Chapter Text
After the possession Stiles is lost.
That darkness that follows him everywhere still clings to his skin like filth no matter how long he sits under the scorching heat of his shower. He doesn't feel like himself again, he barely even feels human. Not that he did before the possession, after the false drowning it was hard to tell sometimes. Now that he knows there was a chaos demon that followed him back into the real world, it is nearly impossible to differentiate what was just the normal amount of feeling like shit and what was the demon.
The Nogitsune is gone now, he knows that. He has to know that, it's that the five fingers on his left hand tell the five fingers on his right. But, now that the Nogitsune is gone, it's painfully obvious exactly what is just him. Every diluted memory and trauma that stirs restlessly under the surface of his skin. Every harsh glance from familiar faces. Even the emptiness that sits heavy in his heart. It's all him, all his and all for him. There is no demon to blame now, it's just him.
Everything feels muted slightly afterward, but that's not the worst of it. His brain feels scattered like his ADHD is getting worse everyday. With the way he is loosing focus so often and the inability for his meds to do anything about it. He knows that's not whats happening. That he's cognitively distant from himself in ways he can't put into words but hurt just the same.
It comes down to that achingly empty hole that stuffs his mind with cotton, except for the sharp pain in his chest and the undeniable feeling that something is missing. His innocence, he thinks snidely. Or childhood although that was gone long before he sacrificed himself for his father. A father that could hardly look him in the eyes anymore. Maybe that's where the hurt was coming from. Sometimes he felt like he couldn't go home, like stepping through that door would kill him if he had to see one more of those disappointed looks. Or worse, if his father looked at him with fear again. He doesn't think he could handle that again.
It was only once after the possession but that had been enough. He had moved to quickly, or looked too much like him and his father had jumped, his eyes widening in clear fear as he braced. As he braced. For what? Stiles doesn't know. He didn't stick around to find out. His own eyes glazing over with realization as he turned and walked out the door. Stating simply that he's going for a drive. His father doesn't call after him or even acknowledge him in away way but he stops coming home as often. Taking more shifts and staying out late, sneaking into his own home long after he thinks Stiles is asleep.
Stiles isn't asleep now, as he listens to his father creep up the stairs as quietly as a grown man on old stairs can. He bites his lip to muffle the dry, heaving sobs that shake his frame. He knows his father is avoiding him, he's not the only one, but he had thought that at least his dad would be in his corner, on his side.
Suddenly he feels pathetic and stupid for assuming. Adding up everything he's done, he wonders how the man can stand to have him in his house anymore. He finds himself just waiting for the moment when the sheriff gets fed up with being a stranger in his own home and kicks him to the curb. It feels like an oncoming storm that he can't see, only feel, as it creeps closer and closer to him. He's already eighteen, turned at the start of the school year, so it's not a date he can predict.
He shuts his eyes, hoping that will help with the stinging in them. It doesn't.
He doesn't really sleep anymore if he can help it, too terrified that the moment he rests his eyes the Nogitsune will return and all of his effort will be for nothing. That he'll wake up trapped in his own mind once again, clawing for any semblance of autonomy. When he does sleep it's usually because he's passed out from exhaustion. Those always end in nightmares that leave him a shaking mess of anxiety once he wakes up.
He no longer screams himself awake anymore. Now that the demon is gone it's less that he's trapped in the dream and more just his regular nightmares. Jolting out of bed feeling shaky and uneven, his breath ragged and heart beating out of his chest. As if he'd just run a marathon with no food or water in his system. It wears off quickly enough though, and he's able to wash off any evidence of it with a hot shower.
It's only been a few days, a week and a half at most since they banished the demon. On that first night he had reached for his phone to call Scott, hoping to hear one familiar voice to bring him back to reality. In the quiet after the fight, after the adrenaline had flushed out of all their systems, there was nothing to do but sit with it. All of it, the deaths and the regret and the sadness of it all. The relief of surviving and the guilt that came with it.
Sitting there counting his fingers over and over again while the long drawn out sound of his phone ringing filling the all too empty space of his room. It rang, and rang and rang. Until the phone cut off and Scott's cheerful voice came thought announcing his voice mail.Stiles hadn't expected him to pick up but it still reminded him all to vividly of the other times when Scott hadn't picked up.
As the panic set in Stiles shakily reached for his phone and hit call again. His eyes glazed over as the world began to loose focus. His thoughts becoming too loud for anything else to get through.
It rang only once this time before cutting off, no voice mail, nothing.
His panic attack afterward was one of the worst he'd had in years. One of the worst since his mother had died. Since that night his father had finally made his thoughts on raising a child on his own clear to him. The bottle of some drink or another smashing next to his head as he cowered, too small to understand why his dad was angry with him for trying to take it away.
He stopped trying to sleep after that, going strong on too much coffee and hope. Energy drinks when he could sneak them also worked, it's not like anyone was there to remind him how bad this sort of thing was for his health.
At school, little was different, out of habit he would meet up with Scott in the morning. Lydia and the rest of the group there too. None of them really talk to him, only a few monosyllabic answers. Sometimes he thinks that if he didn't speak up at all, they wouldn't even notice he was there. If he didn't wait for them, they wouldn't seek him out. Wouldn't bother to include him. He's quieter, nothing to say. None of them have anything to say. He tries to comfort Scott but the subject is too quickly deflected and Stiles is left in the silence.
Scott hardly looks at him, only with a sort of appraisal that makes Stiles feel like he is just waiting for another sign that he isn't who he says he is. The constant scrutinizing looks, and glances. He hates it. It plagues his every waking thought especially when he's at school. A place that already made him anxious now seems hand crafted to induce the most stress possible. He wants to reach out for comfort but he almost fears the reaction from his friends more than the one that he gives himself. He doesn't deserve it, so he doesn't ask for it. He was the villain this time, not the victim. Comfort was reserved for those who deserved it. That certainly wasn't him.
After Boyd and Erica had died, the two alphas had really tied to make their respective packs feel like packs. Well, it was more an front on Derek's end with Scott tagging along, but the effort was still kinda there. Movie nights and comfort, doing home work together and such. Derek was getting better at handling his alpha Spark and Scott had been learning to use his in a leadership role. Stiles was proud of them both. Proud of himself as well, no small contribution to their change was down to his persistence. Urging Derek to seek professional help and guidance, helping Scott adjust to his new power and control. He was the only one that the two wolves couldn't make submit so he had to be the one to call them on their bullshit. And it had been working. Derek had even started coming to him for advice, asking his opinion on a situation before acting. It had been a huge ego boost.
That ego had dwindled significantly as the days pressed on. The first few pack meetings were similar but not the same, the atmosphere was rife with grief as they all tried to get past it together.
When the McCall pack did show up, Scott was the worst of it. While Ethan tried to put on a brave face for the others, only taking about a week off of his life to mourn his only remaining family, Scott's grief was palpable in every room he occupied. Stiles had heard the others mentioning how his scent had turned sour and seemed to stay that way. An assault on their noses is how they described it. And while Stiles couldn't pick up on those kinds of things, he could see it in the way his friend carried himself, the way he couldn't hold a conversation without trailing off and staring into space; mind lost on old memories.
Really the only person who seemed to be copping fine with everything was Peter. Who, once Derek had started putting effort into being the alpha his mother had trained, had started showing up to the meetings. Always at a distance but never too far away. His usual spot at the bottom of the stairs being occupied more often than not for pack get togethers. Though those consisted a lot more of pack meals and silent movie nights than the rowdy things they were before. It seems the packs were determined to expand that steadily growing hole in Stiles' heart even if they were unaware of it.
Laying there in the small puddle of his cooling tears, Stiles tries to claw himself out of this miserable spiral of desperation and pain. He doesn't want to be like this. He wants to get better. The shame and self-hatred feels like a physical weight on his body and he hates it. He's been through this before and made it out intact, if he could only remember those long nights after mom's passing. If half his childhood wasn't a void of pulling his hung over father to the car because they were late for school. Making due with what little they had in the house because he had forgotten to buy food or they simply didn't have enough after the medical payment. Even after all of that, he still doesn't seem to know how to deal with this. All of those struggling nights seem null and void now, and that only makes the harsh ache in his chest spike into a physical hurt that seems to grate against his raw nerves.
What did all that pain matter when he still hurts now?
He wakes some time later, earlier than he should but that doesn't really mean anything now. Walking to the bathroom, he can imagine his tear stained face before he even sees the mirror. That's how it always looks when he wakes up. Red rimmed eyes that are bloodshot half the time. He sluggishly puts eye drops in, washing his face with cold water to wake himself up before a shower. It doesn't usually take much effort anyway as none of his friends will look him in the face anymore. That's fine, he's just glad they haven't completely abandoned him yet. It gives him that bitter-sweet hope that things will eventually go back to normal.
When he was a child he convinced himself that loosing his mother would be the worst thing he would ever have to go through. That after he made it through the other side things would be easy in comparison. But now, as the burning hot water washes away the evidence of his sorrow, he can't even begin to feel slightly lessened of the burden. It doesn't feel better knowing he's already been through something worse. It just feels like the newest pain adding to his already marred skin. The newest brand to addition to the patchwork of trauma that makes up his mind. How many drops does he have left in the bucket? Or is it already overflowing and he just hasn't noticed yet?
The drive to school blurs with the getting ready. His dad was no where to be seen but that's not unusual. Stiles had simply made himself something small and headed out for the jeep. Ready to face the day with a plastered look of passivity that paints him as a friend rather than a foe. Something he is too eager to prove once again.
There is a pack meeting tonight. He doesn't really see Derek or Peter outside of these. The rest of the pack he can seen everyday at school. Although that seems to be where the interaction stops.
It could be worse.
That's the thought that he clings to as he takes a breath and walks into the school, Scott at his side, yet further away than he's ever been...
With a sigh he settles in for another long, exhausting day of pretending to be a person again.
It begins for Peter the moment his sharp claws sink into the soft flesh at the nape of Stiles' neck. One of the brightest people that Peter had ever met inhabited by something so dark it seemed to swallow the boy whole. Looking into the Nogitsune's eyes and finding something violent and yet not entirely unfamiliar. It almost fits the boy. Almost. There is something cruel about the slight smile in his eyes that Peter doesn't recognize but he has seen the brutality of the doe-eyed Spark who runs with wolves.
As soon as his claws dig in and his mind flashes through Stiles memories of the possession, forcing Scott and Lydia to the forefront of his mind and feeling the reeling howl the new alpha sounds inside the boy's head. It all serves to cover the smallest of snapping sensations as a, barely there, bond forms between Peter and Stiles. Nothing he would recognize if he doesn't look for it. So it goes unnoticed. Burred in the frantic chaos of digging Stiles out of the demon a and the panic as the Nogitsune disappears with Lydia in tow. That small bond sitting dormant as Stiles' mind is not his own, remanence of the Nogitsune infesting his being even as they become two.
It's not until Scott bites the fox and kills it. Then Stiles' mind is his own again and the bond responds. The fight at the school rages on while Peter retreats. His job is done and while he would like to see the pack survive he knows better than to hope for fairytales. He makes back to his apartment before the first sign starts. He's just stepped into the font hall when he hears it. Plans to sequester away in his den crumble as something blooms with in him. A tiny Spark of warm, no larger than a quarter, pushing up against his other fraying pack bonds. It's so small he can't even place what it is. Just something. It frustrates him slightly, that lack of knowing, lack of control, he seems to have his mind is consumed by the new feeling. It almost aches.
He doesn't drop to his knees or shift, nothing as dramatic as that. If it hadn't been as quiet in his house he might not have even noticed the soft voice drifted through his head. It comes from no where, as he startles slightly. His wolf now antsy at the possibility of someone else in their den. The voice is small, masculine and he doesn't recognize it at first.
It's done. it's done. it's done. it's done.
A mantra almost whispered into the quiet room, the voice feels intimate, almost as if it was intended just for Peter.
The were stops in his tracks, standing in the entrance hall of his home, ears in tune, listening for any more sign of anything else. Every sense strained as he stands still, just listening.
Then it comes again.
She's dead. I killed her.
I killed her. I killed her. I killed her.
Peter's head doesn't jerk toward a noise like it would if the sound were physical. His ears just strain. It's frustrating, almost having him shift in order to hear it better. He doesn't of course, he has more dignity than that, but the urge was still there. The voice is strained, repeating words over and over along the same lines but sometimes cutting out. It takes him longer than he would like to admit before he realizes whose voice it is. He'll chock it up to the confusion of exactly were the sound is coming from that kept him from realizing.
It's Stiles' voice. Of course it's Stiles' voice. It can't be anyone else'.
Hundreds of questions flood the older wolf. First at the forefront of his mind being: killed who?
None of them are answered as he begins to accept his new reality. Of course he tries to figure out what the hell is going on but nothing turns up any viable results. Short of asking Stiles why he has his voice in his head, he is out of luck. So the little voice continues to be something he has to adapt to.
The strange disjointed thoughts continue for a while but they feel almost like a back ground noise if Peter's not paying too much attention. He'll catch a word or sentence that draws his attention back once and a while, like half a conversation going on in another room. As he fixes himself a meal and showers. It starts to get distracting when the quiet becomes too great and he hears the boy's voice creep over his mind like a comforting weight. Sometimes it's simple things, small mundane thoughts, but more often than not he's panicking. Repeating words or actions like the boy's mind is all out of sorts.
Sometimes they will cut out and and he will be left with silence for a while before they come back. Almost like a skipping record, or a car on the verge of a new radio signal's range.
It's a little irritating sometimes, as the voice continuously fusses over small things. At the start, the repetitive phrasing is similar to someone going through an episode. There is a number cycle repeated over and over again. One through Ten and then again. Peter's seen the effects of shock before, many, many times before but it doesn't sound like anyone is helping him through it. The voice of Stiles in his head is always, always alone.
Which isn't exactly his problem to deal with but at least the sheriff should be doing something. If the boy had been in the pack then he would have surely been squirreled away by over eager betas by now. He can already imagine Issac and that alpha pup cuddling up to the little human, scenting and hold him in someones bed or maybe on the couch. But that's only if this voice is actually Stiles and not just some deranged configuration of the Spark's words in his head. Either way he should be with pack.
The reminder of proper pack makes his heart ache with nostalgia. But he doesn't hear anything of the sort. The one-sided conversation seems to stay one-sided. Not even like the boy is reacting to anything. None of the annoyed grumbling he would expect from the sarcastic human, in fact, the opposite seems to be true.
Scott. I need Scott. He doesn't want to talk to me. Not after what I've done. Dad's not home again. I feel so faint, I'm hungry? I need water. No food first. I don't remember the last time that thing let me eat.
It's cause I'm not human anymore. Monsters don't need to eat like that. Maybe that's why I don't feel hungry.
Peter frowns, where is this alpha pup when he's not lecturing about the sanctity of life. Surly with the only member of the pack that seems to make sense. He doesn't even know if this is actually Stiles and without the scent he is left a little confused and disjointed. It makes him both curious and frustrated at the same time. His wolf is confused and unhappy about the confusion.
Where is the Spark anyway, maybe he did die to that demon and Peter is just experiencing the last of his consciousness. Although he's never heard of anything like that, weirder things have happened, and it's not exactly far off from what he did to that brilliant red head to come back to life. He doesn't know why but his chest seems to ache slightly at the thought. Sure he would be disappointed but really that seems like an over reaction. Although… had the boy survived… that would make this knew development very interesting. These thoughts in his head use Stiles' voice but what if it's more than that. What if he is hearing the boy's voice in his head somehow. Whatever the teen might say, somehow he's ended up hearing. He doesn't really have any other explanation for it.
Unless it's the demon doing this, he can't really understand why it's happening. Which only means one thing for him. Time to get back into the information gathering stage. That ache in his chest is so light and pulls so gently that he almost doesn't register the urge as anything other than his morbid curiosity.
A week has passed since it first appeared and while it's been less lonely in his apartment, it's time to get some real answers. Ones no forum on the internet could provide.
Before he knows it he's headed toward the door of his apartment, pulling on his long wool coat and pulling his keys off the hook by the door and stepping out into the chilled desert air. He barely registers the fact that he's on his way to stalk a few teenage seniors in order to figure out all that he's missed from the final fight that happened tonight. He's not exactly still recovering from being dead, muscle atrophy and all that have largely subsided and his muscle mass is close to where it was before he died. It's less that he felt he couldn't participate in the fight, and more he didn't really want to. Being surrounded by those insufferable pups, trying to fight a literal demon. He didn't take his chances with the odds. Derek and Cora weren't aware of the fight, not in anyway that mattered so he really didn't have any stake in the fight.
His wolf had whined and called for him to protect the Spark at the center of it all but he couldn't he would have been no use anyway and getting himself killed wasn't in his plans any time soon.
Even the new pup Issac wasn't there, Peter could feel the small bond to the pup drawing him back toward the loft. It's right there next to Derek and Cora and Ethan. He tunes it out with a small shake of his head. Putting his focus back on the droning on of that small voice in the back of his head.
Tired… ow! fuck. Damn I need more pain killers. Am I out already… that's what I get for being the resident werewolf punching bag.
Peter starts his car and pulls out onto the road before stopping at the end of the parking lot. If he takes his car it might be easier to spot him. He'd just got in on reflex but… for this? maybe it'd be better if he ran there.
Where?
Stiles might not even be home although the voice seems to imply that he is. Perhaps he'll visit Scott first. If the alpha had just lost his friend then they would be going through a severe grieving process. Peter still remembers that delicious scent clinging to the McCall boy in the forest that night he became the monster alpha. His niece's blood still dripping from his lips and still, it had consumed his mind with one goal. So tunnel visioned on getting to the center of that smell, he barely even picked up the real and much worse scent of the now true alpha pup. He doesn't really remember that part but the reaction he'd had when he finally met Stiles back in human form, was like a wash of pear and ozone and dark chocolate. Something sweetly bitter with the undercurrent of brutality.
He remembered cooing at the boy, letting that intoxicating scent drift through his senses until Derek's harsher, forced scent of protection covered it. It had angered him then, just as it had angered him when McCall answered his howl rather than that little Spark of lightning he had thought he'd bitten. After that the boy had intrigued him, he'd watched as he handled Scott and the newly forming pack. Saved his nephew more than once and all while cracking jokes like this was just a normal Saturday for him. He could smell that darkness with in, possibly more attune to it than any other wolf in the state. It was the same darkness that marred his own skin for six years and turned his eyes that wonderful shade of ice blue.
He sees it in the boy, just under the surface. Lurking for the right chance to break out. Maybe it already has…
He parks his car a little ways down from the McCall house and gets out to walk. The pup is less aquatinted with his senses than most wolves, even bitten, but that doesn't mean that Peter will underestimate him. The street is empty as he walks, nothing but vacant cars and dim streetlamps. Beacon hills isn't a hugely populated town but he still would have expected some of the regular night life, even in this kind of neighborhood.
When he reaches the place he strains his ear to listen. One heartbeat and no car in the driveway. They only have one car. His mind flashes back to the gorgeous woman who lives inside, and who seemingly passed on none of her brilliant mind down the family bloodline. Scott is alone in the house.
Peter is silent as he moves to one of the lit windows around the back of the house. He hears the shuffling of feet and a chair creak signaling the pup's whereabouts. He doesn't dare get closer than the fence of the house separating it from the next. Scott has shown no signs of noticing the new wolf at his den and Peter wants to keep it that way.
He strains to hear more and catches something that immediately grabs his attention.
A gasping sob breaks what he previously thought was silence but was rather the muffling of soft cries. Another sob follows shortly after as Scott seems to choke on his own spit. His smugness, borderline chastisement at what he thought was an over reaction on his part freezes. Had he been right? Had the voice in his mind been something similar to his own revival ritual? It hadn't compelled him to do anything but then again that's how he got Lydia at first. Something like dread sparks low in his throat, he opens his mouth slightly to scent the area, trying to get a read on McCall before he investigates further. There could be any number of reasons why a boy like this would be crying.
His rationality doesn't quiet make it to his eyes before they flash involuntarily. He feels it, the sudden sharpness in his vision and he knows what's happened although for all the world he doesn't understand why. Something as simple as an acquaintance at best shouldn't have caused a slip in control, no matter how good the boy smelled. Even If Stiles is dead, why is his body, his wolf reacting like this?
Still he feels the ache in his finger tips and gums, the willingness of his wolf to take over and demand answers as the very real possibility that the Spark did in-fact die at the hand of a demon washes over him. He shakes it off, choosing to leave before that scent of unwashed boy and salt clogs his throat.
His anxiety starts to creep in at the edges of his mind although he tries to keep a firm lid on his control. Peter is known for his cool head and if the boy is dead than he's been dead for days. There's nothing he can do by storming off into the night and frantically trying to search for the body. It's likely already been collected by the father anyway.
As he rationalizes something tugs at his chest. It's barely even a tug, like a single thread wrapped loosely around his ribs starts to pull away. Never seeming to run out of tread as the friction of it's unwind gently begs him to follow. He doesn't even notice at first, the left turn feeling more comfortable than the right. Going straight when it would have been faster to go left. To where, he doesn't know. Just a feeling that he can't seem to find or place. It doesn't frustrate him as much as he might have expected. Having been feral for six years, he's used to his wolf taking initiative and running on instincts automatically. While his control is still firm, old habits die hard.
It's the only thing that allowed him to live through that time in the coma and the only thing that allowed him to come back to life after it's harsh end. He might as well follow it this time too. Not that it's a conscious thought, no, Peter finds himself outside the Stilinski residence with too little surprise. This had been his original destination right?
There is only one car in the drive way, that death trap of a jeep. He remembers driving it all the way back then, turning his nose up in disgust at the thing when he was nearly out of the parking lot and almost going back to just steal someone else's. The only thing that made up for it was the fact that Stiles' scent infected every single surface of the place. It almost made him dizzy with how strong it was in places. The seat and wheel specifically reeked. It was a testament to how much time the teen spent in the car. He'd tried not to bask in it too much but never let it be said that Peter wasn't self-indulgent.
Stepping out of his car he followed the same pattern as he had with the McCall house. Although with no wolf pups around he was less distant. Creeping along the side of the house as he listened to the noise inside. That soft almost stroking pull leading him to the side of the place where he found window just over the roof for the first floor. It was too easy to climb up silently and stand at the edge of the glass. He could hear the movement, the soft shuffling of bedding and the slight whimpers of fear. With the window closed the scent was withheld from him but he didn't need it to know exactly who was inside.
He could see the mess of a room, the door closed and locked, clothing and paper, a glass whiteboard with various things written on it. he was careful not to step into the light of the streetlamps but inside was dark too, allowing him to stand at the window with little fear of being back lit and seen. Even if Stiles was clearly sleeping, or trying to sleep given his erratic heartbeat, he wasn't going to risk it.
But that was it. Stiles was alive. That clever little bolt of lightning had survived a possession by a Nogitsune. Something Peter is sure is worthy of bragging rights.
Something like sick gratification and pride swells under his ribs. He'd always know the boy was a survivor. That's what the darkness they shared meant. They survived even when the world had decided it was over for them.
The sudden urge to crawl in to the window to fill his lungs with that scent catches him off guard slightly. Tangled up in his own excitement and satisfaction at how the night has gone starts to get to his wolf and he has to stop himself from making a mistake like breaking into the Sheriff's house to scent his son. Not that the man would even notice as it seems he has no indention of returning to the home tonight. It's already late. Around 3:30 if his watch is correct and although, he doesn't know the Sheriff's shifts by heart, he's sure a public figure like that should be seen in the day doing his acts of service rather than at night.
His eyes linger on the lump huddled in the bed at the far corner of the room. He can't see skin or hair, the thick blanket pulled up over Stiles' head. What he does notice and find interesting is that he hasn't heard the voice in his head for a while. It's been about half an hour since he left his apartment and not a peep since. His theory of Stiles' spirit speaking to him out the window, he is sort of at a loss.
He sighs in slight frustration and jumps back down to the soft grass a story below. He doesn't let it get to him just yet as he slips back into his car and Drives off.
Back home his mind is quiet once again. He should be relieved that there isn't some voice in his head chittering away.
It's so quiet.
The noise of his house almost seems louder to compensate and there is that slight discomfort in his chest telling him… something. He rubs over his sternum and moves to his bedroom to dress down for sleep. He ignores the unease he feels at how quiet it is. How something is missing. Sleeping doesn't come easy that night, another thing Peter elects to ignore. They have a pack meeting soon, maybe he'll actually show up this time rather than just listening from the upper floors of the loft. He is curious to hear what actually went down with the fight first hand, rather than just the context clues of a sad alpha pup and a few sparse words of guilt. Words that might not even be real.
He sighs as he lays down to rest, finally the night is over yes but there is something he can't quite see on the horizon and he's not quite sure what to make of it. Anxiety seems far away for now but still that sense of unease lingers.