Chapter Text
Hindsight is 20/20 and fear clouds a person’s judgment. And, honestly, after the Kanima and the Darach and Deucalion and all the other supernatural crap going on around them, do you really blame them for looking for a strange reason?
Even so, they should have known sooner.
Maybe they should have known when Stiles started forgetting things but with all the stress the teen had been under and all the late nights, who wouldn’t forget things? It started small– forgetting books or leaving his computer charger places.
In class one day, Stiles opened his bag to get his book. Scott could smell the confusion. Stiles dumped his bag out on the desk and groaned when he didn’t have his book– or any of his stuff for school, really. Stiles hardly seemed to notice people were staring at him until after he’d done it. Scott just gave Stiles a sympathetic look and scooted closer to share his book.
But it started to happen more…
Stiles was trying to do research for an essay. Scott was hanging around like they used to, doing his own homework. The steady tapping of Stiles’s pen on his desk, the bouncing of his leg, and mumbled sounds of thought all faded into the background with the smell of anxiety.
Scott hardly noticed the things that were always there; then he noticed something that hadn’t been there for a while. The chemical smell of Stiles’s Adderall. He hadn’t been taking it?
Scott stood up and followed the smell but it didn't lead to Stiles, it led to the dresser. He opened the drawer and there was the yellow bottle.
"What ya looking for, Scotty," Stiles asked, turning his body to Scott before his eyes followed.
Scott looked at the mostly empty bottle and then at Stiles. "When was the last time you took these?"
Stiles shook his head. "Not a clue."
Scott looked at Stiles with concern and then reread the label. "This was filled three months ago… and there's maybe two in here," Scott told him. "Stiles, why are they in the drawer?"
"I don't know, man," Stiles sighed. "Have you seen my room? Or anything from the last– I don't know– two years? Everything is a mess," he said. "I forgot to take them for a few days, what else is new?"
Scott tossed Stiles the bottle and made sure he took them. "Just remember to tell your dad you need a refill," he said and went back to his homework.
Then he began to blank on words more and more. He would ask for something but the name of the object just wouldn’t come. At first, they would laugh and chalk it up to his ADHD.
Only when his forgetfulness started to be dangerous did they start to worry. Stiles left the stove burner on after making his scrambled eggs. Not five minutes later, while talking to his dad, he leaned back on the counter and laid his hand on the hot burner.
“Stiles,” Melissa sighed, securing the bandage on the boy’s palm, “have you been remembering your medication? Scott says you’ve been pretty scrambled lately.” She gave Stiles a worried look.
“It’s fine. I just forgot to turn off the stove after I made breakfast. Guess I’m a bit fried,” Stiles smirked, chuckling at his own joke. “If you’re done with my egg-xamination, I’m supposed to meet Scott soon.”
Then came the insomnia. A few sleepless nights here and there were normal for the pack. Some baddies would show up and terrorize Beacon Hills and they'd have to fight them of a night but this was different.
Stiles would lay in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours. He’d toss and turn trying to get comfortable. He added blankets, removed blankets. He played music. He wore noise canceling earbuds. He tried a night light, he tried pitch-black darkness. He turned the fan on and turned the fan off. He opened the window. He closed the window. He counted sheep. He counted cows. He counted werewolves and nothing.
He might get an hour here or there, usually paired with night terrors or sleep paralysis. Stiles was getting maybe two or three hours of restless sleep a night. Even the slightest noise woke him up– rain, wind, tree branches rustling, the house settling, his dad getting up– all of it. He got more sleep during the day than at night. He kept falling asleep in class, kept getting sent to the nurse to sleep it off. By day three, he felt like the waking dead. He hardly had the energy to get through class, let alone lacrosse practice.
They started to think that Stiles’s subconscious was picking up on something he wasn't and patrols were increased. Scott would stay over at Stiles’s house more often. It was proven to be nothing after a few sleepless nights.
They stopped laughing at forgotten words when Stiles started getting irritated with it. Scott could tell how freaked out Stiles was. It was getting more distressing by the day.
“Hey Scott, can you hand me the… uh, the… the thing,” Stiles said, clenching his hand as if it helped.
“What,” Scott asked, looking around the room for something Stiles would need.
Stiles took a deep breath. Rubbing his face. “The thing! The… the thing for my laptop, Scott,” he huffed, miming plugging something in.
“The charger,” Scott asked.
“No! The thing. It’s, like, the thing you use to move stuff from one computer to the other,” Stiles said, running a hand through his hair.
“A flash drive,” Scott asked after some internal contemplation.
“Yes, that,” Stiles said, sighing and trying not to pull out his own hair.
Then it got worse. Stiles would put his keys in his bag on the way out of class and by the time they made it to the jeep, he’d have forgotten where he put them. He would open a new window on his laptop and wouldn’t know where all his tabs went. He’d get out of the jeep without putting it in park. More than once, one of the others would have to jump in the jeep and throw it into park before it hit something. They had it looked at to make sure it wasn’t an issue with the transmission but it wasn’t. Sheriff took Stiles’s keys until they could figure out what was happening.
Stiles’s memory was shot… Then the paranoia hit.
Every noise was something. Every rustling leave was a waiting attack. Every shadow was being cast by a new big bad. Every dark shape was something hiding in the shadows. Stiles would wake Scott if he was there or call him if he wasn't.
Noah walked into Stiles’s room late one night, standing next to Scott. They watched Stiles, watched how he acted, how not him it was.
“Is it…” Scott started to ask but couldn’t finish the question.
Still, Noah understood. “I don’t know. God, I hope it isn’t…”
It got to be too much for Scott to handle alone. They took shifts on night watch with Stiles. Derek offered to take more since he didn't have school.
Then it wasn't just the noises. Stiles thought other pack members were in danger for seemingly no reason. He’d call them, waking them up just to be sure they were alive. Eventually, they had to take his phone at night so they wouldn't all be tired.
That posed its own problems, though. Stiles paced and worried and didn’t sleep because he was convinced something bad was going to happen. That something was happening and he couldn’t stop it. He would plead for someone to listen to hear what he was saying, to see what he was seeing– patterns that were only there if you took a lot of liberties, threats that didn’t exist. He rant about things nobody could make sense of and complain when they didn’t understand and he didn’t sleep.
Stiles was dead on his feet. He was getting paler and had heavy bags under his eyes. By day three, he couldn’t hold a conversation longer than a few words. Derek was rivaling him in word count. By the end of the first week, Stiles could pass as a zombie. He couldn’t make sense of the words on his paper or the board. They started to blur and slip away as if they’d melted. Other times, it was like he was reading a different language. The words didn't make sense and the letters weren't even recognizable.
It happened when he was studying for school, when he was researching for the pack, when he was trying to figure out what was happening to him.
Then it wasn't just when he was reading. Sometimes it happened when other people were talking. It happened slowly, a word here or there not making sense, and others it was all at once.
Sometimes, words would turn to gibberish. Sometimes it was like reading The Jabberwocky, where some words were nonsense but he could figure it out. Worse yet were the things he did understand.
When he found a meaning in the nothingness, it the jumble, it was never good. He saw the worry in people’s voices as criticism. He saw their care and support as belittling.
It lasted for hours, once. He went through the day not understanding a single word anyone said, not his teachers or his friends. He couldn’t even communicate what was happening because words didn't mean anything in his brain.
He couldn't tell if they were speaking weird or if he couldn’t understand what they were speaking. What if they were speaking normally and his brain suddenly couldn't recognize English. What if he was saying nonsense when he talked?
It was like he was going crazy, like he couldn’t be human. It felt like reality was slipping through his fingers. Like he was watching a movie or playing a game instead of standing with his friends. It was like he was invisible and the center of attention at the same time. Like people saw through him and were watching his every move all at once. It was like he couldn’t touch anything and like everything was pressing in on him.
He'd started to slip off to sleep in class. His eyes were heavy and he felt cold. He closed his eyes, the edge of delicious unconsciousness slowly started to drift closer.
“WAKE UP!”
Stiles bolted back to awareness, falling out of his chair. His heart was racing from fear and anxiety. He looked up at Coach, who had turned away from Stiles to teach again. Snickers and suppressed laughs ran through the room. Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat and managed to pull himself back into his seat.
He leaned his head in his hands, trying to get his heart rate under control. It felt like he was breathing through a straw. Little half-aborted breaths pushed against his chest. He couldn’t take a full breath.
He looked at Scott, panic reading in his eyes plain and simple.
“Stiles,” Scott tried to talk to him but the words were fuzzy and unclear.
A sharp ringing stabbed at Stiles’s brain and he covered his ears. He looked up and saw people packing their stuff. Was that the bell?
Stiles looked around, watching people walk by.
“Wake up.”
“Wake up.”
“Stiles, wake up.”
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake upwakeupWakeupwakeupwa…..
It was like a broken record. Stiles fell back against a wall. He stared wide-eyed at people as they passed him.
“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up…”
Stiles looked down at his hands. He was shaking. He looked at his fingers. One. Two… Th–thre— three…
Someone grabbed his hands and he looked up at them. Lydia was crouched in front of him. When did he end up on the floor?
“You’re sweaty,” Lydia told him, making a face as she held his hands. “What’s wrong w—ake up wake up.”
He looked down at his hands in Lydia’s. One. Two. Three. Four fi…
“Wake up.” Scott’s voice.
Stiles looked up and saw Scott and Lydia and Malia and… Isaac? Boyd and Erica… Derek? Oh, no no no no no no no… It was not real. It couldn’t be…
He looked at his hands. O–one. Two. Three. Four. Five…. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven?
Stiles looked up. A wisp of a woman with dark hair went through his peripheral. His eyes followed her. “Mom," he asked, stumbling to his feet and away from his friends. She smiled at him and turned a corner. "Mom!"
Stiles tried to chase after her, feeling like he was in a maze. He took turn after turn that shouldn’t exist. He felt himself slide down to the floor again. He squeezed his eyes closed. It was bright, so bright.
“Hey, sweety,” a soft voice said, he turned his head to look but the appearance didn’t make sense. It wasn’t one person. It was changing, shifting. It was his mom but it was also Melissa. “You're safe, Stiles.”
He let himself be pulled to his feet. It felt like he blinked and they were at the hospital. Stiles looked around, his eyes wide and lost, finding himself in a hospital room. “What happened?”
Melissa helped Stiles into the bed from the wheelchair, softly explaining to him, “Scott brought you in. He said you were having a panic attack and they couldn’t get through to you.”
Stiles took a breath, “oh…”
“Has that been happening a lot,” Melissa asked.
“Uh, ya. A few times I guess…”
“Tell you what,” Melissa said, placing a hand on Stiles’s with a calming smile, “you take a second to relax and then we’ll figure this out. I’ll go get you some water.
“I’ve been having blackouts but not for that long. Sleep walking which I used to do that a lot when as a kid. Uhm, also having some really bad anxiety…”
“And the panic attacks?”
“A few, ya… Oh, when I temporarily lost the ability to read but that might have had more to do with this giant magic tree and the whole human sacrifice thing.”
“I recall something vaguely about that, yes.” Melissa took a moment to collect herself before continuing to ask questions. “How many hours of sleep are you getting?”
“Eight.”
“A night?”
“The last three days,” Stiles said and Melissa gave him a concerned look. She watched as he tried to count on his fingers, seeing a lack of control in his movements that worried her. He needed sleep. “Ya, definitely eight.”
“Been feeling irritable,” she asked, walking to retrieve what she thought might help.
“Ya, possibly to the point of homicide.”
Melissa took the comment with a grain of salt, not understanding the truth in the words. “Inability to focus?”
“Constantly, the adderall’s not working.”
“Impulsive behavior?”
“More than my usual, hard to tell,” Stiles sighed.
“Vivid dreams during the day?”
“Ok, basically all of the above” he said nervously. “Do you know what this is?
“I think so,” Melissa said, walking back over with a syringe.
“Uh, what’s that,” Stiles said, looking at the needle and leaning away slightly.
“Do you trust me?”
“When you’re not holding a needle…”
“It’s Midazolam,” Melissa explained, cleaning Stiles’s skin and injecting him with the medication. “It’s a sedative.”
“Why did you give me a sedative,” Stiles asked, starting to freak out. What was happening? What was going on? What was Melissa doing?
“Because you, Stiles, are one profoundly sleep deprived young man. You need rest and you need it now. Lie down,” she said, helping him to lay down carefully.
“Okay… How long does it take to– oh, not long at all…” Stiles rambled and Melissa smiled, pulling a blanket over him.
She worried for a minute when his breathing started to spike rather than relax– a thought coming to her– but he soon settled, relaxing into the bed. “Get some rest,” she whispered, mentally trying to convince herself of how crazy the thought was.
“Thanks mom,” Stiles whispered as he slipped off to sleep.
Melissa had to take a moment to gather herself. She took a breath and set herself to, hopefully, disproving her theory.
She walked out to the nurses’ station. She sat down at a computer but couldn’t find what she wanted, so off to look for the physical file it was. It didn’t take too long to find. It didn’t take too long to destroy her hope of being wrong.
Melissa was looking over the file, comparing it to her notes, as she walked back to the front. She was broken from her focus by someone yelling her name. No, not someone, Noah.
“Melissa,” Sheriff Stilinski yelled, out of breath. “Stiles… Is he okay? Where is he,” he asked frantically. She could see the panic in his eyes and he could see the sadness in hers. “He is okay, right,” he asked again, starting to panic.
Melissa looked around. Closing the file, she placed a hand on Noah’s arm. “He’s sleeping right now but I think we should sit down somewhere more private to discuss this,” she explained.
The worst came to mind and Noah slowly shook his head. “No… No, no, that can’t be– He can’t. Melissa, I can’t lose him too. I can’t watch…”
“Lets sit down,” Melissa said, guiding Noah off to the side.
When Stiles woke up, Noah was by his bed. He gave his son a crushing hug.
“Uh, hi dad,” Stiles wheezed, looking at Melissa. “What’s going on,” he asked one Noah had let him go. Melissa and Noah shared a look but didn’t say anything. “Okay, you’re starting to freak me out. What’s… what’s going on? Seriously.”
Melissa cleared her throat. “After you went to sleep, I decided to look into the symptoms you explained to me– irritability, impulsivity, vivid dreams during the day, struggling to tell reality from dreams, hallucinations, and it all started at about the same time as the insomnia… Stiles, I looked at your mom’s file.”
Stiles sunk into himself. “I have it, don’t I?”
“We don’t know for sure, not yet,” Noah said quickly. “They– they have to do imaging of your brain and maybe a genetic test—”
“Dad. Dad,” Stiles said, “it’s okay. It’ll be okay.” Noah nodded, grabbing his son’s hand. “When are they going to do the imaging,” he asked, trying to hold himself together for his dad’s sake.
“As soon as possible,” Melissa said, looking between the two.
Stiles nodded. “Okay,” he said breathlessly. He swallowed and looked down at his blankets. “Uh… I’m gonna– I’m gonna call Scott,” he said rubbing the back of his neck.
As soon as possible turned out to be three hours later. Scott showed up when they were moving Stiles to imaging. Melissa got him let into the area for imaging and left Stiles to talk to him.
“You know what they’re looking for right,” Stiles asked. Scott wouldn’t look at him, fidgeting with his hands out of nerves. “It’s called Frontotemporal Dementia.” Scott looked at Stiles, every once of his nerves clear on his face. “Areas of your brain start to shrink. It’s what my mother had…” Stiles said, neither of them able to look at the other to say what needed to be said. It was too much. It’s the only form of dementia that can hit teenagers… And there’s no cure.”
“Stiles, if you have it,” Scott started, pausing to take a deep breath and collect himself, “we’ll do something.” He looked Stiles in the eye, steeling his resolve and, in fewer words, promising, “I’ll do something.”
Stiles met his eyes, understanding what he meant. Scott, who resented being a werewolf in the first place, would use his power to save Stiles. He was offering to save Stiles from what the doctors couldn’t.
“I don’t want that.” Stiles felt tears start to fill his eyes and Scott wrapped him in a hug, letting him cry.
**********************
Getting babied by his entire support system– Scott, Isaac, Lydia, his dad, even Jackson– wasn't exactly how Stiles thought his junior year would go. He also didn’t think he’d be his mother’s ochre of medical hell, but here he was.
They treated him with baby gloves. His dad would make him breakfast and set out his medications. He’d pack Stiles a lunch.
One of them was always by his side, even on trips to the bathroom. They made sure Stiles finished his food and got his new accommodations. They overdid everything in an effort to help but only made him feel worse.
Scott would drive him to and from school. He’d make sure Stiles had all his books and homework for the day.
Lydia would give him copies of her notes. She would record all their classes and send them to him.
Isaac would constantly ask if he was ‘with us’ and if he was still ‘in the land of the living’. He’d try to read the assignments to Stiles but he struggled with some things Stiles didn’t.
Jackson wasn't an ass. He didn't pick on Stiles or insult him(okay, so maybe once or twice but he was trying). Mostly, he kept asking if Stiles was going to take the bite and talking it up.
They kept staying with Stiles at night. Some took more nights than others and some were more considerate than others. Scott was all but glued to his side, constantly monitoring his emotions and heart rate, which led to awkward staring. Lydia would study with Stiles, giving him more space but still being very aware of his behaviors. Jackson would sit on his phone, occasionally asking Stiles if he was still okay or if he was asleep(the answer was usually no). Isaac did the creepy watching thing like Scott but gave him personal space. Then there was Derek.
Derek was the only person who treated Stiles somewhat normally. He was still quiet and kept his distance. He didn't stare Stiles down all the time but still kept a close eye on him. Derek would stay out on the roof if Stiles was trying to sleep. He was able to keep tabs on him and react quickly while giving some semblance of privacy.
He still asked Stiles research questions and involved him in plans. Derek brought Stiles books from his family's collection to read. He would nod along and listen as Stiles explained his findings.
Derek still seemed stoic and vaguely unattached to the untrained eye but Stiles could speak Derek. Stiles saw the worry and sadness on Derek’s face. He heard the kindness in the few words he spoke. He felt the respect in the distance.
Sometimes Stiles would sit on the roof with Derek and talk all night until he finally drifted off to sleep, looking up at the stars. He’d eventually wake up in his bed a few hours later. That was always the most peaceful sleep he’d get, it felt like he was actually resting.
It's a weird thing to find attractive. Like, oh ya, the way Derek cared for a dying friend really got Stiles going. It was strange how a stupid crush on an unattainable guy turned into more. Stiles could honestly say he was actually falling for Derek in a meaningful way and not just teen hormones.
Then he wasn’t the main focus anymore. Bigger issues started to appear.
Chris sent Allison back to England and basically went underground.
Stiles sent Scott and Lydia out to the woods on a hunch and they came back with a semi-rabid girl named Malia Tate.
Then Scott bit Liam and the dead pool and a hellhound, apparently?
Stiles did research and became Malia's tutor in all things human since he couldn’t do much else. Hell, even being human was a struggle anymore. Being a functioning person was getting significantly harder. It was really fucking hard when the symptoms got worse.
It started getting a lot worse that summer.
The dementia started taking his dexterity and balance. He couldn’t button his own shirts. He couldn’t play video games. His handwriting started to deteriorate. He had to have a straw to drink without making a mess. Even turning the page of a book was a struggle!
He had never been good at using chopsticks but now he could hardly hold them. Same with lacrosse. He literally couldn't catch the ball anymore. And fuck shoelaces! His sneakers hadn't been untied in years and they came loose now? Who knew it took so much dexterity to tie a fucking shoe!
He was dizzy. Balancing was stupidly hard. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d fallen– on the stairs, on the tile, getting in and out of bed and the jeep. If it weren't for his watchful werewolf guardians, he'd likely have broken something or multiple somethings. He was usually pretty good at hiding it, falling into chairs or the couch or his bed so it looked like he was just sitting down. That's probably why they let it get so bad before getting help.
The one that scared him the most was with Derek. He was trying to climb out his window to sit on the roof and lost his balance. Derek caught him before he could slip more than an inch.
Looking at the blatant fear on Derek’s face was like ice water being dumped on him.
The worst was when he had to start using a cane to walk. That was a gut punch, not because of how he felt, because of those around him.
His dad cried when he first saw Stiles using it.
Stiles remembered his mom using a cane. He started to wonder how much like his mother he really was. He had so few memories of her decline but it was probably crystal clear in his dad’s mind.
It was easier with the extra support but he saw the pain in his friends’ faces. They’d walk next to him, ready to catch him.
He needed them to joke about it. He needed his friends to help him keep the mood from falling because when it started falling, it felt like a black hole pulling him in.
Scott brought up giving Stiles the bite again. He told him how it could help and how he would feel better. Then Isaac mentioned it too, but Stiles never answered.
He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t keep being the only one smiling or joking or acting like it would be okay because he was the one fucking dying! He needed someone to laugh with him. He needed someone to make fun of the symptoms with him. He needed someone.
Stiles sat alone on the roof outside his window. He was freezing in the cold winter air. He’d tried his best to wipe the snow off before he sat down but there was still some left. The snow had melted, soaking into his jeans and making him shiver more.
He looked up at the stars, wondering if his mom was looking back at him. She’d probably tell him to go to bed, chastise him or ask if he was trying to catch a cold…
At least the person his mom was before would have done that. The person that the dementia had turned her into, he couldn’t pretend to know. That person was nothing like his mom.
Was Stiles like that? Was he turning into someone unrecognizable? Would he eventually? He hoped not, hoped he wouldn't do the things his mother had. He didn't want his friends’ last memories of him to hurt like his did. He hoped he'd die before that happened.
The forest went quiet– a sign of werewolf activity if there ever was one– and Stiles waited.
A loud clatter on the roof caught Stiles’ attention. He looked over to see Derek kicking snow off the roof next to him. He could see Derek’s breath, slow and even. Stiles wondered what it would be like– a feat like jumping onto a roof no more difficult than stepping over a branch.
Derek sat down next to Stiles, not saying a word. He could feel the warmth radiating off of Derek even with space between them.
Derek glanced at him, turning his eye to the stars like Stiles was. Derek didn’t have anything to say.
Stiles felt his stomach twist at the silence. He took a breath and his stomach settled. Stupid. It was stupid to feel that. He was still a kid in Derek’s eyes. A dying kid.
Fuck being 17; nothing good had come out of it. He felt his stomach try to twist itself up at the thoughts. Stiles really couldn’t do silence.
“What’s up, Derek,” Stiles asked, his voice sounding far off even to him.
Derek didn’t say anything for a long minute. The silence started to set in again. Even the forest was silent because of Derek’s presence.
Stiles started to say something more but Derek surprised him.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
Stiles huffed a laugh. “Sorry? For what? Not like you magically caused this. You didn’t, right?”
Derek winced at the implication but shook his head. “No…”
Stiles nodded, looking up at the sky. “Ya, I didn't think so…” He licked his lips, sighing, “it just sucks, ya know? The world’s just to big and I’ll never get to see it…” Stiles pulled his legs up, hugging his knees to him. “The only time I’ve left California is that time we rescued you from Mexico. Didn’t even get to enjoy it ‘cause we were all too worried about you. About dying…”
Derek nodded, listening to Stiles talk but he didn’t say anything more. Derek could see the way that last thought hung in his mind.
Stiles just stared at the stars, unmoving. He was sad but his heart beat was steady, calmer than Derek had ever heard from Stiles.
“It’s funny,” Stiles started, a rasp of tears in his voice, “how we’ve all been just barely escaping death and now…” Stiles chewed his bottom lip. “Ironic, huh? Make it all this way as a human, now I take the bite or I’ll die… Might die anyway.”
Derek shifted uncomfortably, his hand brushing over Stiles’s– his skin was like ice.
Derek looked at him. “You’re cold,” he stated plainly.
Stiles huffed a laugh. “Ya, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s snow everywhere.” Stiles shook his head, pulling his knees in closer and resting his chin on them. “I’m human, remember? It’s, like, the crux of this entire issue— oh, that’s warm…”
Stiles uncurled himself, his hands grabbing what had been draped around his shoulders. The feeling of cold leather met his fingertips as he held it.
He looked at Derek, more confused as his stomach twisted into knots again. “Why’d you give me your jacket?”
“You’re cold,” Derek said plainly but Stiles caught the worried look in his eyes.
Stiles looked at Derek, almost wishing he wouldn’t have done it. Stiles pulled his knees up again, still holding Derek’s jacket tightly around him.
A cold night breeze made the snow-damped wetness of his jeans bitingly cold. It was nice, in a way. It meant he could feel things, that he was awake. That he was still alive. This wasn’t a hallucination, at least he didn’t think so. He wouldn’t have put it past his brain to come up with something like this, but the cold hurt so he had to be awake.
Stiles had to prove that nagging bit of his brain wrong, prove it was real. He counted his fingers over and over again.
1... 2... 3... 4... 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10…
1… 2… 3… 4… 5…
6…
7…
Derek sat silently beside him, glancing at Stiles for a brief moment before looking up again.
8…
9…
10…
They sat there for what felt like hours. Derek was the only one who wasn’t treating Stiles like he was dying. Like nothing had changed.
They’d sat in silence like this before, while Stiles did research. The difference now was that Stiles wasn’t stuck in research and that they were sitting close. So close…
Stiles wanted to lean over, lay his head on Derek’s shoulder, to get closer to his warmth but there was a line. Even if he was slowly and literally losing his mind, he knew not to cross that line. They were kind-of friends and nothing more. They couldn’t be anything more, Stiles was still only 17 and Derek’s 24 and it can’t happen.
He got a key to the elevator when school started; he couldn’t go up the stairs anymore. He joked about getting VIP treatment when he got an elevator key at school. He’d tease his friends about being his entourage and how they got to share in his special treatment when teachers would let them out of class early to make it to the next one. Still, they couldn’t joke about it.
He needed someone to laugh because it was growing too heavy to do on his own. He needed someone to make jokes with him because he was losing himself and the jokes with it.
Stiles struggled to carry his own backpack, now. People at school gave him sympathetic looks. Fucking fantastic. Exactly how he pictured his senior year going.
By spring, Stiles couldn’t go to school anymore. He couldn’t focus or stay in reality long enough for it to matter. He’d get caught in hallucinations that almost felt more real than reality.
He saw worlds without the supernatural and worlds with both his parents. He saw worlds where he was healthy and worlds where he was just as lost. He saw worlds without his friends and ones with so many more. He saw open doors and opportunities and a future. He saw locked cells and padded walls and sterile rooms.
In his lucid moments, Scott would beg Stiles to take the bite.
Isaac and Jackson would tell him to take the bite.
Lydia would casually slip it into conversations.
His dad asked if he'd thought about it. He told Stiles it would be okay either way. That he wouldn't let this separate them no matter what.
Even Derek mentioned taking the bite.
Stiles thought about it but didn't give an answer.