Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Before…

Dark screaming laughing lying smiling knife twist twist twist—

But now…

You can’t speak of opening your eyes in your own mind, but Stiles definitely tuned in to what was happening. And what was happening was…

Vines shrinking decay wither die die die yip howl scared tired burning burn burn…

Actually he wasn’t really sure what was happening.

It was bright, though. It wasn’t like the nogitsune-induced hallucinations. There was light. There were…

“You can’t cast a shadow without a light,” he said, or thought anyway; it’s hard to tell the difference when you’re six feet deep in your own head. It came out dispassionate, a simple observation rather than a life-changing realization.

Cracks spreading walls breaking

“Yes, Deaton poisoned us.”

Turning is another thing that doesn’t happen in your own mind. In the hallucinations of the nogitsune, it had; but this was deeper. It was a matter of refocusing your attention rather than actually turning any mental image of yourself.

The nogitsune looked terrible. In here, it didn’t wear Stiles’ skin; it was a mass of shadow and void that took roughly the shape of a fox. And it was…

“The hell I am,” it snarled. “I will get out of this, little fire-beast. Mark my words.”

Stiles frowned. Fire-beast?

Heat light flame burning poison wither cracks chaos break burn burn burn BURN—

His image of his mind was solidifying. Were they surfacing? Was he going to wake up? Or was this another trick?

Burn burn BURN—

Stiles reached out a mental hand, not knowing why, and found that the fire was coming from him.

The nogitsune snarled.

“I know,” Stiles murmured. “You could just leave, you know.”

Another snarl. He raised his hand, shining with fire.

Burn—

The nogitsune collapsed in on itself, shadow blooming and then shrinking to a pinpoint.

It was gone.

It was quiet.

“Okay, Stiles,” he muttered. “Time to wake up now.”

He looked around. That was counterproductive, though, wasn’t it? Focusing on the mind-world wasn’t going to make the real world easier to find.

Trying this the other way, then.

He let his attention drift. It took a few moments, but then…

Burn burn burn burn burning burning—

There was screaming everywhere. Why were they screaming? Wait—that wasn’t a human voice. A howl? Was one of the pack howling? Why would they howl—he wasn’t dead, was he?

No. That wasn’t a howl. That was an alarm. A smoke alarm.

Burn burn BURN—

And beyond that…

Stiles opened his eyes.

Fire above him. Fire around him. Burn burn burn—

Hands reached through the fire, down toward him.

Shh, someone whispered in his mind.

~

Scott, Derek, and Deaton were going over specifics when the fire alarm went off.

“What in the name…” Deaton began, turning toward it. Scott and Derek exchanged a look—they’d never seen the vet stumped before, and it wasn’t as welcome a change as they might have once thought.

“That’s coming from Stiles’ room,” Derek said.

They didn’t need to say anything more than that. The two of them ran to the back room where Stiles was laid out on the operating table.

Or had been, at least.

When they got there, Stiles was gone. The metal operating table itself was warped and glowing with heat. Scorch marks littered the walls and covered the ceiling.

“What the hell happened here?” Derek said.

Scott turned to Deaton. “You said Stiles would be fine. You said the thing couldn’t get out of that.”

“It can’t,” Deaton said slowly. “There is no variety of kitsune that can teleport. Neither could it have walked out of the building with all the mountain ash.” He glanced at the two wolves. “I assume you can’t smell him anymore?”

Derek shook his head. “He’s gone.”

“And last I checked Stiles can’t teleport either. So what the hell happened?”

Deaton looked at the table, frowning. He took a step into the room but couldn’t get close to the table before the heat drove him back.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you need to check again.”

Chapter Text

Deputy Parrish tapped the sheriff on the shoulder. When the sheriff startled, Parrish knew he’d made the right choice in coming over here.

“Sir,” he said, voice soft. “You won’t be any good to him if he comes back and you can’t even see straight. Go home. Get some rest. We’ll call you the second we know anything new.”

Sheriff John Stilinski wanted to object. That much was clear from the set of his shoulders. But after a long moment, he sighed and nodded.

“You’ll be here?” he asked.

Parrish nodded. “All night. Until you get back in the morning. Promise. Come on, I’ll drive. You’d need coffee to be legal on the road and then you wouldn’t sleep and that would defeat the whole purpose.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stilinski rolled his eyes, shrugging his jacket on as he stood. “I admitted you had a point once. Don’t get cocky.”

The grin on Parrish’s face said the advice had come far too late. “Come on, sir,” he said again.

~

So cold. Why am I so cold?

He shivered, and that slight movement made him so dizzy he almost fell over.

Breathe, Stiles. Breathe. Look around. Where are you?

He sucked in a breath, and it rattled in his chest. He coughed, and found he couldn’t stop coughing; he fell to his hands and knees, trying hard to breathe. It was several minutes before he could breathe properly, at which point he realized his hands really hurt.

Slowly this time, breathing shallowly to keep from launching into another coughing fit, he pulled himself to his feet. His vision was blurry, but he could see that his hands were bleeding. The skin looked scrunched, too, like it wasn’t relaxing after being pushed into the ground. Other parts of his skin stung too; he pulled back his sleeves carefully and saw that tiny cuts were scattered along his wrists.

What could do that? It felt like death by a thousand paper cuts. But there were bigger issues. When he tried to swallow, his mouth was so dry it wouldn’t work.

So cold. So thirsty. Need water. Where am I?

He looked around, keeping his movements slow and tentative so he wouldn’t fall over again. Brown street signs with white lettering—he was probably in Beacon Hills. Should be, anyway. He couldn’t read the signs from here.

Keep looking.

Stiles turned slowly, trying to find any more markers. He had to blink more than seemed normal, and every so often his body announced a new scratch and he had to suppress a wince.

Despite the thirst, and the cold, and everything else wrong, he’d gotten lucky. There was his house, just a hundred feet up the driveway. And there—there was Deputy Parrish letting his dad out of the car.

Stiles opened his mouth to call for his dad, but thought better of it and closed his mouth. It would probably start him coughing again, and he wasn’t sure he could get a deep enough breath to make it effective. Instead, he started walking, slowly and unsteadily, toward his house.

Dad. Dad, look at me. I’m right here.

Parrish pulled away from the driveway. His dad was unlocking the door, and he still hadn’t seen Stiles. Why did residential streets have to be so poorly lit? No street signs here, no sir, just porch lights that were too bright when you wanted to sleep and too dim when you wanted to be seen.

He wanted to call out but just breathing was hurting his throat. Instead he kept walking. His dad looked around the street briefly, but it was still too dark for him to see Stiles from that brief glance.

Keep looking. Please.

But he didn’t. After just a cursory glance around the street, he went inside. How long had Stiles been gone, that his dad had lost so much of his hope?

Keep walking, Stiles.

He kept going. It was slow going. The few hundred feet between Stiles and the doorstep seemed to take hours. He could only hope it wasn’t that long, or his dad might be asleep and wouldn’t hear Stiles ring the doorbell. He wasn’t sure he still had his key, wasn’t even sure he’d had it before… vanishing.

He rang the doorbell.

It took a few moments, while Stiles counted his breaths and tried not to keel over from exhaustion, but the living room light went on and his dad opened the door.

“Stiles?”

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but it didn’t work. Nothing but a slightly louder-than-usual breath came out of his throat.

His dad grabbed him and pulled him in for a hug. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he whispered. “This has to be a dream.”

This time Stiles had slightly more success at communicating. True, all that came out of his throat was a breathy squeak, but it at least worked to tell his dad that the hug hurt.

His dad pulled back, guiding Stiles inside by a hand on his shoulder. “Come on in,” he said. “Stiles, are you okay?”

Stiles shook his head.

“Do you know what happened?”

Stiles wasn’t listening. So thirsty. He headed for the kitchen and the sink. It took more effort than he would’ve liked, but he got the water on and leaned in to gulp it down straight from the faucet.

“Hold on, Stiles.” His dad put a hand on his shoulder again, this time to push him back. “Hold on,” he said again. “I’ll get you a glass, all right? Sit down.”

Sit down. That sounded like a good idea. The room was starting to spin; sitting down might make it settle a bit. He made his way to the table and sat down in the nearest chair.

He heard the faucet running, and then his dad sat in the chair beside him. Stiles’ hands were shaking too badly to even think he might hold the cup, so his dad held it to his lips for him, tipping it back slowly so Stiles could drink. He managed half the cup before his father pulled it away.

“Stiles,” he said softly. “Slow down. You’ll make yourself sick.”

He hadn’t until his dad had said that, but now he noticed his stomach roiling. He pressed a hand to his mouth, breathing slowly through his nose. Still so thirsty…

“Stiles, do you know where you’ve been?”

Stiles looked at the table.

Sun and sand as far as the eye can see, dunes and dune grass don’t touch the grass it holds the dunes together and fire fire burning burning burn burn burn—

Dance with us—

He shook his head and reached for the water again. It didn’t matter if he got sick, he was too thirsty.

His dad held up the water to him again, slowly pouring more of the water into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles swallowed repeatedly when he finished.

“Do you know how long you’ve been gone?” his dad asked.

It won’t be as long. Who knows? They might not even know you’re missing at all.

Stiles shook his head and reached for the glass again. This time he finished it, although it made his stomach churn. He forced himself to keep breathing and stay calm.

His dad refilled the glass from the sink and put it in front of him. “I’m going to call 911,” he said. “Just stay here, I’ll be back soon.”

Stiles shook his head harder, or started to, when his dad mentioned the phone call. It didn’t work as planned; his dad didn’t see, and bile rose up in his throat at the motion. He tried to stand, to stumble to the sink or the trash, even to call for his dad, but he barely got out of the chair before he threw up.

There was nothing in his stomach but water and bile, but he kept heaving, on his hands and knees again. Some of the stuff spattered his hands and his shirt. God, that’s gross.

“Stiles!” His dad knelt down next to him. He managed to hold the phone between his shoulder and his ear so he could pull Stiles back to his feet and back into the chair. “He threw up,” he said, and it took Stiles a minute to realize he was talking to the 911 operator. “He’s sick, he needs—”

He stopped talking abruptly. “Okay,” he said in response to whatever the operator said. “Okay. Yeah. Thank you. No, that’s fine. We’ll manage until then. Thank you.”

He hung up.

“Stiles?” he murmured, rubbing a hand over Stiles’ back. “The ambulance will be here in a few minutes. Are you okay? Do you want more water?”

Stiles nodded, a little shaky. Yes, he wanted more water. He wanted more than his body could handle at once, apparently. He wanted it bad enough not to notice the ambulance comment.

“Okay.” His dad held the cup to his lips again. “Slowly this time, okay?”

Stiles nodded again, but it was so hard to let his dad take away the glass after only a few sips. Harder to see him walk away, the cup just a foot from Stiles’ hands and still too heavy to lift himself.

His dad came back again after a minute with a washcloth and an old towel. He dropped the towel on the puddle of mostly-water vomit and cleaned Stiles’ face and hands with the washcloth. Stiles felt a little pathetic at that, but he was still glad; he didn’t think he could have done it for himself and it was really gross.

His dad held the water to his mouth again, but this time had a bowl for Stiles to spit into. Still pathetic. And he was still so very grateful to his dad.

“The ambulance will be here soon,” his dad said.

This time he caught that. His head jerked up. What?

His dad’s eyes widened for a moment, just as surprised as Stiles; then the moment was over and he relaxed. He held the water up again. A few sips, and he put it down on the table, out of easy reach, and set about finishing the cleanup. The bowl went into the sink; he took the washcloth and towel back to where the laundry room was. Stiles stayed still. He didn’t think he could move if he wanted to, and wasn’t sure it would be worth it if he could.

It was several minutes and several more slow sips of water before he heard sirens. His dad stood up to open the door for the paramedics.

The paramedics were cheerful, or maybe they just put on that appearance for Stiles and his dad’s sake. Toby asked Stiles gently if he could stand and walk, to which he shrugged weakly. Zoe brought in a gurney, which made Stiles wince—really, was that necessary?—and Toby helped him onto it. He was at least strong enough not to need to be picked up for that, thank you.

He didn’t miss the way Toby frowned when he touched him, though. What was wrong?

~

Sheriff John Stilinski watched the activity from the hallway. Stiles had been rushed into treatment in the ER—despite the lack of broken bones, they weren’t sure if he could talk, and his level of dehydration was apparently critical. John wished he’d given Stiles more water, but he’d thrown it up so quickly.

Within five minutes Stiles had been hooked up to an IV and gone through all the routine tests of a doctor’s office. Blood samples had gone off to the lab, and now it was just a matter of waiting. John waited in the hallway; Stiles was asleep or trying to be, and John knew just how scarce sleep had been for him recently.

Melissa McCall, who’d handled most of Stiles’ intake, approached John. “He’ll be okay,” she said.

John nodded. He couldn’t stop himself giving a sigh of relief.

“There’s more,” Melissa said. She opened the chart she was holding. “Almost all his symptoms can be attributed to severe dehydration and malnutrition. The doctors want to do an MRI, because if this was a fugue state that means the dementia sped up. But between you and me…” She shook her head. “I don’t think this was the dementia.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t usually leave scorch marks,” John agreed. “Or melt metal tables.”

“It’s not just that.” Melissa licked her lips. Was she nervous? Melissa was a professional; John had never seen her nervous before. “When Stiles came in, he had a fever of a hundred and eight.”

“What?” John looked back to the room Stiles was in. “He wasn’t—I mean he had a fever when he came home, I could tell that, but he didn’t seem that hot.”

“Well, he was.”

He caught the past tense. “But not now?”

She shook her head. “That’s the good news. Now, his temperature is just over ninety-seven. Well within normal range.”

“So it dropped ten degrees since he got here.”

“Apparently.”

“How?” John remembered the look in Stiles’ eyes when he’d mentioned the ambulance. It had been gone so quickly he’d thought he’d imagined it, but maybe… maybe it’d been real.

“We don’t know. Right now we’re putting it down to equipment failure or user error. And we’re accepting that, because a hundred and seven would be dead and no one likes telling patients—let alone their parents—that the patient is going to die. But the thing is, everyone looking at Stiles knows he’s so dehydrated he shouldn’t be alive, and he should have a fever. We’ll let that go too, because sometimes people survive when they shouldn’t. But…” She shook her head.

“But what? Melissa, what are you suggesting?”

She took a breath. “If you think that there’s a chance that the MRI will show something as impossible as what we’re seeing tonight, then I suggest you stall. Say you refuse to let them do an MRI without sedative, say he’ll have a panic attack—get Stiles to back you up.  They’ll say it’s not safe to sedate him right now. You insist. And then you find an excuse to check him out and go to another hospital to get that MRI. I’m going to sound like Stiles used to here, but there are doctors—not many, but enough to be cautious—who would exploit every gap between legality and medical ethics to make their name with a miraculously healing patient. And there are a lot more people who if they found out, would see Stiles as a monster.”

“Like hunters,” John said. He looked past Melissa at his son’s room. Stiles looked to be asleep. The machines weren’t screaming loud enough to give John a heart attack anymore. He wanted Stiles to be able to stay there, to just sleep until all the damage from the last few months was undone. But he couldn’t. Not even if Melissa was wrong.

Melissa nodded. “Like hunters.” She sighed. “John, I have to ask—do you have any idea how it happened? The vanishing, the… everything since then?”

An hour ago he’d looked in his son’s eyes and seen something he’d thought he’d never see in person. Now Stiles was a “miraculously healing patient.” Maybe… maybe for once he could help. Maybe he did know.

He looked back at Melissa. “I need to check some things out.”