.
“You sure?” his dad asks. “You don’t have to. Especially after this coming Sunday, you know…”
Stiles knows. “And you know I’m not going,” he counters.
“You’re allowed to, you were invited,” his dad reminds him.
He snorts. “No, not really. Her friends and family are the only ones welcome. I’m not so sure I fit into either of those categories anymore. Besides, Scott and everyone else will be there…and I can’t. I can’t, Dad. It won’t be right with me there. Regardless of anything else that happened, she died trying to save me. That’s fact.”
Stiles’ dad pulls back, something indecipherable on his face as he stares at Stiles. Perhaps it’s pity.
“She did,” his dad reluctantly agrees, “but she did it voluntarily. She knew the risks, and she was willing to take them in order to protect you and Lydia. She wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”
Stiles huffs a doubtful laugh. “She can’t want anything. She’s dead, and it’s not right to assume that. I’m not going to her funeral, Dad. Please don’t try to make me,” he says, the words bordering on begging.
His dad remains silent for a moment, before giving in. “Okay,” he says. “I wouldn’t make you do anything you don’t want to. You know that.”
Stiles sighs, then takes a step back and makes his way to the fridge, depositing the rest of his uneaten sandwich in it. He’s tired. So, very tired. “Yeah. I know,” he says. “I want to do something on Sunday, though,” he adds. “It’s Friday—or, I guess Saturday now. I want to go outside and do something.”
His dad looks a little surprised. Stiles has somewhat surprised himself. He hasn’t left the house at all in two weeks, both not having the courage to face the world again and too scared to run into somebody that he knows. However, if he’s going to go to school on Monday, he’s got to start reintegrating himself into society at some point.
“Sure,” his dad says. “What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles answers. “Anything. Maybe I’ll go for a drive. Stop by and pick up some groceries we need.”
His dad nods. “Do you want me to go with you?”
Stiles thinks on it, appreciating his dad giving him the choice, leaving the decision in his own hands. That’s another thing they’d been working on since the nogitsune: Stiles getting his autonomy back. He’d quickly discovered he didn’t do well with being told what to do anymore. Not that he had before, but now the irritation he used to feel at being instructed to do something instantly led to a flashback instead—let me in, Stiles.
Eventually, he decides, “No. I should do this on my own.”
“Okay. If that’s what you think is best, then I trust you.”
Stiles smiles gratefully. “Thanks.”
He begins making his way toward the staircase, not sure whether he’s going to attempt to try and sleep again or just go dig around in some books. Before he can start upwards though, something pulls at the back of his mind, and he closes his eyes, feeling a pit form in his stomach. He thought maybe he could avoid it this time. Turns out, he’s still got a little way to go before he’s there.
Turning around, he walks to the pantry, then presses his hand on the door and applies some pressure to make sure it’s shut tight. Then, he does the same with the door to his dad’s room. Then, the closet by the front door. Then, the front door itself. He can feel his dad’s eyes on him the whole time, a heavy weight on his back. He knows it’s not judgement, though, just sadness.
“The doors are closed, Stiles,” his dad assures him.
You each need to close that door.
Stiles swallows, his throat feeling tight. Hearing his dad say that helps more than he probably even knows.
Satisfied enough, he continues up the stairs. Repeats the same process. He has to make sure the doors are closed. He has to.
Saturday passes in a fog of anxiety and stress. Stiles spends his time curled over his books and laptop, making occasional notes on certain subjects that he feels might be useful in the future. It isn’t schoolwork, though—laid out in multiple different tabs on his computer is a bunch of different lore sites and entries on the various branches of the supernatural.
This, at least, wasn’t something new. Toward the beginning of the year he’d started to delve more into research because, well, what else could he do? It’s not like he’s got claws and fangs and supernatural strength like half his friends. If there was one thing Stiles was good at, it was solving problems, and the first step to doing that was to research.
It was tough work, if he had to admit it. A lot of the sites and information he got was either some made-up bullshit or referenced a lot of things from various mythologies that he didn’t quite understand. He’d tried to go to Deaton at some point, see if he had anything that he could lend Stiles, but the man had just shrugged him away with that pensive air of mystery that always surrounded him, saying that he couldn’t help.
So, he had to make do with what he had. It was grueling stuff, but on the bright side, it was good for getting his mind off things. Namely, the upcoming week when he’d actually have to try and be a person again.
Because of this, he spent the whole day upstairs reading random shit, only stopping momentarily to have a couple bites of the food his dad brought him. Not that he cared that much to eat, but when he’d tried to resist against it before, the threatening look his dad had sent him had effectively made him surrender.
Trying to convince himself to go to bed was not easy. Night had fallen quicker than he could even process what it meant, and when it had, he’d started to panic again. Not only did he not want to try and shut his eyes, he just…didn’t want it to be that day. The day when everyone finally got to say goodbye to her.
He thinks he finally fell asleep around three in the morning.
At six, he woke up sweating, barely holding back a scream, and Lydia’s shriek of mourning ringing throughout his eardrums.
Stiles later finds himself just going through the motions, like he would have before everything that happened. He throws a soft tee over his head, and then a dark red hoodie. He barely combs his hair, leaving it a spiky mess, and heads downstairs. Turns the stove on, then throws some eggs in a pan and haphazardly cooks breakfast for himself and his dad. Not that he eats his share—maybe later, when his stomach isn’t tied up in a million little knots.
His dad wakes up maybe an hour later, not particularly showing any surprise that Stiles is already up. At that moment, Stiles is busying himself with wiping off the kitchen counter. Another hour passes in relative silence, and he starts vacuuming the first floor. When he’s done with that, he makes a move to start doing both his and his dad’s laundry, but a hand places itself across his chest before he can make it more than a couple paces to the washer and dryer.
“Stiles,” his dad says. “Stop stalling, kid. You don’t have to do this today if you’re not ready, but pushing it off isn’t going to help, either.”
Stiles sighs and rubs a hand over his face, knowing he’s been caught. Panic tries to crawl its way up his throat again, making it marginally harder to breathe, but he swallows it down. He’s going to do this. A shopping trip and a drive around town is not that hard.
He can almost imagine his heart skipping a beat as he tries to convince himself of this. God, if he’s having this much trouble just getting out of the house, how the hell is he going to go to school tomorrow?
Taking a deep breath, he nods, then goes to grab his keys off the counter. He can do this.
“Call me if you need anything,” his dad says reassuringly.
Stiles weakly smiles. “I’ll be okay,” he says, on the verge of a whisper. Maybe if he says it to himself enough times, he’ll eventually believe it.
The moment he gets in his car is when everything seems to set in. His jeep, which has always felt like a second home to him, instead feels like a prison. The last time he was here, in the driver’s seat, Isaac was saying to him, “You look like you’re dying,” and Stiles was desperately trying to get his friends to understand that if it came to it, if it stopped someone else from getting hurt, they had to quit trying so hard to save him and instead stop him.
That never happened, though. Stiles had pulled his fancy little divine move and Aiden had suffered for it.
Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he rolls the windows down and it seems to help enough to give him enough courage to reverse out of the driveway. For a while, all he does is drive with no destination in mind.
It turns out to actually be so nice.
In fact, the breeze whipping at his face feels so good that he feels like crying. It’s so stupid he thinks, as the tears build up, but he can’t help it. He’s outside, driving where he wants to just because he can, without having the nogitsune in the backseat of his head trying to fight for control of his body.
For the first time in a long time, Stiles feels like he’s truly free.
From there, he rides the high of doing something of his own volition and runs his errands. Stops at the store, and gets whatever the hell he wants to get. He grabs the essentials too, of course, but there’s so much stuff he can choose from and buy that he spends probably three times longer than the average person walking up and down the aisles. It’s the little things he appreciates now.
When he’s done, he walks back to his car with far more he had intended to return home with. Part of him feels a sliver of shame at feeling so emotional doing something so simple, but then he remembers that damn, I really did just battle with a 1000 year-old dark fox spirit in my mind, I deserve some goddamn cookies and treats that I never would’ve normally bought.
He really did plan on returning home after that. Things had went smoothly, and were looking optimistic—then he did the stupid thing and glanced at the time. It was ten.
His stomach plummeted. But, before he knew it, he was driving again, and this time it was not in the direction of home.
It’s the same plot of land that Kate Argent had been buried on. The same plot of land that Victoria Argent had been buried on. Part of him wonders how Allison would’ve felt being buried next to her aunt that had caused her so much trauma, but then he realizes it’s probably the entire family’s land, that many generations had likely been laid to rest here, and he feels like an inconsiderate asshole. He shouldn’t even be here. He doesn’t know why he’s here.
It’s cold out, a delicate breeze wracking the air. The area is a nice clearing, surrounded by trees slowly regaining their leaves after a somewhat harsh Californian winter. There’re headstones lined in rows, and on the opposite side of the area from where Stiles has perched himself stands a sea of people dressed in black.
The last funeral Stiles went to was his mother’s. And yet, here he stands again, for a reason not too dissimilar from the one eight years ago. To be fair, present Stiles knows that his mother’s death was not his fault, but eight year-old Stiles did not. He hadn’t gone through years of therapy to get him to understand that the parameters of the frontotemporal dementia that had taken her from him was beyond his realm of control and that he had no effect on it; that his father’s new relationship with a whiskey bottle was not normal; that him learning to take care of himself from a very young age by cooking his own meals and doing his own laundry was not something every child went through.
At least this time he knows he’s been through this once before, and because of that, maybe he’ll be alright. But, it’s different. Because the funeral happening here, right now, actually was his fault. It wasn’t disease, it was murder, and he pulled the metaphorical pin of the grenade which killed her.
Shaking a little bit, he takes refuge by leaning against a tree, making sure he stays out of sight of any of the people attending. There’s a lot of them. Loads more than there had been for Kate, and it’s with this that Stiles knows Allison was deeply loved by a lot of people. He feels the burden of the grief of every single person standing here, and it presses down hard on his chest.
His eyes traverse everyone as the ceremony goes on. Chris—one of the few clear family of Allison’s that he recognizes, as he supposes the rest are distant or otherwise not involved with hunting—stands stoic. Stiles has to marvel at how he does it. He knows it’s a façade, it’s always a façade, but he could use some pointers maybe because it’s truly amazing how little emotion he shows. He knows the man is suffering, more than anybody else standing there, but he remains the most neutral, the most well put together. Stiles guesses, at this point, the man has lost everything. At some point the pain has to numb.
He sees Scott next. His best friend is a lot less composed. Tears stain his face, and he leans heavily on Melissa, anchoring himself with her. He looks like he’s falling apart and Stiles just wants to go hug him, but then flashes of claws viciously digging into his skin play before his eyes and he quickly remembers where his place in all of this is.
Lydia’s crying quietly a little off to the side, with Kira at her hip. He smiles softly at the two of them, not happy at the situation, but cautiously grateful they can at least find comfort within one another. He doesn’t really know Kira—never really got to know her outside of him being possessed—but she seems nice. He knows Scott was falling for her, hard, and the curious part of him wonders how things will progress from here after Allison’s death.
Then, he reminds himself again of the reason why they’re all here right now, and all those questions shrivel up into nothingness.
The funeral, in total, lasts about an hour. Chris talks a little about Allison’s life. Not the hunting part of it, but the teenaged-girl part of it, and how kind and sweet and caring about other people she was. How she always just wanted to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. At this, Stiles had to sit down on the ground and regather himself for a couple minutes before he felt steady enough to stand again.
When the funeral ends, people leave in small groups. Sorrow hangs heavy in the air as the land slowly empties, and when it finally does, Stiles can’t bring himself to move. He leans against his tree, hands dancing up and down his knees as he fidgets, eyes never leaving her tombstone. It’s official, at this point. Goodbyes have been said, the next step of mourning has been taken. Nothing feels different for Stiles, though. Funerals are supposed to be a place for remembrance and moving on, but he only feels like he’s taken 5 steps backward and accidentally off a cliff.
The chill bites into his face, and he pulls his hoodie tighter around himself. Time passes in a daze, and he only moves once to answer the ding from his cellphone, a text from his dad merely asking, Are you okay?
I’m fine, he replies. Just will be back a little later. Got sidetracked.
It’s broad enough that he doesn’t admit it outright, but at the same time so vague that he knows his dad will catch on to exactly where he went. He gets no response back, and goes back to his vigil.
He wants to work up the courage to get closer to her, but he’s stuck in an increasingly long moment of indecision. He’s not quite sure he deserves to go up there. After all, it’s why he didn’t just go to the funeral—aside from the obvious, which is Chris maybe just taking out his pistol and shooting him on the spot if he showed up. For now, he remains at his tree.
The sun moves gradually past the midpoint of the sky, into a position where it shines brightly on Stiles’ face. The warmth from it is a harsh contrast to the temperature outside and for a moment, he debates using it as an excuse to leave. Leaves tumble their way across the grass along with the wind, and Stiles wishes the wind would take him away, too. From where, he doesn’t know. Whether California as a whole, or only the cemetery, it doesn’t really matter to him. He just wants to stop existing, just for a moment, and go wherever the wind takes him.
Then, a cloud passes over, blocking the sun. Stiles exhales, slightly disappointed for some reason.
Her headstone stands among the others, ground fresh beneath it, with plenty of company yet none at all. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t…he doesn’t know why, but it just…it doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t like her being alone, even though she isn’t here anymore and the dead really don’t give a shit about anything. But still, he gets to his feet, and finally steps out from the treeline and into the open. The wind brushes against his neck and hair, a whisper of a reminder that he’s trespassing here. Unwelcome.
The stone itself is like all the others. A well cared-for granite slab, her name engraved in an elegant font. Beneath it, there’re the words: Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes. He knows their meaning.
Stiles stands a couple paces away from the fresh patch of earth, but close enough to still feel connected to her. He doesn’t really know what to do, so he stands there a bit awkwardly, hands in his hoodie and lips drawn into a tight line. Then, suddenly, words are tumbling out of his mouth and it’s impossible to stop them.
“Uh…hey, Allison,” he says ungracefully. He swallows, trying to steady his voice. “Y’know, I’m not actually sure you would want me here. I wasn’t going to come, not at first, I swear. But uh…” He pauses, still not why he is here. Eventually, he settles on, “I guess I was just too selfish to stop myself from coming.
“I guess I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I know that…that if I had even been half as strong as you, and been able to shut the door, you would still be here. He wouldn’t have gotten in, and you would be going into your senior year this fall. But uh…he did. And you’re not. And for that I’m sorry,” he rambles. It comes out of nowhere, but at that moment he feels desperate to make her know this.
“It’s all my fault. You were there to save me, and to save Lydia. I wish we’d gotten to know each other better, y’know?” he chuckles sadly. “I feel like we would’ve been good friends, beyond just knowing each other mutually through Scott. Or at least, we could’ve bonded over stopping him from doing the stupid and embarrassing things he always does.”
He runs a hand through his hair.
“Speaking of Scott, he’s…not doing great. I haven’t really seen him, which is understandable, but when I have, it hasn’t been good. But he’ll be okay, and I think that’s important for you to know. He’ll be okay. He may not be the smartest sometimes, but he is one of the strongest people I know.
“Surprisingly…or, maybe not, I don’t know, Isaac is a lot more of a mess, according to my dad. I wasn’t really cognizant the last couple of weeks, so I don’t know what was happening between the two of you, but I’m assuming Scott wasn’t the only one moving on. I think Isaac is planning to go to France with your dad. That’s what my dad told me, at least. And if it’s true, he’ll be in good hands.”
Stiles pauses for a second, a little lost on what to say next, and closes his eyes, trying to keep the tears that are building from escaping. He knows she can’t hear him, that he’s talking to nobody right now, but it feels right. Like if she were here, she should know about some of these things. But then he realizes talking to her is more for his benefit than hers, and feels incredibly egotistical.
“Anyway,” he says, and wipes at his face. “I’m just…I’m sorry.”
The rest of his thoughts die out on his tongue. Glancing around, he makes sure nobody else has come back to the cemetery and sits down on the grass. It’s then that he notices all the flowers at the base of the grave, and he wishes he had some of his own to contribute. Maybe he’d come back in a couple of days when nobody else is around and leave some. Not that he knows what flower was her favorite…again, he wishes he’d gotten close enough to her to learn. Maybe no flowers at all was better.
He sits there for a couple more minutes, not wanting to leave, if only for the fact that he’s not sure when he’ll work up the courage to come back here again…if he should even consider it. He still feels like he doesn’t belong here, and returning will probably just piss more people off if they found out. So, best get his pitiful attempt at closure out of the way now.
Sighing softly, Stiles begins to stand up again. He doesn’t feel better at all, he doesn’t feel lighter, but he also doesn’t regret coming here. Now though, he should head home. He’s got groceries and other stuff, and he should probably start thinking about what he should make for dinner.
Turning around, he starts making his way toward the empty street where he had parked his car, when he hears the one voice he’d been dreading to hear for the past two weeks.
“Stiles?”
He stills immediately, his breath catching in his throat, and turns around to see Scott standing there, an unreadable look in his eyes. Distantly, Stiles realizes his hands have starting shaking and quickly puts them into the pocket of his hoodie. He feels like a paralyzed deer staring into headlights.
At least Scott’s eyes aren’t alpha red, and he doesn’t seem…angry, necessarily. Ah, fuck it.
“Hey Scottie,” Stiles says quietly. Scott, oblivious, takes a step toward him, and Stiles, without realizing he’s doing it until it’s already happened, takes a step back.
The silence between them is thick and stilted. Stiles fights not to just turn tail and make a run for it, and instead asks, “How long you been here?” hoping that the werewolf hadn’t heard his soliloquy.
“I just got here. I wanted to come back and see her again,” Scott answers. He looks exhausted, and like he’d just recently been crying. His eyes are actually red, but not supernaturally red. Just…a red spurred by sadness and tears, like anyone else after losing their lover.
“What are you doing here?” Scott asks in return, and Stiles suddenly feels very called out. The words themselves aren’t malicious, but its underlying meaning clearly is.
He throws a hand behind him and points. “I was just leaving.”
“You weren’t at the funeral,” Scott notes, and Stiles wonders the purpose of him saying this. Obviously they both know that he wasn’t there, not with everyone else.
He redirects the subject. “I’m trying to catch up on my makeup work,” he says, despite it being a bit of a lie. “I’m gonna try and go back to school tomorrow, so…” He shrugs, trailing off.
Scott nods. “Me too.”
Stiles shifts uncomfortably. “Well, I’ll see you then, I guess…” he says cautiously. Scott looks him in the eyes, and the panic Stiles has been feeling increases tenfold. It looks like his friend wants to say something more, and something passes briefly across his features, but it’s gone before Stiles can analyze it, and he almost thinks he might’ve imagined it.
“Okay,” Scott agrees. “See you then.”
And with that, Stiles takes the opening and briskly jumps ship, leaving Scott, Allison, and a wake of anxiety behind him.