A/N - We have reached that point where I have no more complete chapters waiting to be uploaded, so I can no longer promise updates every two weeks. I've got part of the next chapter written but that's it. Luckily, I'm almost done with my finals and summer is nearly here, so I'll have more time for fanfic writing.


viii. therapeutic actions

Stiles drums his fingers on the kitchen counter, staring at his phone. The card with the therapist's number is in his other hand, and his heart pounds as he swallows. He forces himself to unlock the device and dials the number though his hands are shaking too much to lift it to his ear, so he sets it to speaker and listens as it rings.

A woman picks up after the fifth tone. "Dr. Connors office. Dr. Connors speaking. How may I help you?"

"Hi, my name is Stiles Stilinski. I need to set up an appointment," Stiles stutters.

"Ah, yes. Maggie told me you would be calling. How's tomorrow for you?"

Stiles chokes. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes. Say 3:30?"

He doesn't have a reason to say no. "Yeah, I guess that's fine."

"Great. I'll see you then, Stiles. I'm looking forward to meeting you."

Stiles can't say that he feels the same. "Yeah. Sure. Bye."

"Goodbye." Dr. Connors hangs up, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief, heart thundering. A moment later, his phone buzzes again, and he nearly flings it across the room out of surprise. But it's just a text from Superdouche – though in his phone, Superdouche is simply 'Clark Kent' in case anyone else sees his screen.

"I'll pick you up at 1 so we can interview the victims' families?" the text reads.

Stiles sends a thumbs-up emoji.

"Great! Looking forward to it!"

Stiles pulls a face and fake vomits.

He supposes he should get dressed, so he meanders into his bedroom, throwing on jeans and a zip-up hoodie, pulling open the closet to choose a coat to put on top. Derek's black leather jacket hangs in the back, and Stiles stretches out a hand towards it, his fingers halting just an inch from the sleeve. After a second, he pulls it down and slips his arms inside. The jacket is too big on him, the cuffs hanging three-fourths of the way down his fingers. The leather smells like Derek.

"It's cold," Stiles grumbled, wrapping his arms around his chest and rubbing his hands up and down his arms. His breath puffed out white into the air, and he swore that his nose was turning blue (he was well aware that he could not actually see his nose, but he was still positive that it was blue).

There was no sympathy from Derek's corner as the two of them walked down the dark street towards the high school. "Well, if you actually dressed properly like I told you to before we left, you wouldn't be having this problem."

Stiles glared at him. "Well, obviously, if both you and my father are telling me to do something, then I can't do it."

"Obviously," Derek agreed with an eye roll.

Stiles looked at him sideways, eyeing Derek's black leather jacket. "You're a werewolf – you run hotter than us weeny humans do…"

"What are getting at?" Derek asked, glaring at him suspiciously.

"Can I have your jacket?"

"It's your own damn fault that you're cold!"

Stiles clung to one of Derek's arms and looked up at him with big puppy dog eyes, an expression he had learned from Scott over the years. He even poked his lower lip out a little bit. "You don't want me getting frostbite, do you? Don't want my lips turning blue and falling off? I can do so many fun things with my lips."

Derek cast his eyes up towards the night sky. "Well, when you put it that way…" He peeled his leather jacket off and tossed it over Stiles' head.

Grinning, Stiles wrapped himself up and snuggled deep into the coat. Derek looked him over and licked his lips. "You know what, it looks good on you."

Tears prick Stiles' eyes, but this time, they're an okay sort of tears, and he leaves the jacket on.

He spends the rest of the hour before Superdouche arrives scrolling through his phone, looking for any mentions of the lizard monster on the local news. There is nothing. The lizard monster is like a ghost. He needs a bigger database. Maybe something owned by a secret government agency specializing in tracking aliens?

Superdouche texts that he's arrived, and Stiles stuffs his boots on his feet, sliding his knife down the side of the right shoe, tugging his jean leg over to hide the hilt. Just a hunch.

He meets Superdouche outside at that dumb yellow bug where Superdouche leans against the hood, flipping through his little notebook. He straightens up when he sees Stiles, and there's that smile that breaks Stiles' heart every damn time he sees it because it's so close to the one he loves and yet so different.

He blinks, looks away. "Uh, hey."

"Nice jacket," Superdouche says.

Don't talk about Derek's jacket. "Thanks." Stiles heads for the passenger door. "Where are we off to?"

"We'll go to the Smiths' first. It's closest."

Stiles nods and plugs the address Superdouche gives him into his phone, acting as designated navigator. There's another text waiting for him from his dad which he swears he'll answer sooner rather than later. It's only a ten-minute drive, and it's not long before they're pulling into a parking spot on the side of the street, Superdouche palming a fistful of coins from his pocket to feed the meter.

A store across the street catches Stiles' attention as he waits for Superdouche. Light blue lettering proclaims it to be CRYSTALS, and from the outside, it looks like just another kitschy, faux-Wiccan store; crystals in the windows, dream catchers and wind chimes hanging by strings, a fountain of a woman with flowing hair, water coming from her cupped hands, but what really interests Stiles is the symbol beside the store name - a spiral run through with an X.

"I'll catch up in a few minutes," Stiles says as Superdouche finishes with the meter and comes to join him by the curb. "I've got another lead to investigate."

"What lead?" Superdouche asks.

"I may have stalked Chloe Smith last night," Stiles says. "I saw that she was into Wiccan, witchy stuff – she checked into that store a few times." He gestures towards Crystals. "Maybe the shopkeeper knows something that could help."

Superdouche cocks an eyebrow. "Wiccan, witchy stuff?"

"Hey, don't knock it. It's actually really interesting." Yes, Stiles is well-versed in the Wiccan arts. He doesn't practice often – he mostly just knows the theory – but he finds it fascinating.

"I'll meet you back here then," Superdouche says.

Stiles nods, and they part. He hops up the steps to the store, the bell tinkling as he opens the door, and the smell of incense envelops him – the good kind, too. Stiles is impressed. The woman behind the counter has beads woven through her long hair, and rings adorn each finger. "Hey," Stiles says. "The moon is quiet tonight, isn't she?"

The woman's eyes widen as she puts down her magazine. "She's had a long day, yes. How can I help you?"

The symbol on the window indicates indicates that the shop is part of the Illysium Order – a group of practitioners, sellers, and stores across the country that know and use real magic, not just the fake shit that's sold to tourists, though they sell that, too, because they still have to pay their rent.

"I need some kind of tracking spell," Stiles says. "One that I can mark a person with."

"Sure, I've got that," the woman says. "Give me a sec." She hops off her stool and sashays away, multi-layered skirt swinging, and disappears into the back.

Stiles examines the goods on the counter as he waits. He runs his fingers through the rune charms, disappointed that they're plastic and not wood or bone, and there are packs of tarot cards, necklaces with various Celtic symbols on them, rings of the same kind, and boxes full of crystals.

The woman returns with a black, velvet pouch, pouring its contents onto the counter. There's a little plastic bag full of white powder and a red crystal orb, about the size of a marshmallow. "Get the powder on your target's skin, then activate the crystal when you're ready to go using the phrase 'Arcama dendalae' and follow it."

"What do you want for it?" Stiles asks. The Illysium Order typically doesn't trade in money, preferring to exchange goods or services.

The woman rubs at her chin. "How about an IOU? I can tell that you're gifted."

"An IOU? Sure." Stiles gives her his phone number. "Just don't ask me to kill anyone."

"Deal," the woman says. She shakes his hand and passes him the pouch. "Happy hunting."

"Thanks. By the way, can you tell me anything about Chloe Smith or what might've killed her?" Stiles lied to Superdouche – he didn't stalk Chloe on Facebook, and he doesn't know if she was into the Wiccan scene, but the store is right across from her parent's house, and members of the Illysium Order always have an ear to the ground.

"One of the people who had her throat torn out, right?"

Stiles nods.

"I heard there's a new pack in town," the woman tells him, and Stiles' stomach drops. "And not the nice kind."

"Do you know anything about the Alpha?" Stiles asks.

She shakes her head. "No – just that whoever they are, they're a real nasty piece of work."

"Thanks," Stiles says. "If you hear anything else, let me know."

He heads for the door, rolling the black bag around in his fingers. He reaches the yellow bug before Superdouche, and as he waits, he takes the plastic pouch from the velvet one and dips his fingers into the white powder. Superdouche leaves the victim's house, shaking hands with a tired looking man. Superdouche spots Stiles and hurries over. "Looks like you've got something on your neck," Stiles says once Superdouche is in range. "I think it's a bug." He reaches up and wipes the imaginary insect away, smearing the white powder across Superdouche's neck.

"Thanks," Superdouche says. "The parents didn't know anything. Did your lead turn up any info?"

Stiles thinks about what all he wants to tell Superdouche. "The store owner said she'd noticed a man lurking around Chloe the past week, though she never got a good look at him."

Superdouche nods. "It's a start."

Stiles opens his car door, but before he can climb inside, a crash and a series of screams echoes from a few streets over. Stiles immediately slams the door shut again, his heart and mind leaping into ready mode. "Stay here," Superdouche orders.

"Like hell." Stiles races after him, skidding around two corners until they break out into a small corner park where a dozen flame sprites and three golems are rampaging around. The flame sprites toss balls of fire in every direction, scattering the humans, and the golems swing their heavy fists and smash holes in the ground. Kara is already there, using her freeze breath against the flame sprites.

"Stay back, Stiles!" Superdouche yells.

"You stay back!" Stiles replies because that's what he would say if he didn't know Superdouche was really Superman.

A flame sprite either hears or spots them because it rears back and launches a fireball at them. Superdouche and Stiles leap in opposite directions to avoid it, and Stiles hits the road on his shoulder and rolls, popping up into a crouch. Superdouche is gone when he looks around through he spots Superman whizzing through the air a second later, resplendent in blue and red.

"Help!" Stiles sees a golem stalking towards two men cowering by the fountain. Stiles races forward, drawing his knife, and he drops to his knees and slides between the golem's legs, driving his dagger into its calf and using his momentum to rip it through the stone. The golem bellows as its leg trembles but doesn't collapse.

Stiles leaps to his feet just before the fountain, jumps onto the ledge, and springs off in the opposite direction. He slams his dagger into the golem's chest and uses it to hold himself there as he shoves his hand into its mouth, seizing the roll of paper inside. Then he drops back to the ground, and as soon as the paper leaves the creature's mouth, it falls inert.

Stiles lands lightly. He ignores the men as they rush to thank him, instead unrolling the paper to look at the symbols written inside. One of the sigils – which Stiles memorizes – marks the wizard that created the golem, and Stiles adds a few lines to it to make it his own, then he scales the golem to stick the paper back in its mouth.

The orange glow rekindles in the creature's eyes, and it straightens, bulky shoulders rolling back.

"The other golems," Stiles orders, pointing towards the nearest rock monster. "Take them out."

His golem trundles away on its thick, stone legs, and Stiles turns his attention towards a flame sprite flying towards him. He dodges the oncoming fireball and dives into the fountain. The flames sizzle as they hit the water beside him, and suddenly, the temperature rockets up, steam erupting.

"You! Give me your jacket!" Stiles bellows at one of the men he just saved.

The man gives him a deer in the headlights look but strips off his windbreaker and tosses it to Stiles.

Stiles folds the jacket into a pouch and dips it into the water, lifting and flinging it at the flame sprite as hard as he can. The flame sprite sizzles and shrieks as the water strikes it, and most of the flames wreathing its body go out. Stiles seizes its blackened leg and drags it down into the water, driving it in deep and holding it down as it struggles, plunging his knife into its heart. Orange blood floods out of it, hot and thick, scalding his fingers.

Breathing heavily, Stiles splashes out of the fountain, every bit of him dripping. He looks around, taking stock. His golem has taken care of one of the other ones, just in time to get smashed by Superdouche – rude – who then moves on directly to the third golem as Supergirl freezes out the last of the flame sprites.

Stiles cleans his knife and puts it away then hurries back to the spot where he left Superdouche behind. "Clark?" he yells. "Clark, where are you?"

Superdouche appears out of the smoke, dressed in his street clothes, not a hair out of place. How the hell does he do it? "Stiles? Are you okay? Why are you all wet?"

"I had to dive into the fountain to avoid one of those fire things." Stiles breathes heavily, brings nerves and fear into his voice. "What the hell were they?"

"I have no idea." Stiles wonders if that's the truth. "Your hand! What happened?" Superdouche reaches for Stiles' injured hand, the one without the cast, turning it over to take a look at it.

Stiles pulls his arms away. "One of those crazy fireballs brushed me. It's fine. Just a light burn."

By now, the emergency services have arrived, and Supergirl talks to the police as the firefighters start dealing with the wreckage the flame sprites left behind.

"Let me take you to the hospital or at least to one of the ambulances," Superdouche says.

Stiles shakes his head. "I'm fine. There are people hurt worse than me. I've got stuff to deal with it at home."

The two men he saved point him out to the police, but Superdouche doesn't notice as he nods and slings his arm around Stiles' shoulders to lead him back to the car. Stiles shrugs him off immediately.

"You're sure you'll be okay?" Superdouche asks. They're parked outside Stiles' apartment building.

Stiles nods. "I'll be fine."

"I want to head back and see if I can do anything to help, then I have some things to do afterwards. You take care of yourself. I'll call and check in later."

Stiles watches as he drives away then hurries up to his apartment, slapping some cursory aloe vera on his burnt fingers and waving his hairdryer over his soaked cast. After that, it's back to his investigation board. He recreates the symbols from the golem's mouth, prints out pictures of the two creatures, and writes a few facts under their names.

Golems

- Jewish Folklore

- mud/earth/stone

- controlled by a wizard (The wizard gets a black silhouette and lots of question marks).

- brought to life by powerful magic.

Flame Sprites

- European

- fire/flames

- sometimes related to fairies, elves, spirits

- druid involvement in summoning?

There is a lot of red on his board. Could this attack be related to the new pack in town – the unknown Alpha of which is another black silhouette?

Stiles is still buzzing from the fight – his nerves are on fire, and he's grinning, actually, properly grinning for the first time in a long time. He's got so much energy, enough to go to the fucking moon.

Stiles gets ready for the next mission. He puts a black hoodie on under Derek's jacket and exchanges his boots for a lighter, quieter pair of dark sneakers, putting his knife in an inside pocket. The velvet pouch goes into another pocket along with a few other doo-dads he feels he might need.

When he leaves his apartment, the day is turning towards night. Hidden in the shadows of an alley, he pulls the red crystal from his pocket and holds it in his palm. "Arcama dendalae," he says to it.

The orb begins to glow, lifts off his hand, and zips off to the east at a startling speed. Stiles manages to catch it at the last second, and it yanks his arm forward, forcing him to run after it as it drags him around corners and even tries to cut through an open window. Stiles barely skirts around the building before he crashes into the wall. Stiles chases his arm for a half hour, legs churning, breath rasping in and out of his chest. They weave through the streets, earning odd looks from everyone they pass, and Stiles even grabs the attention of a police officer who takes a few steps after him before realizing he's moving far too fast to be bothered with.

The chase ends when the two of them reach an innocuous looking skyscraper, its windows immaculately cleaned and a balcony three-fourths of the way up, and the crystal tries to pull him into the air. "Arcama dendalae," he says, hoping that will quiet the orb as well as wake it up, and luckily, it does, the crystal falling still in his hand and the glow dying. He puts it back in his pocket so he can study the building.

He stands in the shadows of an alley about twenty feet away from what looks like a back door to the skyscraper. He sees a little black card reader beside the handle. He takes an amulet from his pocket and slips it over his neck to distort his image from any cameras and then pulls a slim leather cardholder out as he walks towards the door, hood flipped up over his head.

He flashes the blank piece of paper against the reader, and after a long moment, the little light turns green, and the door opens. Yes, Stiles has psychic paper, and yes, he has already heard every single Doctor Who joke about it, mostly from Kira and Scott.

He steps into a long, grey hallway. It's bare and silent but for the hum of an air conditioner in the ceiling, and Stiles walks past a couple of closed doors. He can feel a…a tingling presence at the edges of his mind. He doesn't know what it is, but it grows stronger the deeper he heads into the building.

He comes to a staircase and starts up it, and as he does, he realizes just how ill conceived and terrible his plan is. He doesn't actually have a fucking plan. He just walked right into a secret government facility with a blank piece of paper and not much else, and now he's somehow going to hack into their computer system? Stiles doesn't know how to hack! Derek would kick his ass if he were around to see this shit.

Stiles freezes in the stairwell, three steps from the top. He just…thought about Derek in the past tense. His knees buckle. He sits down heavily. He doesn't want to be thinking about Derek in the past tense because then that would mean he's accepted Derek's death. He doesn't want to accept Derek's death. Can't accept it.

He also can't be doing this right now. He can't be breaking down in the middle of a mission. So Stiles gets himself up, locks away the part of his brain that holds all his dark thoughts, and walks through the door.

He's deposited on a floor full of labs separated from each other by glass walls. Sleek, gleaming tech covers the tables and counters, all things Stiles is certain he would break if he even stepped into the room. He spots a lab coat hanging from a peg by one of the doors, so he grabs it and throws it on over Derek's jacket. It's a bit tight across the shoulders.

As Stiles walks down the hall, he sees glass domes and tubes containing biological samples that clearly aren't human. Some are scaly, others covered in brightly colored fur. There are talons and teeth, and Stiles even sees a few werewolf claws. He pauses to stare at those. Do these people actually know what they are?

He uses his psychic paper to open the door and steps inside, tugging his hoodie further down his forehead. In two quick moves, he lifts the lid on the case with the werewolf claws and scoops them up and into his pocket. When he turns around, a lab tech is standing in the door, staring at him. Her hair is braided into a crown around her head, her green eyes reminding him of Lydia.

"Hey," he says, grinning.

"Who are you? Do you work here?" she asks, brow furrowed and suspicious.

"Yeah, yeah, I do!" Stiles says with a laugh. "I'm new. My name's Scott."

The girl takes a step towards him. "Can I see your badge?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. Of course. One sec. Where the hell did I put it?" Stiles pats his pockets frowning. "Ah, there it is." He frees the psychic paper and flips it open.

The lab tech reaches out to take it from him, bringing it close so that she can examine it. Satisfied, she passes it back to him. "I didn't think the DEA was hiring."

"I'm a special case. Got that big brain." Stiles grins and taps his temple. "I'm afraid I'm a bit turned around. This building is like a fucking labyrinth." He sheepishly rubs at the back of his neck. "Do you think you could point me in the direction of the main office?"

Now that the lab tech believes Stiles belongs, she's all smiles and helpful cheer. "Sure. You're not far. Just head down this hallway, take a left, then two rights."

"Thanks a lot. You probably just saved my life." Stiles turns his grin up a notch. "We should get drinks sometime." He doesn't know why he says this. He doesn't actually want to get drinks with her. It just seems like something a normal person would say to a pretty girl.

The lab tech turns bright red and looks away from him, tugging at one of the strands of hair escaping from her crown. "I'd like that."

"Why don't you give me your number, and I'll text you." Stiles takes a pen from his lab coat pocket and pulls the cap off with his teeth. He holds the pen out to her and lets her write her name and number across the back of his hand. "Alright, Kate. We'll talk later." He gives her one last wink and then moves past her and out the door.

He has probably just created a huge problem for himself, but he'll deal with that later.

Stiles follows the directions Kate gave him, his lab coat making him invisible to the few people he passes by, other men and women in lab coats or dressed all in black. Many of them carry tablets that they type rapidly on as they walk, and all the ones in black have guns on their hips.

Stiles stops before he turns the final corner, lounging behind a potted plant. He can hear people moving about and talking, picking out Kara's, Alex's, Superdouche's, and even Winn's voices, plus a deeper one resonating with command. That presence around the edge of his mind throbs.

"So no one knows what those things were today?" Superdouche asks with a frustrated sigh.

"They aren't in any of our databases," Winn says.

So the DEA knows about aliens but not about the supernatural world. Interesting.

"Stop talking," the deep voice orders. "There's something here."

"What do you mean?" Kara asks.

"I don't know exactly. I can feel some kind of psychic presence, but I can't pinpoint it."

Oh shit, that's him.

Stiles has read a lot about psychics since the Nogitsune left him changed, mostly about the techniques for blocking out other thoughts rather than learning to hone or expand his own sickening powers. He visualizes his mind as a black block and begins to build a wall around it, laying the bricks, slapping down the mortar, and repeating the process again and again until the whole thing is encased.

"Huh, it's gone," the man says.

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief.

"What was it?"

"I don't know. It was cold. It was dark."

Stiles' stomach churns.

"The samples are ready in the lab," Alex says. "Shall we go see what they tell us?"

Stiles realizes with a start that the group is about to come towards him, and he turns so that his back will be to them, pulling out his phone to pretend to look busy. The whole group passes within two feet of him, and Stiles tilts his head to the side. Their leader, a stocky, African American man who exudes a sense of danger, looks right at him, and Stiles feels a gentle push at his brick wall, but he doesn't move a mental muscle, not wanting the man to know that he can feel the probe.

The group passes him by without a second glance, and Stiles slips into the room behind them. Computer and television screens cover half the space, mounted on the curving wall and stacked on long lines of desks. Satellite images flicker across the screens along with security camera feeds and spools of data. The agents in here are all dressed in black, most of them sitting at computers and typing away furiously.

Stiles picks one of the empty monitors and sits down, flashing his psychic paper at the card reader to log himself in. Not a single person in the room questions his presence. Stiles knows a lot about normal-people computers – he's quite adept at sifting through all the bullshit on the Internet to find the real answers, but he doesn't know a thing about these government grade databases. He starts opening files and documents until he comes across one labelled 'Alien Species Registry.'

"What are you doing?" The question makes Stiles jump violently and spin around in his chair. A severe looking agent stands behind him, arms folded, and Stiles is very aware of the gun on the man's hip.

"Shit, man, you scared the hell out of me! Give a person some warning before you sneak up on them." Stiles presses a hand to his chest.

"What are you doing?" the man repeats. "That file is restricted."

"Agent Danvers asked me to do some more digging into those creatures that attacked today." Stiles flashes his false badge. Despite himself, Stiles nudges out with his powers. Instantly, that other presence perks up and quests after him, but Stiles withdraws behind his wall.

The agent blinks, fuzziness wafting across his face. "Okay. If Danvers said it was alright…" He blinks a second time, shakes his head, and walks off, leaving Stiles to his business.

Stiles turns back to his file. There are several thousand entries, at least. Stiles blinks at the list a couple of times before he finds a filter bar. He types in lizard-like and mind control. The results jump down to thirty.

Stiles doesn't know how much time he has before Kara and the others come back., but luckily, most of the entries come with pictures or composite sketches, and Stiles focuses on those, though his curiosity tells him to read everything. In the eighth entry, he finds what he's looking for. Derek's killer stares back at him from the computer screen. Stiles' fists clench, his breath catches, and darkness blots out most of his vision. He hacks out a rasping cough, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand rather than getting dragged back into a past that wants to drown him.

Essyolyte

Essyolytes originate from the planet Essen, in the outer reaches of the Universe. They have no known political associations or alliances with other species and races, preferring to keep to themselves. Essyolytes are lizard-like creatures, covered in tough scales and unable to regulate their own body temperature.

Essyolytes have mind control abilities, able to plunge their prey into nightmarish visions of their own design. Essyolytes make perfect bodyguards or assassins because once bonded to a master, they are loyal unto death. Essyolytes are only seen around the wider Universe if they are under the control of another.

If Stiles weren't already sitting, he would fall over. Darkness blots everything out. All he hears is a whooshing sound in his ears. He doesn't know where he is in space any more.

The attack wasn't random.

Someone was controlling the Essyolyte.

Someone sent it there to kill Derek.


When Stiles comes to, he's throwing up in a bathroom. He doesn't know what bathroom. He doesn't know how he got there. He's hunched over a toilet, puking his guts out, his whole body trembling, head pounding. He throws up again, but there's nothing left to come up.

The itch roars up inside of him, howling, demanding, ordering. The knife leaves his pocket and settles into his hand, the dark blade gleaming up at him, and he rips the sleeve of his lab coat up, then Derek's jacket, then his hoodie, finds a clear patch of skin, digs the point of the blade in deep.

There is no pattern to the cuts this time. They are different sizes, different depths. Blood drips down his arm and splatters on the white tile floor. He grinds the knife in deeper than ever, his teeth gritted against the pain. He lets the hurt fill him, drown the idea that someone ordered Derek's death.

He's going to kill them. He's going to kill them all.

This time, the itch doesn't die down, and he has to pry his fingers from the knife hilt, letting it clatter to the floor. His hands shake. Blood continues to drip from his arm. He slaps some toilet paper over the cuts to soak it up and yanks all three of his sleeves back down then uses more paper to mop his blood up off the floor, tossing the remains in the toilet. He puts the knife back in his pocket, touching it as briefly as possible.

He stands on weak legs, braced against the stall wall. He takes one deep breath, two, three. Scrubs the tears from his face. Stiles leaves the stall and washes up at the sink, swishing water around in his mouth to clear out the taste of bile. He fits his broken pieces of composure back in place before he leaves the bathroom, finding that he's still inside the DEA building.

Stiles keeps his head down as he hurries through the halls, winding his way down to the back door he came in through. He gets outside without mishap; if he were in any other state of mind he would marvel at how easy it was for him to just walk into the DEA. Instead, he stumbles all the way back to his apartment, losing most of the time it takes to get there and lock himself inside.

His fingers shake as he stuffs weed into his glass bowl and lights it up, breathing in as deeply as he can. It takes a refill to get the trembling to finally stop. The itch clamors at him, but he yanks the knife from his pocket and flings it across the room so that it sticks, point first, into the wood of the windowsill. After that, he buries himself under the covers of his bed.

Sleep doesn't come for him, no matter how much he begs it to. All he can see is the shadowy outline of the person who controls the Essyolyte. He has a knife in his hand, and he drives it into the figure again and again and again, screaming the whole time, and when he's done, there's dark laughter in his head and the knowledge that Derek will still be dead.

He pulls his crumpled self out of bed at one PM the next day; he knows he can't ditch out on this therapy session. He doesn't want to go, though. His entire being feels fragile, like one single tap could shatter the whole thing. He wonders what would be underneath. A bandage wrapped hand. Sharp teeth. The buzzing of flies.

A text waits for him, his phone on the brink of falling off the bedside table.

Clark Kent 10:41am: Shall we interview the other families today?

Me 1:05pm: cant today

Even typing those two, short words is almost too much for him

In the bathroom, he strips his clothes off. Lab coat. Derek's jacket. Hoodie. The bloody toilet paper flutters to the ground. More dried blood is caked across his arm. He stumbles into the shower and lets the scalding water pound at his skin, strip away the dirt and sweat of the fight, drown out the throbbing in his head. He lifts his wrist and looks at it.

What would it look like if he scraped all the skin away?

He scratches at the delicate flesh on the inside of his wrist, gently at first, then harder and harsher. The skin grows red, becomes raised, and finally splits, bright red blood oozing from the cut only to be torn away by the water, diluted, drowned. He wants to drown the whole world in red and then himself.

He scrapes harder, and the red runs more deeply. It pools at his feet too quickly for the drain to carry it away. He will dig all the way down to the bone and expose the rot that lies at the core of him.

A knock at the door, barely heard over the sound of the water, stops his nail. He's left blinking at his arm and its red dye as the knocking comes again.

Does he actually need to answer it?

"Stiles?" Superdouche calls.

Shit. Yes, he does need to answer it.

Stiles turns the water off. "One second!" he calls.

He steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist. He's got no quick way to cover up his bleeding wrist or the multitude of cuts, old and new, along his arms. He scoops the dirty hoodie off the floor and throws it on, hoping that will do.

Stiles pulls the door open part way. Superdouche stands outside, peering in with a concerned look on his face. "Didn't you get my text?" Stiles asks shortly.

"I did, but I was at Kara's and I thought I'd drop by and check if everything was okay." Superdouche smiles at him, but that just makes Stiles want to punch him in the face.

"Everything's fine. I just can't come with you today." Stiles arm hurts. Badly. He feels blood dripping down his hand.

"Why not?" Superdouche's tone isn't accusatory. It's worried, concerned.

Stiles is not about to tell him he has to go to therapy. "I have a prior engagement."

"Okay." Superdouche glances down at the ground and shifts his grip on the strap of his bag. "How's your hand?"

For a moment, Stiles thinks Superdouche is talking about his cut wrist, but then he remembers the burns on his other hand. They'd been mild, and he'd forgotten about them in all the chaos yesterday. "It's fine. Listen, I was just in the shower, and I need to finish getting ready."

"Right, of course." Superdouche smiles. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Stiles nods and shuts the door in the man's face.

True to his word, Stiles finishes getting ready. He wraps gauze around his wrist and then a handkerchief to pretend that it's fashion, then shaves, gets dressed in a red and black flannel, and gels his hair. Fuck, he does not want to do this. Nerves boil in his stomach, threatening to overflow and send him fleeing back to his bed. But instead, he forces himself out the door, taking the bus because he doesn't want to ask Alex for a ride and have to explain where he's going. He keeps his earbuds in and his gaze directed at his shoes the whole time.

The therapist's office is in a small, red brick building. Everything about it is unassuming. The sign declaring it as 'The Office of Dr. Olivia Connors" is small and barely noticeable beside the mailbox, and Stiles walks by the building three times, staring at his GPS, before he realizes what it is.

Then he has to stop and stare at the door for five minutes, rooted in place on the sidewalk.

No. No way. Stiles is not doing this. He's not going in there. Detective Sawyer can bring back the drug charges and toss him in jail or whatever. (He forgets the part where if he's in jail, he can't hunt down the Essyolyte).

But before he can turn around and walk (run) away, the door opens and a woman in a blue blazer and a Thor t-shirt steps out onto the small front porch. She looks at him with her arms folded. "I take it you're Stiles Stilinski."

"Maybe," he says.

"Come on. Get in here." She steps back through the door, an obvious sign for him to follow.

Stiles sighs and looks over his shoulder at the bus stop which is tantalizingly close. But Dr. Connors has already seen him. There's no backing out now. So he sucks it up and walks through the door.

Dr. Connors' office looks just like a living room – leather couch across from a rolling chair and desk, bookshelves behind it, and a patterned rug underneath. Landscapes done in soft colors hang from the walls, and a window looks out on a jumbled garden.

"Please, take a seat," Dr. Connors says, gesturing towards the couch.

Stiles looks at it, looks at her, then walks around the couch to look at the bookshelves. Most of the volumes there have something to do with psychology. He puts his back to the therapist.

"Alright then. How are you today, Stiles?"

"How long have you been a therapist?"

"Five years. I got my Masters from Harvard. You don't like to answer questions about yourself, do you?"

Stiles pulls a book from the shelf at random and opens it up. "I like talking about myself quite a lot, actually. Usually, people can't get me to shut up."

"So why don't you talk to me?"

"Don't much feel like talking today." Stiles shrugs, puts the book back.

"You don't have to talk if you don't want to. You can just look at those books for the next hour. That's perfectly fine."

Stiles finally glances over his shoulder at her. She sits in the rolling chair with a notepad on her knee. "Doesn't that defeat the purpose of therapy?"

"Therapy is whatever you need it to be."

Whatever Stiles needs it to be. He needs a way to keep doing drugs yet still pass these monthly tests, he needs to find whoever is controlling the Essyolyte, and he needs to figure out the deal with this new Pack. He doesn't need to spend an hour a week talking about his feelings. The things in his head are no business of this therapist.

God, he's going to hate himself for this.

"Do you want to talk about how you ended up in the hospital?" Dr. Connors asks.

"Not particularly," Stiles says.

"How about why you moved to National City?"

Stiles takes another book out and turns to face her fully, flipping to a page in the middle, staring down at it as he talks. "What do you know already?"

"It doesn't matter what I already know. I want to hear it from you." She watches him with sharp eyes, head tilted to the side. Stiles observes her on the sly, tilting his eyes up to look at her while keeping his head pointed down towards the book.

"Because I'm obviously a reliable source."

Dr. Connors shrugs. "The way you tell me things tells me as much about you as the things you actually say."

"Like?"

"Well, I can tell you're highly intelligent, very defensive, and I probably can't trust half the things that come out of your mouth."

"Try three-fourths," Stiles says with a smirk.

Dr. Connors laughs. The sound seems to surprise her.

"My boyfriend died. I guess you could say I'm not dealing with it well."

"How long were you together?"

Stiles snaps the book shut. "I don't want to talk about him right now."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Weed. It's legal here, right?" He senses her suspicion, so he nudges out just slightly, calming her.

"It is."

"What's it usually prescribed for?" Stiles already knows the answer to this question, but he needs the idea to come from her with only a little nudging on his part.

"Pain, nausea, chronic headaches."

"Chronic headaches, really?" Stiles says. "I didn't know that was a thing. How frequently do you have to get headaches for them to be chronic? Because I seem to get at least one a day."

"That would be considered chronic," Dr. Connors tells him. "Are they bad?"

"Some days are worse than others."

Dr. Connors reaches for her Rx pad. "I could write you a prescription for it."

Stiles pretends to let his face fall in disappointment while nudging at her mind again. "What about my drug tests?"

"I'll talk to Detective Sawyer. I'm sure if I explain the situation to her, she'll drop that requirement." Dr. Connors scrawls the prescription, rips the top page off the pad, and holds it out to him.

Stiles takes two quick steps across the floor to accept it before she comes to her senses.

"I'll see you this time next week?"

"I guess," Stiles sighs. "If I must."

Dr. Connors closes her notepad and stands to walk him to the door. She holds out her hand to him, smiling. "It was nice to meet you."

Stiles shakes it. "I'm afraid I can't say the same."

She tips back her head and laughs a little. "Bye, Stiles."

Stiles nods to her and leaves. Once he's turned the corner and is no longer in sight of the office building, he stops and throws up in a bush.

Stiles stands outside his front door, key in hand, staring at the lock. He can hear people arguing in Kara's apartment. Something slams, like a fist against a table. "How the hell does someone just walk right in and out of the DEA without any of us knowing it?" It's the voice of the stocky, black man. The one in charge.

"I don't know," Alex says. "All our cameras picked up was a blurry shape in a lab coat."

Stiles smirks. Good to know his amulet actually works.

"We've got the most sophisticated security system in the world," Kara points out. "What on earth could be powerful enough to hide itself from that?"

"Whatever it is, it's here now."

A questing hand slams into Stiles' mind, seeking to force its way to the core of him and figure out who he is, but Stiles' thoughts are slippery, like eels. He slides around the probe so that it can't catch onto anything firm, already throwing up barriers of pointless thoughts to push it out again.

I want a hippopotamus for Christmas,

Only a hippopotamus will do.

I don't want any dolls, or rinky dinky toys.

I want a hippopotamus to play with and enjoy.

His attacker splits into three parts to try and trip him up, but Stiles is adaptable. He takes the darkness the Nogitsune left inside of him and flings it out like tentacles to suffocate and drive the others back.

I want a hippopotamus for Christmas,

Only a hippopotamus will do.

I don't want any dolls, or rinky dinky toys.

I want a hippopotamus to play with and enjoy.

You want to know who I am? he asks the man.

He's an eight-headed hydra, now. He is ever growing, bricking up his mind even while battering the other man away with his darkness and his inane song. (I WANT A HIPPOPOTAMUS FOR CHRISTMAS). He revels in his power. (ONLY A HIPPOPOTAMUS WILL DO). The other man's mind is endless – several millennia old – yet here is Stiles and his many-headed Hydra, winning. (I DON'T WANT ANY DOLLS OR RINKY DINKY TOYS). This is how the Nogitsune felt all day, every day, in complete control even as the chaos he created raged around him. (I WANT A HIPPOPOTAMUS TO PLAY WITH AND ENJOY).

With a gasp, Stiles slams the last brick in place and rips himself away from that laughing, roiling darkness. His whole body trembles. He wouldn't be able to fit the key in the lock even if he wanted to. What – what has he done?

From inside Kara's apartment comes a loud thud and a clatter. "J'onn?" Alex's voice, full of concern. "J'onn, are you okay?"

"It's nearby," the man gasps. "In the building. I almost had it."

It. That's fitting, Stiles thinks.

Kara's door opens, and she steps out into the hall, Alex close behind her, very obviously hiding a gun by her leg. Stiles stuffs his key in the lock the instant he hears the other door begin to open and looks up in surprise. "Hey, guys," he says.

"Stiles, hey," Kara says as Alex glances up and down the hallway. "Have you seen anyone else around?"

"No," Stiles says with a shrug. "But I only got off the elevator a moment ago. Why? What's going on?"

Kara shakes her head. "Nothing. Just thought we heard something."

"Might've been me. I dropped my keys."

The old, old man – by now, Stiles is sure he's not human, not supernatural, but some kind of alien – joins the Danvers sisters in the corridor. His sharp eyes sweep over Stiles, sizing him up, and that questing finger reaches out to him, seeking a reaction, but Stiles ignores it. Alex gestures at Jean. "Stiles, this is my boss, Hank Henshaw," she says.

J'onn – or Hank – inclines his head.

"I should go," Stiles continues, drawing his key from the lock and opening the door. "Chores to do and what not."

Kara hurries after him, slipping into his apartment before he can close the door. She places a hand on his arm, so close to the fresh cuts that he feels them burn. "Hey, is everything alright? Clark said you seemed out of sorts when he saw you this morning?"

Stiles shrugs, moving to put his keys on the counter so that her hand has to fall away. How easy it would be to tell her everything. How easy and yet how hard. "He just caught me on an off day," is all he says.

As much as he likes Kara, she is not Pack.

And Stiles…Stiles has no Pack. Not anymore.