Dance On Our Graves

I know that what I am is not who I should be
The devil takes my hand and says, "Child come with me"
My body shivers and aches, I can't break free
Why do the things I hate come so naturally?

"T-this can't be real." Stiles struggled out in utter denial. It dawned on him slowly, but all at once. His lips parted as he wanted to reach out and say something, but he found no breath for his words and remained speechless in the blank abyss. But he couldn't take his eye's off her—his mother; thinking if he did, she'd disappear beneath his fingers once again.

A tremor ripped through his muscles, paralyzing him for a moment in time as he tried to pace his breathing. For a quick expeditious moment, just gazing in to his mother's eyes, fear was drained from his body, replaced with this feeling of complete comfort and lullness—the only kind a kid would get after lazily staring into it's mother's eyes.

The eye's of it's creator.

Stiles' heart raced inside his chest to the point where all he could hear was the ringing of the beat through the drums in his ears shaking and steadily threatening to burst at any moment. Every emotion was heightened; each movement, taken with extreme caution.

Claudia smiled lightly at her son and approached him with ease. No longer were the days where he would catch a glimpse of her grimace in pain when she thought he was looking. No longer were the days when she stared into his eyes in utter distraught, not knowing who he was.

"Y-you're no-not—" Stiles struggled out not being able to finish out his sentence. He swallowed deeply and took in a shaky breathe before deciding he was dreaming. Yes. that was the most plausible answer to all this. He was dreaming, and this; was not real. "You're not real—th-this isn't real." He mumbled incoherently.

"This is as real as you want it to be." His mother's voice echoed through the blank abyss with clarity and ease, her eyes never leaving his. Stiles said nothing; he remained frozen in this perplexing state of mind—in this constant battle with himself of whether or not he was truly going crazy. Or maybe he was dead.

Was he dead?

As he slowly came back to his senses and was thrown back into the empty chasm he stumbled taking a step back after realizing how close his mother—this fragment of his imagination, had gotten to him. And as he did this Claudia's smile faded with slight disappointment of his hesitance towards her.

It wasn't that he didn't want to see his mother—it was whether or not he can trust him mind to guiding towards the illusion.

Stiles swallowed and continued to stare at her hoping the shock would soon wear off. This can't be real, this can't be real. He repeated in his mind, aspirating that if he continued to repeat in his mind, something would change; something would click. So he shut his eyes and took in a deep breath.

Breathe Stiles.

"Stiles?" Claudia asked after giving him a moment of clarity. But he didn't answer her, instead he took another moment to balance himself before he parted his lips and began to speak again. But no sound came—and it didn't come for nearly a full minute as he tried to phrase the simple sentence in his mind. It was short and only consisted of three words, but it carried heavier weight than most sentences.

"Am I dead?" Stiles asked eye's no longer closed and breathing paced as to carefully accept the answer. Just looking into her carmel brown eyes, he wanted to drop the weight of the world he had been carrying, and surrender. The thought of that was just so relaxing—so lulling.

"No." She said that with such certainty, such clarity that there was no choice than to believe her. "W-what is this place then?"

"Somewhere in between."

…

His footsteps are heavy as he drags them over the steep steps to get upstairs. This day has been tough—well, the past couple days have been tough. All he wants is to more than anything is to go back in time; reverse the clock to a time when everything was better and everything was safe.

But he knows the world doesn't work like that, because if it did, there's no chance in hell he'd be standing there.

The Sheriff takes a deep unfulfilled breath and continues up the remainder of the stairs in complete eerie silence. He couldn't remember the last time this house stood this still. This only played part to remind him he was alone. It felt strange to him that a few days ago—a week ago, he wasn't. A week ago he'd pace up the stairs yelling at Stiles to pick his shoes from the middle of the hallway after he'd trip on them. A week ago he'd walk past the upstairs hallway and glance inside Stiles' bedroom to find him completely passed out. spawned across that old wooden desk.

A week ago everything was normal.

Days seemed longer now, and nights, when he was forced by Melissa to go home, never-ending. Every second felt like a torturous lag for the Sheriff, but he couldn't help to stop starring at the clock. He was lost in some sort of emotional trance, standing between a fine line of sanity.

But he knew he had to pull himself together soon; their life insurance had already been maxed out years ago from his wife's illness, so the hospital bills were already pilling at his doorstep, and he knew he'd have to go back to work sooner than later.

It gave him ease knowing that he had a full support system behind him; Melissa and Scott were always there, along with the certain strawberry blond he had no idea his son was close to. He trusted these people, they were like some strange extended family to him, but it didn't mean it scared the living daylights to leave his son alone in there. He's barely able to do it at night, let alone a full work day.

He just want's Stiles to get better; that's all he can hope for.

John sighed and walked down the upstairs hallway stopping right before his son's bedroom door which stood ajar before him and swallowed uneasily shutting his eyes in the process as the million reasons not to open the door erupted through his brain. But he didn't listen to them, and with one quickly movement drew open the door. He half expected to walk in and see Stiles typing away on his laptop at his desk like a mad man, holding that peculiar frustrated expression on his face. But instead he was faced with his straightforward fear of being alone seeing room lay untouched and empty.

…

"There's been no change." Melissa tells the Sheriff as he enters his son's hospital room. John nods, only taking a moment to look up at Scott's mother in appreciation before he briefly stops in the doorway to take it all. Melissa rubs her hand over his shoulder in some sort of moral support and looks to Stiles who remained in his comatose state for the last few days. Melissa doesn't say anything else though, she knows she doesn't have to, knowing she'll only upset him further if she offers some words of false comfort or if she sneaks an 'I'm sorry.' into this somehow. She just stands by his side and let's him know he's not alone. At least not here.

Upon hearing those words Sheriff Stilinski looked down, giving his brain enough time to process those words before walking through the door and taking his usual seat next to his son. There's been no change. Melissa stands from the doorway and watches him helplessly, not knowing what to do else she can offer.

This was pretty much standard procedure now; John would spend most of his time in that room, in that seat, until Melissa forced him to go downstairs and eat, or to go home to shower and get a good night's sleep. Of course he hesitated and most times refused, but she managed to kick him out anyway, telling him she'll take the night shift watching him.

He's so grateful for her.

And she does. She would draw a chair by his bedside pull out a magazine or a patient chart, basically something to keep her busy and awake and she would sit there, all the way into the early hours of the morning when John would come and find her asleep. Scott was almost always there too, bringing flowers and other things, even though they were unnecessary and as his mother had told him; not allowed in the ICU. But they didn't understand that he just needed to do something—to help anyhow. He couldn't just sit here and watch his best friend—his brother, deteriorate before his eyes.

But he helped, in the small ways he could. Like taking Stiles' pain away, he did it regularly, when the coast was clear and he knew the other nurses weren't around. It sometimes frightened him how much he took away; most days it wasn't much but only a little discomfort, but somedays he had to stop and regain his strength. He couldn't understand how much pain a human being—Stiles, could handle.

…

"How do I get back?" Stiles pondered the question around. "Will I get back?"

"I supposed that's up to you Stiles." His mother explained making the frown on his face grow deeper. "W-what do you mean, it's up to me—I-I don't even how—how am I here if I'm not dead—how can I see you…" The boy struggled out all at once without thinking. He was on the verge of frustration, every question she had answered were simply vague and indict that he had no idea what to make of them.

"I was sent here to help you, to guide you—"

"Guide me to what?" He asked in desperate confusion as he flung his hands outward trying to the best of his ability to express his exasperation in that moment. He didn't mean to come off so upset, so demanding, but honestly everything was beginning to get to him.

"There's nothing here… where are we we again?" He managed to settle the tone in his voice and clam down for a minute seeing to that he was getting out of hand.

"Still inpatient I see." Claudia said with a genuine smile. Although it was good to see her son again, she could help but be utterly disappointed in the circumstances. Stiles just remained silent, and looked down to where he started fidgeting with his fingers not wanting to face this any longer. It hurt, it hurt too much just looking at her.

"That was brave thing you did back there." Claudia began once more, seeing his hesitance towards her. Stiles gazed up at her briefly and shrugged. "Not really, I just—I… I couldn't let her get hurt… It was the right thing to do." He admitted. The memory of it all was quiet hazy for the boy but he remembered the events until that point clearly.

His mother nodded as she beamed at her son in admittance for the man he had become. So full of good, so full of heart; and she was gratified. "You did a good thing Stiles, I'm proud of you, I want you to know that."

Stiles nodded, not really allowing himself to give in to the hope of his mother in fear she would be ripped from him once again.

"So, what now?" He asked unruly wanting to drop the whole "hero" thing behind them. To him, he was no hero, it was just the right thing to do. He wasn't about to let Lydia Martin get injured on his watch, no way. He didn't even think about it, or hesitate before jumping in front of that bullet for her. And even to this point he has no regretted it. There was nothing to regret when it came to her.

It was the right thing to do.

"Now you decide."

"Decide what exactly?" He asked clearing his throat, for whatever reason he was getting this feeling like something was slowly choking him—he wasn't really aware of it until it began to really present itself. Until now, but he didn't dare speak a word of it.

"If you want to live, or come with me."

It took awhile for that to sink, he let it through a test run, twisting up and down his veins until he understood the full concept of the situation.

"I-I didn't realize it worked that way." He spit out a nervous wreck.

"I didn't realize I had a choice."

…

A large gentle hand was placed on her back easing her slowly back to consciousness as she sat in that oversized chair by Stiles' bedside. Lydia looked up wondering who hit belonged to but it wasn't long until she met eyes with Scott and they exchanged small withered smiles.

"Hi." She exhaled softly quick lying looking away. She didn't want to see it—the pity, the sorrow looks he always gave her when he found her asleep vigil at Stiles' bedside.

"Hey… did you uh… did you sleep here again?" He asked rather hesitantly, as he took a seat on the opposite side and rested his elbows against his knee's.

Lydia nodded, not wanting to answer that question audibly. In fact she didn't even have to answer it—he knew that she had. For instance she looked like she spent the night in an uncomfortable chair fighting with battle with hope and not giving up. Her hair was still in it's messy bun, tuck in and away from not having time to style it in anyway—not that she eve had the heart to. She was wearing a pair of comfortable plum sweat pants, and a t-shirt she found laying around, knowing she'd want to be comfortable that night.

Scott just gave her a nod back trying to push back his comments about her staying the night and turned his attention to his unconscious best friend.

"How is he? Anything change?" He asked rather hesitantly.

Lydia swallowed. "Um, h-he stroke a fever in the middle of the night, but they treated it with aggressive ibuprofen, it actually was more of a good thing than bad, striking a fever isn't always inferior for a patient, in fact, like in Stiles' case, it increased mobility of his leukocyte cells, which will help his immune system continue to fight infection with the endotoxin effects decreased." Lydia explained, it came to her without strain and naturally, reading indeed have it's benefits.

But after taking one look towards Scott and finding a confused expression plastered to his face she knew she had to reword her sentence. "It helped his immune system Scott, helping him to prevent from getting an infection or another fever too soon."

This time he managed to understand her more clearly. "Man, you sure have nothing to do hu?" He teased her lightly. Lydia just shook her head and pursed her lips, not really knowing how to respond. It was true—as much she wanted to do something—to help him somehow, she couldn't. She was useless. So it was true, she did have nothing to do but but sit there and read, or watch him restless lay there in unwilled slumber.

"Sorry, didn't mean for it to come out that way." Scott quickly apologized realizing how that affected her, but Lydia just shrugged it off. "It's not a big deal," She explained trying to defend him, as the turned and met his eyes. "really."

But Scott could see right through her—or rather hear, right through her for as she spoke her heart rate picked up, and this time, he didn't want to give in to her lies. "You don't have to do that with me alright? I'm not your mom, or some random boyfriend Lydia… it's me," Scott swallowed not daring to take his eyes off her broken gaze. "I know you want to do something—anything… I know." He exhaled in exhaustion.

Lydia remained silent though she knew he knew.

"I know, because I feel the same." Scott revealed brokenheartedly.

"I-I just wish…" Lydia tries to explain but the overwhelming power of the tears the threaten to escape her eyes and her ability of finding the right words fail her miserably, and leave her with a voiceless sentence as she tried to recuperate. "I…I jus—"

"Yeah, me too." Scott agree's, his werewolf sense picking up the nerve-racking scent her body was releasing along with the expression on her face, letting him come to the conclusion that they were both feeling the exact same way; guilty, scared—more like terrified actually, disbelief.

Lydia turns her gaze back on Stiles and sniffs her tears out, not wanting the alpha to see her cry. It wasn't that she felt ashamed—no, it wasn't that at all, but the feeling of being weakling in the face of hardships—of acting like the typical damsel in distress who's only good in these situations to comfort people or cry.

She didn't want to cry. But there she was, sitting there before both of them, balling her eyes out uncontrollably.

L-Lydia—" Scott tried to reach out but was quickly cut off by her.

"I-I'm getting this feeling," She admitted in near horror. "a-and I-I…I don't know what to make of it Scott." She swallows and pauses to take a breath and try to control the shaking in her petite body.

"Something's wrong." She revealed.

Scott frowned and gestured towards Stiles unresponsive on the bed. "Y-yeah, I know Lydia Stiles is in a coma—"

"Not that… something else," She mumbled as she swallowed uneasily. "I-It started this morning, the feeling… and it won't go away."

"W-what is it exactly? E-explain it." Scott asked in a concerned tone as he got off the chair in aliment and kneeled before Lydia's seat, resting his hands on her shaky knees.

Lydia had been in denial. She didn't want to accept it—the feeling. But there was no denying it—she knew that—she was so smart no to.

"I-I don't know," She began once again in a struggle to recount it for him. "I-It's like there's this overwhelming empty black whole in the pit of my stomach, threatening to get bigger and bigger… like it's planning to swallow me whole." She nearly choked out in a faint whisper.

Scott nodded intently as he followed Lydia's eye now resting back on Stiles in horror.

"T-there's something wrong Scott… something more than just this," She mumbled, her eyes widened in horror, not wanting to take her eyes off the boy dependent on machines.

"I think we're really going to lose him."

I hear something out there calling my name

no matter where I turn it all looks the same

I never sleep at night, I just stay up and wait

But the burning in my blood never came

…

Sorry for the long wait (again) hehe. Hope this chapter makes up for it, um this is a more information-wise chapter… wow my wording is not good right now. Anyway, again I apologize for the long wait (it's ridiculous I know :( ) I hope you enjoy! And I'll TRY to have a chapter up by next week. Love you guys, thanks for the support, and review! (even thought I don't deserve it cause I'm a crappy writer when it comes to updating)

(Song: Dance On Our Graves—Paper Route (not mine! (also don't own Teen Wolf)))

-C