chapter nine; control

TWO DAYS have passed since Stiles first turned. Two days full of nothing but bed-rotting and forced dinners downstairs with his dad.

"You've got to go to school kid, come on. Help me out, Stiles" his dad had said at the table last night. "I know you're going through it right now, but you need to pass junior year."

So now he was back at school, thankful it was now Friday, and he would have two full days to ignore the world's existence and the people in it. He had not seen Derek since that day, though he wasn't sure why he kept going back to the sourwolf, who had admittedly been a nicer sourwolf lately. But that was only because there wasn't any problems going on right now, and he wanted to make sure Stiles would be good when they'd need him for researching.

Stiles sat at his desk in second period, any ounce of energy he had earlier this morning depleted. Scott had tried to talk to him and though he appreciated how he and the pack kept trying to talk to him, he found it hard to focus while Allison stood behind them with a mouth pouring out blood. She'd try and make out words but there'd be too much blood to make any sense of it.

Now she's standing behind Ms. Richards who was teaching them something about the great depression. Stiles head's pounding, a migraine he's had growing all morning. He can barely understand what the teachers saying over the sound of Allison gurgling and spitting out blood profusely. His visions a little blurry and his hand is holding a pencil, but he can't see clearly enough to write anything down.

He knows it's dumb and he knows he's being a baby but something about the familiar scene reminds him of it. Of the beginning of the possession when he wasn't in control. Never in control.

He tries his hardest to not let his heart go crazy, not set off any alarms for his werewolf friends despite none of them being in this class with him. But his hand is death-gripping the pencil, and it won't stop shaking and the lights overhead are crazy bright and now Ms. Richards is on a whole new topic. He's overstimulated, in his head he knows that is what's happening. But then he gets a tickle in his throat that makes him cough a little, and it won't go away. It stays for a few minutes, never any sign of it stopping.

No control. He is never in control. What if this is all in his head? What did he eat this morning? Did he drive through the four-way stop at the end of his street this morning?

He moves before he even understands he wants to move. He all but shoots up from his chair and heads out the classroom door, not even bothering to grab his backpack while he rushes to the washroom. Not real. Not real. I'm not, not real.

As soon as he bursts through the bathroom door it slams behind him, he rushes in what feels like slow-motion to the sink. Staring at his reflection. He looks normal, tired, but normal. He lifts his hand up, as if it were not really him in control, he wouldn't be able to. His breaths come out shallow and he's heaving, begging for his lungs to take in all the air he can get.

His head feels fuzzy, like he's not all there. He thinks he can hear someone saying his name, but it sounds far away, like a faint buzzing in his ears. He's real. He's real. He's real.

Before he realizes he's thought about how if he was real, he could feel pain his hand is curled into a fist and he's slamming it into the mirror showing his reflection back to him. That's got to be bad luck.

"-iles god, stop!"

Slowly, he can feel his breaths getting deeper, air filling his lungs. He can hear himself cursing and feel the pain in his knuckles. See the blood pooling out of the cuts.

"Real. I'm real" he says to nobody but himself, moving to sit against the wall and sliding down till he's on the disgusting bathroom floor.

His hands rest on his knees, but he's only focused on the way his skin is practically sewing itself back together, only the still wet blood left on top of his hand.

"Stiles!"

Oh right, he wasn't alone.

"Hope?" he exclaims, finally looking at the girl when she crouches down and puts hands on his.

She gives him a smile, one that says I don't know what the hell just happened but I'm going to try and comfort you anyway. It's honestly a little heart-warming. "Yep, you okay?"

Stiles tilts his head, "You're in the men's washroom."

This time she lets out a relieved laugh, glad that he's at least realized her presence. "Yeah, I-uh I saw you rush out of class and thought I should check on you. Didn't really think about the being in the men's washroom thing." she admitted.

It feels a little awkward, like he had been lying about being away to her and then she caught him in a lie. He still hasn't made any move to contact them. Yet here she is anyway, in the men's washroom to check on him.

"What was that?" Hope asks, realizing Stiles isn't one to start conversation.

He lets out a long sigh, looking down at his hands. "Uh a panic attack."

"Does it happen a lot?"

Stiles forgot she didn't know anything about him. No crazed alpha, no Kanima, no alpha pack, no Nogitsune. As far as her and her parents knew he had an average life that somehow ended up with him killing someone. Oh god he realizes.

"Do you and your parents think I'm a killer?" he rushes out, before cursing at himself. "Like for breaking the curse. Do you all think I'm some crazy murderer?"

Hope shakes her head, "No, no. We all had to kill someone to trigger our curse, none of us are murderers. We know you're not a murderer, Stiles."

He lets out a phew, deflating further to the wall.

"How, uh, what did happen when you broke your curse?" she asks softly.

Flashes of bodies, blood, Oni, appear in his head. Black goo, poisonous cuts, him waking up wrapped in wet gauze.

"Hey, hey! You don't have to tell me. I'm sorry, stupid stupid question." Hope curses. She looks down for a distraction for him, "Hey, at least we know your werewolf-healing kicks in now" she says, lifting his hand up to show him the healed knuckle.

Stiles examines it, for the first time actually cluing in that it's the first time he's ever had a wound just sew itself back up instantly. "Thats...weird" he admits.

She lets out a little chuckle, "I know, it's always weird for a bit. But now I barely even notice it happening anymore. It's kind of cool, don't have to worry about any ugly scars."

He nods, that's all he really knows how to do anymore.

Hope waits a bit, looking up at something else for a moment while she gathers her thoughts, something Stiles does too. Really looking at her he can see a lot of himself in her, which is weird. From her nose matching his, to the way she thrums her fingers around her index finger anxiously. It's really weird, the way she stumbles over her words, adding ums and uhs. How is it possible for them to be so similar yet never actually meeting one and other before? Oh, right, DNA.

"I know we said to take your time," Hope starts, like she's already regretting what she's bringing up. "But mom's going feral wondering how you are. And you should know dad's not very emotional but even he misses you. It's crazy missing someone you didn't even know about a week ago. I miss you; I mean I miss the years we missed out on. The stupid fights, epic pranks on mom and dad. It feels like we were robbed by those stupid witches. But – well I just think, I think if you gave us a chance. Maybe came over – even just for an hour! It would be good for all of us. Unless that's not good for you, we don't wanna make you uncomfortable." she sighs, "just cut me off at any time, for both our sakes."

This time Stiles laughs, a little snicker. The first time he's done so in a while. And they share the ramble gene, that's good to know.

"Uh, um I mean an hour couldn't hurt. But I don't want you guys to expect some epic family reunion. I–I'm still trying to wrap my head around this it's just um it's kind of a lot. But I could do an hour." He manages to spit out.

The smile that appears on Hope's face is blinding.