A/N: Ok, my bad. This update has taken forever. Between work and other things in RL I haven't really had much time for writing. So, updates on anything I am currently working on will probably be sporadic. Hopefully that won't be a turn off for all the peeps following it.

This here chapter is my homage to 'Agent McCall saves Stiles' only there's no basements or coyote dens, just a lot of luck.

This features a medical procedure. I am psychiatric nurse but I have minimal medical training so any mistakes are all googles.

I know absolutely nothing about spinal taps/lumbar punctures, just that it involves needles in backs. There's really probably no reason why he should have had this procedure before any other tests, I was just lucky that some of his symptoms featured on the list and I made a promise to ChasetheWindTouchtheSky that I somehow would give a lumbarpuncture!stiles in a fic. Also I have no idea if someone would have a CT can before or after.
But hey ho, have spinaltap!Stiles!

Chapter 5

Lydia is exhausted. She's spent most of the last four nights with Scott, Derek and Isaac looking for Stiles. They'd even had to fill in the Sheriff with the rest of the information that Stiles had only alluded to, Allison and Chris searching with him separately. They found no traces of their friend. The unanswered calls only increased their concern.

She can't believe they left Stiles to face the oni on his own. She can't believe Stiles is the dark spirit even less. The scream within tells her otherwise. This is Stiles they're talking about. Sweet. Funny. Loyal. Stiles' sarcasm and dry wit may sound cruel and provoking at times but it was never intentional. Lydia was pretty sure there wasn't even a bad bone in his body.

Derek had insisted that a trickster spirit didn't care about any of these qualities, in fact they probably enjoyed feeding off it, creating chaos within one of the packs strongest assets. Whatever it was doing, whatever it was trying to achieve, Stiles was vulnerable in more ways than one.

Lydia knew that whatever the situation, whatever Stiles didn't want the Sheriff knowing, he'd eventually always call Scott, and so the more he didn't hear from Stiles the more the worry grew.

Therefore, it was more than a little surprising to see her friend brazenly standing in the middle of history as though he'd never been missing in the first place. Brazenly was probably a too quick assumption – Stiles didn't seem aware at all, standing and staring at an empty desk in front of him, hand shakily outstretched in front of him. His pallor was off and there was a disturbing amount of bruising around his eyes making him look a sickly pale.

Kira was at the front of the classroom, whispering furiously with her father, but was at her side in an instant.

"I was just about to call Scott," she tells her. "He was here when we arrived."

She ignores her in favour of approaching Stiles.

"Stiles?" she calls, hesitating.

Stiles lips are barely moving, a slight whisper breaking through but not enough for Lydia to hear. Lydia's fully aware that the room is starting to fill up with other students. She knows that most of the faculty, if not all, already know about Stiles disappearing act and seemingly fragile mental state but it hadn't been announced to any of her peers. Whether they knew or not, Lydia set a firm glare in the direction of a grinning student who seemed to take great delight in the scene Stiles was creating.

"Stiles!" she says again, raising her voice in an attempt to gain his attention.

Stiles moves away from the desk, completely ignoring her and heads down the aisle between the other tables instead, coming to a stop at the back of classroom. Lydia followed, calling his name again in a quiet whisper, feeling the entire room's eyes follow her.

Stiles simply stared at the wall. All that stood there was a set of posters and announcements. Stiles eyes were unfocused so she knew he wasn't looking at them.

"Stiles?" Lydia snaps. She doesn't mean to sound so angry but she just wants him to stop, to stop the building audience from laughing at him. She knows what it it's like to be the centre of this type of attention. And he's scaring her. This isn't her Stiles. This isn't the Stiles who fiercely tried to protect her. Who was hell-bent on saving everyone. "Snap out of it."

Stiles reaches out, hands up and signing.

Lydia takes a step back, alarmed. Scott had told her about this and she's taken it upon herself to teach herself some ASL to confirm Deaton's previous translation. She turns and locks eyes with Kira who already has her phone pushed to her ear. Mr Yukimura looks equally alarmed.

Stiles stops signing just as quickly as he started and plants his palm against the wall, fingers spread out, and eyes shut. He looks like he's in a brief sea of calm. Or the eye of the storm, Lydia grimly thinks.

She inches forward but suddenly jumps with a yelp when Stiles eyes snap open.

"I don't understand," he whispers, face crumbling in distress. "I don't understand. Please…"

"Stiles!" Lydia say, finally deciding touch may help to anchor him to reality or at least offer some comfort. She touches her hand lightly to his shoulder

The result is instantaneous. Stiles sucks in a breath. His eyes are no longer unfocused, replaced with a rapid disorientated and terror.

"Ly-Lydia?" he asks uncertainly, unsure, as though he was worried it might be someone else.

"Where have you been?" she murmurs quietly, moving her hand and wrapping it around his bicep.

"Wha-?" he starts, clearly confused. She watches as his eyes dart around the room, taking in the milling students, the chalk-board, finally settling on Kira and her father at the front of the room. He turns and looks back at Lydia, shaking his head. "With you. And Derek." He shakes his head again, hand fluttering to his mouth as though he was going to be sick.

Lydia wants nothing more than to grab him and pull him out of the room, away from prying eyes, or at least shove his shaking form into a near-by chair but she's pretty sure both actions would leave him collapsed on the floor.

"What happened? How did I?..."

"You left," Lydia tells him, squeezing his arm. "You took Derek's car. We've been looking for you for days."

She doesn't know if it's something she says or the situation suddenly becomes clearer to Stiles – even if it's not to her– but he's taking a determined step away from her.

"Stiles?"

"I need to go," he tells her, turning away

"No," she says, voice pitching in panic. She grabs at his arm, stalling his steps. "We just got you back."

"Are you sure about that?" he asks. He turns to her with such an anguished look, one that was still lingering in the folds of hope. Yes she wants to say but can't bring herself to. She tries to ignore the memory of Scott's voice in her own head – 'there's no hope' – feeling her own face crumple, tears falling as Stiles leans into her. "Because I'm not even sure I'm me."

You're Stiles, she wants to stay.

"Don't follow me," Stiles says, shaking his arm out of her hold and stepping further away. "Don't call Scott either."

You're Stiles, she thinks as she watches him walk away, but at this point she's not even sure if it was even his voice she was hearing.

Rafe McCall wasn't someone to take not knowing things lying down easily. Quite literally. He'd discharged himself from the hospital two days ago, when it was obvious he wasn't going to die and he was getting nowhere nearer to knowing about what the hell had happened.

Both Scott and Melissa were refusing to talk – or at least denying that they knew what had happened or why they would be attacked – and Stilinski had simply put it down to a home invasion. Stilinski seemed deliberately obfuscatory, which was surprising seeing as his son was missing.

McCall didn't know if the two events were exclusively linked but with a lack of compliance, particularly from his own son and Stiles' father, he couldn't see how they weren't.

Stiles had always been as obfuscatory as his father, more so with the stubborn streak he had, but within the convoluted way he spoke, there was always details, sometimes details amongst details, and if you broke it apart you could always find a truth within a truth. A confusing truth, but a truth nonetheless.

So, when it came to it, Stiles was the one to get answers from, even ones he might not want to hear. He already knew that there was something strange about Beacon Hills. It didn't take analytical FBI statistics to realise there was an unusual rate of deaths and mysterious disappearances. Not to mention the 'mountain lion attacks'. McCall can't recall this being an issue when he was living here and it now seemed a convenient and easy explanation for anything deemed inexplicable.

He had a vague memory of Stiles in his hospital room the night he was attacked. Melissa tried to put it down to the drugs he was on, but it felt too vivid to have been a drug induced dream and of all the people he could have dreamt about he was sure his subconscious wouldn't have summoned a seventeen year old hyperactive teen.

Stiles had been there. He knows it. He has no idea why he would be there, but he knows, felt, that the kid had been scared. He-

Oh.

He's standing right in front of him. Right there on the sidewalk in the middle of the day. Staring straight out into the quiet road.

"Stiles?" he says, approaching the teen.

McCall repeats his name several times and the younger boy doesn't respond until he firmly grasps his arm, afraid that the kid might step out into the road at the wrong time.

"Huh?" Stiles says, turning to look at him, blinking owlishly.

"You're supposed to be missing," McCall says with a gruff tone he wasn't intending. "Everyone has been looking for you for days."

"That's what Lydia said," Stiles says. He's taken by surprise when his son's best friend suddenly starts to cry, great big fat tear drops escaping. Stiles seems equally surprised and wipes at his eyes furiously.

McCall wasn't particularly fond of the kid, not for a while at least, not since Stiles decided to develop an attitude, not since his mouth caught up with his brain, not since the kid decided he was old enough to smart mouth him about his lack of familial responsibilities. Sometimes the kid had been worse than Stilinski. But there was a time before that. A time when he'd been left dealing with scraped knees and sore tummy's and headaches from too much sugar and a kid who'd had wade through the harsh realities of death and loss and grief.

It was that kid he was seeing now and those teary eyes that were looking at him.

"Lets get you to the station," he says, tugging on his arm, unsure of how to make the situation better. "I'm sure your dad will be glad to see you."

"No," Stiles says quietly, pulling his arm free. He turns back to his previous position, staring ominously out into the road, wiping his eyes with the length of his sleeve. McCall gives him the moment anyway, watching as Stiles stops wiping at his eyes and starts pinching at the bridge of his nose as though he was warding off a headache.

McCall takes a step closer, wondering if Stiles refusal was a mere attempt at regaining his composure, or if there was another reason Stiles was standing precariously at the sidewalk edge. He wasn't happy to leave the kid here either way.

"Look, I might not like you-" he says

"Yeah? Well I'm not particularly fond of you either," Stiles snaps.

"- but I don't like the idea of leaving you here," he continues.

"Why?!" Stiles yells, whirling around, stepping into his face. The sudden anger was unexpected but anything was better than having Stiles so close to stepping out into the road, accidental or not, even if there was no cars at the time. Stiles shoves at his chest, causing pain to flare out across it and settle in to his slinged arm. If Stiles realises he's causing pain he doesn't show it and shoves again, causing him to stumble back. "WHY DO YOU CARE? YOU LEFT! YOU LEFT SCOTT. YOU LEFT MELISSA. YOU HAD A FAMILY. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO MAKE IT BETTER!"

McCall staggers back, gulping, unable to form words. He'd always known that Stiles had felt very strongly about what had happened, he'd always known that he was fiercely protective of his son, even at eight years old, but he can't help but think this was more than just about him leaving Scott and Melissa.

"Stiles…" he tries, taking a step forward.

"YOU LEFT!" Stiles screams out, face red and blotchy from the force of it, tears still damp.

Stiles is suddenly screaming more, clutching his head and staggering away from his touch.

Right into the road.

Right into the road that has one solitary car heading directly to Stiles flailing form.

"Stiles."

It whispers over him.

Folds over him like a blanket.

"Stiles."

It's warm.

Soothing.

Comforting.

"Stiles. Please."

Stiles doesn't want to move, but he does it anyway because the voice is imploring him to, even if it doesn't say it out loud.

He rolls to his feet and suddenly the warmth is gone and the funny looking wall is back.

A moving wall of shapes.

He'd seen it more than once. The most recent in the back of the history classroom.

It's like plastic. Or rubber. Or latex.

Faces push at it, mouths trapped in screams, hands reach but never break through. And there in the background is a silhouette. A woman. Signing over and over. Stiles knows it perfectly now but it doesn't mean he understands it.

"What?" he demands. "I don't know what you want!"

He waits for the voice again but it never comes.

Impatience wins out, because he's just so damn tired all the time and all he wants is some real healthy sleep, and he yells at the always moving wall.

"Just tell me!" he demands, hitting the wall with a fist. "Just tell me what y-"

They end up on the opposite side of the road in a heap.

The car screeches past them, burning rubber as the driver frantically hits the brakes, mere seconds after McCall tackles Stiles out of harm's way.

His shoulder silently screams in pain as they crash to the ground. Stiles is conscious but still clutching at his head in pain, turning his face into the asphalt and mumbling over and over. There's a graze to his temple but no other obvious injuries.

McCall scrambles off him, planting his hand gently against his side.

"Stiles?" he says, shaking him.

Stiles words stumble over and over, going from 'don't let them in' to a stuttering 'don't… don't… don't'.

"Oh god," the driver of the car flies out of the front seat. "I didn't see him. He just stepped out in front of me."

"I know," McCall says with an impatient sigh. "I was there."

It's while he's dealing with the panicked driver, satisfied that Stiles hadn't been hit (he'd take him to the hospital after – it was obvious that the kid needed some psychiatric in-put), that he hears a startled yell.

"Stiles!"

Someone was approaching Stiles from where he'd left him on the sidewalk.

He's leaning against a lamp-post head-lolling to one side, seemingly stuck in his own mantra, but the voice is familiar enough to gain the boy's attention.

The man that approaches is older than Stiles – at least mid-twenties – but McCall doesn't recognise him as one of the Stilinski's deputies.

"What happened?" the man says, falling to his knees by the downed boy. He takes one look at the graze to Stiles temple and the open door of the car, sniffing the air – obviously smelling the burnt rubber of tires – before his eyes widen in alarm. "Did he get hit by a car?"

"No," McCall says. He waves the driver away with a "You can go now" and turning back to the man who has his hands on the teen, fingers probing at Stiles head wound. He recognises him from the sheriff's case files he had reviewed. Recognises him as the man that had been a prime suspect in more than one murder as well as remaining as a 'person of interest'. "You're Derek Hale."

"You must be Scott's dad," Hale replies instead, glancing at him once before turning his attention back to Stiles.

McCall instantly stiffens. How the hell was Stiles – and his son – associated with an ex-wanted felon?

"I'm a friend of the family," Derek says. "I'll take him to the hospital."

Stiles bats Derek's hand away and stumbles into another chant of "Don't…. don't… don't," and McCall doesn't know if he's just reverted back to his previous headspace or if he genuinely doesn't want Hale touching him. Either way he's suddenly blind-sided by a need to keep Stiles close. To not leave him alone with someone with a sketchy background at best.

"Look, I don't know who you are," he warns, bringing his good arm with a surprisingly steady aim. Derek blinks in surprise at the sudden gun being pointed in his direction before his mouth twitches in amusement, "or why you've been hanging around teenagers but there's no way in hell I'm letting him leave with you."

"He's Derek Hale," Stiles snorts with a lopsided grin. "You just said that."

"Yes, Stiles. I am aware," McCall says, never once taking his eyes, or his aim, away from Hale.

"Don't shoot him," Stiles states clearly, eyes more focused, speech more coherent. He turns and looks at Derek, patting his shoulder. "You should go. Go before it gets too bad."

Hale squints his eyes at Stiles, suspiciously, as though he was reading something McCall can't quite see.

"Stiles…" Hale starts.

"Just go," Stiles insists and then he's leaning into Derek's side, whispering something into Hale's ear.

He doesn't give the older man a chance to respond, heaving a wobbly Stiles to his feet and helping him to his own car.

It was difficult driving one handed, but it was easier than waiting on an ambulance.

Stiles was calmer in the car, head pressed against the window, hand playing with the seat belt. Only the occasional, unintelligible murmur breaking the silence.

"Hey," McCall says, unable to let go of the wheel he nudges him with his shoulder. "You with me, kid?"

Stiles lifts his head and turns to look at him, eyes wide.

"When's a door not a door?"

It takes him by surprise and Stiles is looking at him with such an open expression that he knows he needs to give him an answer.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "A door is a door whether it's open or not."

Stiles contemplates this with a frown and then unexpectedly laughs. It's good to hear, reminds him of when the kid was younger and carefree and running around his house with Scott chasing after him.

By the time they reach the hospital he know it won't last. Stiles has gone quiet, looking like the scared kid McCall always thought he was.

There's a flurry of activity, Melissa shouldering him aside to shine a light in Stiles eyes. Stiles complains that it hurts and then barfs all over himself. The doctor doesn't' appear fazed at all but Melissa clucks over him and Stiles lets her manhandle him out of his soiled hoodie and t-shirt and into an open backed hospital gown.

The doctor and Melissa throw medical jargon around until a familiar procedure sinks in.

"What?" he says, pulling Melissa aside. "You think he might have meningitis?"

"It's not always used to diagnose that," Melissa said, shaking her head. "John already knows this, but Stiles symptoms are similar to his mother's before it got really bad."

McCall feels himself pale.

"But…" he stumbles. "He's just a kid."

"This is one type of dementia that doesn't care about age," Melissa states, bitterness evident in her tone. "We need to arrange an MRI but that's going to take a while so in the mean-time we need to rule out other immediate risks."

"Like?" McCall prompts.

"It doesn't explain all the symptoms but sudden, blinding headaches, being sick, sensitivity to light, confusion, slurred speech and the fact that, although Stiles will deny it, several witnesses said that they saw him have a seizure, are indicative of a bleed on the brain."

She lets the information sink in and then goes back to Stiles side.

"Stiles, honey. I know you're scared but there's a few tests we have to do to try and find out what's wrong."

"Hit me with it Mama McCall," Stiles says opening his eyes, squinting in pain. His voice is still slurred slightly, curling around his tongue.

"The doctor wants to rule out a subarachnoid haemorrhage," Melissa says quietly, clasping her hand around his. "Do you know what that is?"

"A bleed on the brain," Stiles automatically answers.

Of course Stiles knew it what it was, McCall mused to himself. The kid was way too smart for his own good sometimes.

Melissa nods down at him.

"I don't have that," Stiles says quietly, voice an inflection of acceptance.

"We don't know that yet," Melissa shakes her head, voice hardening but remaining gentle at the same time.

"I'm starting to think it might be better if I do have what my mom had. It's better than the alternative," Stiles admits.

And there the kid goes again. Always talking in circles. McCall frowns and pushes himself away from the wall, willing the kid to divulge more information, but comes to a stop when he hears Stiles voice, thick with emotion, continue to talk.

"But then I think of my dad," Stiles says, voice cracking and raw with emotions. "I don't think I can do that to him."

"Don't talk like that, Stiles…" Melissa says, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "We always figure things out in the end. Besides Scott won't let anything happen to you."

"He might not have a choice," Stiles states, pulling his hand away. His gaze catches on McCall as though only now just realising he was still there. Stiles tears his gaze away and stares fixedly on the door.

"Lets get back to business, shall we?" Melissa states with a no nonsense voice, wiping at her own eyes. "We need to do a procedure called a lumbar puncture."

"A spinal tap," Stiles nods at her. "You want to stick needles into my spine."

"I don't want to," Melissa shakes her head, correcting him. "But we need to take a sample to test for any blood present in your spinal fluid before we take you for a CT scan."

"And there's me thinking you get off sticking sharp objects into people's spines," Stiles says, offering a weak grin.

"Only the mouthy ones," Melissa rolls her eyes. She pats the side of the bed. "Scoot over." Stiles moves over on the bed and pulls his knees to his chest when prompted.

"Where's my dad?" Stiles asks, suddenly sounding like the traumatised eight year old McCall remembered.

"He's on his way," Melissa assures him. "He's already given permission for the procedure but we need to do this. You're just going to have to be a champ until he gets here and do this one without him."

Stiles nods, biting his lip nervously, and glances back at the doctor who had positioned himself on the other side of the bed. "Okay, doc. Lets get this show on the road."

"I'll wait outside," McCall announces to the room when he sees the doctor position himself over Stiles.

"Don't go," Stiles says to his treating back.

McCall turns around surprised to see Stiles staring back, looking almost ashamed that he'd even asked him not to leave.

"For Christ sake, Rafe…" Melissa snaps, "You're the second closest person he has to a father figure. Get in here."

McCall knows it's true. For a period of time, before and after Claudia had died, Stiles had spent most of his time over at their house. He'd pick him up from school, tuck him in at night, and drop him off at school in the morning. Weekends had turned into weeks, and while Stilinski lost himself in his own grief and a bottle of whiskey, Stiles had grown to be more reliant on both Melissa and Rafe. Seeing Stilinski's own battle with drink had only served as reminder to his own drinking habits. McCall can't blame the Stilinski's grief as being the sole reason for his own marital problems but dealing with Stilinski's drinking and his young son's trouble to adjusting to a life without his mother and, for a while, his father too, had certainly helped strain it.

It's obvious now, the reason why Stiles rages at him each time he sees him, he didn't just walk away from Melissa and Scott. He had walked away from Stiles too.

They're a few minutes into the procedure (through skin and tissue and in between vertebrae) when Stiles starts to squirm and whimpers beside him.

"Can you try calm him down," the doctor says, locking eyes over Stiles trembling body. "I've got a needle in his back. Bit hard to do when he's moving around like that?"

"Staying still is a bit hard to do when you have a fucking needle in my spine," Stiles pants out angrily. It takes whatever breath the kid has and McCall spots the first sign, witnessing them when he was younger, of a familiar panic attack.

"Hey," he says, catching Stiles hand that is trying to tear its way through the cheap papery hospital sheet that he was curled up on. "Take it easy. You're okay. It's not even that bad."

He wonders if it is.

"You should go. Go before it gets too bad."

It's nearly 24 hours later that he hears about the incident.

About the multiple electrocutions.

The power surge

And Stiles disappearing right out of the MRI machine.

And that's when the chaos really starts.

tbc