Archive of Our Own ^beta

The darkness around Stiles’ heart weighs heavily on him.

It keeps him up at night, fearful of falling asleep in the hopes of avoiding the nightmares. They sneak up on him, twist his normal dreams into grotesque fantasies of pain and confusion, and he wakes up sweating and screaming every time. Dark circles slowly blossom under his eyes, and he knows people notice – he gets looks, at school, a mixture of concern and judgment. He doesn’t know what these people think, what they assume when they see him wander through the halls looking like a zombie. He doesn’t even know if they’re real, half the time.

He doesn’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore.

Scott and Allison are real, though. Or at least, Stiles thinks they are. They’re struggling too, he can see it – he helps pull Scott into an empty classroom when he struggles for control, sees Allison’s fingers reach for the daggers she keeps in her school bag almost as a reflex. They’re going through their own versions of hell, and theoretically, Stiles knows that.

But.

But what bothers him is that their problems are physical. Scott can’t keep his control. Allison can’t shoot. They’ve never talked about nightmares, or voices whispering in their heads, or fantasies they can’t control. They’re not straight up losing their minds – not like Stiles. And that, more than anything, makes him feel alone. Makes him feel different, makes him feel singled out in the worst possible way.

If they don’t understand how he’s feeling, how can he possibly talk about it? How can he tell them he’s afraid he’s going crazy, only to receive sympathetic looks and empty words of reassurance in return? It’s not going to be okay, and Stiles knows it.

He just has no idea what he’s going to do about it.

He can feel the flush start up his neck, blooming onto his cheeks as he ducks his head. More than anything, it feels shameful to admit that. He’s the one who looks things up, who does well in school. It’s his one useful skill, his one tactic to help the rest of them when they’re fighting monsters and getting into dangerous spots. If he can’t read, what good is he?

Scott, sitting across from him at the table in the library, furrows his brow. “What do you mean, you can’t read?”

“I mean I just can’t, all right?” Stiles says, pushing the book away from himself in frustration. “It’s like the letters get all jumbled up on the page, and they try to run away from me. And I can’t make sense of them.”

Allison studies him curiously from her seat next to Scott. “You didn’t say anything about that before.”

“It just started happening,” Stiles says. He fiddles with his pen, keeping his gaze low. “I didn’t want to talk about it.”

When he hears Allison sigh, Stiles looks up again. She and Scott are exchanging glances, and Scott presses his lips together, as if he’s thinking. For a moment, Stiles feels his hopes lift. He trusts them, more than anyone in the world. Allison’s smart and savvy, has more experience with weapons and beasts and strength than anyone he knows. And he and Scott have been friends forever, have told each other everything, and have been side by side the entire way. If anyone can fix him, can make him feel better, it’s them. If anyone can get him out of this, it’s Allison and Scott.

“Is it just…” Scott starts, and he looks frustrated, too. Fed up with all of this, with the mess that their lives have become. “Are you sure? If you just concentrate harder, will it be better?”

Stiles feels like he’s been stung. He sees Allison close her eyes for a moment, shake her head as if she knows instantly that something’s wrong, but he ignores her. She likely thinks the same way as Scott – they were attached at the hip for months, when they were together, so why wouldn’t she?

“If I just concentrate harder?” he repeats, his tone bitter. “You think I’m not trying?”

“No!” Scott says quickly, worry flooding his face. “No, I didn’t mean that!”

“Because I’m practically breaking my brain to try and read this shit, dude. And it’s not working.”

Scott shakes his head. “I just… it sucks for all of us, dude. And I don’t know what to do.”

“Stiles…” Allison begins soothingly, resting her hand on his arm. “Don’t be upset. He didn’t mean –“

“None of us can fix ourselves,” Stiles says, shaking her off impatiently, “so why the hell am I the one getting this shit?”

“Stiles –“

“Here’s a suggestion,” Stiles says, feeling his anger mount. Does Scott actually believe, for one second, that things for him and Allison are the same as they are for Stiles? How can he be that blind? “Next time, don’t fucking suggest to try harder.”

He pushes back his chair, fumbling with his school bag to get it over his shoulder as he stalks away.

“Stiles!” Scott calls behind him, but Stiles shakes his head and pushes his way through the library doors.

For once, he doesn’t want to hear that Scott and Allison don’t have the answers. For once, he doesn’t want to be brushed aside.

For once, he doesn’t want them to think that they understand.

Because they don’t. Not at all.

He doesn’t even get into bed. He stays up, sitting at his desk, the computer light glowing softly on his face. He clicks around aimlessly online, his frustration and bitterness mounting as page after page loads with incomprehensible words and floating letters. He can’t read, he can’t sleep, he can’t think… and Scott just wants him to try harder. Scott thinks that his and Allison’s own problems are huge, insurmountable, things with real significance. But Stiles’ delusions, his nightmares? Scott thinks he just needs to concentrate, for fuck’s sake, and they’ll all go away.

Stiles is done giving a shit what Scott thinks. Because Stiles doesn’t think he can stand it all anymore.

Before he knows it, he’s packing a bag. Stuffing his school bag with clothing, with his toothbrush and phone and wallet. He slips down to the kitchen, careful to be quiet, and tops the bag off with crackers and jerky. He just needs enough to get him out of town, he thinks. Just enough to hold him over until he finds something better.

Because something, somewhere, has to be better than Beacon Hills.

It’s not the most well-thought plan, and Stiles knows it. Half of him thinks that he’ll second-guess himself once the sun rises, will realize he can’t get anywhere on two hundred dollars and the inability to read road signs, and will call the whole thing off. So he goes, now. He gets into his Jeep and drives, because he can’t stand it anymore. The darkness around his heart, squeezing tighter and tighter, is tied to Beacon Hills. To the Nemeton. And maybe, if he gets far enough away, it’ll let go. It’ll let him breathe.

He speeds through the quiet streets, trying not to think. He turns his gaze away from Scott’s house as he passes it – he doesn’t want to change his mind, to stop in and see his friend. Scott had hurt him, Scott hadn’t understood. He won’t. So Stiles just needs to get out, to find somewhere else to be.

He doesn’t know where he’s running to, but maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe knowing what he’s running from will be enough, at first.

Or so he thinks until he reaches the outer roads of Beacon Hills.

Stiles furrows his brow when a high-pitched noise, a whine, starts to emanate from his Jeep. He thinks it’s in his head, at first, another hallucination. But as it grows louder, as the whole body of his Jeep starts to shake and sputter, he changes his mind. This is real. And something is wrong.

Suddenly, the Jeep slams into something. There’s nothing on the road in front of him – he hasn’t hit anything real. It’s as if he’s driven headlong into an invisible force, as if he’s slammed into a barrier he can’t see. It knocks the wind out of him as he’s thrown against the steering wheel, leaving him gasping for air. The Jeep stalls and quits, right there on the road.

Stiles blinks, shaken and confused. He slides out of the car carefully, trying to calm himself down and steady his breathing as he looks around. It’s quiet and the moon is high above his head, the forest around the road still and silent. There’s nothing around him that would make his Jeep stop, let alone that would dent the hood as deep as it has. It doesn’t make sense.

And then he sees the sign on the side of the road.

Stiles can’t read the lettering, but he knows that sign. Knows its blue crest, its logo of brightly-coloured trees. It says, “Welcome to Beacon Hills” in golden block lettering, has been there ever since Stiles can remember, and he feels the bottom of his stomach drop out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he whispers as he stares at the sign.

He’s at the edge of town.

Stiles reaches out into the air in front of the Jeep tentatively, almost bracing himself for what he might find. His hand extends a few inches before it stops, hits up against some kind of invisible barrier. He pushes at it in disbelief, smacking his hand against it and trying to break through. When it doesn’t give, he pulls his hand back and blinks at the empty space before him.

“What the hell is going on?” he breathes.

He feels his chest clench all of a sudden and he groans, doubling over with his hands on his knees. His vision swims as he gasps for breath, and a part of him wants to collapse, fall onto the pavement and curl up until the pain dies. It’s the Nemeton, he thinks. It won’t let me leave.

It won’t let me leave.

Anger roars through his body, every vein thrumming with it as he straightens up and throws his body against the invisible barrier. He yells, slamming his shoulder into it again and again, trying to break his way through. It’s frenzied and wild, the jabs and shocks of pain shooting through his body making him gasp as he beats his fists against the air. He can’t see anything, not anymore, his head spinning and limbs aching as he slams into the barrier as hard as he can. He tastes blood in his mouth as he screams, feels it slicking his palms as his skin’s scraped and bruised. But it doesn’t matter, not now – all his focus is on breaking through, on smashing down the barrier to let himself out. He needs out, he needs out now –

“Stiles!”

Hands grasp at his shoulders, his waist, his arms, and he struggles against them. His head throbs as he thrashes, trying to slam his body into the barrier and push his way through. The hands are holding him back – they want him to stay –

“Stiles, stop! You’re hurting yourself!”

Allison, he thinks dully.

Slowly, Stiles relaxes. He stops slamming up against the invisible barrier and pulls back, tentatively rotating in the arms wrapped around him. It’s Allison, and it’s Scott, worry painted over both of their faces. He blinks at them, breathing heavily, and Allison slides a hand up to brush the damp hair from his forehead.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

Stiles feels a sob fight to heave out of his chest. “I can’t leave,” he gasps. “It’s like… there’s a wall, and I can’t – it won’t let me –“

It’s Scott who tightens his grip, pulls Stiles close to them both.

“It’s okay,” Scott says quietly. “You’re going to be okay, Stiles.”

It’s like those words pierce straight through him. Like they burrow under his skin, into his veins, and he feels it. He feels it with more certainty than he ever has before. Here, with Scott and Allison, he’s going to be okay.

The next twenty minutes are a blur.

Stiles doesn’t remember sagging against them, letting them manage his weight between the two of them as they coax him into Allison’s father’s car. He doesn’t worry about his Jeep, driven behind them by Scott after he fishes the keys out of his pocket, as Allison drives him back into Beacon Hills. He doesn’t remember following Allison inside Scott’s house, leaning against Scott’s side all the way upstairs. Scott helps him change and Allison brings him a damp washcloth, and none of it registers until Allison presses the warm, wet material against the open wound on his wrist.

“Shit,” he hisses, jerking a little at the sudden pain, and Scott’s hands slide to his shoulders at once.

“It’s okay,” Scott murmurs, lips close to his ear, and Stiles realizes that he’s leaning up against him, his back against Scott’s chest as Allison kneels between his ankles. “We’ve got you.”

Stiles exhales shakily as he feels warm, burning pain slowly slide up his arms and evaporate against Scott’s hands. Allison continues to dab the cloth against his wounds, gently wiping away the dried blood. When she finishes, she looks up at him with a smile turning up the corner of her lips.

“Doesn’t even look like you’re going to need stitches,” she tells him.

“How’d you find me?” Stiles asks finally. He’s feeling better now, his whole body pleasantly warm, and he’s stopped shaking. He doesn’t understand anything about this night, about the invisible barrier on the road and the pain as he tried to cross it, but he’s grateful.

He ran, and his best friends came after him.

He can almost feel Scott smiling against the back of his neck. “You’ve left enough stuff at my place that it was easy to find your scent,” he tells him. One of Scott’s thumbs rubs a slow path back and forth over Stiles’ shoulder, and he finds he likes that. It’s soothing. “I was sleeping, and I just… felt it, somehow. That you were in trouble. Allison called me to tell me she was on her way before I was even out of bed.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, and Allison nods. “We knew something was wrong.”

“How?”

She shrugs. “The sacrifices, maybe? I don’t know.”

“But either way, we knew we had to come and get you.” Scott’s breath is warm on his skin, and Stiles can feel himself growing sleepy. He tries to fight it, though, tries to force his eyes to stay open. He still doesn’t understand, doesn’t know why or how, and that bothers him – he always wants to know why and how.

But Scott’s arms slide around his shoulders, gently tucking him up against his chest, and Allison smiles fondly at them both. And maybe, Stiles thinks, it’s okay not to have all the answers.

Maybe, when it comes to his friends, he doesn’t need them.

“I’m sorry I pushed you away,” Scott murmurs, and Stiles can definitely feel his lips against the back of his neck now. It makes him shiver. “At school earlier. That wasn’t fair.”

“I didn’t think you understood,” Stiles says, and Scott shakes his head.

“I didn’t,” he says. “I didn’t understand how bad it was for you. I was so caught up in me that I couldn’t really see you.”

And Stiles thinks about Scott. He thinks about the way his friend’s hands shake when he’s trying to get himself under control, the way he ducks his head to hide his glowing eyes in the hallways. He thinks about Allison, blinking away her hallucinations, breathing heavily and shaking. The three of them, so caught up in their own heads that they couldn’t help each other.

Until now.

“Thank you,” Stiles says, eyes on Allison before he twists his neck around so he can see Scott, too, “for coming after me.”

Scott holds him just a little tighter. “If we’re going crazy, we may as well do it together.”

Stiles nods, trying to fight back the yawn that itches at his throat. The room is warm and Scott’s arms are comforting, and he feels good again. Relieved. As if, right now, no darkness can touch him.

Allison must notice, can likely see the way his eyes fight to stay open, because she reaches out to brush her thumb over Stiles’ jaw with a smile before she sits back. “You should rest,” she says. “Both of you. And I should get my dad’s car back before he notices it’s gone.”

She moves to slide backwards, off the bed and out the door, but Stiles uses whatever little strength he has to reach out and gently grab her wrist.

“Stay,” he says. He looks up at her, hoping she’ll say yes. Hoping she won’t leave them.

What good are he and Scott without her?

“Please,” Stiles adds. His voice is softer, now. Sleepier.

“Are you sure?” she asks quietly, and he nods. When she smiles, his stomach does a little flip.

“Okay.”

They’re quiet as he guides her towards him, spreads his legs enough to tuck her up against his chest, just as Scott’s done to him. Her cheek rests against his collarbone and her dark hair tickles his nose, making him smile and nudge it out of the way. One of Scott’s hands slides from his hip to wrap around Allison, too, and he can feel Scott exhale slowly.

“You okay, buddy?” Stiles’ question is soft, tipping his head back against Scott’s shoulder to make sure he’s heard, and he can feel Scott nod.

“I’m really good,” Scott says, leaning his head against Stiles’ own. Allison’s hand finds Stiles’ and squeezes. “Are you?”

“Better than ever,” Stiles replies, and in that moment, it feels true. He doesn’t feel dark and afraid; he doesn’t feel alone. He has Scott, and he has Allison, and they’re going through the same things as he is. They’re all entwined, the three of them, mixed up and in over their heads. But they’re together, and for now, they’re safe. They’re protecting each other. Holding each others’ hands, taking on each others’ weight, pulling each other back from the brink. Keeping each other sane.

And for now, that’s all that really matters.

end.