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It was hard to let go of being possessed.
The complete detached feeling from his body, seeing what was happening but being unable to react or protect his Pack, and then being completely locked away and shut out. It took him months to just be able to sleep through the night without chemical intervention or him climbing into his dad’s bed for that feeling of protection. Even a year later, it still felt hopeless some nights.
One of the hardest things to get used to again was the feeling of touch.
Oh, he could initiate it, and he did. He was always feeling colder now, so he was forever handing off Scott or Derek (whoever was free). One memorable night had him falling asleep against Peter, but that was mostly because he’d been up for seventy one hours straight trying to figure out what was terrorizing the town that particular week and the exhaustion finally caught up to him.
The problem was that he couldn’t tolerate touch from others.
They all figured it out pretty quickly that he’d shy away from a pat on the back or a quick “bro” hug. Even just a brush against his skin would send a painful chill down his back. His plaid overshirts became armor, protecting him from those unwanted accidental moments.
It just took time, like so many other things. But something hastened it along, at least a little.
One evening, the fall after being freed from the Nogitsune, Stiles was in his room attempting to fall into a research coma. He had just come home from the rebuilt Hale house where Scott had decided to try some bastardized attempt at touch therapy. It was the thought that counted, because the exercise failed miserably.
The problem with attempting a research coma was that he just didn’t know what to focus on. Should he look for more research about dealing with his aversion of touch, or maybe something that went bump in the night? Decisions, decisions.
The sound of his window quietly opening from the outside shook him free from his internal debate. Derek sat on the windowsill, looking entirely out of place for an adult werewolf that was breaking into a teenager’s room late into the evening with the Sheriff downstairs. In his hand was a small plastic bag, not unlike one you’d get from a grocery store.
Wordlessly, he held the bag out to Stiles, who took it and opened his present with glee. He still liked getting presents, even if he was nearly eighteen at that point. He was allowed, he decided.
Inside the bag was a leather collar. It wasn’t a dog collar, no, this one cost money. It was smooth leather, dyed a deep red, almost black. It was stylish, not bulky, but very clean looking. There wasn’t much metal on it, just on the clasp. So it wasn’t just Derek trying to get back at him for all the dog jokes those first few months he was in the know.
He picked up the note that had been added. The words were in Derek’s neat handwriting.
“Use this to focus with.”
His fingers traced the few words, and then over the cool leather. He slipped on the collar. He’d take anything at this point.
Stiles turned around to thank Derek, but the werewolf had already disappeared out the window like Batman. Instead, he quickly sent him a boatload of emoji and quietly shut the window.
The research coma was waiting and he finally had a direction to look in.