Warning: Excessive hugging ahead. Because after 3B, we all needed more hugging.


Something cold touches his chest, pulling Stiles out of the quiet, comfortable place he was drifting. For a while, he stays in that in-between place where time doesn't exist, right on the cusp of falling back asleep, but the cold thing moves to his back and suddenly the world is solidifying around him.

He cracks his eyes open enough to see Melissa with a stethoscope in her ears. Noticing him looking at her, she smiles down at him. "Hey, kiddo," she whispers. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you." She takes the stethoscope off and hangs it over the back of her neck.

He blinks a couple of times, trying to wake up enough to remember where he is and what's going on. Obviously, he's in the hospital, but wasn't his mom just here with him, holding his hand? Or, no, that had been a dream. It had been his dad. Or had that been a dream? Is this a dream?

"Here." Melissa's holding something out, trying to get his attention. "Let me get your temp and then you can go back to sleep."

Huh? Oh, a thermometer. He obediently opens his mouth so she can put it under his tongue. While she's waiting on it, she shuffles around some more, and Stiles tries to pull his fuzzy thoughts together. He'd been… Somewhere. Right? In a parallel universe? Except, it hadn't been. It had been a dream, and he'd woken up because Scott had helped him break the magic.

Yes, the magic. The fairy! And Nicholas. He'd tried to save Nicholas. But… How did he get back here? He doesn't remember…

The thermometer beeps quietly and Melissa takes it back, looking at a monitor over his head and recording whatever number she sees there.

"What happened?" he says, voice cracking from disuse.

She looks at him as if debating whether he's actually awake enough for this conversation, which is fair because he's really not sure he is. "Do you remember going to see Nicholas?" she asks.

He nods.

"Anything after that?"

Scrunching up his face, he tries to remember, but all that's coming up are little snippets that could really be from anywhere in the last couple months. Scott holding his hand, black veins running up his arms, a doctor shining lights in his eyes, the sound of Lydia crying nearby, the clanking of the MRI, his dad asking him if he remembered hitting his head… "Not really?" he admits.

The corner of her mouth curls up, as if this answer doesn't surprise her at all. "Well, it seems like you somehow managed to break through the fairy's magic and wake him up," she tells him quietly. He gets the feeling she's maybe told him this before. "We're not really sure how. Deaton had some theories about sparks and leveraging the fairy's magic and possibly some kind of hold-over effects from the nogitsune. Honestly, none of that made a whole lot of sense to me, and I don't think Deaton even really knows how you did it. But whatever you did, it triggered another seizure. You've been pretty out of it since then."

Hold-over effects from the nogitsune? What is that supposed to—

And hang on a second. Is she saying he did magic? Like, real, actual magic?

No, he's definitely not awake enough to process that.

"So Nicholas is okay?" he asks, deciding to focus on that for now.

She smiles and rubs his shoulder, and yeah, that exasperated look she's giving him tells him he's definitely asked this a few times already. "He's gonna be fine, sweetheart. And you will be too, once you get some more rest. So go back to sleep, okay?"

Yeah. That's probably a good idea.

Wait, why is she still whispering? He frowns and pushes himself up on his elbow, twisting to look around behind him and spotting his dad, sound asleep in the chair next to him in a position he will definitely be regretting when he wakes up.

"Couldn't get them to leave, and your dad didn't think you'd mind," Melissa says with a chagrined smile, nodding toward the other corner of the room.

Them? Stiles follows her eyeline, and can't help but smile at the sight—Scott stuffed in the corner of the room with Kira slumped on his shoulder and Lydia half sliding down her back. Malia's curled up on the floor with her head resting on Scott's outstretched legs and back pressed against the girls' folded ones. They all look at the same time both incredibly uncomfortable and completely cozy snuggled up together, fast asleep.

"How long have they been here?" he asks, feeling something tighten in his chest. As adorable as it is, they shouldn't be here sleeping on a hard floor for him.

"They were out in the waiting room for a long time," Melissa says, looking at her watch. "But the girls started getting mutinous, so we let them in to keep the peace. They've only been in here for a couple hours. I'll kick them out soon."

Laying back down, he rolls onto his back to try and find a more comfortable position. Now that he's finally waking up a little bit he's noticing how sore he is. All over. Like he just got out of a particularly brutal lacrosse practice. Hasn't he just been lying in a hospital bed for a couple of days? Although, yeah, that probably explains it. These mattresses are truly the worst.

"You okay, sweetie? Need anything?" Melissa asks as he weakly attempts to adjust the pillow into an acceptable shape.

She reaches over like she's going to help him, and the memory of his mom doing the same makes him flinch away from her. "No," he snaps, and then immediately feels bad for the surprise on her face. "I mean, I'm good."

Her hands hover for a moment, that little wrinkle of concern on her forehead deepening. He feels like she can see straight through him, and he suddenly remembers what he said to Nicholas. The things she definitely overheard. And beyond that, what Scott might have told her to fill in the gaps. What he probably told everyone. About his dream. His wish.

About going out there on purpose. About not wanting to come back.

He closes his eyes and turns his head away from Melissa, suddenly wanting very much to be alone. Or at least to go back to sleep so he doesn't have to think about this until later. But he doesn't think that's going to happen. His brain is putting it all together now, everything that happened, and… Oh, God. He doesn't want to do this right now.

But his chest goes tight again, and, okay, apparently he's doing this right now. He feels the tears burning in the corners of his eyes, and no matter how hard he tries to push them away, they just keep coming.

"Stiles?" Melissa's soft touch on his arm is too much, and his face twists with the effort of holding in the emotions trying to break free from his chest. "Are you okay?"

No. He's definitely not.

She's not the same, but after Stiles' mom died, Melissa had never turned him away when he needed a hug. She'd always held onto him just as tightly as he'd held onto her, and never let go until he was ready. So he pushes himself up and into her waiting arms, resting his cheek on her shoulder and hoping she doesn't mind as his tears soak into her scrubs.

"Oh, honey," she says, rubbing his back.

He's glad she doesn't ask what's wrong, because he's not even sure he knows. He'd fixed it all, saved Nicholas. Shouldn't that make him happy? But all he feels is that same hollow emptiness, like a vast chasm in the middle of his soul. Like a deep, dark pit he's fallen into, far, far away from the surface. And he's not even sure if anyone's up there, because every time he calls out his words just echo uselessly back at him. And even if someone was there, how would they ever get to him now? Anytime he tries to climb up, to reach the distant light, he slips further down, further away.

His mom had been right. He might not have known exactly what would be waiting for him when he went into the woods that night, but he'd known enough. Enough to hope…

There's another hand on his back, warm and firm and familiar, and he looks up at his dad's concerned face. "Hey, kid," he says as Stiles lets go of Melissa and collapses into his arms instead. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay."

"Dad," he whines. Begs? Apologizes? He doesn't know, he just knows he's shaking now, even though he isn't cold. He bites the inside of his lip, trying to stop the shivers and keep his breaths from hitching. He doesn't even know why he's trying so hard—he's not fooling anyone. Not anymore.

He hears the rustling and whispers of the others waking up, too, and his face burns with embarrassment and guilt and shame. He buries himself in his dad's chest, unable to face them, and feels the strong arms tighten around him. His dad whispers assurances to him, telling him it's going to be okay, that he's safe, that he loves him, and he just keeps hiding as he hears Melissa shepherding the others out of the room.

They saved his life again, and he's too much of a coward to even look at them.

The door clicks shut, and for a while the only sound is his agonized breathing as he fights to stop the emotions from overwhelming him. Tries to preserve some shred of self dignity. It's a losing battle.

Eventually, his dad pulls away, puts his warm, dry hands on the sides of Stiles' face, wipes at his tears. "Stiles?" he asks. His voice is gentle, but it's not the pitying one Stiles dreads, not that tone he uses when he talks to the victims of horrible crimes. No, this one is the patient, solid, unwavering one he'd used right after Stiles' mom died. The one that says he'll be here whether Stiles wants him or not.

Stiles is suddenly struck by just how tired his dad looks—his eyes bloodshot and wrinkled with worry. But instead of the guilt he usually feels when his dad frets over him, it stirs something else in Stiles' gut. A realization of just how much this man has given up for him. How many times he's lost sleep, rearranged his life, bent over backwards to take care of him. To be there for him.

He may feel like he's alone, that just isn't true. Scott proved it by coming for him, and now here's his dad, holding him through the worst moments of his life. Like he always does.

God, he'd almost left them.

He steels himself, makes himself say it before he changes his mind. Knows he's going to break his dad's heart, but doesn't know how else to get out of it. "I didn't want to come back, Dad," he rasps, his voice nearly inaudible. "I wanted—I wanted to stay with her."

The Sheriff doesn't say anything, just patiently studies him with those sad eyes.

"It wasn't perfect there," he continues. "But everyone was alive. Everyone was happy. You were…" He blinks a couple of times, dropping more tears down his cheeks as he diverts his eyes. "Even after Scott told me… I didn't want to come back."

"It wasn't real, Stiles," his dad says softly.

His throat squeezes so tight, he doesn't think he'll be able to get the words out. "I know."

He makes himself breathe—he still hasn't said it. Not the part he knows he needs to. "It's just…" He wrings his hands, wanting to bury himself under the blankets. His dad is still holding his face, but he can't look at him. "Ever since… I don't—I don't think I can… You all keep saying it wasn't me, but… But, I can't… I just don't want to be here anymore. I don't know how to…"

He trails off, not sure how to articulate it. Doesn't matter anyway. He's said enough.

He's not sure what he expected his dad's reaction to be, but he's a little surprised when the Sheriff merely sighs and pulls him back into a hug. "Oh, son," he murmurs, rubbing his back. It pulls more tears from Stiles' eyes.

When his dad speaks again, his voice is quiet, husky with emotion. "After your mom died… I didn't know what I was doing. It felt like I was missing a piece of myself. Like everything was falling apart. Even simple things, like getting dressed, getting out of bed, felt so hard. I especially didn't—" He takes a rattling breath. "I didn't know what to do with you. I felt like I was failing at everything. I didn't make your sandwiches right, I forgot to wash the clothes you wanted for school… And that was just the little stuff. When you started having the nightmares, and the panic attacks, I was just too overwhelmed. I couldn't handle it."

"Dad," Stiles breathes. "You know I don't—"

"No, let me finish," he interrupts. "I know, it was a hard time for both of us. We were just trying to survive. That's why I drank, but I'm sure you know that. What you don't know… It wasn't just that. I started—I would drink and I would start thinking that I didn't want to do it anymore. That it would be so much easier to just… Give up. Sometimes it felt like you were doing more to take care of me than the other way around, and I started thinking that maybe you'd be better off without me.

"And then one night when I was on patrol, we had to talk someone down from the Route 23 bridge. And once we'd gotten him in the car and everyone was pulling away, I had this sudden thought, this—this urge, I guess you could call it. I thought, 'I could do that. It would be so simple. I could just walk off that bridge and it would all be over.'"

Stiles stiffens, pulls away from his dad's chest and studies him with sudden fear. "Dad?"

The Sheriff gives him a sad smile. "Obviously, I didn't do it. Do you want to know why?"

Stiles nods, his watery eyes wide.

"I got scared," his dad admits, a tear escaping his eye. "It terrified me that I could even think of leaving you all alone. I didn't know what to do. I felt like I was drowning and I didn't know how to get my head above water again." He takes another breath, shaking his head. "So, I swallowed my pride and made an appointment to see someone."

Stiles blinks, shocked. He had never known that. He remembered his dad making him go talk to some people, but he'd thrown so many fits and been so uncooperative about it that they'd given up after a few sessions. Back then, he'd assumed that kind of thing was only for really messed up people, like people with actual psychological disorders. And more recently, when he had decided to give it a shot, any faith he'd had in the mental health system had been violently shattered into a million tiny pieces.

"Did it help?" he croaks, genuinely curious.

His dad's smile deepens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Yeah, it did," he says, as if he's a little surprised about that himself. "They helped me work through things, find some better coping mechanisms. It didn't magically fix everything overnight, and it never made everything perfect, but eventually, I felt like I could face the world again."

Stiles nods again, looking down at his lap as his eyes fill with more tears and his lips tremble. Even with his dad's story, this feels too insurmountable. Like he's never going to get through it. "I don't know what to do, Dad. I feel like, even though it's gone, I'm still… I don't feel like me anymore. I don't know if I can ever go back to how I was before."

He would think his dad would eventually get tired of hugging him, but hasn't yet. "I know, kiddo," he says into Stiles' hair. "I don't know all the answers, but, you know what I do know? You don't have to do this alone. You've got me, and you've got Melissa, and Scott, and all your other friends. And we're all here to help you, because we love you." He jostles Stiles gently in his arms. "You got that? I love you, Stiles. I love you so much. Nothing will ever make me stop loving you. And if your mom was still here with us, I know she would say the same thing. Wherever she is, I know she's so proud of you."

He bites his lip. "You really think so?"

His dad's chest rumbles with a chuckle. "There is not a doubt in my mind."

The words cut deep, straight through the darkness and into Stiles' heart, and for the first time in a while it's like he can feel a tiny bit of light penetrating through the thick fog.

"I miss her so much," Stiles whispers.

He feels his dad's chest expand slowly with his breath before he lets it out in a long, sad sigh. "Me, too, kiddo," he whispers back. "Me, too."