Sort of inspired by Imagine Dragons' song, Hear Me. Totally recommend, it's amazing 3
Also, bit of a disclaimer. I don't have first hand experience with panic attacks, all I know comes from reading stories and watching shows, so I tried to stick as close to what I've learned from them as possible. Sincere apologies if I got anything wrong and/or offended anyone, let me know and I'll fix it up.
They don't start off too badly.
Flashes, mostly; brief, intense flashes immersed in choking darkness that wakes him up, heart racing and gasping for breath. Only for a few minutes, though, until he can get his heart rate back to normal and roll back over to fall asleep.
By morning, he's usually forgotten all about them.
But it gets worse. Slowly, steadily, deeper and darker and heavier every night, until he just dreads the dark, loathes his body's need for rest and sleep even as he tries – oh, God knows he tries – to avoid it. But even if he can pull off all-nighters, grabbing a couple hours' rest in the afternoon, he does inevitably, eventually crash.
There's no one to catch him when he does.
Stiles is familiar with panic attacks. Man, is he familiar with them. He hadn't experienced one in a while except for that one time during the whole Darach shebang. But now? Now they're back in full-swing, and Stiles doesn't know what to do.
He won't say he's alone in this, because Scott and Allison got the whole 'Darkness' thing too, but he is so much more alone than they are. They, at least, have each other (or Isaac or whatever the hell id going on there).
Stiles doesn't even have his dad around most days. He doesn't resent him for the fact, can't possibly with good conscience because attacks on the town have recently increased with a vengeance (and they're lucky they had Deaton's forewarning to be prepared for when this shit went down) and now that the Sheriff is in on the supernatural world he's been able to help with the law side of things as the werewolves in town got rid of the weekly pest.
So, in all, night shifts have gone up considerably lately, leaving Stiles alone with his nightly horrors.
He doesn't mind, he doesn't, because he can't have his dad seeing him like this and what kind of shitty job would he be doing at protecting the only family he's got if he can't even deal with some nightmares?
Nightmares with toomuchblood and chokedoffscreams- and sacrifices and parents and crushingoverwhelmingguilt oh God it's my fault all my fault- and of course the mocking shadows that just surround him, surround his heart and mind and soul and suck him into their depths until everything else is cut out, and air there's no air-
And he jolts awake, gasps desperate breath after breath, paralysed in his bed and staring up at the ceiling, willing his heart to calm the shit down and his breathing to even out and he can't even reach the inhaler on his table because can he even move?
Sometimes, he can calm down enough to reach out an arm and blindly grope for it, greedily pressing it into his mouth and breathing in hard a couple of times. It evens out the haze in his mind, clears it just a little, enough that he can do the rest himself.
Other times, though... he can't. He just can't. The gasping breaths turn to choked-off sobs that he doesn't have the air for, and his room feels too small, his covers are smothering him, he wants to move to get out run outside in the open air but he also wants to just curl into a ball and just not exist for a while. But he can't do either and he's left in a panic of not enough air and too little space and why is it so dark, and riding out the waves of panic attack after panic attack becomes a depressing nightly routine.
His dad doesn't comment when Stiles instils a new neon lamp beside his bed and leaves it on all night. Just gives him a tight smile and squeezes the back of his neck with a brief ruffle of his hair in unspoken affection and a silent I'm here for you.
The Stilinskis were always better at showing things in actions rather than words.
Stiles just uses his words to distract. Like rambling to his dad about everything that had happened during the day, from Scott's boss totally having a secret badass alter ego in a leather jacket, to Isaac thinking he's some sort of dog-whisperer now, to Stiles' need for more bats because, seriously, they could be awesome weapons against the unsuspecting.
Anything to prevent his dad from asking about the practically-permanent shadows around his eyes, the shakiness and jittery nerves that have nothing to do with his ADHD, anything to distract him from going down that path.
Stiles knows he's only putting off the inevitable – his dad's the Sheriff, of course he knows what's going on, to some extent – but he's never been good at facing the things he dreads so much. So he stalls, covers it all up by regaling tales of their adventures (misadventures, to quote Dad) over the years and, when he's alone, throwing himself into piles upon piles of research.
No-one can argue that he's not productive this summer. Soon enough, he's compiled shit on everything that catches his attention – he'll be prepared if any of them try to attack Beacon Hills next, at this rate.
It doesn't help with the nights, of course. It just means he's more tired and constantly buzzing with a need to do something but no idea what, always on alert for a call from Scott or Isaac or Lydia or anyone at any time about- about leprechauns or whatever the hell else is out there, and he needs to be prepared for them, they need him to be.
He's not prepared to let anyone down just yet. So he maybe doses a bit more on the Adderall some days than is healthy, and replenishes a pack of sodas over the course of a few days and nights, and never lets his room fall into complete darkness... and he barrels on.
It's the only way he knows how to deal right now.
Stiles blames Derek.
No, he wants to blame Derek. He wishes he can blame Derek. Wants to say that if Derek had stayed, he could maintain the whole constant vigilance thing better, could watch out for his pack (Scott's pack? Stiles doesn't even know anymore with these messed-up pack dynamics) and tell them how to best get rid of the flock of pixies sabotaging the town and forest, to take the lead and let them catch a break.
But... he can't. He knows too well about needing to get away and God knows the guy's had the worst possible luck in his short life, all of it right here in this town, and Stiles just can't blame him for anything.
Doesn't mean he can't try.
Because despite all that, Derek had left without telling them. Sure, Cora maybe mentioned it in passing, the getting out of Beacon Hills for a spell, but that doesn't mean they were expecting it. Stiles wasn't, and he's a mixture of angry and lost because how the hell do they deal with all this?
(How the hell is he supposed to deal?)
Derek hadn't changed his number, when he left.
Stiles finds this out one memorable night of panic and fear, when Scott falls through his window in a failed attempt to climb in then sprawls out on the floor and Stiles dives to his side in panic, checking for a pulse and for blood and catching the slurred words coming out of his best friend's mouth, about some freakish bat-like things that swarmed him and one bit him and there's probably some poison and oh God can't werewolf bodies flush out poison automatically?
So Stiles grabs his phone with shaking hands and types out a quick (maybe barely coherent) text about the situation and sends it to Deaton, only to realise that he'd accidentally clicked Derek's name, and he can't even stop the flash of – probably unfair – anger that courses through him at the guy who left them. He copies the message and sends it to Deaton then, and tries to make Scott comfortable and keep him awake even though his eyes are starting to glaze over and he's all uncoordinated.
Stiles frantically flips through his files for anything bat-like, desperate for something – anything – that can help, keeping up a litany of mindless conversation at Scott and painfully aware of the binding feeling around his chest, like someone wrapping a rubber band around his lungs, getting tighter and tighter and ready to squeeze as soon as he stops, so he doesn't, he doesn't stop he can't stop-
And then his phone chimes with a message.
Stiles dives for it, dropping it a couple times before managing to click it open and gaping at the Derek that pops up as the contact. Shoves aside the wonder that he actually replied for another time and skims over the brief message about flushing out the poison.
He follows the instructions, drags Scott (and fuck but he's heavy) to the bathroom to clean him up and lets him throw up, feeling the constricting in his chest loosen up with every few minutes that Scott looks less like he's going vegetable on his ass. Stiles leaves him on his bed to sleep it off before dropping back into his desk chair and grabbing his phone, calling up the others to make sure they didn't get hit too and making sure they line their doors and windows with mistletoe ash, trusting Derek's claim that it'll keep the things away. Because he has nothing else, and looks like it's another night of research, but he doesn't mind because he needs to watch over Scott anyway, even though he already looks semi-normal and is sleeping peacefully.
Stiles sighs and rubs a hand tiredly down his face. He sends out one last message –
Thanks.
This time, there's no reply.
After that, it becomes a thing.
At first, it's questions. The incident leaves Stiles wondering what sorts of poisons are fatal to werewolves, and his research mainly just turns up wolfsbane and the like.
It's late (early? He's pretty sure that's the sun rising, huh) and he can't make heads or tails of the Latin swimming in front of him so, without thinking about it, he pulls up the messages on his phone and types out, What other supernatural creatures have poison that can put a werewolf out of commission?
The reply comes almost ten minutes later, and Stiles takes a moment to wonder if Derek woke up super early or if he hadn't slept. He reads over the message, adds the information to his notes and shoots back another thanks.
The messages he gets aren't more than just information he asks for but Stiles is curious by nature. He can't help but muse over where Derek and Cora are, what they're doing, when (if?) they're coming back.
He doesn't ask, though. The couple times he'd added a query that was anywhere near personal, Derek hadn't replied, and Stiles got the hint.
Likewise, Derek doesn't ask about him or Beacon Hills or the pack. In fact, he hardly texts back anything if Stiles' messages don't require a response. Stiles isn't sure if he's disappointed or relieved. He wouldn't know what to say if Derek does ask.
One night, after weeks of nightly research and texting (he refuses to consider the possibility that he's searching up some of the more obscure things just as a reason to have someone to talk to during the endless nights, except in the deepest recesses of his mind, because exploring that thought will only dig him into a hole), Stiles pulls out of another dream – mauled bodies, Dad's body, and he got him into this, he can't save him can't stop it from happening it's all his fault he's getting his dad killed – trying futilely to pull in air that seems to have been sucked out of the room, and instead of grabbing his inhaler his fingers curl around his phone.
Stiles has a new message box open before he can process what his fingers are doing, doesn't realise he's holding his breath until he's sent the So where are you right now? and is lying there staring at the screen 'til his phone chimes with a message. It startles him and Stiles exhales sharply, swallowing and blinking at the screen until he realises that- Derek replied to a normal message.
It's enough to force the panic aside, to sit up and frown down at the message.
Don't you ever sleep?
Who needs sleep? Stiles shoots back, only half joking.
But then he notices it's 4.17 am and frowns because he always messages Derek at night and what if the guy was sleeping? Like, y'know, normal people do at this time.
Crap dude did I wake you? Sorry, didn't think
No.
Stiles narrows his eyes at the word. Is tempted to send back a don't *you* ever sleep then? but hesitates. After a long pause, he gets another message.
Idaho Falls.
Wow. Sightseeing? Y'know I've always wanted to go on a raodtrip after school. Planned it all out with Scott in sixth grade.
Stiles doesn't know why he's telling Derek. It isn't something he's thought of recently; long-established dreams have since been crushed by the grim reality that's their lives lately, and it sends a pang through him that everything's so fucked up.
He blames the feelings on his depressing state of sleep-deprivation and the perpetual angst that seems to come with that Darkness thing that's working to destroy his life.
He's snapped back from his zoned-out musings by the now too familiar tone.
Wouldn't really call this a roadtrip.
Stiles frowns, figuring out what Derek means by that. He huffs a bit; it's too damn late/early for angsty undertones.
Dude, you're out of BH and on the road travelling round to other states. Pretty damn sure that's the definition of a road trip
The expected response comes barely a minute later, and Stiles grins just a little at the minor victory.
Didn't anyone tell you sarcasm's the lowest form of wit?
Fuck you, I'm witty as hell, Stiles shoots back with a smug smirk.
Whatever helps you sleep at night.
He has to pause at that. It's just a common retort, he knows that, but doesn't change the fact it's something they're both avoiding mentioning.
His hesitation seems to break whatever banter they'd had going (and, what the hell even? Since when do they banter?) and he blinks down at the phone when it alerts him to the new message.
Go to sleep, Stiles
He frowns, disappointed – ignores why he would even feel disappointed in the first place – and types out a quick, right, yeah.
Then-
Good night Derek
When he slides back down and rests his head on the pillows, he doesn't expect to actually fall asleep.
He certainly doesn't expect the lack of bad dreams come morning.
Though he does shove aside and try to forget the other dreams, the flashes of familiar green/hazel/multifreakingcoloured eyes and rough stubble and rare – so rare- easy grins, so warm and natural that it hurts.
...Nope, not thinking 'bout that.
It takes a while for Stiles to realise what exactly it all means – the text conversations that he strikes up after midnight, no longer under the pretence of research (though he still does that too, just not as much as before), the easy flow of witty quips and insults... the fact that unless it's really bad, he can come down from a burgeoning panic attack with messages. From Derek, no less.
He's never actually alone.
And that... that, maybe, was the root of the problem. Sure, during the day, he's fine. He'll hang out with Scott, shoot zombies or something, maybe watch a movie with the others, but as soon as he's in the confines of his room, as soon as he's not moving, doing something, it's like everything he avoids during the day crashes into him and tackles him down and refuses to let him up no matter how much he tries to tap out.
He didn't know how to escape it before, maybe still doesn't, but now he can hold it all off even more. He can build this one last barrier and hope it's strong enough.
And he knows he's come to rely on this... newfound (or is it?) easy companionship with Derek – bonding over a mutual reluctance to sleep at night via text messages, who would've thought – and that's... hell, that might just be more dangerous than whatever's going on with him right now.
He can't quite bring himself to care.
Even when the nightmares steadily crumble, their hold on him loosening slowly, slowly, because now he dreams of other things, of things he'll never dare approach when he's conscious; things like glaring eyes, intense with heat, raw gasps for air and hands skimming sweat-slicked bodies and stubble burn and fingers tugging at dark hair so soft-
It's a hell of a dangerous path to look at. So he tries not to.
The chime brings him out of his wavering state of sleepiness, snapping the dream-like haze in his mind and waking him up fully.
He also doesn't think of the eager jump in his pulse at that sound.
Stiles.
Yeah?
He stares at the screen for a couple of minutes before the reply comes.
Thanks.
Stiles can't stop his lips from curving upwards, the smile not feeling as foreign on his face as it used to.
You too.
When he sleeps peacefully for the next three nights, the fourth only broken by a bunch of brownies coming through the town, Stiles considers that maybe shit isn't as fucked up as it could be.
At least he can breathe freely, now.
Maybe if I fall asleep, I won't breathe right
Maybe if I leave tonight, I won't come back
...
Can nobody hear me?
I've got a lot that's on my mind
I cannot breathe
Can you hear it, too?
...and there's that.
I'm actually pretty proud of this, on account of the fact that I started it and wrote most of it at 3 am. Yeah, 'cause, in times of great stress, I turn to fanfic. And TW. And Sterek. Psh, who needs sleep anyway.
I also blame this completely on Imagine Dragons. If you haven't heard it, go listen to it now, it's beautiful. *pokes it and flails* Seriously, though, can we get the next half of the season now I'm dying to see how they're all gonna deal with Derek's absence and the likely increasing attack of monsters on the town.
Right, I've got some serious studying to get back to, this was an awesome break. You'd make my day complete (and my week, possibly the rest of finals month too) if you left a review ;) I will shower you with love!
Cheers :)
-izzy.