I'm so sorry I've been AWOL – I got so busy! And I need to take a step back because guess what? I was going to have Stiles put a bomb in the school. Like, for real?! I need to get off Jeff's mind wave or something. So now I think I need to come up with something else, which is sad.

But this next chapter deals with some head-canon things of mine. I've always liked the idea of Stiles playing the piano because it made sense to me – someone who can't stop moving putting it into something creative. And I really don't believe Stiles would want the Bite – although, that may just be my desperate plea for him to remain human? I love human Stiles.

Someone asked me specifically what's going on with the tub so here are the highlights:

1. Stiles is in Limbo. He's neither alive nor dead.

2. I know all the fics have Stiles trapped in his own mind while the Nogistune runs amok, but I liked the idea of having them in two separate spaces: so when Stiles is in control, the Nogitsune is in the tub/the white room where they came out of drowning and vice versa when the Nogitsune is in control.

3. The reason Deaton says they can't show Stiles the tub is that, just in case he's not Stiles, the Nogitsune will see that Stiles is living underwater. All he'll have to do is drain the tub, and then he can keep the body himself.

All clear? Alright, let's go!

Chapter 12

Something Wicked This Way Comes

They got Stiles homes without much struggle, much to Derek's relief. Not that he thought the demon would try anything when they were all together, but he still tensed every time Stiles moved. The thought of Stiles permanently dwelling in that tub made chills snake up his spine – it's be like someone trapping him with a room of fire. If that wasn't the definition of purgatory, he wasn't sure what was.

So when he woke up the next morning, answering the door to an incredibly wet Stiles, his first reaction was to usher him in out of the rain. And then he leaned away from him, resisting the urge to bare his teeth. "Don't worry," Stiles sighs, the weeks of insomnia present in his voice. It didn't even have a trace of sarcasm in it, which was a weird look on him. "It's me, not some evil demon monster."

Derek stares. "H-How did you find out?"

Stiles gives him a hard look. It seems like ages have passed in his eyes and Derek can't quite make it out. His lower lip trembles and he clutches the sides of his flannel shirt, taking a few moments to recover himself. "I-I didn't, I guess," Stiles says softly. "Until now." When Derek looks horrified with himself, Stiles puts his hands up. "Don't feel bad, I had a feeling it might be something like that. There was something no one was telling me, but everyone looked pretty terrified. Jumped at every movement I made. Jump. At me." Stiles chuckles darkly. "I'm not the most terrifying thing in the woods."

Derek resists the urge to say, "You are now." He takes the brief opportunity of Stiles being lost in thought to send a quick text to Deaton. Stiles is at my place. Is it him or the demon?

"What are you doing here, then Stiles?" Derek asks when it becomes clear the teen isn't going to come out of his reverie on his own any time soon.

Stiles' head snaps up. "Oh yeah, the reason I came here," he breathes. "It's actually twofold."

"Who still uses that word?"

"Who still uses Internet Explorer?" Stiles retorts. "I like the world twofold so therefore I'm going to use it. Deal with it and don't be such a sourwolf."

Derek smirks, pulling his phone out to see Deaton's response. As I can tell, it's him. His eyes are closed in the tub. After those remarks, Derek was pretty convinced anyways. "So why are you here?"

Stiles rubs the back of his head. "Can we, like, sit down somewhere? Maybe? I'm not sure if this is really a foyer-kind of conversation."

That's when Derek finally comes to his senses. He'd been so panicked on whether or not this was Stiles, he neglected to notice what was straight in front of him: Stiles, soaking wet, standing in the middle of his doorway. "Right," Derek grumbles, ushering him toward the living room. "Why are you so wet, did you walk here in the rain?"

"Well, yeah."

"Why in the hell would you do that?"

Stiles gives him a pointed 'are you fucking kidding me' look. "Derek, I've been actively blacking out. I haven't slept a full night in weeks. Do you really think I should be getting behind the wheel of a vehicle?"

Derek can't help but agree, but is also flustered the idea didn't strike him as well. Maybe he underestimated the kid. Skinny, defenseless Stiles. He wasn't so skinny anymore, but nothing compared to a werewolf standard. He wasn't as defenseless as he once was either. But more than that, it seemed he armed himself in ways that Derek never noticed. An armor that never came off, except in these small, vulnerable moments.

Derek realizes he hasn't answered. "Fair point. Do you want anything to drink?"

"Coffee would be nice."

He almost says something about it, but figures he really doesn't have a right to tell Stiles what he should do. Instead he retreats to the kitchen, mentally preparing himself for whatever Stiles has for him. If it's got him this sober – and compelled him to trek for miles in the rain – it must be something he probably doesn't want to hear.

As Derek listens to the gentle patter of his coffee maker, a soft noise resounds in his loft. He bolts upright, prepared to attack in any way, but then is confused when another sound follows. Then another. And another.

Piano music.

Derek hesitantly enters his living room with two mugs of coffee, peering at Stiles in the corner. He's sat himself in front of the piano, his finger tentatively pressing a few keys here or there. It looks random, but if Derek tries to listen hard enough – despite the awkward pauses – the tune sounds vaguely familiar.

"I didn't know you play."

Stiles jerks so quickly that he actually falls off the piano stool in a move that is so inherently Stiles, it actually makes Derek smile in spite of himself. Brushing himself off and standing, Stiles coughs, "Not really. I only know a few songs."

Derek sets the mugs down. "Can I hear something?"

Stiles eyes the piano nervously, rubbing his arm. "I'm not very good."

"You'll be better than anyone who has every played that piano, I promise you. I don't even know why my mother bought the thing."

Stiles bites his lip, looking from the dusty piano back to Derek. After a few moments and a few hand twitches, he sighs. "Fine. But only because I can't imagine something like this going to waste. It's a little out of tune, by the way."

"I thought you said you didn't play well."

"I don't, but I do have ears." Stiles snorts.

He settles back on the piano stool, taking a deep breath. The first few notes are shaky and it's clear he hits the wrong key a few times. But after those few slip-ups, Stiles closes his eyes and lifts his chin to the ceiling as if the music was actually flowing through him. He was calm. Not in the demon-possessed calm, but a calm that was more suited to Stiles. Like a bundle of potential energy that was slowly and healthily filtering out.

If this was 'not well,' Derek made a mental note to never return the favor and play one of the three simple songs he knew.

When Stiles hits the last note, he stays still a few more moments, his fingers hovering over the white keys. Then it's over.

Stiles twirls around, giving Derek a loopy grin. "So, yeah. You should learn how to play that thing."

Derek can't help but be aghast. "You're so full of it, Stiles," he mutters, shaking his head. "Ave Maria is one of my favorite songs."

Stiles lifts his eyebrows. "Really? It was my mom's too. That's why I know it. She taught me how to play. Well, as much as she could while she was still coherent." Stiles winces, his eyes going far in the past. Derek knew that look. He employed it often. "She was really great. Trust me – if you think what I did was good, if you could've heard her, it would've blown your mind. Like, it wasn't even music, it was just an extension of her, if that makes any sense. She was awesome."

Derek nods. "I'm sure she was."

"She started teaching me when she was first diagnosed," Stiles rambles, as he sometimes did when he was uncomfortable. "She thought it'd be good with my ADHD, you know? Like, I could channel all that energy into something. It actually helped. More than I let on because I was like, seven, and what seven-year-old wants to admit they like playing the piano? Anyways, when she died, my dad got rid of her piano because he couldn't bear to look at it anymore. I tried playing a few more times, but I could tell it was too painful for him. She used to play for him to make him smile." Stiles drifts off. He closes his eyes and Derek can see the weeks of exhaustion all over his body. He's surprised the kid hasn't collapsed yet.

Derek clears his throat. "You said your reason for being here was twofold."

"Right!" Stiles exclaims, lifting his head up. "Twofold!"

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop saying twofold."

Stiles rolls his eyes, but joins Derek on the couch, taking one of the mugs of coffee. "Firstly, I wanted to know if you maybe still had all my notes? I'm sorry I left them all over here – I just didn't want anyone to know that there was anything wrong."

Derek sighs. "Because that's always a good idea. Not telling the people who care about you that there's something fatally wrong with you."

Stiles puts his hand up to his ear as though it was a phone. "Yes, hello? Pot? It's the kettle. You're black."

He scowls. "Regardless, I don't have them anymore. Someone lit them on fire."

"Oh my God, who?"

Derek shrugs. "Add that to the list of things we don't understand right now."

Stiles buries his face in his hands and groans, "Is there even, like, space left on that list?"

"Sorry."

Stiles doesn't come out from behind his hands. But Derek supposes that's where they are now. A few months ago, it would seem fairly inconsequential, but now? Even the smallest of victories would be helpful. And all the boy has seen as of late are losses. "You said you had a second reason?"

Stiles finally looks up. "Huh?"

"You've said twofold in my loft more than I've ever heard it in my life."

"Oh, right," he says, growing more somber, if possible. "I need a favor." Derek prepares himself. He could tell there was something heavy Stiles needed to ask him, but he hoped it'd be something he'll laugh about later.

Of course, it's not.

"If I start doing, like, bad things – like killing people and overall mayhem and such – I need you to kill me."

Derek's eyes, without meaning to, flash blue. "What?!" He bellows, standing straight up and looming over Stiles.

Stiles doesn't even flinch. Is this where he's at in his life? Where the skinny kid doesn't even move when he towers over him. "Derek, I need you to kill me if it gets to that point."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Derek shouts, clenching his fists. "What makes you think you can barge into my house and demand something like that of me?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "First of all, I did not barge. I knocked on the door and you answered. Secondly, I did not demand, I asked. And thirdly, kindly calm the fuck down."

Sucking in a breath in lieu of punching him in the face, Derek returns to the couch. "This is one of your weird jokes that I don't understand."

"I'm not kidding."

"What the hell would you ask me to do something like that?"

"Because, you're the only one I could think of who would."

If anything, that makes Derek see red more than anything. "Oh, because I'm such a horrible person that you just assumed that I'd be first in line to murder you?"

"Will you please calm down, I'm almost embarrassed for you." Stiles says, surprisingly calm for what he's asking. "And of course not. You won't do it because you're awful, you'll do it because you're good."

"Stiles, that is quite possibly the stupidest thing you've ever said to me and that is saying a lot."

But his face says this isn't a twisted joke. He's calm, collected. Only his hands are shaking, but he busies them with his coffee. "Derek, I'm asking you because it might need to be done. I don't know what's possessing me or what it's planning, but I do know it's bad. Sometimes I can hear him. Sometimes he's in my dreams. I mean, I woke up, towering over Kira, ready to kill her. Kill her, Derek.

"I don't know about you, bud, but I can't recover from that." Stiles says, running his hands down his face. "Killing someone? I-I'm not – you see, i-it's just…" He sighs. "Dude, I wouldn't recover. I couldn't recover. I know myself. I can't be a monster." Stiles takes a calming breath that trembles, so he tries a few more times. "So if it comes down to it, if it comes between me and innocent lives? It's them, Derek. It's gotta always be them. I can't have their blood on my hands."

"Stiles, listen to yourself. Listen to what you're asking me to do." Derek pleads, the weight of his own blue eyes feeling particularly heavy. "You're asking me to kill an innocent."

Stiles shakes his head. "You don't get it. I won't be an innocent anymore, Derek. I can't keep going like this. It's getting harder to fight off. Harder to come back. It feels like," he closes his eyes and presses his thin fingers against his forehead. "It feels like I'm drowning. And there's no way out." He bites his lip. "I'm so scared of drowning."

"Stiles," Derek states, trying to keep his voice from cracking. Watching the emotional demise of the hyperactive teenager that used to annoy him is not something he ever wanted to witness. "You can do this. Just give us a little more time, we'll figure it out."

"I'm trying."

The words are small. Pitiful.

Heartbreaking.

Then he looks up, Stiles' eyes flashing. "But you have to promise me, Derek. Please. Promise me you'll kill me if it goes too far. I can't go to Scott or anyone else. No one can know."

"Stiles—"

"Please."

How can he deny a plea like that? Drawing in a deep breath, Derek grits his teeth. "Fine. But only if it goes too far. I'm waiting until the last possible second."

"Works for me," Stiles grins, leaning back into the couch, his eyelids weighing down.

It looks like he's about to drop the coffee mug from his hands, so Derek takes it out of his grasp. "Why don't you try to sleep a little bit?"

"Can't," Stiles breathes, but he doesn't open his eyes. "I lose when I sleep."

"I'll be here."

"I'm not sure I will," Stiles jokes, tapping his head.

"Not funny."

"A little funny."

"Not funny."

"I'm hilarious," Stiles groans, his words barely intelligible. "You just… have… no… sense of… humor."

By the time he reaches the end of the sentence, Derek can tell Stiles is asleep.

As he takes the coffee mug away from him, Derek can't help but feel the weight of the promise he just made. It… wasn't right. Offering to kill the best friend of Scott? To kill Stiles?

But would it be better?

Derek slams a hand on his kitchen counter. He should've just said no. He should've to Stiles that he was overreacting, that he was quitting, that he was giving up.

But after looking at the rings under his eyes, listening to him talk about drowning – would it be more merciful? Safer for everyone?

His phone vibrates. Derek frowns, pulling it out of his pocket. "Hello?"

"Derek, it's Deaton. Is Stiles still with you?"

"Yeah, he's sleeping on the couch."

"Get out of there right now!"

Derek startles. "What?"

"He opened his eyes, Derek. Stiles is back in the tub, he opened his eyes."

"Miss me, Sourwolf?"

Derek freezes.

As he turns around, he has to tell himself to prepare for what he's about to see. But nothing could when he does.

Because it looks like Stiles.

Except not.

He's holding himself a different way, his jaw is set, and his hands are still. Stiles cocks his head to the side, lifting an eyebrow at the phone in his hand. He clicks his tongue.

"You might want to tell him you'll have to call him back."

XXX

"Stiles, man, where are you? You were gone before I got up! Dude, you should've woken me up! Call me back right now!"

"You went to Derek's? Why the hell would you go to Derek's? Answer your damn phone! There's a reason you own one."

"Dude, you're freaking me out. I'm gonna go over to Derek's right now. Isaac's coming too."

"We just got Deaton's call. Stiles. Call. Me. Back."

"What did you do?"

"Son, it's your dad. I'm gonna be a little late at work. See if you can have dinner at Scott's."

"Stiles. Please."

"Stiles, why aren't you at home? Call me back and maybe you'll avoid the grounding of a lifetime."

"Stiles, where are you?"

He presses 'delete' as soon as they come in. Approaching the sign on the lamp post, he grins.

There's his vessel. Caught mid-smile. His face projected for the entire town to see.

MISSING SINCE MONDAY

STILES STILINSKI

If you have any information, please contact the sheriff's station immediately.

He snorts. They'll see him soon enough.

A/N: Alright, alright… I know I suck.

So if you have a moment, leave a note? How's it feel that this little fic-y is back?