Chapter Text
The bite took.
Stiles couldn’t remember getting in his bed, or what day it was supposed to be, but when he rolled over and grabbed his phone to check the time, he was greeted with a flash of blue on the black screen. His eyes. His eyes were blue. He dropped his phone and sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. One day. He wanted just one day without the supernatural shitting itself all over his life. Didn’t he deserve that? Maybe not after everything he had just done, all of the people he had killed. Even if he wasn’t the one in control, even if it was all the Nogitsune, the bite had proven one of his deepest fears: he had blood on his hands now.
He went to wash off the grime of the past two days in the shower, his stomach turning as he touched the old gauze from his shoulder; the stains of blood had turned black and hardened in the fabric. He closed his eyes and released his breath as he ripped off the tape, then he looked; while there were some crusty bits still stuck to his shoulder, the bite marks were gone.
Should he be happy he wasn’t dying? Mad at Scott for doing this to him? Mad at universe for putting him in Beacon Hills to begin with? All he could conclude was that it was less than two weeks to the next full moon, his first full moon, and he just wasn’t going to get a break.
He needed to text Scott.
Later.
Maybe.
He dropped the old dressing in the trash, stripped, and got in the bathtub. It seemed his dad wasn’t home, as he hadn’t checked in when Stiles turned the water on. He stood there, water running down his back, dried blood melting and mixing at the drain. He hit the wall, screamed, and broke down in sobs.
Come on, Stiles, think. What next?
He wiped snot from his nose. Thirteen days till the full moon. He needed to figure out what would tie him best to his humanity–or whatever was left of it. He needed to figure out what his anchor would be.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t pondered it before; in the early days, he’d daydreamed about what he would be doing if he were in Scott’s shoes. That was before the bodies started to pile up. Then he started to think that maybe one day, if he stayed human, he’d get out of Beacon Hills and find some way to be relatively normal. You know, call in to chat about the monster of the week with Scott when it suited him, but not have to fear for his life on a daily basis. Now that dream was washing down the drain with the last bits of his human blood.
He felt his heartbeat quicken.
Control. He knew what kind of control he would need to keep himself in check; he needed to get his heart rate down, and the earlier he started practicing, the better. He leaned against the cold tile, focusing on the temperature contrast and breathing deeply.
Focus on the water running down your back, how you can feel each and every individual drip pelting every part of your skin all at one time–how is it so loud–Ok, don’t focus on the water.
He grabbed the soap and started scrubbing himself down vigorously and shut the water off as soon as he could. He jumped out and dried off, and grabbed his phone to send that text.
It’s gone.