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Stiles finds it funny that, for the most normal of them, he is the one who’s been changed for the longest.
And yet no one has noticed. Because he’s good at hiding it. Good at coexisting with the being nestled so comfortably in the darkest part of soul—the part that cries itself sick with the loss of his mother and rages at how often he’s passed over and left behind. Sometimes Derek or a beta will sniff him curiously, expression twisted in revulsion and fear, but Stiles always manages to wave them off with excuses about his Adderall. Which makes him smug; proud that in the midst of so many supernatural creatures he’s the only one who can live with his parasite, switch at will and stay synched up no matter what chaos is unfolding and no one can even tell.
Yes, Scott became a werewolf, but that’s not really the right way of putting it, is it? Because he didn’t really, not when Derek always refers to it as “the wolf inside them”. As if it is a separate entity, an ally that takes over—is always waiting to take over. A thing to rely on, to be wary of, to collar into submission and use. There’s a clear disconnect between the creatures and the humans that house them. But not with the Demon. The Demon is different, like an extension, something so deeply rooted that it’s hard to tell where it ends and Stiles begins. Where the one warning his dad to be safe, the one helping Scott with Chemistry, isn’t him. Where when Jackson bullies Scott on the field there’s something hot and angry rolling inside him, an impulse to not only push Jackson back, but make him break and bleed. And that’s not him, because Stiles doesn’t like starting fights. Stiles is the one who ducks for cover and prays desperately he’ll live another day.
Maybe that’s why the Demon takes over so often.
Maybe that’s why Stiles lets the Demon take over as often as It does.
Let’s It take control when danger comes knocking, the Demon shushing him, trying to sooth his panicky mind. Whispers things like, “Let me, tiny star. I will take care of it, make it go away. I will keep you safe. You do not have to fight.” And Stiles believes It, believes It because that’s his only real option, that’s always been his only option. Because he is powerless alone. So he mentally takes a step back, is so grateful and relieved to do so, and slips downdowndown into inky black safety like that video game he and Scott played that one Christmas break when they were in middle school. Something about darkness and light and the power of hearts, and it makes him laugh because isn’t that what his life has basically become? A cliché fantasy world in which nothing is as it seems and anything is possible and there’s so much more to fear. Except… he doesn’t have a pause button and there’s no walkthrough when things get hard.
The Demon doesn’t even have to fight for control like it does in literature. It’s just so easy. And maybe that’s what It’s been doing all along—placating him until he was no longer a blockade. Which Stiles finds friggin’ hilarious, because he’s never been in the way, never been a problem. He gave it up to the Demon so early on that he had no chance. Because It’s been with him so long that sometimes he doesn’t know whether the thoughts he’s having, the things he’s feeling, are his own. Like a poison.
He’s sure when Derek and the others figure it out they’ll try to drive it out of him. Scott won’t tell them, he gave his word he wouldn’t, and he really doesn’t have a problem with it…at least not until the Demon starts hurting people. Scott had made that very clear. But Stiles isn’t sure if he actually meant it, or only said it because the Demon had been coming onto him, trying to cop a feel and flashing those wickedly tempting smirks that Stiles didn’t even know his face could form. Stiles doesn’t know if he was shocked or dangerously curious when for a moment it looked almost like Scott would go for it.
Because above all else Scott does care about Stiles, and he’s going to do what he thinks is best. So Stiles waits, knowing that a shit-storm is coming. But he won’t let them rip It from him. He’s lived with the Demon for so long, coexisted so closely that he doesn’t even know if he can live without It anymore. It makes him sick to even imagine the emptiness it would leave behind; the silence and the weakness. Nothing but frail humanity. He can’t go back to that, can’t go back to when he was powerless and pathetic. But when he begins to panic at the thought, the Demon always soothes him, whispers encouragement to him. And he’s not so afraid anymore. Because while he is weak, the Demon is not, and It has a trump card.
They’ve become so attached, so unified that the Demon had trembled at the first thoughts of being forced out, vulnerable without Its host. And so the Demon has made it very clear that It will not go down, will not abandon Stiles, without a fight. Because if the Demon goes, then It will take Stiles with It. And that shouldn’t comfort Stiles as much as it does, but he’s so far passed normal he can’t even find it in himself to care.
It’s “dangerous” and it’s “wrong”, but Stiles is possessed by a vengeful spirit and he wouldn’t have it any other way. They others will condemn him, but they do not know It like he does; they won’t realize that they’ve probably spent more time and come to love the Demon more than Stiles himself. It is the Demon who lets Stiles sleep while It waits up for Dad. It is the Demon who helps Stiles survive school with its bullies and tests, and confusing thoughts of growing up and sexuality and how to get over the death of his mother.
True, Stiles probably wouldn’t have ADHD if the Demon wasn’t inside him—two sets of thoughts and intentions, two voices trying to be heard, two souls trying to control the same set of limbs that results in jerky and conflicting movements—but he thinks it is a more than fair trade for what he is getting. For the strength It lends.
They just wouldn’t understand.
* * *
It’s almost three in the morning when Stiles blearily rubs his eyes as he turns off the bathroom light—he’s shorter than most six year olds and still has to reach on his tip toes to do it. He stops, confusion pulling his mouth into a frown, just now noticing his dad standing in the hallway. Just… standing there, swaying slightly. Stiles opens his mouth to ask if he’s okay, if there are monsters making noises in his closet too, when his dad’s head turns unnaturally slow. He grins wide and Stiles makes a shocked squeak as he stumbles back, because his dad’s eyes are black like they’ve been gouged out and Stiles had a nightmare like that once.
“Dad? Are you okay?”
“Wonderful, tiny star. I’ve never felt more alive.” The voice sounds like his dad. It comes out of his dad’s mouth. But it isn’t him. It sounds different, and his dad’s never called him that before.
“W-what have you done with my dad!” he demands, trying to stand tall with his shoulders square even though his voice quivers and he feels fear all the way down to his toes. The-thing-that-is-his-dad-but-not laughs, a grating sound like broken glass against the wall—a shattering bottle of dark liquid when they buried Mom, and Stiles bites back his tears. He just lost his mom he can’t… he can’t possibly handle losing his dad too.
“Take me.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, shocking himself more than that thing. But… he doesn’t regret speaking up, when he thinks about it. Because he’s always been too selfless, thoughtful; taking on too much for the sake of others even though he’s still too young to fully understand what that personality trait really means and the gravity of it all. This is the beginning, the first heavy sacrifice he’ll willingly make and he has no idea how hard it’s going to get, how much more he’s going to give.
“Leave my Daddy alone. Take me instead.”
The thing tilts his dad’s head. It is curious about this tiny creature who is too brave for its kind. Or maybe just stupid. But perhaps Its plans for murder and chaos and terror will be so much easier to carry out in the body of one so seemingly harmless and unassuming.
So It leaves the broken puppet of a man, a cloud of writhing black smoke; a shuddering thing that can barely keep the parody of a solid shape, with jagged, bright teeth of lightning and bent fingers like crystal shards. It breezes forward, hissing and crackling, circling him quick enough that It becomes a ribbon bleeding wisps of liquid darkness. It shrinks down to his size, eyes large and glowing like planets and mouth curling in a grin too complex for Stiles to understand (but he will; within time he’ll see it often enough in reflective surfaces, and it will never stop making him feel cold).
For a moment It’s a boy as real as Stiles, save for the inhuman eyes and the black protruding veins, features almost too cartoonish to be real, before It’s suddenly more creature than human and is rushing forward and in Stiles, forcing Itself into his mouth and down his burning throat, knocking the air out of him and he feels so sick, so full. His body trying to expel the Demon; trying to accommodate two beings; trying to do something with this foreign intrusion that’s so unnatural it makes his skin crawl like bugs on rotting meat and his stomach heave.
And then it’s over like a bad dream, his insides twisting as if oiled snakes before settling, a new presence pushing softly against his thoughts. Feelings of fear and anger and desperation and want are hidden from him, buried deep enough that Stiles’ childish curiosity can’t find them—yet. But not before he gets a taste, and it’s like seeing a glimpse of the vast universe he does not yet comprehend.
Stiles stops sleeping with a nightlight. Not because he is brave and grownup, but because with the Demon’s eyes he can see through the darkness clear as day. Is no longer afraid of what lurks in the closest or under his bed, because it’s not there anymore—it’s lurking in him instead.
And at Saturday breakfasts, his dad flipping pancakes and cartoons playing on their television set, Stiles’ eyes will flash obsidian black on every other blink. Kicking his feet and giggling, because secrets are fun and the thing twisting inside himself every once in a while tickles, almost like a hug, like the pressure of velvet hands like his mother and soft coos of “everything is going to be okay, tiny star, I am not here to harm you and your kin.”
Stiles is old enough to understand a lie, and tragedy has made him mature enough to know when it is easiest to believe one.