The fire.
The fire! It had swallowed up everything! In a matter of moments, everything Stiles had ever loved had been consumed by the flames, their ashes leaping into the sky with the flares. His stupid inventions. His mother's artwork. His father's books. His father's- His father.
Stiles had tried to get inside, to rush back through the halls he'd grown up in, to find his father's study or his bedroom or the library. His father was still inside! But no one would let him go! Three servants held him back, pinned him to the ground, told him it was too late. But it couldn't be too late! His father was still inside!
Stiles spent six weeks in the hospital after they finally managed to wrangle him into submission. They told him to lie on his stomach so they could tend to his back, to the minor burns he'd received from his shirt when it caught fire. He stayed on his stomach, though, only because he could bury his face in the pillows they brought him and muffle the sound of his screaming.
That was the first rumor. Did you hear? The Stilinski boy? They say he screams himself raw every night. Poor child. He must be in so much pain. Do you think he'll be very disfigured?
But they were wrong. His back was on fire, but they said it would pass and they could heal him with little scarring. Anyway, he could handle the pain. No, he screamed because his heart couldn't handle the ache any other way. His father, his last remaining family, had burned alive. Stiles hadn't been able to save him. The loss hurt ten times worse than the burns on his back.
He cried and screamed into his pillow every night until it tore up his throat, and then he went silent. For the first time in his entire life, Stiles had stopped talking. A whole week passed that way, with no one able to rouse him to conversation. He felt numb, and more than once, he'd wished they would stop treating him. Let his back become infected. Let him die with his father.
Then Allison showed up at his bedside. She'd come to visit her aunt, who'd been injured in a carriage accident, and had heard about him. They vaguely knew each other, having spent seasons in each other's counties and meeting at parties, but they would not be considered friends.
She visited him every day while her aunt was under observation, telling him news and gossip – but never about him. After a few days, Stiles stared up at her and asked her how long she planned to keep visiting. Though it was rude, it was words, and Allison took it as encouragement. Stiles liked her strength and confidence, her humility and caring nature. By the end of his stay at the hospital, he liked everything about her.
On the day of his release, Stiles met Allison at the door, surprising her. But she wasn't the only one surprised. Allison had brought her aunt. Lady Katherine Argent greeted him smoothly and gave her trite condolences. Then, with very little concern for Stiles' feelings, she expressed an awkward apology for Stiles losing his father's title. It wasn't Stiles' fault that the title fell to Kate instead. It was just business. And, ever prepared, she brandished the document showing her claim to the title and all the lands it controlled. Lord Stilinski had fallen into debt with Lady Katherine, and she claimed it was such an amount that he'd had to offer up his title in exchange. If Stiles could pay off the debt, she may even consider returning his title.
Therein laid the source of the second rumor. The Stilinski boy? He attacked a woman in the hospital. He broke several machines. His temper is out of control!
But Stiles knew the truth. If any of those gossiping whelps had been faced with their livelihoods being stripped away from them, they would have thrown a fit as well. And the only thing Stiles broke was the crutch Kate had been using at the time. In the rumors, she always seemed to be such a victim, but Stiles knew the truth. She'd walked out of that hospital smirking.
Homeless and penniless, Stiles found himself with few options. He could join the military or learn a labor, but he disliked the idea of either. He wasn't built for heavy lifting, and he was too snarky to be a good soldier. But Kate had an idea. Of course she did. He could work for the Argents, for her specifically. Being a scribe was honorable work, and he could enjoy at least half of the life he'd once enjoyed.
Looking back, Stiles wondered if he'd have taken the job if he'd known the true nature of Kate and her father. But at the time, he saw only a chance to live with Allison and not become a militiaman. Sure, he already hated Kate, but living with his new best friend would be a good transition, right?
The final rumor about him grew from an incident less than a month into his tenure as scribe. Just after he'd received his certification and official pin, he'd gone to the theater with Allison. Despite not liking his new job, he was still proud of being officially recognized and they were celebrating.
Someone started the whispers before the play began, and they grew and spread until Stiles couldn't help but overhear. They were all wondering what the truth was. What happened to Noah Stilinski? Were the rumors about Stiles true? Someone ask him what started the fire. Someone ask him if we can see his back. Someone ask him-
The world had gone fuzzy for Stiles, and he felt increasingly dizzy and short of breath. Allison tried to move him to a more private location, but he could barely keep his feet under him. The panic overtook him as images of his father filled his mind and the sounds of screams and fire clouded his ears.
He came back to himself sometime later, Allison still crouched beside him where he'd fallen to the floor. Most patrons had moved into the main theater to watch the play, but a few lingered, whispering in concern. When he saw them staring, something in Stiles snapped. He shouted at them to mind their own business, to stop judging him, to just leave him alone! Then he'd run from the building, run all the way back to the Argent manor, and locked himself in his room.
Did you hear? The Stilinski boy had a nervous breakdown at the theater. He's not well in the head. He lashed out and insulted several high class families. Disgraceful. Uncouth. Inconceivable behavior! What an embarrassment to his father.
So Stiles stopped going out. He didn't go into town much, and when he did he dressed as plain as he could so he wouldn't draw the eye. He secluded himself in the Argent house, bearing all the abuse in relative silence, so he wouldn't be the subject of any more gossip. Now the only thing people could whisper about was wondering what had happened to him. Where had he gone? But at least those curious questions didn't bring shame on his family name.
But he was tired of bearing it. He was tired of being suffocated by the smoke of a fire that had burned out years ago. He wanted to let it go… but they wouldn't let him. The Argents would never let him forget or move on. He'd be stuck in his loop forever, a loop where he was no one but a failure and a disgrace.
He wanted to tell Derek everything. Despite his words about not wanting to be a burden, not wanting to be rescued, he really wanted Derek to help him. Selfishly, he wanted to use Derek Hale to pull himself out of his hole. He wanted Derek to offer him a hand, wanted Derek to pull him to safety and wrap his arms around him and tell him everything was alright. He wanted Derek, or someone, anyone, to tell him he was allowed to let go now.
He was just so tired. So tired. And he couldn't breathe.
He couldn't breathe! The smoke was so thick and he couldn't see! He couldn't breathe- Someone- Someone-
"Breathe," a woman's voice urged him. "Come on, now. That's it. I know it hurts, but just try to focus on breathing, Stiles. You're alright now."
Everything did not feel alright. It felt like his body was on fire all over again, but not in the same way. This pain went all the way to his bones. He cried and didn't feel it. He whimpered and didn't register the movement. Everything just ached.
"That's it. In… Out… In… Out…"
He didn't recognize the woman's voice. Was he dead? Was she an angel?
"Melissa." That voice he knew, and Stiles whimpered again. Lord Argent hummed. "Listen. There's something you should know about Stiles."
The voices sounded far away and distorted, and he wasn't sure if he was dreaming or eavesdropping or neither. His head pounded and swam, and he tried to focus on simple breathing again. Was Lord Argent still around? Had he come to finish what his father had started? Stiles wouldn't be able to put up a fight this time.
"Stiles. Can you open your eyes?" The woman's sweet voice returned, pulling his thoughts from the void to focus on her.
He used all his strength to try opening his eyes, but everything remained black, so he assumed he'd failed. The woman wasn't speaking, probably waiting for him to comply, but he couldn't. He ached in every possible way, and he just wanted to sleep forever, or at least until the pain went away.
"Stiles?"
"mm-urts," he managed.
"Okay." The woman was so comforting. Her voice was tender, and he could feel her hand gently petting his hair. "Okay. Don't strain yourself. Everything is going to be alright. I'm not going to let anyone harm you anymore. Just… sleep. The doctor will be here soon."
Stiles hummed. "Thanks, Mom."
He wasn't sure how he said it at all, what with the pain in his jaw and everywhere. Her petting reminded him of when he was a child, and her voice reminded him of his mother, and suddenly he was imagining himself lying on the couch, his head in his mother's lap after some older boys had picked on him. She was assuring him that he had done nothing wrong, but they both knew he'd started the fight.
'You always put up such a fuss,' she was saying, fondness in her voice despite the negativity of the words. 'Why do you always fight?'
'People are mean. Someone has to stand up against the mean kids, Mom. Someone has to remind them that we're all the same when you take away the money. You can't treat people bad and get away with it.'
She hummed thoughtfully, never stopping her fingers as they carded through his hair.
'Then why did you stop fighting?' she asked, fondness fading into sadness. 'Your father and I never wanted you to stop fighting.'
Stretched out on the couch, Stiles groaned. 'But everything aches now, and I'm too afraid to fight alone.'
The sun was shining just beyond his mother's head, so that when he turned his gaze up to see her, her face was obscured by the light. He squinted and tried to block the sun with his hand.
'You're never alone, Stiles,' she murmured. 'I am so proud of you and the man you've become, but I will never forgive you if you stop fighting now.' She placed a hand on his shoulder and gently shook him. 'Fight, Stiles.' She shook him again, rougher. 'Fight!'
He awoke with a start. Gasping, he tried to look around, but his head was secured in place. His heart sped, thoughts still on his dead mother, on the fact that he'd been speaking to his dead mother. But now he was in an unfamiliar room, with unfamiliar furnishings, and an unfamiliar doctor staring down at him.
"Good. You're awake." The man made an approving sound. "Yes. You're through the worst of it, I think. Not to say that the healing process won't be painful, but at least you've finally regained full consciousness. So long as you don't relapse, I believe you'll make a near-full recovery."
Stiles tried to ask four questions at once, but all that came out of his mouth was a dry, confused sound that was very close to a wheeze. An unfamiliar woman spoke, drawing Stiles' attention to the fact that she was even present at all. He'd heard her voice before, telling him to breathe, but he didn't know her.
"Thank you, Dr. Deaton." She and the doctor clasped hands.
"My skills are always at your disposal, Lady McCall," he said. His eyes drifted back to Stiles and he released Lady McCall's hands. "I can see you have questions. Let me see if I can answer them. You are in a hospital in County Posey. Yes, quite far from where you began in Gévaudan, I know. Lady McCall here brought you in with the help of a Mister- excuse me, a Lord Argent. You're in rather a rough shape, but as I said, I believe you'll make a smooth recovery. You're going to be very tired for several weeks. This is normal for a body that needs to heal as much as yours does. When you are stable, Lady McCall has offered to take you into her home, where you will reside for the remainder of your recovery."
McCall. Lady McCall inherited a title from her late husband, but it passed to her son when he came of age. Baron Posey's name is Scott McCall.
The drilled in information came to him easily now that he'd refreshed himself with Allison, but his mind still felt cloudy to the point that he wasn't sure why he needed the information now that he'd recalled it.
"You'll be safe at my house," Lady McCall assured him, kneeling beside his bed and taking his hand in hers. He focused on the point of contact, unsure if it hurt or not. "I promise you that, Stiles. No one will hurt you in my house. You can… I hope you can be happy there." She smiled, but it was tight and wary. "I have a son your age. I think you'll like him. I know he'll like you very much."
He didn't know this woman. He didn't know how he came to be in her care. But she made him feel welcome, and she was warm. He loved her dark curls, her warm skin, her kind eyes. He squeezed her hand, which seemed to make her happy.
"Thank you," he murmured, though he wasn't super clear what exactly he was thanking her for. He had a lot of half-thoughts, but it was hard to hold onto any of them.
"Of course," she murmured right back. "You can rest now, Stiles. I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."
He slept, and he did not dream about his old life or how it fell apart. He dreamt about nonsense things, and his skin didn't burn and his lungs didn't seize, and for a short time he was blissful and unconscious. It would be a few hours before the pain woke him up again.