Hey! I wasn't planning on writing again so quickly, but I will admit I'm feeling a little blue today, which would be great to channel in some angst-writing! Good outlet, you know? (Maybe, I'm not sure, but we'll see, I suppose)

I didn't mean to freak you guys out with my last note saying you'd hate me, but then again, maybe I did… *insert evil smile here* It's gonna be an interesting ride, folks!

Also, major warning: This episode is trigger-y as all get out. Stiles and Nathan have a very frank discussion regarding suicide, so I just want to warn you in advance. I love you all too much not to!

Chapter 4

One Step Froward, Too Many Back

By the time Stiles gets home, his hands are cold. It's another side-effect. Stiles wonders if he's just a compilation of side-effects now. Like, he's no longer a person. He's simply of list of things that are wrong. Everything about him should be different, but it's not. It's so frustrating to know that you're wrong, but not have the knowledge of how to become right.

"Where the hell were you?"

Stiles freezes in the hallways of his house, completely taken aback by the sudden aggression directed toward him. He puts his hands up in a defensive position, his instincts driving him like some brutal force. He sees his father, but doesn't see his father. He sees… them. Except logically, he knows his dad isn't one of them. He doesn't have a whip in his hands and he isn't screaming things that make him want to rip off his ears.

But his body doesn't know that.

Stiles unclenches and drops his hands; his father is looking at him like he's about to cry. "Sorry," Stiles mutters distantly, trying to act as if he didn't think he father was about to hit him. Because he wouldn't. Theoretically, Stiles was safe. He tells himself that over and over, even though the words don't stick. I'm safe, I'm safe, I'm safe, I'm safe… Maybe one of these days he'll actually believe it, instead of feeling like a cornered animal at all times. The constant rush of adrenaline is exhausting. "Sorry," he shakes his head. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

He wants to say it over and over again. Sorry, sorry, sorry. How many times can he say it until it makes everything go away? He'd say it until his dying breath if it meant the permanent knot that was in his chest would unravel. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

It isn't until his father pulls him into a tight hug does he realize he's been saying it out loud.

"It's alright Stiles, it's alright." His father repeats in an endless fashion, just as Stiles has been muttering his apologies. "You just can't do that. You can't just leave. I'm sorry kid, but that's how it's got to be. I have to know where you are at all times. That's the rule."

Stiles buries his face into his father's shoulders, the words warming him in a way that he doesn't remember. It's a foreign feeling, but it's good and nice and lifts the darkness, even if for a moment. "I'm just used to being on my own." He mumbles into his father's t-shirt.

The Sheriff pulls away, grasping Stiles' shoulders. He lifts Stiles chin so he can look him in the eyes and states carefully, "You are not on your own. You never should've been and you never will be again. But you can't just leave in the middle of the night, and you especially can't just leave in the middle of the night and not tell me where you went! I thought – I mean, I thought you'd—"

"Left?" Stiles finishes. He can't help the fact that his voice is yearning. He can't help the fact that he wishes it was true. He felt better if he was constantly moving, like the nightmares would always be just a little further away if his feet kept in motion. Once he was still, everything could catch him.

And catch him, they did.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to leave again," Stiles mutters. "Everyone keeps thinking I will, but I can't."

"Can't?"

Stiles groans. "Ever read Flowers for Algernon?" The look the Sheriff gives Stiles shows plainly that he has not. Stiles laughs. "Once you experience something, you can't quite go back to the way it was because you'll always remember the way it used to be. That's Beacon Hills for me, Dad. I'm surrounded by all these things that make me think about what life used to be like and how good it was and all it does is remind me how shitty everything is now and I hate it."

Stiles is surprised at his sudden shout and he backs up from his father. "I-I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have yelled."

The Sheriff eyes him. "No. Go on, Stiles."

Stiles looks at him curiously, the words that have been building up inside of him for months finally at the surface, desperately trying to escape. "I don't want to yell at you," he finishes instead with a small voice. "I don't want to yell at anyone. I just want to be better."

"But you're not."

"But I'm not."

The two Stilinskis groan in unison, giving each other sheepish grins after the fact. They walk into the kitchen, the Sheriff puttering around until Stiles finally realizes what he's doing. Putting a pot on the stove, he rummages through the fridge until he gets out a gallon of milk. Stiles smiles to himself when he notices that in a thin Sharpie is the words 'Stiles' Milk'. There's another thing. Another thing that reminds him of the way things used to be.

Stiles has always been a milk person. He could drink a couple gallons in a week and used to crave it, particularly when getting used to his medication when he was younger. So when people came over, his dad and him had a deal. There would be a gallon of milk in the fridge for everyone else – and then there'd be Stiles' milk. No one was allowed to touch that milk because he knew exactly how much was needed, and of course when he needed more.

Stiles hadn't labeled his milk in a while.

But there it was, the small little label of a small little compromise that he and his father made when he was younger. As the Sheriff heats up the milk on the stove, Stiles can't help but smiling to himself. His father used to do this a lot after his drinking subsided when his mother died. Heating up milk on the stove may not have been able to bring his Mom back, but it was something.

That all they could really do at the time – something.

And now here they are again.

When the two mugs are placed on the table, Stiles takes it into his hands. "I'm sorry," he says sincerely. "It slipped my mind. I've spent the past four months being on my own and it's hard to get used to people wanting to know where I am at all times."

"Four months?" The Sheriff inquires. "So you stayed in the clinic for only a month?"

Stiles internally curses. He does not want to talk about the clinic – especially with his dad because he knows he'd just blame himself for sending him there. That isn't something he'd ever put on his father. No, he's taking what happened during that month to grave, if he has to. "Yes." He states, hoping his tone indicates this conversation isn't up for discussion.

His father seems to take the blatant hint, but clearly isn't pleased. "Listen kid, we need to figure something out. We need to come up with some sort of solution so that we can do this together. Make all of this work. Because I'm going to be totally honest with you. I am terrified. I am terrified that something's going to happen and it's going to push you over the edge again. I don't know what to do, Stiles. I just don't know what to do."

That's the thing, isn't it, though? He didn't know what to do either. But he'd try simply because his father needed him to. "I don't know either, Dad."

"Do we need to move?"

Stiles' head whips up. "Huh?"

"Do we need to move out of Beacon Hills? Because I was looking into some places a couple county's away and there are some deputy positions open. Nothing looks too… supernatural there. I think—"

"You'd do that?" Stiles asks. "You'd move away from Beacon Hills, from your job and the McCalls… for me?"

The Sheriff looks at Stiles as though he swore at him. "Are you kidding? I move to a different country if it meant that you'd be okay."

Shit.

That's when Stiles knew. That's when Stiles knew he could never leave Beacon Hills. He had to be here. Because of Scott, because of his dad. Because of people who would be willing to uproot their lives to make sure he was okay. They had to be in Beacon Hills because it needs to be protected. And Stiles had to be there because they needed him.

Stiles looks at his hands. They're callused and scarred from too many adventure to recount, but he can still see the faint tinge of blood on them from the Nogitsune. Everything in the world would now be tinted just a little red, just like everything would be a little bit darker. One thing he knows for certain is things will never be the way they used to. And he's trying to figure out if he's okay with that.

Well, he has to be, he supposes.

"No, Dad, we can't move." Stiles sighs. "Beacon Hills needs you."

"I don't care about what Beacon Hills needs. What about what you need?"

Stiles merely shrugs.

His needs disappeared long ago when his past had a death toll.

His father is about to open his mouth to argue, so Stiles quickly chooses to change the subject. "I don't know how to help that kid, Dad. What should I do?"

The Sheriff frowns, probably knowing exactly what Stiles did, but he humors him. "Hell if I know, kid. He reminds me of you when you were…" The Sheriff can't finish.

"Bad." Stiles chooses to do it for him because he needs his Dad to know that he's no longer that bad. He's somewhat better. He needs to be better.

"Well," the Sheriff muses. "What did you want people to say to you?"

Stiles doesn't want to think that far back. He's afraid if he does, the thoughts will spread in his head again. And he can't get bad again. He can't do that to his father. "I-I don't know." Stiles says. "I don't think I wanted anyone to say anything to me. I just wanted them to be there – so I'd be less cold and alone. And if they said anything, I didn't want stupid 'it'll get better' sentiments because as far as I saw it, it wasn't going to get better. I was angry and scared and I wanted people to be angry and scared with me. I wanted to scream and yell and hit things and make bad decisions, but I couldn't because everyone was sad and mourning over something I did and I don't think I've ever felt so alone in my life."

The Sheriff doesn't say anything for a few moments. When he does finally move, he sucks in a breath. "Why didn't you say that?"

"I didn't want to have to," Stiles says. "It's stupid looking back at it now, but I wanted someone to notice and force me. Put up the effort to maybe… prove that I was worth a little effort? I dunno. It sounds stupid saying it out loud."

"Out of all the stupid things I've heard you say, son," the Sheriff snorts. "That may be one of the least-stupid things I've ever heard."

Stiles can't help the stupid grin on his face. "I'm not leaving you, Pops. Not again. You don't need to worry about me."

That makes the Sheriff laugh. "I will always worry about you, kid. Even if the supernatural didn't exist, I would always worry. From the moment you were born, I worried. Because that's what Dad's do. It's their job."

Stiles finally takes a sip of his milk, the warmth spreading to his toes in a way he can't remember and it's absolutely lovely. "I think you got the raw end of the deal," Stiles says with a smirk. "Out of all the kids in the world, you're stuck with this."

"That's where you and I differ, kid. I think I lucked out."

XXX

Stiles looks at his phone. It's a few minutes past eleven and Nathan still wasn't there. He didn't blame him – when he was like Nathan, the last thing he'd want to do is talk to a stranger about how life was worth living. He already bought himself a coffee because his lunch period in school was only an hour and he practically had to tie Scott down in order to convince him not to come with him.

Like he needed protection from a nine-year-old.

After ten minutes pass and Stiles is about to give up, the door to the café opens and Nathan and Nancy peddle in. Nancy looks like she's about to cry – she probably had been begging Nathan to enter for quite some time now – and Stiles wistfully wonders if he made his father feel like that. Probably. Stiles returns his attention to his coffee.

"Sorry we're late, we got held up," Nancy says breathlessly, pulling Nathan along. "I'll just go get us some drinks and you two can chat or whatever you like."

Stiles smirks because it looks like the last thing Nathan wants to do is be here and, combining with his deathly rings under his eyes, he genuinely looks as though he wants to murder Stiles. Maybe he should've brought his hunting knife with him. Too late now.

Nathan takes a seat from the booth across from him and glares at the table. Stiles knows he shouldn't be amused by it, but he can't help but laugh. Out loud. "Dude," he says through huffs. "You look like an angry Jigglypuff."

Nathan whips his head up. "I'm glad you think this is funny."

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Not many things make me laugh these days. So if I think you're being an angsty asshole and laugh about it, that's my right."

"I'm nine. You can't say that word around me."

"That's real rich," Stiles snorts. "You said 'shit' in the middle of my kitchen after knowing me for less than five minutes. I think your virginal ears are fine."

Nathan glowers at the table again. His mom brings him over a hot chocolate and then disappears from sight, even though Stiles knows she can't be far away. "Funny, I thought you would've gotten black coffee," Stiles muses. "Like your soul."

Nathan scowls. "Is that why you have it?"

Stiles looks at his coffee cup and can't help but feel like his stomach fell out of his body, but he tries not to show it. "Probably," he says with a shrug. "So, what do you want to talk about?"

"I thought you were supposed to make life worth living again or whatever." Nathan grumbles.

Now that really makes Stiles laugh. "Dude, I don't even know if life is worth living anymore. From where I'm standing, I could go either way at this point."

That catches Nathan's attention. He looks up at Stiles and finally Stiles sees the youth in his eyes. Not the cynicism that shouldn't be present in someone so young, or the strain of a dark past, but a terrified nine-year-old with no answers. Stiles tries not to change his expression because he knows it'll only makes everything so much worse, so he settles for taking a sip of his coffee.

"Do you want to die?" Nathan finally asks.

Stiles can feel his hands trembling, so he places them in his lap so it's not noticeable. This was such a bad idea. Stiles can feel it. He can feel the internal crumbling happening and it takes all his willpower to keep his face straight. "Sometimes," Stiles answers honestly. "It's better than it used to be, I suppose."

"Did you try to kill yourself?"

Stiles wrings his hands under the table. "Yes. Did you?"

"Yes."

Stiles, when he's positive his hands are under control, takes another sip of coffee. "Well then. We have something in common."

But it's not funny or a joke. Simply a statement.

"Because an evil spirit possessing us isn't enough?"

Stiles smiles humorlessly. "The things we have in common suck."

"Yeah."

Stiles can't talk about this anymore. He feels himself unraveling at the seams and the darkness starting to cloud his thoughts again. He can see the pills in his hand when he was in the bathroom, all alone. He can hear the Nogitsune's voice in his head as he thought about unscrewing the cap of the bottle. "I like comic books," Stiles decides to go with. "Batman's my favorite."

Nathan snorts. "Batman? He literally can't do anything. His superpower is that he's loaded. Superman's way better."

"Superman?" Stiles says incredulously. "He literally is the most boring superhero on the face of the earth. At least Batman actually has to work for his super-ness. He doesn't magically ricochet bullets from his chest."

"I don't think I can trust your opinion."

"I know I can't trust yours."

Nathan smiles, but it's fleeting and scared, as if he's afraid to be happy. "What if it never gets better? What if it's just hell for the rest of our lives?"

Stiles freezes. The words are distant, but he hears his own voice asking the same question. Before everything. "Someone told me something once. Her decisions leave something to be desired, but I think it's a nice sentiment. When you're going through hell, keep going."

Nathan sighs. "Why?"

Stiles can't help but laugh. Really laugh. "Hell if I know," he says with a smile. "But somehow I'm stupid enough to listen."

XXX

They didn't talk about much for the rest of the meeting, but Stiles is grateful. Sometimes he thinks that Nathan wants to talk about what happened, but the two of them are simply too fragile to really put anything into words. So instead they talk about comics and baseball. When it's time to go, Nathan begrudgingly agrees to see Stiles again. Except this time, Stiles decides to take a chance.

"We can meet at the lacrosse field after the tryouts for the team," Stiles offers. "Do you have a stick?"

Nathan scoffs. "Why in the hell would I want to play lacrosse?"

"Why in the hell are you so much a little shit and only nine years old?" Stiles snaps back.

Nancy opens her mouth to probably yell at Stiles, but is taken aback when Nathan laughs. Laughs. Stiles returns the sentiment. "It's good to do things with your hands, dumbass." Stiles continues. "Things that aren't…"

"Bad." Nathan finishes. There's that youthful look again. But Nathan gets it. Stiles can tell that he does. "Fine. But lacrosse is stupid."

"So is Superman."

Nathan's eyes bulge. "You are like, literally the worst human being on the planet!"

Stiles secretly agrees, but he keeps his plastered grin on. "Tie for first?" Stiles puts his hand out for a fist bump.

Nathan takes it and his mother looks horrified.

He supposes it could've gone worse.

As Stiles makes his way back to the school, he can't stop rubbing his hands together. He's so very cold. It feels like his skin is itching to explode, but there's nothing he can do about it. Everything in Beacon Hills reminds him of the Nogitsune and now he has to pretend that he's totally fine so a child doesn't off himself and leave his mother all alone?

He considers skipping the rest of the day and simply going for a run, but he knows that if he did so, his father and Scott would probably have the entire Beacon Hills police department looking for him. So instead he walks onto the school grounds, his chest a little heavier than when he left the first time.

The hallway's empty. He's a little late for his fourth period, so he takes his time, knowing he'll be reprimanded regardless. But he decides to cut through the gym simply to save time, even though he wants to wander the halls a little longer.

"Aw, wee lamb." A voice says seductively.

And Stiles finds himself picked up and thrown against the bleachers.

A little dazed, Stiles instinctively reaches behind him, but his hands return empty. Right, school. No guns allowed in school. He sees something shoot toward his face and he places his thumbs at the nape of his neck, giving him the little extra room before someone wraps their hands around his throat. Using that little gap as leverage, he swings one of his elbows and feels it hit something hard, a pain exploding in his arm. "Son of a bitch!" He exclaims, leaping to his feet.

"Looks like last time wasn't a fluke," the person purrs. "Looks like the sidekick finally learned a thing or two about fighting."

Kate Argent stands before him, her eyes glowing a little, but for the most part, she's not shifted. "What do you want?" Stiles shouts, backing up slightly. He feels naked without the weapons he spent the past four months training with, his hands quaking at his sides. "Because you've gotta have a plan or be completely idiotic to come to the high school where you know there are a handful of werewolves who want to rip your throat out!"

She only smiles at his outburst. "Always the loud mouth. Glad to see that some things haven't changed."

"And you're still a psychotic bitch." Stiles seethes. "Now tell me – what do you want?"

"Isn't it obvious, my dear?" Kate says sweetly. "Revenge. You think a pack of mutts can put me down? You think that you can ever win? I am an Argent – you can't defeat me!"

Stiles freezes. His bones turn to ice as he flashes back. The words still him in a way that he can't explain, until his fear doubles upon itself. Kate takes this moment to advance on him, this time able to wrap her hands around his throat without any problem. "Now this is where you come in, little lamb," she whispers in his ear, her mouth practically touching his cheek. "You're going to be a message. A message to your pack. That last time was a fluke. That I will take you all out. One. By. One."

Any struggling that Stiles was attempting vanished in that second. Suddenly, he's back. He's back in the Nogitsune's grasp and there's nothing he can do. There's nothing he can do to stop the fear. There's nothing he can do to make himself get better. There's nothing he can do when Kate Argent throws him across the gymnasium.

There's nothing he can do when the world turns black.

A/N: Whoops… that ended more violent than I thought. I wanted to make parallels between the Nogitsune and Kate Argent, more so Stiles had to confront the problems instead of pretending they don't exist. And of course there's Nathan… This is just about to get a little more interesting… *evil laughter*

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