Scott corners him three days later. It's not so much that they haven't been hanging out and talking as Scott's been distracted with Allison and their never-going-to-openly-happen-again romance and Stiles has been... well, he's been dreaming of strange ink women and finding herbs under his pillow. Stiles has narrowed the herb giver down to not Derek, not Erica, not Boyd-and honestly he's at an impasse because he has no idea who else it could be. Allison doesn't seem the type and her father - well, that would be creepy. "So what's been going on with you anyway?"
"What's going on with me?" It's not that he's deflecting, it's that he's honestly sort of curious. Scott isn't the most emotionally sensitive guy and on a scale of before-werewolf-Scott and Beacon's latest apocalypse the past week has been rather benign. Stiles is even willing to write up the herbs as some sort of bizarre hazing that no one's owned up to yet. "Nothing. I mean. I keep being given herbs but besides that and my startling lack of detention later... not much."
"I mean...it's just that." Scott leans heavily against the lockers, shuffling his backpack which is emptier than it should be. He leans in, shifts his eyebrows and as always he looks more like a harmed puppy than a teenager who turns into a werewolf once a month. "You know, you went running. Through the woods. And then the herb thing."
Stiles, who had been at least pretending to visit his locker stops abruptly to toss his hands into the air. He suddenly has clarity of what Scott was attempting to allude to. The allusion was pretty good for Scott. Normally he just came out and said it. "Yes, Scott, I'm pulling a Lydia. Soon I will be screaming at ice-rinks, drugging the two people who would come to a party I'd throw, and raising the dead."
"More than two people would show up if you threw a party." It would almost be kind of Scott to focus on that part if Stiles didn't think that was, really, what he had latched on to.
"I'm not counting a pack of werewolves who camp out at my place whenever they feel like it anyway."
Scott just looks at him and Stiles doesn't want to know what he's trying to pull and doens't really care so long as Scott isn't trying to sniff him. Granted, the worst he'd smell is sage and, well, there are much worse things to smell of. Stiles shuts his locker. "Look. I'm fine. Weird dreams-but its not like thats unusual. I mean, I'm friends with werewolves. That's weird." Stiles' moves like he's boxing the concepts. One on one side of his locker door and the other on the other side. "Dreams... not weird."
"Yeah." Scott doesn't look entirely sold but he's nodding anyway. "Yeah, I guess your right. I mean. Everyone has dreams, right?"
Just not dreams like this, Stiles thinks, and waves it off. "Yeah. Exactly. I'd tell you if something were up, Dude." He snaps Scott on the back, grabbing his shoulder as he pulls him down the hall. "So what do you think? Ice Skating or should we just avoid that altogether in case of a repeat."
He's mostly joking. Mostly. But Scott suggests a movie night instead.
They watch the movie in another section of the old subway system. This one is less well kept up-bits of plaster litter the floor and there are few, if any, cars available. They take it over anyway. Derek has been on the lookout for another residence but with his name on the lease it wouldn't be hard to figure out who owns it and who else likely crashes there.
Someone, Stiles thinks Isaac, drug an old box tv and DVD player. Someone else supplied the sofa-Derek or Boyd. Stiles supplies the movie-an appropriately bad movie called Cemetary Gates which is more of a purposefully bad horror flick than anything else. It has Erica making faces and Derek looking vaguely freaked out when he comes in from the half blocked off stairwell.
"What is this?"
Stiles glances over, head slipping over Scott's shoulder as a piece of popcorn misses his mouth. "Movie night."
"I can see that." Derek walks over to one of the armrests and stares at the screen. "Any particular reason why?"
"It was this or ice skating." Lydia is not there-she's sticking with Allison who is currently not exactly invited to the new hangouts given the last set of dramatics. Scott is glued more to his phone than the movie, but Stiles will take this as a win.
"And I sort of want to keep my job," Boyd adds, reaching over Erica to get the popcorn.
"Practice after." Derek leans against the wall. No one protests and Stiles leaves after the movie. He'd rather not add the sound of his friends' bones snapping to his dreams.
The first time Stiles broke was when he was four years old.
That's the thing about people. They break in different ways-but they always break sometime. He broke then.
He was standing in the woods knee deep in leaves. It was cold and wet. Too late in autumn for the woods to be pleasant. Even when he let go of his mother's hand and raced through the leaves to send them up in a wave about his knees it didn't send the delicious little thrill it normally did. He stood in the pile and looked back. His mother's face was serious so he called out, red rain boots squishing in the ear. "Mom!" He flung his arms out like a helicopter, felt like he was flying with the bare branches spinning overhead. "Mom. Lookatme!"
Stiles threw himself into a stop, almost toppling, and looked back at her expectantly. She was were he left her, waiting. Staring straight ahead and through him.
Through him.
Stiles shivered. His smile faltered as he lowered his hands. "Mommy?"
She started and looked at him. "Oh." He didn't understand then. Later, he would see the tests pile up. This was only round one and he was too young to know anything except something was wrongwrongwrong.
And that was the first break and the most important. It felt like the corner of his eye chipped, and he screwed his eyes shut in phantom pain.
He could hear the leaves crunch and twigs snap as his mother rushed to him, scooping him into her arms and spinning them both around bodily. His legs dangled as his ear pressed against the fearful tattoo coming from his mother's breast. "Oh, my boy." She ran a thumb ran lightly from the corner of his eye to the bottom of his puffy baby cheek. Stiles rubbed his face back with the back of his hand, eyes winking over his mother's shoulder.
Behind her was a little girl dressed in ink that frowned at him from an oak tree. Further behind her was one of the older boys he'd met once or twice. Last time was in the library when he couldn't reach one of the books he wanted. The other boy had picked gotten it down for him before being drug off by a girl.
His mother shook her head, the billow of her black hair framing her face like a cloud and obscuring his vision. "I am sorry."
"There is someone." He meant the girl but when his mother turned she smiled, genuinely this time, and called out, "Mrs. Hale!"
When they went for tea, Stiles watched them leave the ink-dressed girl standing at the tree. He squirmed. "No. You're forgetting her."
"Forgetting who?"
The little girl smiled sharply and came along. No one ever had to invite her, Stiles learned later, she was always just there.
"You've been quieter lately."
Stiles carefully puts down the carton of chinese and wonders if he should have made more of a fuss over ordering take-out this one time. It had just seemed like the best solution-they had finished leftovers the night before and his dad was working the late shift. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
The joke is weak, and Stiles winces after it, knowing. His father makes a face as he takes the carton and sets it closer to him on his desk. "Well, it could be!"
Stiles decides not to mention any of the times he's been asked to settle down, quiet down, or otherwise. "I donno." He shrugs carelessly and pulls out his own carton of cashew chicken. It's not entirely healthy but at least he was able to pull his dad away from the fried and breaded menu options. "I guess I've just been busy?"
His dad gives a look of long suffering as he pulls out a fork and takes a bite. "Busy."
"Yeah." Stiles pulls out juice from a convenience store. Vodka is not an option when his dad is working. He feels awful for thinking that's unfortunate. "I mean, getting my school stuff finished. Lacrosse. I guess I can tell you about history class-"
"No. That's fine." Another thoughtful bite. "So long as you aren't writing history in economics again."
Stiles can't help the grin that explodes across his face. It is an inch from a smirk and he can't care. "Promise."
"You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"
The question settles like a lead weight in Stiles' stomach and he forces another mouthful of Chinese before answering. "Yeah-Yeah! Of course."
Just like he told his dad about Derek. About Scott. About monster lizards and werewolves.
"I saw the herbs." His dad lets out another breath and this conversation is like pulling teeth. Stiles is mentally bracing for impact. "I think your mom would... I think she would like it."
The smile Stiles returns is lopsided. "Yeah. I think she would."
"Have you been missing her?"
They both know they always miss her-but Stiles thinks he understands.
"I've been thinking about her a lot lately." It's not a lie. It's not. But Stiles looks away anyway, gestures with his chopsticks. "The herbs."
His dad nods and drops the subject-turning instead to Lacrosse and how the team is. Stiles tries not to feel relief.
Stiles doesn't dream of Ink girls or women's kitchens. This time he's back to the old dream. The running dream. In the back of his mind he feels like this is coming home-and when he wakes up he will find warm vanilla milk and apple slices. Neither are waiting for him.
His dad is still at work.
Right now, though, he is running through the woods with a ginger-root in his hand. His faces is wet and he thinks, I am crying. He doesn't know why he is. It doesn't matter.
He runs, nearly retching, and spins out into a clearing with his breath coming in puffing little gasps.
Stiles grabs his knees and waits. The moon is full and wanting above him. He expects to hear the sound of wolves. Beneath him there is a carpet of red and brown leaves. One second. Two. A black drop appears.
One drop.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Stiles puts a hand to his face and pulls it away. In the darkness he should barely be able to see anything, but in this dream it's clear.
His fingers come back black as ink.
It swirls into the whirls of his skin and slides down his knuckles. Wet and willing.
He reaches up again, traces the wet with careful fingers up and into the corner of his eye.
Stiles doesn't wake up screaming.
Derek finds him in the kitchen. Stiles doesn't know why he's there again but doesn't bother to send him away. It's three am and the milk in his hand has long grown cold.
"Do you seriously watch me sleep or something-because I have to say that's pretty damn creepy." The jab is half-hearted at best and Derek doesn't answer. He reaches over and takes a few slices of banana to pop into his mouth. "Seriously, Derek."
"I don't." It's not much of a reassurance and Stiles is fairly certain that fact is clear as day to anyone maintaining three brain cells. "I couldn't sleep."
"Well, that's reassuring."
A grunt, Stiles keeps his eyes on the window. "When I can't sleep I walk by everyone's houses."
That was doubly not reassuring. Stiles deadpans the obvious, "This window faces the back."
"I sometimes walk around the back." Derek's reflection at least has the good sense to look somewhat uncomfortable. "I got some calls when I-"
"Yes, and creeping around back looking like a prowler won't get you in trouble." Stiles sighs and pushes himself off the stool. "Let me get you something to drink and then you're leaving."
Stiles won't say he's thankful for the company.