Normal is a relative term. Normal means to conform to a standard; the usual, typical or expected. What one person believes to be bizarre, another would perceive to be the average occurrence. Therefore, relatively speaking, a string of disappearances and murders was normal in Beacon Hills.

"Okay Scott, are you kidding me?" Stiles demanded, rattling the combination on his locker with irritation. "Since when has a grotesque string of murders straight out of a horror-porno ever actually turned out to be just your regular old serial killer? This is Beacon Hills we're talking about here."

"Horror-porno?" Scott responded simply.

"They found the victims tied up with ropes and chains," Stiles informed him with a grave nod. "And their corpses were all like... grey and withered. Grey and withered. If that doesn't scream supernatural evil to you, I don't know what else to say."

"Okay, you're right," Scott replied with a sigh, adjusting the strap of his sports bag on his shoulder, already fully equipped in lacrosse gear. "It's probably worth investigating."

"Probably?" Stiles said, finally thumbing open his locker. Digging out his lacrosse kit, along with a few other supernatural-fighting essentials – torch, aluminium bat, adderal – he turned back to his friend with narrowed eyes.

The resident werewolf sighed again. "Fine, we'll definitely look into it."

"That's what I'm talking about," Stiles grinned, slamming the locker shut with just a little too much enthusiasm, causing a piercing metallic screech and Scott to wince. It wasn't exactly unlike Stiles to be over-eager when it came to the detective part of the whole supernatural business. "'Kay Scotty boy, so when do you wanna do this? After lacrosse practise?"

"After lacrosse practise?" Scott echoed in disbelief. "Dude, I'm exhausted. I, uh- I spent the night at Kira's. Can't we just wait till the weekend?"

"Okay, first of all, thank you for that not very subtle suggestion as to what you two have been doing," Stiles said, stuffing his aluminium bat into his lacrosse bag. "Secondly, people could be dying, Scott. Dying, while you and your girlfriend bone – which would actually be quite ironic if you didn't use contraception."

"But it's Friday evening," the werewolf protested. "Literally just a couple hours. Nothing can go wrong in just a couple hours, right?"

"Famous last words," Stiles said loftily, stripping off his shirt and shoving on his lacrosse jersey. "Well, either way, I'm going down to the Sheriff Station later to check it out."

"And your dad's okay with you poking your nose into it?" Scott inquired as the two boys finally made their way out of the locker room side by side.

"My dad is at an out of town police conference for the weekend, and does not need to know what he does not need to know," Stiles informed Scott, pausing in his stride for a moment to regard his friend. "Which... reminds me. Don't tell your mom about this, because she will tell my dad, and he will hobble me. Also, feel free to stay over at my place for the weekend if you want."

Scott grinned at his friend, shaking his head with amused disbelief. "Well I'm staying at Kira's tonight and tomorrow-"

"Of course you are, because copulation-"

"...But I should be free Sunday night, so we can order Mexican or whatever then," Scott finished, and in unison the two pushed open the doors out of the school and onto the lacrosse field. As soon as the fresh snap of spring wind hit them, however, both boys stopped abruptly.

A storm was brewing. The sky was granite grey, darkening the world below with its shadow; the lush grass of the field dulled from jade to a grimy green, and any light that had managed to leak through the cloud veil was thin and meek. Practically crackling with static electricity, the air all around them was humid, thick. A violent shudder worked its way down Stiles's spine. He could feel it, deep in his bones and chilling him to the very core – something was coming. Something bad.

"Looks we've got the weekend indoors, dude," he stated absently, tipping his chin up to the sky. Scott said nothing. Stiles frowned, before noticing his friend was staring at something else-

There was a crowd in the middle of the lacrosse field. A concerned murmur rose from the people, all huddled around something. Something twitching, writhing. Stiles squinted, trying to understand what he was seeing. Under the sky's shade, it was difficult to make it out – looking covered in brown, almost like rust... And then he realised.

"Holy shit," he cursed under his breath, before he and Scott began to hurriedly make their way across the field towards the crowd. Stiles felt almost detached, every sensation dulled besides the panicked pump of his heart. When they reached the huddle, however, he finally felt something else. Sick.

It was a boy. The crowd surrounded a boy. He was utterly deranged, screaming wildly and his body contorting in vicious spasms. He was soaked in a rusty crimson that Stiles now understood to be dried blood. The boy's own, evident from the number of savage lacerations criss-crossing his chest. His bare chest. The boy had no clothes, aside from a tattered pair of pants and loops of torn rope dangling from his wrists.

They found the victims tied up with ropes and chains.

Wide-eyed, Stiles looked over to Scott. "Do you think-?"

"Yes," Scott nodded, his brows sewn together in a solemn frown. Breathing deeply, the werewolf's voice then took on a tone Stiles knew well – his authoritative, alpha tone – and then he turned to address the panicked crowd of lacrosse players and students. "Everyone get back, okay? Give him some room. We need to call 911."

The crowd immediately parted and spread out, a couple of people fishing out their phones while others exchanging apprehensive looks. Stiles couldn't help but feel awed by the power Scott was able to exert. He was no dictator; he simply earned people's respect.

Once the students had effectively dispersed and called for help, Scott and Stiles then moved in to inspect the boy whose vicious spasms had finally stilled. Now he merely laid flat on his back, eyes shut as though he were having a blissful daydream – not a nightmare. Scott lowered himself down and went to take the boy's hand – and then instantly wrenched it back. The very moment his skin had come into contact with the other boy's, black veins had begun to spider-web up the werewolf's arm.

"He's in pain. A lot of it," Scott said hoarsely, his face twisting as the black veins worked their way up his neck.

"It doesn't take a genius to figure that one out," Stiles said, crouching down besides Scott. "Look at his chest – it's completely... lacerated. What in the hell could have done that? And why? Why is he alive, and the others dead?"

"I don't know," Scott whispered. Setting his jaw, he reached over to take the injured boy's hand again. Almost instantaneously, black veins began to sprawl up his arm; but this time, the werewolf simply grit his teeth and endured the pain.

"Scott..." Stiles cautioned.

"I'll be fine," Scott managed to get out between clenched teeth. "He won't. The ambulance needs to get here quick. I don't know how much longer he has left, but I can feel it. I can feel him – he's..."

"Dying," Stiles said quietly.

The werewolf shook his head. "No, not – not dying. Not quite, anyway. It's – it's hard to explain. Part of him is dying, though. I know that. I just don't really get what part."

"Ah, that doesn't sound cryptic and ominous at all," Stiles muttered, before adding: "Can you get a scent? Y'know, of whatever attacked him?"

"Not with all this blood masking it," Scott replied. He looked at Stiles with an uneasy expression, before his eyes flicked up to something coming up from behind his human friend. The paramedics had arrived. The two teens were quickly ushered away then, and they now watched as the other boy was carried away on a gurney, an oxygen mask and IV drip already in place. Besides the occasional swell of his chest, the boy remained utterly still.

"So what now?" Stiles said, keeping his voice low.

"Now we get on with this damn lacrosse practise," Coach Finstock announced, suddenly materialising and clamping his hands down on Scott and Stiles's shoulders. He gave them both a vigorous shake. "I don't care that some whack-job got high on bath salts, nothing – nothing – is going to save you two little delinquents from these suicide runs."

Stiles gave Coach a long, exasperated look. "Coach, he didn't get high on bath salts. He's the fifth victim this week. I'm gonna have to call my dad-"

"Oh-ho, I don't think so, Stilinski," Coach interrupted, giving the skinny boy another shake.

"Come on Coach, this is a real life freaking issue; not some stupid lacrosse game," Stiles protested.

"If you're trying to win my favour, don't insult my life's work," Coach growled. "Now you're gonna get on with this damn practise, you're going to run until you cry, or you're getting a D in Econ."

"You can't do that!" Stiles stammered out, gaping at the man. Even Scott looked appalled.

"I can, and I will. Now you two better get your asses on the field and run," Coach shoved the boys forward. "And I want to see actual tears rolling down your cheeks, or that D can and will be negotiated down to an F."

"There's actually a mental diagnosis for people like him," Stiles muttered angrily as he and Scott made their way over to the tracks. "Sadist. He's a sadist. He wants us to suffer, and I bet it's because he gets some weird-ass titillation from collecting and then freaking drinking our tears."

Scott kept his head low, fists clenched. "Stiles, it doesn't matter. We still need to figure out what's going on."

"Oh yeah, I'm well aware," Stiles scowled. The two boys reached the tracks, and then began to pick up a steady jogging pace. "So what the hell are we going to do? If the kid screaming bloody murder didn't make it apparent, we need to do something. Something, preferably immediately. And yes, by the way, I am going to say I told you so."

"I know, Stiles," Scott said tolerantly. "We're going to need to find the others."

"Okay, so as soon as we can, we get out of lacrosse practise and you call the Pack, alright?" Stiles huffed out, already struggling to keep up with Scott's werewolf-powered pace. "I'll take my Jeep and go to the Hospital; see if there's even the slightest chance we can get some kind of information out of that kid."

Scott nodded, noticeably becoming more confident as their plan began to solidify. "Right. And I can track his scent. We don't know what attacked him, but his blood is everywhere. At least we can find out where he came from, and then maybe-"

"-And then maybe we can find whatever attacked him," Stiles finished. Scott nodded again, and the human finally allowed himself a relieved grin. They could do this. They could most definitely do this. Compared to what they'd come up against before, this was a walk in the park, really.

And then Stiles saw her.

Against his will, he came to an abrupt halt. Scott, amused, continued to run along – he assumed that his friend had already had enough of the suicide runs. But it wasn't that. Stiles, upon seeing her, had become transfixed. Transfixed, because he was pretty sure she was an angel.

She was white and gold and ice, like a fleck of everlasting snow in the warm spring air. Her silky ribbon hair was the pale yellow of a winter sun, and her petite and slender frame was draped in cloth of cold, steel blue. She stood just on the tree line fringing the lacrosse field, but even at this distance Stiles could see her eyes – they were piercing, the irises so pale a grey Stiles absently thought they could have been white.

He knew he should have been scared. He knew he should have stayed away. She was something ethereal, something other. And yet, he found his feet drawing himself closer to her. Stiles was hardly aware of his actions now; he could feel her gaze on his, those horrifyingly beautiful eyes of white stark against his brown, and suddenly all that seemed to matter was her.

"Stilinski!"

Reality came as a hot, jarring slap to the face, shocking Stiles out of his trance. Blinking dazedly, feeling as though there were ice instead of blood in his veins, Stiles turned to face the owner of the voice. A glowering, ruddy-faced Coach Finstock stormed across the field over to him.

"Yes, Coach..?" Stiles asked, his words coming out a little slurred.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Coach demanded, jabbing his finger at Stiles's chest. "Was I not explicit enough before? Are you mentally deficient?"

"Sorry, I, uh – I was..." Stiles trailed off, scanning the tree line again. He couldn't quite remember what he had even been looking at in the first place. His brow furrowed, and he turned to the fuming Finstock again. "Yeah, sorry Coach. Suffered a momentary heart aneurysm or whatever. Guess I was training too hard. So yeah, I probably should sit the rest of practise out, right? Right."

"Stilinski, you alone are the reason I have lost faith in your generation," the Coach replied in his typical complimentary fashion. "But to be honest, I'd rather you just get out of my sight."

"Thanks Coach. Appreciate it!" Stiles grinned, before directing a thumbs up in Scott's direction, who had finally stopped to notice the commotion. Scott quirked up a questioning eyebrow. Stiles tried to mouth back an answer, but upon seeing Coach's scowl and Scott's dumbfounded expression, he gave up and hastily made his way off the field. Scott would eventually figure it out anyway.

After picking up his lacrosse kit and changing into his usual jeans and plaid shirt – paired with a witty tee, of course – Stiles clambered into the Jeep and began shifting through his bag for his phone. Seeing as Scott was still caught up at practise, he would have to call the others. Most bizarrely, however, it appeared he had forgotten his phone. Stiles groaned; today of all days was not the best to be disorganised.

As panic took hold, Stiles became more and more feverish as he rifled through his bag before he finally let out an infuriated shout, and threw it at the dashboard. It bounced off the surface, hitting the Jeep's floor with a hard thump.

"Great, this is really, really great," he muttered to himself, gathering the contents of the lacrosse kit that had spilled out. "Good job, Stiles. Because if there's one thing they teach you in Supernatural-Hunting 101, it's to never forget your phone. I might as well say 'I'll be right back' and wait for the serial killer to come and brutally murder me."

Stiles continued to shove things back into his bag, his blood throbbing with abrupt, unexplained anger – until all of a sudden his hands stilled. On the floor of the Jeep rested a small packet of pills. Anti-depressants, to be exact. Tenderly, as though they could set off a bomb, Stiles reached down to pick the packet up. He had forgotten he had thrown them to the Jeep's floor this morning, after having had them firmly placed in his palm by his father earlier – just before he had left for the police conference, actually.

"Stiles, you know that's not true," Sheriff Stilinski had responded, exasperated, to Stiles's accusation. "Depression isn't an illness or a disease, and it certainly doesn't define you. It just is. And I know it's scary to accept, but – What with your mother, and me not having been the best parent certainly... Well, it was always something I... I worried about."

"You thought it was inevitable," Stiles finished for him, furious. "That I was just some ticking time bomb of depression, waiting to go off. I saw the leaflet, Dad – 'Children having suffered an early bereavement are predisposed to depressive symptoms', or what-the-hell ever that means. I seriously cannot believe you buy into that crap."

His father sighed, his voice taking on a tone of irritation. "Stiles..."

Stiles opened his eyes. The memory quickly dissipated, but the pain of it still felt sharp and keen like a sting. Stiles's face felt stiff, and he realised he had been gritting his teeth. Opening his mouth, he worked his jaw around a bit, before tossing the anti-depressants back onto the floor. The pills rattled inside the packet, a surprisingly obnoxious sound for an inanimate object. There was no way in hell was he taking those stupid things.

He was fine. He was completely fine. He knew how to handle himself; he would take any emotions, any niggling thoughts, and he would shove them down, cover them up. And that was fine. That worked. Far better than any pills ever could.

Jerking the Jeep into ignition, Stiles peeled out of the school parking lot and onto the road. If he couldn't call the others, he could at least go down to the hospital and check in on that kid. The drive was reasonably short, and didn't allow Stiles's mind to wander onto anything but the task at hand. He did note, however, that the malevolent sky was still churning and gurgling above dangerously. Stiles knew that didn't bode well. Instinctually, he pressed his foot further down on the gas pedal.

The moment Stiles arrived at the hospital, he gunned the Jeep's engine – regardless of his rather appalling example of a bay park – and darted inside. He thankfully saw Melissa at the front desk, and she was quick to usher him into the injured boy's room.

"Make sure not to cause any commotion, or distress him too much," she warned as she gently pushed open the door. "The poor kid has clearly suffered some trauma. Nobody's been able to get much information out of him so far. I heard from the paramedics that he was screaming before, but now... nothing. He's so still, I think – I think that's worse."

"I think you're right," Stiles agreed quietly, stepping into the room. Just as he was about to close the door behind him, Melissa caught his arm.

"This is pretty much a given now, but Stiles – be careful," she said, her voice gentle. Stiles didn't think she was aware, but her thumb was making soothing circles on the skin of the arm she held. It was a rather motherly gesture, and he felt his heart tug. Maybe he would never have a mother again; but he would always have Melissa. Of course, he thought this before she said: "And if you tell anyone about this, I will gladly stand by as your father hobbles you for interfering."

"Ah. Noted," Stiles said, his voice at a slightly higher octave than normal. He carefully retracted his arm from Melissa's grip. "Anyway, not-so-subtle threats aside... Thank you."

Melissa nodded, gave him a small smile, and turned away. The door shut with a soft click behind her. Stiles turned to the boy on the bed.

He was still – incredibly still, besides the flutter of his eyelids and his stuttering breaths. Stiles swallowed before advancing any further. Once he was at the boy's side, he carefully lowered himself into the seat planted next to the bed. Pausing for a moment to examine the boy's condition – his greyish skin sallow and body heavily bandaged to cover oozing wounds – he then turned his attention to waking the young man.

"Hey, dude whose name I don't know," Stiles started out gently, sudden awkwardness pressing in on him. "You're probably in a lot of pain right now, and don't want to wake up and face reality or whatever but-" Stiles took a sharp breath. "But you have to. A lot of people have died already because of whatever this thing is, and you're – you're the only one who has survived. And you've got to have at least some kind of clue as to why, and maybe we could use that to help. Okay? So would you please just wake the hell up?"

Stiles never really had a way with words. He had a lot of them, sure; and that generally was the problem. It was just an endless stream of crap that his mouth seemed unable to filter. Surprisingly, however, the injured boy started to stir. His breaths became uneven, his hands twisted into the bed sheets – and then his eyes opened.

"Holy shit," Stiles breathed, leaping to his feet and stumbling backward in his haste to get away.

The boy's eyes – besides the pupils, which were blown and black as a void – were completely white. Where they should have been ocean blue, or maybe warm brown like Stiles's, they were instead like snow, blending into the actual whites of the boy's eyes. Most horrifying of all, however, was the icy trickle of familiarity Stiles felt upon seeing them. He knew those eyes. He had seen eyes like those before. He just couldn't remember whose.

"Well this just got a thousand times creepier," he whispered to himself, hovering uncertainly just before the door. "Why do I even bother watching horror movies when this nightmarish shit is my life –"

Stiles hadn't been expecting an answer. His question had actually been rhetorical (Rhetorical, damn it). And he certainly hadn't been expecting an answer from the comatose boy opposite.

"This isn't a nightmare," the boy said softly, his voice sounding oddly detached. "It's a dream."

Stiles swallowed thickly, fear an icy fist twisting in his stomach. Sensing an opportunity, though one he was deeply reluctant to take, he asked: "What kind of dream?"

"A beautiful one," the boy whispered. "It's so beautiful. Of course it is. She's here."

"Got yourself a little crush going on there buddy?" Stiles asked, somewhat tactlessly.

"I love her," the boy replied simply.

Stiles cocked an eyebrow, unimpressed. "So I'm assuming that this 'she' is hot. What does she look like? Strawberry blonde hair, perhaps? Green eyes, five foot three...?"

"She is too perfect to describe in words," the boy replied simply again.

Stiles looked at him for a moment, dumbfounded. "Okay, listen buddy, I can't really take much away from that. Any details about her, like facial features? Maybe where she lives? Is she perhaps a psychopathic killer who plays bondage and lacerates her victims for fun?"

"She is everything and anything you could want her to be," the boy said, giving Stiles an empty smile.

"Oh my god, would you please just specify," Stiles exclaimed, exasperated. Finally deeming the situation to be relatively safe, he plopped back down on the bedside seat.

"She is speaking to me now," the boy explained.

Stiles sat up. "What's she saying?"

"Wonderful things..."

"Things? Things. Are you kidding me with this? The most ambiguous word in the whole freaking dictionary –"

"...Beautiful words."

"Oh for the love of god –"

"She says she does not want me anymore," the boy said sadly. "She says she wants someone else. She says she wants me to die. I want to die."

Stiles went cold. The hospital was warm and stuffy and claustrophobic, and he was cold – as cold as being out exposed in the open, with a vicious wintery wind snapping at his bare skin.

"Okay, wait no –" Stiles began, panicked; but there was no stopping the boy now.

"I want to die," he wailed, beginning to frantically contort like he had been out on the lacrosse field before. "I want to die. I want to die. She doesn't want me. I want to die. She wants you, she doesn't want me. I want to die."

Stiles was at a complete loss as to what to do – words that had come so recklessly to him before now seemed to get stuck in his throat, the ice in his veins freezing him. He did know one thing, however. He had to get the other boy to calm down.

"Hey, it's okay," Stiles said, trying to keep his voice steady and placating. "It's okay, you're gonna be okay. You're gonna be fine –"

"No, I'm not," the boy spat. His eerie white eyes shifted and snapped onto Stiles's. They seemed to glow with intensity. "It's all your fault! It's your fault! It's your fault!"

Stiles paled. This wasn't working. He had to get out of here before someone heard the commotion. Stiles pushed his chair back from the bed, and made to stand – but the boy's hand caught his wrist. Slicked with perspiration, it was sticky; and with those long pale fingers, Stiles couldn't help but think of a white spider, latching itself onto his skin.

Fighting the fear that threatened to paralyse him, Stiles tried to tear his arm away. When the fingers finally began to slip from his wrist, he made to dash from the room – only to find the same hands curl themselves around his neck instead.

Stiles choked, and his body reeled back. The next thing he knew, he and the other body had hurtled down to the floor. The impact was hard, ripping the air from his lungs – but when Stiles tried to gasp for breath, he found he was unable. The other boy was straddling him, hands wrapped around his neck in a death grip, choking him. Killing him.

"He... help...!" Stiles gasped out. His hands tried to grapple at the other boy's, but oxygen deprivation was already taking its toll. The world had turned grey and started to tilt.

"It's all your fault," the boy sobbed. Stiles wasn't listening. His hands continued to fumble. Mouth open, it groped uselessly for breath...

"She doesn't want me."

The grey in his vision was growing darker in its tone. Marble, steel, ash...

"She wants you."

...And then black.

Suddenly, there came a crashing sound. Stiles was too unaware of his surroundings to know what it was – he felt as though he were floating; head lolled back, blissfully unaware, swimming in the glimmering black. It took him a moment to realise. He wasn't swimming. He was drowning. He couldn't breathe-

And then Stiles woke with a start, gasping in sharply before beginning to cough. His throat felt tight, and seemed to radiate with pain – it was hideous, as though the entire lining of his throat was a raw, bleeding wound. The coughing tore through his body, leaving him retching and shuddering. He rolled onto his front, hands braced against the floor.

Realisation came to Stiles slowly, like a dull throb that later develops into a headache. He was on the floor of the hospital; Melissa was there, along with a few other doctors – they were struggling to hold the other boy down. He was screaming and gurgling, spit dribbling from his chin in a long, gooey string. Stiles couldn't help but cringe.

Finally, his coughing fit came to an end. Stiles continued to breathe in rasps for a while after that – a far better alternative to feeling as though he was hacking up a lung – and collapsed onto his side. Confusion and distress marred any logical thought that might have entered his brain then. What the hell had just happened?

"Melissa?" Stiles croaked. Had she not come in, or even been a few moments later... he would be dead. That thought alone was enough to spur Stiles into action. He clambered to his feet, his movements clumsy as the remnants of adrenaline shuddered through his system.

"You, young man – you have a death wish," Melissa said through heavy breaths, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "You're coming with me, to the front desk. And you bet your ass I'm calling your father."

Stiles's shoulders sagged. "It's not like I asked the dude to go on a rampage and strangle me."

"Now what exactly were you doing in here then?" one of the other doctors in the room piped up, having finally been able to sedate the younger man. Stiles's eyes flicked to his motionless form, and bile began to claw at his already sore throat.

"I'm a classmate of his," Stiles explained, keeping his voice as steady and earnest as you could while lying. If you wanted to keep the supernatural concealed, you had to learn deception pretty quickly. "I was one of the boys who called the ambulance earlier. He woke up, I asked him if he was alright – and he just went crazy on me."

"Is that all you did?" the doctor inquired, dubious. "Is there nothing else that might have triggered him?"

Stiles swallowed. "That's it."

Melissa studied Stiles for a moment – her expression was one he was familiar with, one that conveyed both her motherly care and unadulterated fury. Stiles feared that expression. Stiles knew that expression meant he was lined up for slaughter. Bracing himself for a thorough scolding, he allowed Melissa to drag him from the room.

"Stiles," she hissed, taking him by the arm down the hospital corridor. "I thought I told you to be careful – not only because I could lose my job, but more importantly because you could have gotten yourself killed. What is it with you boys and self-preservation?"

"Believe it or not, that was actually a fairly mild occurrence given what we've been up against before," Stiles said with a shrug. "If anything, being attacked by a psychotic nutjob is pretty much the norm."

"Normal is a relative term," Melissa huffed out. Stiles had thought she was taking him to the front desk, until she made an unexpected turn into a new patient's room. Melissa turned to face him directly then. Placing both hands on his shoulders, she plonked him down on the bed.

Once Stiles was seated, she began to bustle about the room, dark mahogany curls bouncing with vigour as she moved – snapping on rubber gloves, grabbing a clipboard. Stiles watched her quietly, working his lips between his teeth.

It was only now that he realised how much older Melissa appeared. Maybe he simply hadn't taken the time to notice, or maybe life was just wearing her down. Either way, it was undeniable that there was a tightness to Melissa's lips that hadn't been there a couple years before, and her once smooth tan skin had now formed creases; most noticeably along her forehead, where a frown usually found its place.

When Stiles was young, he had always thought Melissa was an ageless figure. It was only now really that he realised – she wasn't. Childhood often gave you blissful ignorance and naivety; but as naivety often works, as it unravels you start to see an ugly truth hidden behind the pretty lie.

It took him a moment to register that Melissa stood in front of him now. Normally, she was a few inches shorter than him; but Stiles was both sat down, and she was an undeniable force of nature – and so Stiles couldn't help but shrink into himself. He knew he looked like a child in that moment, a child about to receive his scolding. But Melissa seemed to notice this, and her expression softened.

"Stiles, you've got bruising all around your neck. It's pretty much my obligation as a doctor to check that out," she explained gently. Dusky light from the window both highlighted and shadowed her face; deepening the wrinkles he had noticed before, but spilling warmth into the dark chocolate of her eyes. In that motherly gaze, Stiles not only saw Scott – but himself.

"I'm fine," he replied, struggling to keep his tone neutral. He shifted uncomfortably on the hospital bed. "Just a couple bruises, that's all. They'll heal, so they can wait. But whatever's going on with that guy, that –"

"-Can wait too," Melissa interrupted, giving him a warning look. Stiles was disgruntled, but he relented. With a soft smile, Melissa placed her fingertips on either side of his neck and gently titled his head. Stiles tried, but failed, to conceal his wince. Melissa looked just as pained as him then. "Yup... some definite bruising. No serious damage from what I can tell though – I'll get you some ibuprofen. You're lucky. Very lucky."

"Well, that's me," Stiles said with a weak grin. "That's why I refuse to get rid of the Jeep; I'm pretty sure it's my lucky mascot."

"You're also reckless," Melissa told him angrily. Stiles looked up at her, surprised. He often forgot that Melissa was like her son – she was only angry when she cared. He made eye contact with her then, but struggled to maintain it.

"Sorry," he said quietly.

"Your father asked me to keep an eye on you this weekend," Melissa said, carefully removing her fingertips from his bruised throat. "And god, can I see why."

Stiles looked down, twiddling his thumbs. "Yeah, I know." Agitated, he then ran a hand raggedly through his hair. "I know I'm a pain in the ass. It's like having two jobs, managing me. What an already stressed single parent would want with me, an 18 year old kid hiked up on adrenaline and ADHD –"

"He told me –" Melissa interrupted, only to pause. She took a sharp, deep breath. Stiles looked at her expectantly. Seeming to come to a decision, she placed herself down on the bed beside him. Her voice was tender now. "He told me you've been feeling rough lately. More impulsive than usual – having low moods for no reason..."

Stiles went cold. "He told you I've got depression."

"Stiles," Melissa sighed. She leaned over, meaning to take his hand in hers; but Stiles twisted away. It stung him, to see the hurt flash across Melissa's features – but the betrayal he felt dug deeper, like a knife being twisted in, not a pinprick.

"No, it's fine. I'm fine, and I – I don't know why he told you told you that," Stiles stood up suddenly. His fingers went to his pockets, and jangled the keys to his Jeep in there. He began to hastily make his way over to the door. "Listen, I have to go. I'm fine, really. But people are dying, something's seriously wrong with that kid back there, and someone's gotta do something about it –"

"Stiles, you can't keep distracting yourself with these cases," Melissa said delicately, moving to stand as well. She began to approach him, slow and calm – but if anything, that made Stiles feel even more off the rails. It was like he was an animal, something so reckless and impulsive that everybody around him had to tread carefully. "If you need to talk, if there's something bothering you –"

"I'm fine, alright?" Stiles told her sharply. "There – there is nothing bothering me, and that's the problem. I don't have any right to be sad, so – so why should I? God, I just –" He stopped himself. Reaching for the door, he didn't dare look back to Melissa. "It's nothing."

"Oh, Stiles –" Melissa's voice had dropped to a low, pained whisper. Stiles couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand to be another person's burden. He suspected he'd already driven his dad away for the weekend because of it.

"Just don't tell Scott okay? Please, don't," he said, impossibly tired now. "I just want to feel like I'm normal. I don't need another person looking at me in a different way – like you are now, like I'm some sort of –"

He cut himself off, unable to stand the bitter taste of the words. Swinging open the door, Stiles practically ran out of the room. He just needed to get away, get away, get away. Behind him, in his desperation, he had left Melissa wilted and crestfallen.

He couldn't help it. He just couldn't breathe in that damn room. Ever since his mother's disease, he'd hated hospitals. But when Stiles got outside, strangely, he couldn't really breathe out there either.