So I came to Biscuit with the intention to slap maybe 5k of post-3B trauma on a doc and be done with it. Of course, nothing I talk to Biscuit about stays short for long. We're somewhere around 8k right now and just getting started, so hold onto your hats, I guess. Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times and let us know what you think, maybe?
Warnings for suicidal thoughts and some violence this chapter, okay? Please be careful!
**8**
The curse hits Stiles hard and fast. He staggers back a few steps, winded by the force of the attack, hand at the center of his chest where it struck him. The pack cries out for him past the wall of mountain ash; Scott is making progress, his hands flat against the barrier, but it's slow going and Stiles is going to be alone with the witch for a while longer. Exactly how many of his life choices led him to skipping around an abandoned warehouse at ten at night, playing witch bait? Whatever the answer, he regrets all of them.
"Do you hear?" the man spits. He's very much not what anyone had expected a witch to look like: tall, middle-aged, with a standard dad haircut streaked with grey and a tweed jacket. He also looks like he's ready to tear the world apart at the seams, and all that anger is directed solely at the human currently shaking off the paralytic effects of his magic. "That was my sister!" He looks half-mad, hands curled into human claws as he gestures wildly at Stiles. Stiles, who… has no idea what he's talking about. He opens his mouth, closes it, and chooses instead to flounder in the opposite direction of where the next curse is directed to strike. It takes a second to get his pinwheeling under control when the magic blackens the cement a little too close to one foot for his liking.
"What the hell, dude?" Stiles yelps as he flails away from the next spell. Behind him, he hears a grunt of effort from Scott as the alpha shoves a little harder at the barrier. If he could just hurry it up a little, that'd be great. "I have no idea who your sister is!"
This only seems to enrage the witch further. "No," he hisses, "you wouldn't. Because you killed her."
Stiles freezes mid-step, dread curling low in his gut. Suddenly he knows what this is about.
The next curse hits him head-on, straight through his hoodie to his heart. He chokes on the pain of it, dropping to his knees and clutching at the spot as he struggles for breath. The pack calls behind him, but for those few sharp seconds the world goes grey and everything is out of reach. Not that he's a huge fan of the world when he comes back to it: he finds himself with his cheek pressed to the cold concrete, his name echoing painfully in his ears. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut as they were, wary of the lurid light the violently purple fire created by the witch casts.
The witch's voice sounds right into his ear, harsh and cold. "She died," he rasps, "in that hospital -"
"That wasn't me," Stiles manages, repeating the phrase that's been beaten into him by everyone close to him. He swallows, tries again. The pack is silent behind him, or it's just that the witch's heavy breathing is all he can hear. He's not sure which is worse. "It wasn't me."
Maybe his lack of belief shows. Maybe the witch knows exactly how little conviction he could work up to force those words out. Either way, he's not too surprised when a hand grabs a fistful of his hair, lifts, and bashes his head into the ground.
"It was you," the witch snarls over his groan of pain. "Your evil ways murdered my sister that night. Your cruel tricks ended in so many deaths, you rotten creature. And I want nothing more than to kill you for it.
"But," the man's tone changes, brightens a little, and he moves away. Stiles tries to take that moment to breathe and brace himself to move past the fierce ache in his chest, but he doesn't get the chance. The witch's boot connects with his ribcage and shoves, forcing him to roll onto his back. The breath he'd just taken huffs out of him and his eyes open, taking in the dark rafters and cruel firelight casting unnatural shadows on everything. The witch leans over him, smirk twisting his laugh lines into horrible slashes of darkness across his face. His foot plants itself directly onto the sore spot of his chest. "I'm not here to kill you."
No, instead he's here to kick Stiles around and monologue. It's slightly worse than straight up killing him.
The witch leans in and speaks with a smile. "In exactly forty-eight hours, you will take the form of your true self. Your spirit, as it were." He chortles. "I imagine it'll be an awful sight. What with all that darkness inside of you."
"I didn't do anything," Stiles protests, hopelessly. The witch's words seep into his mind, tainting all the kind reassurances he's accepted these last months. Poisoning them. "It wasn't me. I didn't have a choice -"
"But you did," the witch cuts him off ruthlessly. "A nogitsune, was it? A rare beast of chaos and despair. But ultimately, it was only a vehicle. A way for the evil inside you to reach out and hurt everyone around you."
"I -" Stiles tries, but doesn't quite know what to say. He's right. The witch is right.
"All that knowledge," the witch says loftily, "all those plans. They were never just invasive thoughts for you, were they? I could hurt that person. I know exactly how to break them. I could crush an entire city in a day, and I can gather the means to do it.
"Tell me, boy." The light flickers as the fire grows larger. "Do you suppose a thousand year-old spirit knows how to locate and cut the power lines of a hospital? Would it know how to create a bomb out of household supplies, how to reach into the hearts of those closest to you and shake them to their cores? I don't think so. That was all you."
Somewhere far away, the pack is howling.
"Your darkness took the form of a fox demon for a short while," says the witch. "I'll concede that small fact. But your true spirit likely won't take the same image." He wiggles his foot, driving the shallow breath right out of Stiles' lungs. "A nogitsune is only one sort of darkness, after all. Humans carry far more. And all of that evil twisted into one shape is never pretty." He barks a laugh. "Perhaps it'll be monstrous enough that the hunters won't bother waiting to see what you do before putting you down like the rabid beast you are."
His words buzz around in Stiles' head, taking up all of his focus. They eat at him, devouring that small pocket of relief he'd tucked away for the dark nights when all he had was the bundle of memories the nogitsune left for him to savor. He imagines it as a physical pain, but that ends up hurting less than it really should.
The witch is right.
"Forty-eight hours," the man repeats, forcing all his weight downwards one last time. Stiles' ribs may be bruised. "To say your goodbyes, to choose who's going to end your sad life. You won't want to live," he adds. "Not after what you'll turn into."
Then the weight is gone, and Stiles resigns himself to his fate. After all, it's nothing short of what he deserves.
**8**
He sits facing the wall of the loft, the brick one with the hole punched through it. It's dusty and damaged, and Stiles feels he can relate on some level. The rest of the pack doesn't seem to care much for his latest state of being.
Behind him, the pack has gathered in heated discussion. They've been batting around the same dozen or so ideas for the last several hours, as if any of their arguments will change the witch's curse. Your true spirit. Christ.
Stiles cranes his neck a little to get a look at them without moving too much. He's pretty sore after being shoved around, even if he doesn't feel it much (he hasn't felt any pain that can remotely compare to when he and it were wandering around in copies of the same body) - the stiffness is still there, making it a little harder to move. They're doing exactly what it sounds like they're doing: sitting with their heads close together, arguing furiously. Malia is seated cross-legged next to Lydia, who's perched on the loveseat with her ankles daintily crossed. Scott's got a chair pulled up to her right, elbows on his knees and a frustrated bite to his voice. Kira's to his right, curled up in her chair. Isaac has sprawled on the floor, all loose limbs and subtle tension. There's an empty space in their circle for Derek, who has taken to leaning against the wall in that general area about ten feet away. He looks unhappy, a bitter twist to his mouth as he glances between the others and Stiles sitting by himself a distance away. He seems reluctant to suggest anything. Likely he knows as well as Stiles does that there's nothing to be done. You can't undo a witch's curse.
It's when the name Deaton leaves Scott's mouth for the seventeenth time that Stiles decides he doesn't need to stick around. "Welp," he announces, heaving himself to his feet and dusting at his knees, "this was fun. Let me know when you come up with something that might actually work, kay?"
"Stiles?" Scott jumps to his feet and faces him, the pack slowly rising behind him - flanking their alpha, like Stiles is a dangerous thing. "Where are you -"
"Away," Stiles offers, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. "Literally anywhere that's not here. Seriously, guys. Nothing you can come up with is going to change this. I'm," he swallows, changes tacks, "there's nothing you can do."
"You don't know that," Lydia says, voice more gentle than he's ever heard. Her hands twitch at her sides, like she doesn't know whether to reach out or clutch at her own arms or maybe go for a weapon. Stiles knows she knows he caught the movement when she swallows and lifts her chin. "There are still possibilities we haven't explored."
"Lyds," he sighs, aggravated, "you know there aren't. You're a genius, and the rest of you have a brain at least. But none of this involves me -"
"It has everything to do with you, Stiles -"
"But it doesn't involve me," he stresses. "I've accepted this. You haven't. This whole colloquy," he waves his arms to indicate the pack as a whole, "all this pointless argument and wasted words are for nothing. You can't change what the witch did. You can't change the fact that in less than two days, I'm going to turn into - whatever. A thing. Some kind of monster, I guess."
"You're not a monster, Stiles," Scott says sadly, staring mournfully with wide puppy eyes and slumped shoulders.
"Not yet." He wonders who he's trying to fool. Himself? The alpha in front of him? The rest of the pack? Surely not all of them are that blind. He shrugs the thought off and sighs. "Look, you guys can keep going, or don't. I don't care much, honestly. What's going to happen is going to happen, and if I hear Deaton's name out of Scott's mouth one more time it might just happen sooner."
This time, it's Malia who speaks up, arms crossed with a dark eyed glower reserved just for him. "You're being stupid," she says plainly. "We're trying to help, you know."
"Don't help," he dismisses easily, finally managing to take that first step to the door. The momentum urges along another step, and another, until he's moving smoothly towards the door. At first, nobody tries to stop him. Stiles begins to hope that they'll all get out unscathed. But then Kira, sweet, kind Kira, grabs at his sleeve with a plea of, "Stiles."
And just like that, he loses it.
"Get the fuck off me," he snarls, wrenching his arm violently away from her fingers. She jerks her hand back, eyes huge. "You don't understand howdone I am. I actually cannot take a single second more of hearing all of you bitch endlessly at each other over something that can't be helped - and in case you haven't figured it out, that something is me. I am sick and," he heaves a breath in, then turns on them all with a savage expression. He's not sure if this is the impending transformation into something evil or just himself. "Sick and fucking tired of all of you and your bullshit. Your pathetic simpering, your stupid useless platitudes and reassurances and it'll get better, Stiles, and we want you to be okay, Stiles, when I know it's all meaningless and - and I can't, okay? I'm done. Knock it off already. You all should've given up on me a long damn time ago."
Stiles bites his tongue, breathing heavily and glaring defiantly at the whole pack. They've been stunned silent, it looks like, and good fucking riddance. He scoffs, feeling like the worst person alive, and marches his way out the loft door, leaving it open because damned if he could hope to move it on his best day.
**8**
The rest of the day passes by. Stiles resolutely doesn't pay attention, focused as he isn't on making the best healthy feast he can cook up for his dad for when he gets back from work. He'll know something is wrong immediately, but Stiles will be turning into as much a monster on the outside as he already is on the inside, and that's basically a death sentence in Beacon Hills, so he figures he deserves a free pass.
The Sheriff stops in the doorway, takes in the multitude of dishes, and sweeps his son into the tightest hug he possibly can. Stiles clings back just as tightly and mashes his face into his dad's shoulder. They don't move for a long time.
**8**
Seventeen hours until the curse takes effect. Stiles spends most of that time staring up at the ceiling or curling up into the Sheriff's side. He'd taken a day off. They still haven't talked about it, and probably won't. Stiles just isn't that kind of person, and with the way he's been clinging, the Sheriff doesn't really need an explanation.
**8**
"I won't hurt you," Stiles says quietly, interrupting their silent vigil in front of the television. If someone asked, neither of them would be able to tell what they're watching.
"I know, son," the Sheriff replies, just as quietly. He wraps an arm around Stiles' shoulders. "I know."
**8**
The pack has been trying to call every hour since he left. There's less than twelve hours left before Stiles needs to be put down, which makes over a dozen calls that he's tired of ignoring. At around twenty hours he'd started spitting insults and misplaced accusations at his window, where he knows the wolves have been taking shifts, and into his phone.
At ten hours, he drowns his phone in the toilet. He won't be needing it, anyways.
At six hours, he lays a line of mountain ash around his house, praying for a few hours of silence.
At two hours, he slips into his hoodie and climbs into bed with his dad.
**8**
Zero hour. Stiles crawls out from under the Sheriff's arm, heavy with sleep, and kisses him on the cheek. He stuffs his feet into his rattiest sneakers and makes his way out of the house for the last time, closing the door as quietly as he possibly can. He's got twenty minutes to get to the old Argent house, where he knows Chris has been staying. Too many memories, Stiles guesses, of a girl whose death he's responsible for to stay in the apartment. If he evades the werewolf he's got trailing after him, he'll make it to the house right as he changes. Hopefully the noise will draw out Chris, who won't hesitate to shoot the beast on his doorstep.
Or maybe, he thinks, for a brief, horrible moment, there won't be any change at all.
In that case, he'll ask for the bullet.
**8**
He figures he's about halfway there, deep in the forest, when he feels the change begin. What he'd brushed off as a stress headache a good forty minutes ago turns into a blinding migraine in an instant, the pain echoing throughout his body in various unpleasant ways. His steady gait stutters and he throws out his arms in an effort to balance himself, maybe with a convenient tree trunk. He finds no such thing and stumbles to a halt, one hand moving to his eyes and the other still groping for something to stabilize himself.
Something solid meets his palm and he leans into it, expecting rough bark but instead getting a rock to the temple. It's the ground, he thinks fuzzily, which means he's fallen over. Onto the ground.
He's too late, Siles realizes. He was too slow.
He can feel the change in his bones. It's a burning, bubbling sensation, like the marrow is boiling and oozing through splintering bone. He feels every pore on his body like a thousand needles. The cracking of his joints is painful to his ears: it's almost as though actually hearing it makes the pain more real.
He convulses once, twice. The forest spins, adding nausea to the disorientation as his vision shifts, changes - color bleeds from the world and Stiles wonders briefly if this is what 'greying out' is. The pain has faded at this point, the only remnants being the shattering and reformation of his bones beneath thin skin. He's only half aware of it, mind abuzz with confusion and no small amount of fear.
Will he ever get to know what sort of beast he's turning into?
Probably not, he decides. He's kind of okay with that, actually. No one actually wants to know what they really are inside, do they? Just look at what Jackson used to be. Hey, maybe he'll be a murderous lizard too. At least that way the pack will know how to deal with him.
Maybe a little surprisingly, that half-baked thought gives him more relief than the plan of going up to Chris Argent and asking to be shot. He closes his eyes, allowing the change to wash over him in waves of prickling discomfort and full-body spasms. It's still not as bad as when the nogitsune coughed him up. He privately thinks nothing ever will be, and takes that as a twisted sort of comfort.
He knows it's almost over when his thoughts fragment, fade into instinctual simplicity, and he can feel the small bones in his skull shift and fuse together piece by piece. It's alright, he guesses, right up until something in the back of his head splinters. The pain is so sharp and sudden that he forgets to breathe and loses track of the world, tumbling headfirst into darkness.