Wow! You guys are so sweet! You responded to this so much nicer than I initially thought anyone would, so let me thank you!

My goal for the rest of this is to try and trick you/Stiles about what's ACTUALLY going on. Don't worry – it'll be grounded (not one trick after another) and will have a sense of plot, but a sense around how he sees it and the fears he has about the door in his mind now being wide open.

Also, I realized I should explain: the title isn't a vague reference to Mockingjay. I think I've figured out what I want to do plot-wise and it'll refer to something Stiles will decide to do this chapter, hopefully to help him sort everything out. Shall we begin?

Quickly- One thing I noticed in the show is, when Stiles was looking at his history book, I think the words were scrambled like an anagram (all the letters were there to spell 'Allies and Axis'), so I'm gonna use anagrams when he can't read things to make it easier.

Chapter 2

What Comes Down, But Never Goes Up?

The clock shines 6:46.

There's a light tapping on Stiles' door, so he closes his eyes, pretending he's been in a quiet stupor this entire night, dreamlessly sleeping. He wishes.

As if he could sleep after their attempt to close the doors to their minds. All Stiles could think of when he shut his eyes was the immense darkness on the other side of his wide-open door, sitting at the edge of the frame like an army waiting for battle. And, if he understands the true meaning of what he did, the war is about to begin.

"Kiddo, time to wake up or you'll be late for school" His dad calls, opening the cracked door. Mr. Stilinski had a habit of cracking it on his way to his own bedroom, afraid of sleeping through any more night terrors his son may have. The cracked door scared Stiles a while, but now? Doors slightly ajar are the least of his worries.

He tries to take comfort in the fact that perhaps, if he had some semblance of luck, that Scott and Allison may be able to return to their own lives. They might have a darkness still, but maybe it won't seep into their subconscious anymore. He tries to take comfort, but finds none. It has nothing to do with indifference or how he feels about either, but his own fear in the matter.

That was the truth, wasn't it? He was so damn afraid, he couldn't even feel happy for his best friends. That's where he was in his life and didn't know how to erase it. "I'm a terrible person," Stiles breathes, pulling his shirt over his head.

His breath catches.

Running his hands along his skin, he flinches at the sight of purple and blue. "What the—" Stiles murmurs, rushing over to the mirror.

Splotches of purple and blue run up his sides. Stiles is afraid to touch them, because he isn't sure if this moment is real. But right now, the pain feels real. So instead, he steps closer to the mirror, placing his fingers against the glass and covers up the bruises.

He didn't even notice them when he was lying in bed. Sure, he was aching, but he just thought that was a result of being terrified all the time. Or the cost of living in nightmares.

That isn't the most terrifying thought, though.

As Stiles drives to school, something flashes through his mind and he attempts for the rest of the drive to push it out of his senses, but to no avail. The scariest thought isn't that his dreams are turning violent. It isn't even that this could mean that he was losing the battle and moving on to the last progressive stage of Barto.

It was that, if this wasn't a dream and those bruises were real, he doesn't remember how he got them in the first place.

His mind was now keeping reality from him, hiding it so it blurred the line of reality even more.

He hops out of his Jeep, a stiffness coming over him. BLANCH SOLE I displays where the BEACON HILLS sign once was and Stiles stares at the school.

What is real?

What's the point if it isn't? Why would he go to school again and again, having the same conversations with people, if he would just wake up and it's over? Why would he put himself through that?

The thought has his mind reeling, the sign before the school swirling a little. He grips his chest, his breathing coming a little shorter, sweat starting to form on his forehead.

"Stiles!" Someone shouts and they clap a hand on his back. The action startles him and he notices his fists are clenched, his palms red where his nails dug into his skin. "You okay, man?"

Stiles blinks when Isaac stands next to him. "W-What – oh, yeah Isaac. Hey."

Isaac studies him carefully, before saying, "You don't look alright. You've been acting a little strange since yesterday. I hope I didn't hurt you when I pushed you into the wall."

1…

Stiles shakes his head, his gaze fixated at Isaac's hands at his sides. "Huh? Oh, it's—"

…2…

"—not a problem, I—"

…3, 4, 5…

"—know I was being super—"

…6,7,8…

"—annoying—"

…9. 10.

He sighs. Isaac has all of his fingers. "I was just a little nervous to die for the second time in a month."

Isaac frowns. "Stiles, this is real." He states.

"What? Yeah, I know."

"No, I don't think you do." Isaac says. "And I'm here to tell you this is real. You and are having a conversation."

"Dude, I know." Stiles grits his teeth, his annoyance creeping up on him. "I was just—"

"Guys!"

Scott jogs to join the two, a large smile on his face. Stiles tries to remember the last time he saw it, but can't. He can't even thinking of smiling as a function. Was it getting hot outside? Why can't he take a normal breath?

The air was suffocating.

Scott's jaw twitches when he sees Isaac and gives him a curt nod. "Wow," Stiles mutters, blinking a few times to get the darkness around his eyes to go away. "You guys must be a real treat to live with right now."

Scott throws him a look. "What were you two talking about?"

Isaac quickly says "School" as Stiles says "Food."

"God, that's not conspicuous at all," Stiles groans, rubbing his hands down his face. "Isaac here felt the need to tell me that this is happening in real time, because apparently, I'm crazier than a straw."

The two of them stare at him.

He blinks. "What? That wasn't even the crazy talking – you know, like crazy straws that loop all around?" Still nothing. "You know what? You both suck, I'm hilarious."

He mumbles to himself as he pushes past the two wolves, but Scott calls out after him. "Wait, Stiles! Deaton wanted me to tell you that he wants you to stop by after school, if you can."

Stiles stiffens. Without turning around – he's not entirely sure he can keep his facial expression neutral at the moment – he asks, "Did he say what for?"

"No, he just said it was really important."

Stiles grips the straps of his backpack and murmurs, "I'm sure he did."

XXX

"Hello?" Stiles calls out, opening the door to the veterinary clinic. There's clanging from the back room, so he assumes it's okay to let himself in the back. But when he does, he hesitates in the doorway.

"Stiles?" Scott asks, rearranging some of the vials on the counter. "Oh yeah, I forgot you were coming over after school!"

Stiles looks from Scott to Deaton, who's visage is dripping with concern. Seeing Scott there made him panic; the last thing he needed was Scott to find out about his 'limbo state' and the problems that arose from it. "I-I can come back," he states, gripping his backpack uneasily. "I'll just catch you some other time."

"No, Stiles, wait." Deaton says and Stiles doesn't know why he does. He doesn't want to talk about it at all, least of all with his best friend standing in the room. How would he be when he finds out that his mental door is wide open – and Stiles couldn't even be happy that his best friend's was shut? "Stiles, I think you know why I asked you here."

Stiles clenches his jaw. "I'd really prefer not to discuss this right now."

"Oh," Deaton states. "So would you rather you wait further and let the repercussions of your actions eat you alive?"

Stiles whips around, his eyes flashing. He almost yells at Deaton to shut up, but he catches Scott's eye and hesitates.

Scott peers between both of them. "Okay, am I missing something?"

"You did this on purpose." Stiles snaps. "You waited until he would be here."

"Okay, I'm definitely missing something."

Deaton remains calm, even though Scott's looking at him expectantly and Stiles is attempting to formulate every amount of wrath he can to intimidate him. Which, to be honest, isn't much. "Stiles, I need you to walk me through what happened during the ritual. What did you do?"

Stiles purses his lips, but doesn't say anything.

Scott turns to him. "You said – you said it didn't work. You said that you didn't see or do anything." Scott's looking between the two of them. He presses further, "That's what you said, Stiles. That's what you told me."

Stiles grits his teeth and looks at the ground. "You did this on purpose."

Deaton remains stoic. "I believe he has a right to know what you did."

Stiles waves his hands. "Then why doesn't Allison have a right to know what I did!"

"So you did do something!"

"Allison doesn't work here." Deaton states. "Stiles, you woke up in your subconscious state, didn't you? You went back to the room and your door." Stiles doesn't answer, so Deaton peers at him curiously. "But you didn't close your door, did you?"

Stiles' lower lip trembles when he thinks of the imminent dark on the other side of his door. "…no."

Scott gasps. "What the hell, dude? Why didn't you shut your damn door when you had the chance!"

Stiles can't bring himself to respond. Instead, he doesn't something he tries to avoid on most days. He stares at the signs he can't read and he looks for reasons why this might be a dream. The windows look darker than usual. Some of the animal eyes glow.

But is it real, or is he hoping it's real?

"You closed Scott and Allison's instead." Deaton finishes.

The silence that settles over the three of them is suffocating. Stiles feels his hands tremble and he closes them into fists. He can feel Scott staring at him, but he refuses to look up.

"Stiles—"

"Dude, it's nothing." Stiles says hastily. "I just couldn't get to my door in time. It didn't work out. That's that." He continues to avoid his gaze. "But, hopefully you two should be totally fine, so that's good news. I mean 2 out of 3 is a passing grade. 66%. I mean, if we could get the conviction rate for crimes around here to 66%, I'm sure my dad would be able to keep his job."

"Stiles—"

"Please, can we just not talk about this?" Stiles bellows and Scott grows quiet. He stares at his best friend and Stiles doesn't blame him. He can't remember the last time he shouted at Scott in all seriousness.

"That's not all you did." Deaton states. "I noticed it the second you came to. The reason it took us so long to wake you up."

Something flashes in Deaton's eyes. For a second, Stiles is afraid of him. No, afraid didn't cover it.

Petrified.

The room feels like it's swallowing him. Are the walls curving toward him? Did Deaton's eyes just flicker to the vials by the medicine rack?

"You opened the door wider, didn't you Stiles?" Deaton asks. Stiles can't bring himself to answer, but he steps back.

When did the door close?

"You opened your door. Now your mind is wide open." Deaton states. "The darkness has a free host. All they have to do is realize it."

"W-What are you talking about, boss?" Scott asks, his shoulders tensing at Deaton's words.

Stiles is heaving. Is he breathing? Maybe not.

"Do you understand what that means, Stiles?" Deaton says, taking a few steps closer to him. Stiles' quivering hand reaches for the door, but it's locked.

Great, this door is locked. Fucking doors.

"Do you understand the danger you're bringing here, Stiles?" Deaton asks. "The danger you are to your friends? To your father?"

Deaton picks a syringe off the counter as he moves closer. Stiles shakes the doorknob behind him a few more times, his heart pounding. "Do you understand what needs to be done, Stiles?"

"P-Please—" Stiles whimpers. "I-I can close my door. I-I'll figure out another way."

Deaton looms closer to him, popping the lid off the syringe and bring the needle close to his face. The silver piece of metal gleams and Stiles winces. Needles. He definitely isn't breathing now. "Do you know what you do to a sick dog, Stiles? A dog that is so far gone, there's nothing that can make its life better?"

Tears start to drip from his eyes. "P-Please, p-please d-don't—" but he can't muster any further breath to plead anymore. Why isn't Scott stopping him? Why is he by himself with this?

Why is he so alone?

"You put it out of its misery."

XXX

"NO!"

Stiles screams, jolting awake. "No, no, no!"

He doesn't think he's been breathing because every attempt is like sprinting a marathon. His entire body shakes. Stiles rolls and falls to the ground, clutching his head. "P-Please don't kill me," he sobs. "Don't kill me."

He screams dwindle, but not from lack of trying. Every time he opens his mouth, it feels like a werewolf is running his claws down his throat. He waits for his father to burst through the door and constrict him, but he realizes tonight he's got the graveyard shift and so Stiles is alone.

Stiles is entirely alone.

With shaking hands, Stiles reaches up to his desk, knocking items off as he desperately tries to find his phone. He winces as a few things hit his head, but he can't get up off the ground. When his phone is finally found, he tries to type a few numbers, but can't get his fingers to work. Instead, he simply presses redial.

The phone seems to ring forever.

"H-Hello?" A sleepy voice on the other side of the line asks.

Just like that, he doesn't feel quite like he's going to die.

But he can't answer, either. His breaths are too erratic, too close together to fit a word in there – even a syllable.

"Stiles?" The person's sleepiness vanishes. "Stiles, is that you? What's wrong?"

A whimper escapes his throat as a response. The person on the other line starts talking a mile a minute. "Stiles, listen to me. Listen to me right now. I need you to focus on your breathing. I can't get over there quick enough, so you're going to have to do this."

"…I…can't…"

"Yes you can, Stiles. Yes you can." The person says sternly. "You actively live in a world with werewolves and somehow have no died. You can do this."

It's not helping. His body is freezing. Everything's going cold. The air isn't air anymore; it feels like Mercury, filling up his lungs and dragging him down.

"Remember that time in third grade when you convinced the teacher to let you sit next to me?"

Stiles strains to here more, but the memory seems so far away.

"You finished all your assignments in an hour, slammed the papers on her desk and said, 'Mrs. Kolton, I think that my work should be rewarded.' And then proceeded to sit your smug little ass in the chair next to mine? That was the first time I ever realized what a complete dork you were."

Stiles' mouth twitches. "You… you… you didn't even talk… to me."

"How could I? You were so weird."

"…not much has… changed." Stiles chokes out, but breathing's coming a little easier. His room doesn't seem quite as dark.

"No." The person chuckles. "But then again, a lot has."

Stiles' body calms. His breathing is still a little erratic, but it's under control. He lies on his back on the ground, afraid to move.

"Thanks, Lydia."

"You're welcome, Stiles."

The two don't say anything for a moment. Before Lydia can make a move to hang up, Stiles says, "Do you think you could just stay on the line? Please? You don't even have to talk. Just stay on the line."

"Okay."

Stiles listens to her breathing get lower and further apart. He listens to Lydia Martin fall asleep. Oh, how he dreamed of that sound for years. Even though he wished for the live action version, live acoustic track was just fine. Fine enough for his legs to settle. Fine enough for his restlessness to ease.

Fine enough for him not to notice the droplets of blood on the carpet, staining right where his mouth was seconds before.

XXX

"…Stiles? Stiles? STILES!"

Lydia shouts and Stiles bolts upright. "Huh – what?"

He peers down at his phone. When the realization hits, he frantically puts the phone to his ear. "Lydia – hi!"

She chuckles. "It's time to get ready for school. I thought you'd appreciate the alarm."

Stiles blinks, putting his head in his knees. "Oh yeah, thanks. My dad usually wakes me up, but he must still be at the station."

Stiles keeps his head in his knees for a while. He likes to think that it's preparation. Preparation for the exhaustion to come. Preparation for the new day of trying to figure out what's real

Preparation for his loneliness.

"…how's his impeachment case going?" Lydia asks carefully.

Now Stiles wishes he could just stay in this position all day. "Not good."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too."

"I'll see you at school then?"

"Yeah, see you soon."

Call Time: 4 hours and 32 minutes.

Well, that'll take some explaining.

As soon as Lydia hangs up, it occurs to Stiles how big his room is. He only covers a small fraction of the space in there. It's not something one usually notices, but he does today. He takes up such little space and all he's in is a room.

Shaking his head, he tries to eliminate his thoughts from his mind. He flips through his phone, noticing several missed texts from Scott. Frowning, with the thought of 'what could possibly be wrong now?', flitting through his mind, he opens them.

Scott: DUDE. Deaton says you never came to meet him.

Scott: You forget?

Scott: Why aren't you answering your phone?

Scott: Everything okay? Where are you?

Scott: STILES. CALL ME BACK NOW.

Stiles peeks at his phone. Ten missed calls and a handful of voicemails.

But that's not what bothers him.

So Scott did tell him to see Deaton. That happened. That was real. Given, of course, that this was real. He just didn't go.

No, the nightmare in the veterinary clinic wasn't real because, theoretically, he's sitting here breathing.

Theoretically.

Stiles stands up, his legs a little shaky beneath him, like he's forgotten how to stand. He needs normalcy. He needs to be who he was before the limbo.

Stiles Stilinski needs a plan.

XXX

When he arrives at his destination, Stiles stares at the building. Not school. No, not school. He'll have to learn about algebra and other nontranslatable facts another day.

He hops out of his Jeep at stares at the Hale house. It's so vast, especially knowing no one lives there. Even when he opens the door, he half-expects Derek to leap out of the shadows, demanding to know why he's trespassing on his house.

But Derek doesn't come.

"It's not like anyone lives here anyone," Stiles says to himself, trying to quell his fears. It doesn't work.

Tossing his backpack on the ground of the living room, Stiles pulls a few journals out. He flips through pages of them with his scratchy handwriting.

"March 14th – Classroom started doing sign language"

"March 17th – Confined in a locker"

"March 1st – Kira explains about demons"

Entry after entry, dream after dream. He rips them out, spreading them across the decrepit coffee table.

Before his mind starts jumbling the letters, he has to move quickly. He doesn't know how many precious moments of sanity he has left.

Taking out a few blank sheets of paper, Stiles walks over to the wall with some tape and a pen. Writing in bold letters, he writes separately:

REAL

NOT REAL.

The clock on the wall shines 6:46.

A/N: How's everyone like this? I hope you' re enjoying it as much as I'm enjoying writing it! So, Stiles is now trying to utilize his talents as the planner/researcher – but only can do so every once and a while before the letters mix up. And yes, Lydia is the last person he called (or who called him) – but what was it about? And how can he be sure of what he deems as 'real' or 'not real?'

This is all coming up! Be ready for more Stiles and Isaac bro-ing it up (I don't know why, but I think they should be best friends), some asshat Daddy McCall, goddess divine Mama McCall, and more to come!

Please leave a note/review if you have a second! It makes my cold heart melt.