The desert was creeping into the corners of Stiles' bedroom, and she was there again, otherwise he wouldn't have noticed that anything was different.
Stiles sat up, shifting his weightlessness into the balls of his feet so he could approach the feminine figure sitting on his desk.
They weren't quite the same, the girl from the rave and this girl from his dreams. The differences were subtle, but clear now in Stiles' dreaming mind.
The blonde hair was of similar length and shade, the eyes a startlingly mirrored blue, the height and build comparable. The dress still dark and flattering. But this dream girl was somehow fuller where the nameless – Stiles hadn't realized her name had eluded him – dancer had been mostly angles. Her eyes had lost the malice and sharpness he'd noticed before. And within his dreams this young woman, though clearly the same, now seemed separate from his half-formed memories.
He wondered if she hadn't purposefully settled herself under the light of the desk lamp so he'd notice. Specifically so he'd notice what he hadn't quite seen before.
She was quiet under his gaze, still, and accepting his appraising eye.
"The two of you aren't the same," Stiles finally spoke.
She shook her head in agreement, gently tousling that gold hair and revealing the faded bruise against her collar bone.
"But you are the same," he contradicted himself, brushing his hand over the mark with a frown.
She shook her head no.
"We were the same," she gently corrected. Her voice, too, seemed ever so slightly softer.
"I don't know what that means," Stiles insisted. He stood very close now, visually inspecting for any detail he may have missed.
Her skin remained cool while Stiles continued to radiate feverish heat even in unconsciousness.
She waited patiently until his eyes met hers again.
"I was that girl. I existed inside her. I'm not her anymore." She slid from her perch on the desk top and stood close against him. "You can feel the difference."
She took his hand and placed it against her bruised collar, and set her own hand over the bite on his chest.
Stiles was startled by the sensation that flooded his hand and arm, running into his chest and back through the girl before him. There was a current like running water churning through them. But he did not wake.
The girl's expression shifted from a friendly neutrality to one of apprehension.
"Do you understand?"
"I-," Stiles hesitated, pulling his hand away from her grasp. "Am I-?"
She nodded expectantly, waiting for him to piece it together on his own.
His mind was beginning to race in that way that generally signaled oncoming consciousness.
Out of the dark corners a wind began to howl and Stiles stepped away from the girl. Her features hardened and her hands went to the blade at her hip. Had it been there the whole time? He wasn't sure.
"You won't be there when I wake up, will you?" Stiles called into the building gale, feverishly shaking as she drew her flaming sword and wakefulness came on.
"Not yet," she managed before plunging into the raging dark.
1000111010
The wolves were gone. Scott had left soon after Derek's pack when Stiles refused to let his best friend call the Argents for help identifying whatever had bitten him. The last thing Stiles wanted was the werewolf-hunting family to decide he was some sort of threat to the community. And when the pack consensus was that, aside from the bite itself, Stiles looked and smelled healthy he'd insisted they all get out.
He'd settled back into his pillows and attempted to quiet his mind with sleep, but his dreams only left him more unsettling questions.
Stiles roused himself, noting he'd slept through his usual dinner hour without his father coming home. He shuffled toward the shower in hope that warm water could cleanse the anxiety and confusion from his mind as well as the grime from his body.
1000111010
Standing before the bathroom mirror, Stiles ran a hand over the bruised indentations of teeth against his chest. Just beneath his clavicle, the ring of the bite stood out against his perpetually pale flesh. At this distance and stage of healing it resembled much more the bite of a human jaw, not a wolf. Or any other sort of were-creature he had encountered in his research so far.
He pondered the possibility that the mysterious girl of sensuality and rhythm was some sort of immune. Like they'd discovered Lydia was immune when Jackson's kanima side had been terrorizing Beacon Hills. Was it possible that so much time with the pack had subtly infected Stiles with wolfish qualities? And even if that were possible, how would a stranger have known? Did she know? Was this a cure? Why would she care?
No, it made too little sense for Stiles' taste. He knew he was clutching at straws, though he was almost certain the answer must be staring him in the face.
His reflection made no reply. But the woman he'd been conjuring in his dreams seemed to know the answers. And weren't dreams the manifestations of unconscious thoughts, waiting to be recognized? He'd felt so sure of himself as he'd broken from dreaming into sleeplessness. But whatever he'd thought he'd known had disappeared as easily as the sun had set.
1000111010
When he shuffled back into his bedroom, Stiles didn't notice the figure wrapped in shadows beside his dresser. He was about to drop his towel and change into comfortable sweatpants before any indication was made that he wasn't alone.
Derek cleared his throat and Stiles practically jumped out of his skin.
"Holy shit!" Stiles shouted, clutching his arms across his naked chest. "You weren't invited in! Don't you knock?"
The Alpha rolled his eyes at Stiles' vampire reference. Just because there were werewolves didn't mean there were vampires, and the rules weren't the same anyway, much to Stiles' frequent dismay. And they all knew that.
Stiles was staring wide eyed and expectant at Derek while he silently scowled, one of Stiles' worn t-shirts clutched in his claws. It took too long for the message to sink in, but the man finally got it and turned around.
Stiles hastily re-dressed himself before turning his anger back on the Alpha. He was about to let Derek have it when a noise outside snagged the wolf's attention.
"The sheriff's home. I wouldn't mention this if I were you," the Alpha growled, eyes flashing a warning red. And then, in a rustle of curtains, he was gone.
1000111010
Stiles didn't mention anything to his dad. He wasn't stupid. When the sheriff asked about his camping trip with Danny, Stiles made up some general stuff about hiking and bird watching. The story raised eyebrows, but Stiles' father seemed to swallow it as truth.
Stiles was reluctant, however, to go back to sleep. He half expected that were he to dream again, the blonde girl would re-emerge and answer the questions he still hadn't muddled through. The other half of him, though, expected he was finally actually going insane. It probably made a lot more sense than any of the supernatural bullshit that he may or may not be able to dredge up from the internet or in the Argents' library. And it wasn't like it'd be the first time Stiles doubted his own sanity.
Stiles had always been a bit of a "problem child." Not like he was a threat to the safety of himself or those around him, but he'd been a little more than rambunctious, and nosy. His curiosity bordered on morbid, and often ended up embarrassing himself or his family. He had occasional mood swings that left him a little destructive. Behavioral medication had begun to even him out in middle school, but he'd been abusing those meds since his mother passed.
There was no telling how screwed up he might actually be.
With a sigh, Stiles decided that even if he was certifiable, it was better to be a well-rested nutcase than an exhausted and irritable one. The only thing he still worried about were more unexpected visitors in the night. He firmly closed and locked all his windows, and shoved a chair under his doorknob. If Derek Hale tried to sneak back in under cover of darkness, he'd have to wake the whole house to do so.
1000111010
Finally. Finally Stiles had made it through an entire night without a single nightmare or mystery woman haunting his dreams. He woke up and actually felt rested for a change.
He ignored all of Scott's text messages and phone calls until he'd thoroughly completed the homework he'd failed to get done before. And then he ignored him some more while he attempted to research possible reasons for young women to bite you – other than the obvious – without feeling even more crazy. Outside the realm of fetish, he came up with next to nothing.
Stiles was just about to call Scott back when the doorbell rang and there he was on the Stilinski's front porch.
Stiles grabbed his shoes, called out to his dad, and shoved Scott through the door before Scott even had a chance to say hello. He knew he was going to have to talk everything through with his best friend, and he really didn't want to risk his dad picking up on any of it.
"Please, please, please tell me you didn't tell Allison about this," Stiles pleaded as he pulled Scott by the shirt along the sidewalk.
Scott carefully escaped Stiles' grasp, a sheepish look on his face. Stiles turned on him.
"Fuck, dude! Why? What if she tells her dad about it?!"
"She won't!" Scott insisted. "'Sides, all she could think of was gangrene."
The furrows in Stiles' brow lifted. "Great. I'm going to rot." He rolled his eyes.
"No, you're not. You already smell way better than yesterday."
Stiles smirked at Scott's naïveté. "That was a joke, Scott. I know I'm not rotting."
"Oh, right. Man, you've been so touchy lately it's hard to tell."
Stiles frowned. He had been out of sorts for at least a week, and it'd strained their friendship.
"Scott, you're so gullible I can hardly believe you're ever sure I'm joking," Stiles teased gently and got a smile back.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever," Scott punched his arm. "Just... tell me what's going on with you."
Stiles' hand went to the back of his neck and rubbed. "I don't even know."
1000111010
They'd walked all the way to the drive-in and downed two orders of Elvis fries before Stiles finished describing as many details of his dreams as he could. He went over the appearance of the woman with the flaming sword, the feel of the desert dreamscape, the sound of the wind as it whipped him into consciousness, even the herd of bison. He tried to puzzle through the bits and pieces that always seemed to elude him upon waking, with Scott's encouragement. But neither of them could come up with any reasonable explanation, though they agreed it must be important.
Stiles also told Scott as much as he dared about the girl at the rave in the desert, leaving out only a few details. He mentally and verbally kicked himself for not bothering to get her name. All he could be sure was that although strikingly similar, the two female figures were not the same. Like fraternal twins, or those cousins who miraculously look alike in soap operas.
Scott was a little shocked at how out of character Stiles' experience at the rave had been. But he was supportive, and did try to understand how it could get frustrating for Stiles to be the go-to man when he wasn't technically a member of the werewolf pack. He was, but he wasn't.
"And now, I'm some sort of mutant. I don't even get to turn venomous like Jackson did." Stiles felt like his face might be pouting, but he didn't even care.
"Thank god, dude. You do not want to be anything like Jackson."
It was true. The Omega to Derek's Alpha had remained a bit of a loose canon - even after Derek had given him the crash course in control - up until his departure for England. Both boys shuddered to think what another unprecedented situation like Jackson's would do to the pack, or their town.
"I mean," Scott continued, trying to be helpful. "Maybe you're a witch. Or like, psychic or something. Maybe the dream girl is your – What d'they call it? - familiar or something?"
"No," Stiles had reluctantly already considered and rejected this possibility. "I'm not turning into Harry freakin' Potter. And familiars are like cats and toads and stuff, not people."
"Well, whatever! I mean, those dreams sound prophetic. They've gotta mean something!"
"Yeah, but what?"
1000111010
In some ways, Stiles felt better after telling Scott what had been troubling him. His friend had promised not to discuss the dreams with the pack, and not to mention anything else to his pseudo-girlfriend, either.
In some ways, though, Stiles only felt worse. And crazier.
The bite was little more than a dark red ring of blunt teeth marks, and Scott had said he smelled healthy, if not quite himself. He rubbed his fingers absently over the dull ache as he settled back into his bed.
In the muffled distance, between night and dawn, Stiles thought perhaps he heard the low howl of a wolf.
1000111010
A/N: Thanks for reading