Stiles had been back in Beacon Hills for about a month and... well...

Part of him wanted to pretend that his life was completely back to normal, that everything was status quo. Because it was. He was back at his dad's house, sleeping in his own bed—meaning he laid in it at night staring at the ceiling and hoping he passed out from exhaustion soon. He hung out with Scott—meaning Scott randomly showed up at his house giving him puppy dog eyes and smelling worried, until Stiles managed to ramble him out of it and placate him with mindlessly violent video games. He spent time with Lydia—meaning she dragged him out of the house and constantly commented on Stiles getting paler by the day, endless inquiries about his physical appearance and mental health, all of which he brushed aside as he insisted he was fine.

Because he was. He was totally fine.

Okay, so he felt like a hollow shell of a man and some days he could barely stand to leave his bed just to shower. He chalked it up to having lost his twin, but somehow that didn't quite feel like the whole story. Mostly he just ignored the other reason for his melancholy and got really good at pretending he was okay.

At least he was able to fool himself.

And Scott, but the guy wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer and he was as naïve as a kid sometimes, blatantly refusing to think anyone was actually lying or hiding something. He was too trusting, it was almost sad.

When he wasn't holed up in his bed and pretending there was nothing wrong with that, Stiles was bugging his dad for details over the investigation into his mom's death. There hadn't been a whole lot to go on, most of the evidence having disappeared due to so much time passing, but a search of Peter's main residence in Oak Creek turned up a whole slew of information on Claudia Stilinski—born of the Blaszkiewicz Pack—her illness, and her car. It wasn't much, but it was enough to add her death to the list of multiple charges against him.

Peter's arrest made national headlines, every major news network, website, and publication reporting on the alpha who'd conspired to kill his twin sister, the State Alpha of California, and how he'd murdered her son-in-law. The media had even tried to get an interview with both Stiles and his father since they were the family of the victim, but after days of ignoring them, the sheriff finally released a generic "we have no comment nor will we ever. Please give us some privacy during this hard time."

The reporters backed off at that, hounding the Hales instead. Or at least trying to through the countless security checks and multiple walls, no one even getting past the first gate. State Alpha Hale released a video statement saying she was appalled by her brother's actions and that she had no idea he'd been behind the malicious attacks of thirteen years ago, adding her condolences to the Stilinski family and asking for privacy for both them and the Hales.

She also sent the Stilinskis an enormous bouquet and a heartfelt letter detailing how sorry she was for their loss and what a great person Stuart was. It went in the fireproof safe with other important documents and the Stilinski men spent a silent afternoon and evening on the couch, both pretending they weren't on the verge of tears at it.

Stiles had given a sworn affidavit of the events via Skype with the Oak County ADA, witnessed by both his dad and Parrish, taking place in the sheriff's office. He hid his disappointment at which S-Dub had been present, reminding himself it would've actually been worse had Derek been there. There was no way he could handle looking at the guy, even through the crap picture of his dad's work laptop, and not breakdown or completely give away the fact that the two of them were more than just former brothers-in-law.

There was no word of Stu not being Derek's True Mate and Stiles figured the alpha was keeping up with the lie so he did the same. Lydia was the only one who knew the truth and after begging and pleading and explaining the whole thing to her, she reluctantly agreed to keep it a secret, yet still made it known what a horrible idea she believed it was. A huge part of Stiles agreed, but he kept that fact to himself, focusing instead on the charade that he was fine and the only thing bothering him was his twin's death.

Which was how he found himself at Lydia's place on a Friday night, drinking illegally procured wolfsbane infused liquor and beer that he honestly didn't question how she obtained. Honestly, he was just glad it wasn't a full blown party like last time, when countless people he didn't know kept coming up to him saying they were sorry for his loss and he wound up on the back patio throwing up into a potted ficus and having a panic attack.

He wasn't entirely sure if the smaller get-together was more for his sake or for her plants.

He liked to think it was for him.

Although if it were really for him, there wouldn't be a pity party at all, something he told her he was pretty peeved about. Lydia had simply rolled her eyes and told him to get over it, that she was doing it for his own good, glaring daggers at him that had shut his mouth pretty damn quickly.

A lot of the fight had drained out of him lately and he wasn't even gonna pretend it wasn't due to the depression he was pretty sure he was suffering from.

Which was to be expected really, considering his twin had died and he'd walked away from his Mate all within the same week. That shit would take its toll on anyone.

So if he wound up spending more time sitting on the couch in Lydia's basement than dancing like Scott and Allison and Danny and Ethan, then no one could really blame him. That shit was to be expected, too.

Music was playing from the sound system, some female artist Stiles didn't recognize singing about being a hurricane, the two couples dancing closely with one another. He may or may not have been pouting as he nursed a beer, there was no proof either way.

Except for maybe Lydia's judgy look as she sat down next to him and sighed.

Whatever. She could disapprove all she wanted. He didn't ask her to throw him a pity party, just because her mom was the next county over discussing more protection for the Nemeton with Alpha Satomi, State Alpha Hale, and Noshiko Yukimura, an expert on Nemeton lore and the mother of Kira, the Mate of Derek's cousin-slash-pseudo-sister.

He took another long pull of his beer at that. The world was too goddamn small at times. Or at least Northern California was.

Lydia let out another sigh and he turned to find her staring wistfully at the two couples dancing and laughing, bright smiles on their faces. Her arm was on the back of the couch, fingers playing with her loose curls, leg tucked under her with her flower print dress flowing over her lap delicately. A small smile was on her face, green eyes full of longing, and Stiles suddenly felt bad that she was sitting on the couch with his gloomy ass rather than having fun with the others.

"You should go dance," he told her, gesturing to the open space with his half-empty bottle. "You shouldn't be stuck on the couch with the mopey omega. You should be having fun."

She dismissed the thought with a wave of the hand. "I'm fine not dancing," she told him, completely honest in her words. "Besides, it's not really the same without Jordan." Her eyes went wide and her scent turned worried, peeking at Stiles out the corner of her eye as she tensed up.

His guilt doubled at her behavior, knowing she was afraid she'd said or done something wrong by bringing up her Mate, a guy who just happened to work for and be friends with his own Mate. He hated that he made her feel like she had to walk around on eggshells with him, like she couldn't talk about her Mate without upsetting the delicate omega. It wasn't fair to her, not after everything she'd done for him when it came to Stu, not when she'd come thisclose to jail time and only got away with it thanks to her mom's position and the circumstances behind the falsified paperwork.

Feeling like an ass, he wrung the back of his neck, wincing at his own fucked up behavior. He scooted closer to her, leaning down and speaking lowly, words meant just for her. "Look, if you wanna talk about Jordan, go for it," he told her honestly, small smile on his face. "You have every right to brag about your Mate and you shouldn't have to hold back because it didn't wok out between me and mine."

"I didn't know you found your Mate, Stiles," Allison stated and he turned to watch her plop down on the floor in front of them, folding her legs and tucking the skirt of her dark gray dress between them so nothing was on display. Stiles felt a moment of irritation at her interrupting, at the fact that she'd found out something he didn't want anyone to know, but at the sight of her warm brown eyes and sweet dimples, he melted. It was hard to stay mad at a Disney princess like Allison. "What happened?"

Lydia pursed her lips as she peered up at him, shrugging a shoulder to wordlessly say it was up to him. Allison glanced back and forth between then with shrewd eyes, not missing the exchange, her own lips twisting to the side thoughtfully. He looked around to the room to find Danny and Ethan practically inhaling each other and dry humping in a corner and Scott MIA, most likely in the bathroom. No other ears listening in really.

With a sigh, Stiles turned to the female on the floor, smearing a hand down his face before shrugging and shaking his head. "Not much to tell," he muttered as he began picking at the edge of the label on his beer bottle. "We both have two different lives going on and it just wasn't gonna work out."

Allison nodded grimly, thoughtful frown on her face and her lips pressed into a hard line. "I get it. Same kinda thing happened to my dad," she stated, tucking some of her dark shoulder length hair behind her ear. "He began Dreaming after he'd Mated my mom and I was about eight I think."

His eyebrows raised, Lydia's scent shifting to a similar state of surprise. "That had to be awkward," he commented, getting an "mmm" for back-up from his right.

Allison shrugged a delicate shoulder, fiddling with the hem of her dress. "It could've been, especially after he met her when my mom was still alive. But his Mate said she understood and backed off, said she wasn't gonna break up our family." A small smile formed on her face, dimples forming in each cheek. "I've never met her, but I still respect the crap outta her. I dunno if I could've done the same thing if Scott was already with someone else." At the mention of her Mate, her hand subconsciously went to the left side of her neck, fingers tracing the Claiming Bite near her ear that had clearly been refreshed earlier that day.

Stiles let out a "hmm" of his own, not entirely sure what he would've done had Stu still been alive and Mated to Derek. Then again, didn't he already know the answer? He'd already given Derek up for Stu's sake and the guy wasn't even alive anymore. Had his twin been alive and had the situation been explained to him, he would've backed off and let them be together in their small semblance of happiness.

Maybe he would've had a few too many glasses of wine with Laura as they exchanged sobs stories over giving up already taken Mates.

And now that he was thinking of her, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe she was the unknown female Allison had just been discussing. Her story sounded a whole lot like the one Laura had told him the night of Stu's funeral, with the married, fathered Mate and her backing off rather than being a homewrecker. Would've been one helluva coincidence, especially when he further thought about how Kate was Allison's aunt on her dad's side.

Fucking hell, seriously, this fucking small world of their's. Very fucking annoying at times. Like that one.

Brushing her hair back from her face, Allison turned to Lydia with a grin, smelling sweet and curious. "So Lydia, what's going on with Jordan? That transfer go through?"

Lydia practically beamed at the mention of her Mate's name, wide smile on her face, her own deep dimples on full display. She was glowing from the inside out and Stiles felt like a gigantic ass for having denied her that. "Yeah, he starts at the sheriffs department next week," she bragged, playing with a section of strawberry blonde hair. "He's looking for a place to live right now, but he may wind up having to stay at the motel downtown for a while."

"Why can't he just stay here with you?" Stiles asked with a puzzled frown.

She scoffed and rolled her green eyes. "Because my mom gets a little too handsy when she's had one too many glasses of wine—which is far too often for my taste." She paused to take a sip of her own glass of red. "And it's not that I don't trust him or think he'd go along with her or whatever, I just—"

"Don't want him to be scared off by your mom's actions," Allison finished for her, Lydia nodding. "Yeah. I get that."

Stiles seesawed his head at that, having firsthand experience with a tipsy Alpha Martin and having heard horror stories of Scott with Allison's parents. Poor guy couldn't look at an electric pencil sharpener without shuddering—something Stiles still didn't entirely understand and Scott's explanations of "you had to be there, man" were of zero help.

He had to wonder how his dad would react to bringing someone home. Chances were an extensive tour of his gun cabinet would be involved, his sheriff badge would be on his hip, despite being out of uniform, and it wouldn't be all that big of a surprise if his dad ran a full background check beforehand and dropped tidbits and interrogatory questions during dinner.

"So I hear you were busted shoplifting at age thirteen. Pass the salt."

There was no such thing as an expunged record when his dad was involved.

Too bad Stiles was never gonna get any firsthand experience of his dad's treatment of whatever romantic partner he brought home. At least not with Derek being involved. And the way he was feeling lately, it seemed pretty much like Derek or nothing.

Fucking eh. How the hell did Laura manage this shit? He may actually take her up on her offer of help with anything at anytime and get some advice on how to live a semi-normal fucking life without one's Mate.

Then again maybe not. He knew Laura had an inkling about Stu not being Derek's True Mate and maybe she thought Stiles was, but as far as he was aware, she hadn't been told the truth and didn't know the whole story. He wasn't about to change that and get in the shit book with Derek.

If he was in any book with that guy at all really.

Not to mention how incredibly awkward it would be talking to his pseudo-ex's sister. There was a reason why he'd thrown her number out and made sure it hadn't been put in his phone during a sneaky moment.

Scott returned at that moment and Allison hopped up from her spot on the floor, bounding over to him with a gleeful grin on her face that reminded Stiles of Kira. The couple soon became lost in their own world as they so often did and Stiles drained the rest of his beer, immediately getting up to grab another out the mini-fridge. Flopping back onto his previous spot, he twisted open the cap and took a large gulp, feeling a pair of judgy green eyes on him, inhaling a whole lotta worried alpha. Lowering his drink, he peered at Lydia with a cocked eyebrow, silently asking her what she was thinking.

"You sure you're okay?" she asked lowly, her raspy voice barely audible over the rasp of the female singing about begging for thread—whatever the fuck that meant.

"I'm fine," he replied, exacerbated. He'd told the lie so many times he was starting to believe it was maybe true.

Fake it 'til you make it.

She let out a sigh, fingers carding through her hair, head shaking in disapproval. "I don't believe you," she informed him and he opened his mouth to tell her that was her own problem, but she beat him to it. "But I know there's no way to actually get you to actually admit it, so just know that whenever you're finally willing to confess the truth and talk about it, I'm here to listen." She gave him a soft smile that reminded him of why she was his best friend and why he fucking adored her so damn much.

He gave her a small smile and reached over to clasp her hand with his. "Thanks, Lyds," he said softly, relishing the sweet smile he got in return. Was almost hard to believe there'd been a time when he would've given his right nut to have her smile at him like that, but now he was hung up on somebody else, his feelings for them making his all-consuming crush on her look like puppy love.

It hit him then that he was due for a Dream any day now and he closed his eyes tight, as though he could ward it off. The last thing he needed was a reminder of how well he and Derek fit together, how perfectly their bodies moved in rhythm with one another. He was suffering enough without that shit.

Taking another long pull of his beer, he let the buzz of the alcohol wash over him, hoping like hell his Dream came that night while he was blacked out.

He woke up feeling worse than ever, something he just chalked up to being hungover.

Although he'd had times where he'd had way more to drink and felt nowhere near as bad. Maybe he was becoming a lightweight in his ripe ol' age of twenty.

"You look like you're literally dying."

Trust Lydia to sweet talk him in his current incapacitated state first thing in the morning.

He grunted at her as he sank down onto a metal stool in the Martin kitchen, the room all stainless steel and stark white cabinets, high-end this and state-of-the-art that. Hurt his eyes to look at on the best of days.

"Seriously," she began, standing on the opposite side of the breakfast counter from him, features pulled in a mix of a grimace and a wince, scent worried and disgusted all at once. "You look worse than I've ever seen you."

He knew damn well how bad he looked, paler than usual, dark circles so bad he looked like he had black eyes, skin sunken in and sallow, hair sticking up all over the place more than it normally did. Really the only good thing he had going for him physically was that he was clean-shaven and that was only because Lydia had forced him to the night before, stating he looked like a "homeless meth addict with that patchy monstrosity on your face, so do the world a favor and put your Gillette to good use."

"Thanks, Lyds," he grumbled, smearing a hand over his face, mentally taking stock of how he felt. No headache to speak of. His nausea had dissipated after a quick stop in the bathroom to get up close and personal with the toilet. No appetite, but that was pretty much par for the course for him recently. Still felt exhausted, despite actually having gotten some sleep.

Or at least he assumed he'd gotten some sleep. There was a huge blank space in his night and he'd woken up on the couch with his face smashed against a pillow and a blanket carefully draped over him, meaning he'd passed out at some point.

No Dream though. Thank fuck.

Although knowing his luck, his subconscious was saving it for that night.

Goddammit.

"Wanna talk about it?" Lydia offered before turning away to the opposite counter, setting to work making coffee in the fancy ass Nescafe machine she had.

He ground the heel of his hand between his pecs at the sight of the coffee maker, remembering another alpha that had scoffed at the mention of said machine, singing the praises of his own Keurig, and how he'd managed to brew Stiles the perfect cup of joe with it. Repeatedly.

"There's nothing to talk about," he mumbled, sniffing before dropping his hand onto the counter, folding his arms in front of him.

She gave him a completely unamused look over her shoulder, shaking her head and making her strawberry blonde hair swish about. "Denial isn't healthy and is no way to get through life," she stated as she turned back, adjusting the falling side of the oversized gray hoodie she was wearing. The one that had originally been Parrish's.

Stiles felt a twinge of regret that he hadn't managed to swipe anything of Derek's, only to wonder if it would've been a good idea in the first place. He was barely getting by as it was; having the man's scent around... Maybe it would've helped him cope better, maybe it could've helped him wean himself off the alpha.

But maybe it would've just been a reminder of what he lost. Maybe it would've been another stab in the heart, another crack in his ribcage, another hole in his chest beside the still-healing one of his brother's loss and the loosely stitched up one from his mom that was coming undone with the recent news regarding the circumstances of her death.

"It's helping me get through it right now," he argued, shoving his hand through his hair repeatedly, the too-long strands standing on end. He was in serious need of a cut, dangerously close to resembling Coach Finstock and his fork-in-an-outlet hairdo.

Not a good look on anyone.

But getting it cut required effort and leaving his bed, neither of which he was inclined to do.

Unless forcefully removed against his will by stubborn five-foot-three alphas on a tear, like the previous night.

Lydia let out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing at her forehead, the scent of aggravation and worry heavy in the air, overpowering the coffee. "Stiles, I just." She cut herself off, turning around with her arms folded over her torso, fixing him with hard green eyes. Her lips were pursed as her jaw worked, a look of agitation she often wore when they'd first become friends and he wasn't letting her have her way during chemistry assignments, refusing to roll over for the alpha queen who was used to being in charge and having everyone kiss her feet and/or ass. "You're worrying everyone with your behavior. Everyone. And the fact that you look like a greasy vampire in some terrible art-school film isn't helping. I wasn't joking last night when I told you that you looked like a homeless meth addict."

He glanced to the side, unable to look at her, unable to face the truth of what she was saying. French doors were located to the right, her Pomeranian Prada prancing around the backyard, chasing after a butterfly. It was another beautiful summer day, the kind of bright and sunny California was known for, the stereotypes of the state's weather, the clear blue sky and the hot hot heat.

Stiles still hated nice weather, still wanted thunderstorms and torrential downpours, still wanted his mood reflected by the atmospheric conditions. He didn't feel like sunshine, didn't feel like clear skies, didn't feel like bright warm days. He felt cold, abnormally so, felt gray and empty and so very void of everything, and he wanted to see it whenever he looked out the windows.

He didn't get it.

The universe was still fucking with him. The dick.

"Stiles?"

He peered over at his best friend at the soft way she'd spoken his name, saw the way her arms were wrapped around herself rather than folded to show anger or annoyance, saw the concern in her furrowed brow and pressed lips, the shine in her eyes and the way her delicate nostrils constricted as she sniffed.

"You didn't shift with us two weeks ago," she pointed out lowly, glancing at her feet before meeting his eyes. "Scott said he asked your dad about it and he said you didn't shift at all. That's not normal, not okay. There's something very wrong with you and acting like everything is alright is not helping."

He swallowed hard, breathing in lungfuls of her worry and anxiety and hating himself for it. Because once again he was dimming the light that was Lydia Martin, was affecting her life in a negative way when all she'd been was supportive and sweet and caring and helpful. He was a dick and she deserved better.

He wondered briefly if that's how Derek saw himself all those times he told Stiles he deserved better.

He shoved the thought aside when it hurt too much, just like all thoughts of Derek hurt.

"I know I'm not okay, Lyds," he admitted, voice rough, clearing his throat. "My twin was murdered and I more or less broke up with my Mate. I'm gonna be out of it for a while."

"This is more than being out of it," she pointed out, harsh edge to her words. "This is there being something seriously fucking wrong that you should definitely seek professional help for."

He rolled his eyes at that, rising to his feet, knowing the conversation was just gonna wind up going in circles. "I don't need help, okay? I'm fine, I'm handling it, I'm dealing."

"Ignoring the problem until it goes away isn't dealing, Stiles," she snipped and he internally winced, hating how well she knew him.

He sighed, shoving a hand through his hair, flannel shirt flapping with the movement. "There isn't a problem to ignore," he lied, walking around the island to stand before her. "Because I'm fine."

She huffed, glaring up at him with hard green eyes, realizing she wasn't getting anywhere and was wasting her time. "Whatever," she dismissed. "Call me when it's time to prove me right. I've got my 'told you so' perfectly lined up."

The corner of his lips quirked up at that, the closest he came to a smile in recent times, and he nodded. "Okay, Lyds." Bending down, he kissed her cheek and said his goodbyes, shuffling out the house with aching joints and tired muscles. He wasn't fine, wasn't handling it, wasn't dealing, and they both knew it, just like they both knew he'd never fucking admit any of it out loud.

Climbing behind the wheel of his Jeep, he was hit with a flash of a different pair of green eyes and the sorrow they'd held as the owner had said goodbye and told Stiles to take care. He swallowed hard at it, at the knowledge that he wasn't really and that part of him kind of didn't want to.

Shoving it all aside, he cranked the engine, Roscoe starting up with a loud rumble, determined to forget about every-fucking-thing, especially a male green-eyed alpha who he honestly hoped was doing a million times better than Stiles was. Then again, he'd seen terminal patients at Beacon Memorial who were doing better than he currently was, so that wasn't really saying much or setting the bar all that high.

He shoved that thought aside, too, heading straight home, wanting nothing more than his bed and a Rip Van Winkle style nap, knowing he was most likely only gonna get the first.

"Glad to see you're alive," his dad greeted him, standing in the front hallway in his full uniform, tight lines around his eyes and lips. "But I can't say I'm thrilled over you reeking of alcohol when you're still underage."

Stiles winced at that, rubbing the back of his neck as he closed the door behind himself. Sheriff for a dad, should've known that he'd be busted.

Okay, he'd totally known, but whatever. At the time he hadn't been thinking about anything but that one song he heard on his internet radio app the other day about "can't stop drinking about you". Taking a shot to forget about forever seemed like a damn good idea really. And it had been.

Until Lydia's declaration that he looked like he was dying and now his dad giving him a judgy "what am I gonna do with this wayward child of mine?" look.

At least he wasn't hungover.

Or at least he didn't think he was. It was hard to tell. He still felt like absolute shit and wanted nothing more than to just crawl in bed, burrito up in his comforter, and throw a metaphorical finger to the world, but it wasn't accompanied by the usual "dear lord, I am never drinking that much again" groans and empty promises.

Dead twin. No Mate. Finding out his mom had been murdered and hadn't been in an accident. Okay, yeah, he'd earned the right to feel like shit.

"In my defense," Stiles began, clearing his throat as he dropped his hand. "I didn't drive home last night. And I drank in the safety of someone's residence and didn't go out anywhere."

"By 'someone's residence', you mean Lydia's house," his dad deadpanned, arms folded and eyebrow cocked in a way that dared his kid to defy him.

It was almost like he didn't know Stiles at all.

"I plead the fifth."

"That only protects you against self-incrimination. It doesn't protect others."

He gestured wildly, eyes wide, like it actually fucking mattered. He wasn't giving Lydia up for anything, not after all she'd done for him. Really, he should be her indentured servant at that point, carrying her purse and taking her stupid tiny dog for walks and sitting on all fours as she used him for an ottoman.

All right, that last part was borderline fem-domme stuff, but he wouldn't put it past Lydia to be into that shit.

He wasn't gonna be able to look at Parrish straight on anymore, not with that image in his head. Fuck.

His dad let out a sigh, shaking his head and rubbing at his eyes. "Look, just. Get something to eat and get in bed, sleep it off, okay?" He refolded his arms, giving his son a stern look, lips pulled in a wince. "You look like hell."

Stiles snorted. "So I've been told."

The two exchanged goodbyes, hugging before his dad left the house and headed off to work. The omega locked all the deadbolts then stared at the kitchen, deciding against food. Instead, he hauled himself up the stairs and to his room where he exchanged his jeans for a pair of flannel pajama pants and tossed his plaid overshirt somewhere before crawling into bed. He got comfy in the middle, just how he liked it, comforter wrapped around him as he closed his eyes and tried to drift off to sleep.

Which was precisely what didn't happen.

He felt completely restless, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. He couldn't relax on his right side, his left side, his back, his stomach, curled up, stretched out, one leg tucked in and the other laying flat. He felt shaky and jittery all over, his wolf pacing about and whining, completely ill at ease. His skin felt off, too tight and too loose at the same time, his internal organs all in the wrong places, his chest empty and hollow.

A howl cried out in the distance and he was out of bed with his pajama pants halfway off, compelled to follow it, when he realized it wasn't even real. He'd imagined the damn thing.

Worst of all, that wasn't the first time that'd happened to him.

He practically fell onto the bed with weak knees, raising his trembling hand to shove it through his hair. He felt physically ill, nauseous, a thin coat of sweat covering him and making him feel disgusting all over. But the worst part was how he just didn't seem to care. What was the point in bathing or hygiene? What was the point in being well and healthy? What was the point in anything anymore?

Stiles felt completely jittery all over, barely able to grip his cell, to pull up his contacts, to tap Lydia's name.

It rang four times before there was an answer and he let out a shaky sigh of relief at her croaky "hello?"

"Lyds?" he questioned unnecessarily, voice wavering and weaker than he remembered it ever being. "I think there might be something really wrong with me."

He awaited her "duh", her "I told you so", her "of course there is, since when am I ever wrong about anything?". But instead what came was a fiercely determined yet soft and gentle: "I'll be right over to drive you to the hospital."

He managed to dress himself in a pair of gray sweats and pull a red hoodie over his black tee, slipping his feet inside a pair of random sneakers he grabbed out his closet. Lydia arrived soon after, dressed down in a pair of denim shorts and a Marines tee he was pretty sure wasn't hers, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and face surprisingly makeup free for once.

She had to support him on the way in to Beacon Memorial, arm wrapped around his waist, his legs barely working to carry him inside. At the front desk, they found out that his regular doctor wasn't in, but Scott's mom was there and available, taking them to a private room to chat. Lydia hovered near the closed door, stinking the room up with her overwhelming concern and worry, as Stiles sat on the bed with his back to her. Melissa stood close by, metal clipboard in one hand, pen in the other, his file open for her to take notes on.

"So, Stiles, what exactly seems to be the problem?" she questioned, an odd mix of clinical detachment and caring mom. Her own concerned scent was mixing with Lydia's, to the point where it was almost overwhelming, and he had a hard time concentrating on the question he'd been asked.

"I feel," he began, shaking his head when he couldn't quite figure out the right word. "Off."

"Off?" she double-checked, cocking an eyebrow. "Can you be a bit more specific?"

He scratched at his forehead then smeared his hand down his face, gesturing helplessly. "Like. Wrong. I dunno."

"Ohhkay," she stretched out the word as she bobbed her eyebrows, scribbling a note. "How much sleep have you been getting lately?"

"Including the eight hour black out from when I got drunk last night?" he asked with a forced chuckle, not liking the worried glance it got him or the disapproving sigh from Lydia coming from behind.

"You black out from drinking often?" Melissa asked out of both concern and disappointment, eyes fixed on him in a look that was strangely judgy and worried at the same time.

He shook his head, feeling incredibly chastised, having flashbacks to Mama McCall yelling at him, Scott, and Stu about no skateboarding in the house, no wrestling on the couches, no lacrosse inside either! "No, not in about a year," he admitted honestly, wringing the back of his neck as his feet began swinging back and forth. "But I've maybe gotten about five hours sleep."

"A night?"

"This week."

Lydia muttered out a few choice words from the background as Melissa's eyebrows raised and she wrote it down before going through a whole list of other things she needed to double-check.

"Energy level?"

"Zero, but that's probably due to lack of sleep."

"Diet?"

"I haven't been eating much in all honesty. No appetite."

"Mood?"

"Swinging back and forth, but mostly leaning towards the morose side of things."

"Focus?"

"Worse than usual, but that could be a no sleep thing again."

"Depressed or suicidal thoughts?"

"A few times, yeah."

"Anything else?"

He let out a long sigh as he thought it over, staring at his hands as his fingers tangled together on his lap. "I feel jittery, I can't stay warm even when I completely bundle up, my wolf is restless and constantly whining, I feel a dull ache all over, and earlier I heard a wolf howling that wasn't really there, but I was totally convinced that it was, and that's happened about six times now," he rushed out, taking a deep breath when it was over. "That, plus just a general sense of 'wrong' all over with everything."

Melissa wrote it all down, her concerned scent growing even more intense with each admission, and she stared at her clipboard for a long time when she was finished. Licking her lips, she glanced over at Lydia before finally looking at Stiles, worry etched in her brow and around her tight lips. "Think you can describe it to me?"

He scratched his forehead with one finger, thinking about it, trying to get his thoughts together, But the more he tried, the dizzier he felt, the room spinning faster and faster and faster. His vision began to blacken at the edges, everything going blurry and swirling, all of it feeling completely off-kilter. His wolf began yowling inside his head, louder than he'd ever heard it before, so loud that he couldn't think, much less figure out what the hell was going on.

The only saving grace in the whole thing was that he passed out to the side and didn't fall off the bed.

Things were hazy for a long time.

It was like swimming almost, drowning in a sea of nothing, blackness overtaking and overwhelming. He had no idea where he was, what was happening, if he was even still alive.

He figured he had to be, because every now and then he would surface, would hear things. He heard the beep of his heart rate monitor and the drip of his IV. He heard the sound of the door opening and shutting, the scribbling of a pen as someone updated his chart. He heard the voices of a man and a woman in conversation, their tones hushed but worried, a tinge of fear to them as they spoke.

"I took some notes on his symptoms and I think you might wanna check them out," said the female. Melissa. He liked Melissa. Melissa was a surrogate mom, had been there after his real mom had died, was a caregiver and a support system and just a wonderful person in general.

"Yeah, I have, too." His dad. And he sounded really worried, really upset. Oh shit, he was upset about Stiles. Oh fuck, he wasn't supposed to be upset, wasn't supposed to be worried, not about him. Stiles wasn't gonna leave, was gonna be the one person who stuck around, who was okay, who was...

"It's just like Claudia."

Claudia. His mom. His lovely, lovely mom. Who had gotten sick with frontotemporal dementia and had slowly gone insane, delusions haunting her and driving her so far to the edge, that she drove herself into a wall.

Delusions like the wolf he'd heard howling earlier.

He tried harder to surface, to hear more, to make sure that wasn't what was happening. Surely there was a mistake, surely that couldn't be the case. But he thought of his symptoms and the obsessive research he'd done over the years of his mom's disease, research that included the fact that it could hit teenagers and young adults.

Like him.

He was fighting a losing battle and soon the blackness took over and he was lost once again to a state of nothingness.