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“How are you feeling today Stiles?”
The same question asked in the same place. Bookshelves and diplomas cover white walls. A large oak desk with a stern man sitting behind it. An uncomfortable chair with upholstery that itches, no matter how he shifts. This office never changes.
“Peachy keen Doc. How about yourself?”
“I’m well.”
“Good to hear. How’s the family?”
“Also well. My sister came into town last night. She got a flat tire on the road and I had to pick her up.”
“Ouch, that sucks. Wanna cut the session short, take a nap or something?”
“I’m fine Stiles. I’d rather hear about your night.”
The inevitable pause, the short span of time it takes to think of the lie before he speaks it. It’s only a few seconds, but the silence is deafening as those moments pass. His heartbeat gets louder in his own ear. And then the moment is over.
“Not much to mention. Had dinner, took a jog on the treadmill, showered, went to bed. Normal stuff.”
“No dreams?”
“Nope. None at all. A perfectly restful non-dreamy night.”
“…”
“What’s that look supposed to be?”
“That’s the look I give you when I know you’re lying.”
“Really? I thought that look had more of a head tilt to it…”
“Stiles.”
A disappointed glare, right on queue. Next will be the confession, then the argument, finally the explanation. The office doesn’t change, and neither does the conversation.
“Okay, alright, fine. I had another dream. Just like every freaking night.”
“And what happened?”
“I pranced through a field of flowers while holding hands with Scarlett Johansson and we stopped for a picnic under a rainbow.”
“…”
“There’s that face again.”
“Stiles, I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.”
“I don’t see why I need any help.”
The phrase that starts the argument. Sometimes the words are different, but the meaning is always the same. I don’t need to be here, I don’t want any help, I don’t see the problem. I am fine.
“We’ve been over this, Stiles. Your dreams are infringing on your reality. Two days ago you tried to punch one of the nurses because you thought she was something called an ‘alpha’. You’re beginning to confuse real life with your imaginary world.”
“Who’s to say that this world isn’t the imaginary one?”
“Stiles, werewolves aren’t real. You must know that. It goes against all laws of science.”
“So does having the same dreams every night for two years.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Really? Cause it sounds pretty magical to me.”
A pause, the argument reaching its pinnacle only to fall again. They never let it escalate, they’re much too professional for that. It’s never heated or angry, only frustration fuels their words. Frustration with
one another, with the conversation itself: so static and dependably predictable. A sigh from the doctor behind the desk breaks the silence.
“I’m just trying to help you, Stiles.”
“I know. You always try to help me.”
An admission. It doesn’t sound like one, but the two men in the room have come to understand one another. They know the chair will always be scratchy. They know the pace the conversation will always
take. They know this small divulgence is the beginning of the explanation.
“Here and there?”
“Yeah. Here and there. You always seem to have the answers.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know, cause you’re smart? Doctors are supposed to know a lot of stuff.”
“Yes, but in your dreams I’m only a veterinarian.”
“Still lets you put an MD after your name, doesn’t it?”
A chuckle in reply. Humor has always been his best defense. It’s distracting, gets people off topic. But it only works if the person doesn’t have a goal for the discussion. Deaton has a goal.
“Perhaps I have the answers in your dreams because your mind is trying to tell you that I have the means to help you in real life.”
“Really? That’s what we’re going with?”
“I think it’s a perfectly reasonable assumption.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What if you’re right? What if my brain is desperately trying to warn me away from the dreams and wants me to seek you out for help. How does that change anything?”
“It means that, subconsciously, you want a way out. That your mind is trying to save you.”
“Then why do I keep having the dreams, if my brain hates them so much?”
“The head and the heart sometimes work separately. To let go of the dreams, you need to want to let go of them.”
And there it is: the explanation. The terrifying truth finally seeps its way into the conversation. The fact that horrifies Deaton and his father and the people who surround him. Stiles has the dreams because he wants them. Wants the hardship and the pain and the friendships to be real. Wants a world where he is battered and beaten, lost and confused, where his main goal is to stay alive long enough to help other to do the same. Wants to live in a place where nothing makes sense and the rules are forgotten. Wants to look in the mirror and see his scars and laugh at the memory of cheating death.
Because what is this world, compared to that? With its white walls and cold corridors, the schedule and routine, all of it is suffocating to him after he wakes up. He looks at the faces around him and sees his friends, his enemies, but they don’t see him, their eyes pass over him like any other face in a crowd. Here he is alone. Here he is nothing.
He wants to be trapped between two worlds, the worlds of day and night, the worlds of waking and sleeping. He doesn’t want to lose his dreams to this poisonous reality that is killing him slowly from the inside out. Although, it’s getting harder and harder to tell which one is the dream and which one is real. And when Stiles takes a step back and has to decide which world he would rather be in…
He wants the world where he runs with wolves.