This is the first fic I've published guys so please be nice! Saying that, I'd love to hear what you think so if you could spare a couple of moments to review that would be awesome! I'm english so if I've got any americanisms wrong - I'M SO SORRY. I promise I tried. Unfortunately, I don't own any part of Teen Wolf, but if I did, I would probably put them through just as much pain as Jeff did.
Stiles blankly stared down the pitch of the Lacrosse field. Coach was shouting as normal but he wasn't really listening, it was easier to drown out the noise than bother to pay attention. The sun shone down brightly and it made his armour feel heavy on his shoulders, too warm and uncomfortable for his liking. It had no use being warm in October, he could feel the cold sweat trickling slowly down the centre of his back along his spine and down into his shorts. Not able to stop himself, he shivered and itched irritably at his waist band.
"Problem, Stiles?" Coach's voice boomed right back into full volume as he realised he was standing at the front of the queue and was supposed to be attempting to score a goal. He continued to stand almost motionless, what was it about his armour? It was so uncomfortable it made him feel like it was on fire. Was it on fire? Surely it would hurt more if he was on fire? Unless his nerves had already fried… In a sudden spasm of movement, he furiously brushed down his shoulders, arms and legs flailing, totally uncoordinated.
"Stiles!" Coach's voice boomed again. "What the hell are you doing? I don't care if you've got fleas but, Jesus Christ boy, this is Econ!"
Calming quickly, Stiles blinked and looked around him. He was in Coach's econ class and all of the other students were staring at him with a mixture of confusion and barely supressed laughter. His skin felt cold and clammy, definitely not on fire but this was not nearly as reassuring as it should have been. He was standing before he knew it and forced his legs to hold him up, panic was rising in his chest and he had no idea why. The world around him started to spin as his breathing sped up uncontrollably, was it always so hot in here? It felt like he was sat in a steam room as his lungs wheezed instead of filling with pure cold air.
"I'm," breath. "Gonna," breath. "Go." He struggled out of his mouth before grabbing his bag and half running, half stumbling out of the class room. He could hear coach shouting something about finals after him but it didn't register in his brain. Stiles limbs were moving like he was drunk but his mind was whirring at over speed. The last time anything like this had happened was when the Nogitsune had been trying to gain control of him. It's dead. He thought as loudly as he could into his head as his body lurched further down the halls. We killed it. I saw it die. I'm not possessed. I'm fine. This isn't happening, I'm dreaming. How do I know if I'm dreaming?
Stiles burst out of the double doors and outside into the weak sun. He felt sick in his stomach and the sensation started to rise up into his throat. It would be so much easier if he could just breathe normally! He stumbled over his own feet at the top of the stairs and tumbled down all five concrete steps of agony until he lay on his back at the bottom. The sickness was still rising. His body ached all over but the urge to vomit was his top priority, it was building up like water pressure behind a dam during a storm. Weakly rolling over onto his side, he closed his eyes as his stomach convulsed and sent his lunch straight out of his mouth and onto the floor. He fought for breath between each convulsion, lungs now burning as much as his throat. This is exhausting. Despite the sweat now pouring off his head and down his neck, he still felt like there was a chill on his skin.
Exhausted and in pain, Stiles lay as still as he could until his breathing started to slow down and go back to normal. As he stared uselessly up at the sky, he noticed how grey it was, clouds completely covering all patches of blue. Hadn't it been sunny earlier? Or had that been in the Lacrosse pitch dream? Was this a dream? How can I tell if I'm awake? The thought was quickly filled by a surge of panic that left his limbs feeling full of enough energy to stand up. How can I tell if I'm dreaming? Desperately, Stiles searched for signs of anything abnormal. He could see his Jeep in the parking lot, he could see the other students in their classes through the widows behaving like normal, the trees rustled calmly in the afternoon breeze, he even had the right amount of fingers on his hands. Slowly, he let his breath out and sat down at the top of the steps he had fallen down earlier. He wasn't in any danger, surely Scott and Lydia would have found him by now if he was? I'm okay, I'm just ill, that's all, he reassured himself. He sighed and shook his head before burying it in his hands. Hadn't there been a time where he hadn't had to question his own sanity? Without meaning to, he thought back to the day of his MRI scan, before the Nogisune had taken over that was. The sadness and overwhelming feeling of desolation that day had been indescribably crushing. What if he did really have Frontotemporal Dementia like his Mom? What if the Nogitsune hadn't been changing the results of the scan? The possibility was enough to set off an entire chain of terrifying possibilities, the disease itself was genetic and the image of eventually not being able to even remember who any of his friends and family were was something he didn't think he could bare. How would his Dad cope loosing Mom and him to the same cruel disease? How would he survive when he was all by himself? And what about Scott and his pack? Losing his first love and his best friend so close together, how was that fair?
Breathe, Stiles. He told himself as she shoulders threatened to shake with sobs. Breathe … Lifting his head from his hands, he stared aimlessly ahead of him, contemplating how much his eyes were stinging. Sure, he should probably go home but that felt like so much effort when his body felt this battered and his Jeep was just so far away. He was interrupted from his trance by his phone buzzing in his pocket. Dimly, he pulled it out and stared at the screen. Oh good, I can read.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: If I drink, I die. If I eat, I'm fine. What am I?
The bottom dropped out of his stomach in a heartbeat and Stiles whimpered out loud before he could stop himself. As much as he knew he should, he could not tear his eyes away from the small screen. He visibly jumped as it buzzed again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: If I drink, I die. If I eat, I'm fine. What am I?
"I don't know." Stiles voice came out as barely more than a whisper. If this was Scott or Derek or someone was joking with him, it wasn't funny. The fear was almost enough to make him sick again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: What am I, Stiles?
His heart rate spiked higher as dread paralysed his body with terror. Not only did they know his name, he also knew the answer. Should he say it aloud? His phone buzzed showing the same message as before, his eyes were glued to the screen as it shook in his unstable hands.
"Fire."
Ahead of him, something burst into deadly heat. The terrified teen snapped his head up to face the danger, knuckles now white as he clutched his phone. Where there had previously been a pool of his own stomach contents was now a blazing fire. Verging on hysteria, he tried to leap up to move out the way but try as he might, he could not move. The flames grew and started to eat their way up the stairs closer to him. Stiles flung his head from side to side desperately, trying to see if anyone had noticed the oncoming tide of disaster, but the students were all still studying and his Jeep was still too far away and Scott, Lydia and Derek were nowhere in sight. Breathing out of his mouth with desperation, Stiles screamed, voice hoarse as he struggled in vain against whatever was holding him glued to the spot.
The fire was closer, so close, he could feel it heating his clothes to the point of burning and his skin to the verge of pain. Stiles stared up into the dancing flames and screamed hysterically; there was nothing more he could do. Wasn't Lydia supposed to trying to find him right now? That's what she was good at, finding … bodies. He screamed with all his breath as the fire grew taller even though his voice had long since gone and watched in helpless horror as the blaze began to morph into the vague shape of something human.
"It's a dream, Stiles!" He shouted at himself. "This is all a dream!" The shadow of the man in the flames started to reach out towards him. If this was a dream, it sure as hell felt real. His shoes were almost melting around his toes, plastic bending, burning, melting into his skin and a whole new level of agony. "Wake up, Stiles! Wake up, Stiles! WAKE UP!"
Someone had their arms around his chest. He started fighting it even as he screamed hysterically, kicking out as he found he could move his arms and legs. Tears were streaming down his face uncontrollably, blinding him. The panic and sheer terror he felt seemed impossible to ease, it felt like his insides were ablaze and his skin was cold as ice as it tried to dowse the flames. Where am I? Where's the fire? Who's holding me? Holding me? Someone was holding him? Stiles topped fighting as he felt the reassuringly warm body holding him protectively close.
"Shh Stiles, it's okay." Lydia's voice cooed in his ear. "You were dreaming, Stiles. You're safe now, you're safe."
Moving as fragile as a child might, he reached up and held onto the arms that were wrapped around him and let his breathing calm before letting himself start to take note of his surroundings. His Dad was hovering on the entrance to his room, pain etched deeply into his face. Stiles' heart twisted in guilt, this is all my fault. The man was still in uniform, and swaying slightly as if he'd had a glass or two of whiskey after his shift. I'm not dreaming. The relief eased him down to the bones as Lydia continued to hush him like he was a small child.
"It's okay, Stiles. I'm gonna stay and make sure you're safe. I'm not leaving. You're safe with me, I'm not going anywhere." Lydia's voice was soft and soothing and despite his fear and unease, he found himself slipping into an exhausted and thankfully, dreamless sleep.
Neither Lydia or Sheriff Stilinski mentioned the fact that Stiles shoes by his bedside were a hunk of misshapen plastic, or that Lydia usually found bodies rather than people. Instead, grateful for the help, he nodded his head at her and fell asleep in the chair he had pulled up outside his son's bedroom.