Chapter Text
Stiles was running.
His heart was pounding hard. The sound of it pulsated against his eardrums, loud enough to drown out the sound of crunching leaves and branches beneath his feet as he scrambled through some unknown forest.
He wished it was loud enough to distract him from the fear. Merciless. Crippling. It tore through his body, tidal wave upon tidal wave as the cold bit at his skin and his knees grew weak. He wouldn’t stop though. He couldn’t. For something was snapping at his ankles, breathing against his neck.
It was chasing him. Though no matter how fast or how far he ran he could not rid the feeling of it being upon him; within him. Something curled in his stomach. Laughter echoed through his mind. And Stiles knew he was running from something he’d never truly be able to escape. Not really.
He fell, wrists jarring beneath him against the tough forest floor. And then in front of him were two feet, a pair of legs. And he daren’t look up. He wouldn’t let himself see those dreadful eyes staring down at him. That terrible smile of success.
The voice brought tears to his eyes, sent sickness to his stomach and an icy shiver tearing through his body. Though he still wouldn't look. Instead he curled in on himself, bringing his knees up to his chest, lying there in the dirt like a lost, fragile child. And he couldn't escape it. The voice. The cold, gleeful voice, bouncing from the trees, filling his head with a malevolent kind of poison.
“Let me in.” It said.
So that’s what he did.
He awoke in his kitchen, standing up, body coated in cold perspiration. His chest rose and fell in huge laboured movements. He was sure he felt tears upon his cheeks.
He looked down. In his hand was a large kitchen knife. The silver of it glinted in the dim moonlight that trickled in through the window. Stiles immediately dropped it, and the sharp clatter rang out as it hit the floor.
Not two seconds later his father was racing into the room, panic stricken.
“Stiles, what happened? Is that you?”
The hassled voice startled him and he span round, slowing his breathing in an attempt to regain some kind of composure.
“I’m fine, dad. I was just getting water. Go back to sleep.”
“What was that sound?”
Stiles bent down and picked up the blade he had dropped. His father’s eyes went wide.
“I just knocked it off the surface. One of us must’ve left it out.”
His hands were shaking as he quickly opened a drawer and put the knife back where it belonged. He knew his father noticed because his face grew incredulous and worried.
“Stiles, something’s wrong. You need to talk to me.”
“I said I was fine. Just getting water.”
It was a pathetic lie. But Stiles pulled out a glass anyway and quickly filled it.
“Dad, you can stop looking at me like that now. Go back to sleep. I’m sorry for waking you up.”
“You didn’t wake me, I wasn’t asleep.”
A pang of guilt hit Stiles’ chest.
His father must've noticed for he quickly made a dismissive hand gesture to accompany his next words.
“It’s a huge report that needs to be in for tomorrow, nothing more.”
Stiles chose to pretend that his father was being truthful rather than to accept the real reason he hadn’t been sleeping. It was because he was terrified of things like this happening.
Stiles nodded in acknowledgement, then shuffled on his feet, trying to ignore the way his knees were threatening to buckle.
“I’m gonna get back to bed.” He said, clutching his glass tight in his hand.
“But Stiles…”
“I’m really tired, Dad. Please.”
His father sighed heavily and Stiles wanted to crumble under his tormented gaze.
“Okay,” he said, finally. “But I’ll stay down here. I work faster downstairs anyway.”
“Dad, you don’t have to stay up for me.”
“The fact that I’m your father makes that statement entirely untrue. But it’s okay, Stiles. I want to.”
The Sheriff gave a sorry attempt at a smile. Stiles didn’t return it. His heart was still pounding, and now guilt clutched onto it too. So instead, he made his way back upstairs as quickly as he could without alerting the already concerned man that remained in his kitchen.
Stiles pushed his bedroom door to until he heard it click shut, then raced to his bed to lift up the mattress and pull out the pair of handcuffs he’d stolen from his father a couple of days ago. He’d been trying desperately not to use them, telling himself that he was safe, that it was all over; that he was sane. But now the fear told him otherwise. Sleepwalking was one thing. He was used to it. He’d done it even when his mother was alive. But kitchen knives were a whole other ball game.
Leaving the key on his bedside table, he tightened one of the loops around his wrist and the other to one of the bars that lined his headboard. Somehow, the second the cuffs were secure and tight, relief swept through him, dulling the fear that had been insistently thrumming through his bones.
He climbed into his bed, grabbing his phone on the way. When he reached a comfortable position, or as comfortable as he could manage with an arm securely fasened above his head, he found himself staring at his blank phone screen in the dark. The thumb of his free hand hovered over it for a second. His eyebrows furrowed as he debated something with himself, then he tossed it back onto his bedside table with a sigh.
As minutes, hours passed by, Stiles drifted into a state of somewhat peaceful semi-consciousness. He daren’t close his eyes for the fear of waking up somewhere else again. Perhaps this time it would be in his fathers’ room, and the kitchen knife would not be in his hand, but rather through the sheriff’s chest, or maybe even his own. So instead he stared at the ceiling, painting imaginary patterns across the plain of greyish blue, watching spools of movie reel play out kind memories from his past. He’d be pining gormlessly after a popular strawberry blonde who didn’t know he existed, and then practicing lacrosse with his asthmatic best friend. Later, he’d be curled up in his mother’s lap as she read to him some childish bedtime story; one he knew word for word for he’d heard it a thousand times already. The memories swept him away into a world void of the supernatural; filled with only the mundane particulars of a life that no longer existed.
Later again, he didn’t know how much so, the sound of his phone vibrating dragged him away from blissful imagination and back into the reality of his gloomy bedroom. He scrambled for it, forgetting the restraint that still pinned him to the bed. It was an awkward, uncomfortable manoeuvre and he cursed himself for not preparing for such circumstances.
When he saw Lydia’s name flashing across his screen, apprehension quickly rose within him. A phone call from Lydia Martin at this time was nothing good. It only meant danger, death and everything bad.
“Lydia, what’s wrong?”
His voice was immediate and urgent as he brought the phone to his ear.
“Stiles?” Lydia replied. She sounded afraid.
“Lydia, where are you? What happened?”
“I’m in my bedroom. And nothing happened. Look, I’m sorry for waking you. I shouldn’t have called. I’ll go now…”
“You didn’t wake me” said Stiles before she could hang up. “Don’t go.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Lydia?”
“I had a nightmare, Stiles. A bad one.”
For a second, Stiles was confused. Then relief arrived at the realisation that there would be no death tonight. No dead body this time. Thank God.
“So you rang me?” he asked, keeping his voice down.
“Who else would I ring?”
Sadly, Stiles didn’t have an answer for that.
“I knew this was stupid.”
Out of irony, Stiles suddenly found himself chuckling slightly.
“And now you’re laughing at me. Thanks, Stiles. Some kind of comfort you are.”
“No, no wait, I’m sorry.” Stiles blurted out. “It’s just, I sort of had a nightmare too. I seriously debated calling you as well.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I wouldn’t have minded.”
“Oh.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“It’s not something that I’m really rushing to relive. What about you?”
“Definitely not.”
There was a semi-comfortable silence between them, though the weight of his dark bedroom made it more pressing and intense. Then Stiles heard Lydia take a deep breath through the phone.
“Stiles?”
“Hmm?” he breathed in acknowledgement.
“Can you talk to me, please?” Lydia’s voice had become a little quieter, but calmer. Definitely calmer.
“Sure, what about?”
“I don’t know.” Said Lydia. “You always have something to talk about. Something stupid. Star Wars. You love Star Wars. Talk about that. Live long and prosper and all that. I don’t know. Just talk.”
“I’ll have you know, Star Wars is pretty far from stupid.” stated Stiles matter-of-factly. “And live long and prosper is actually from Star Trek.”
“They’re the same thing.”
“Take that back or we can no longer be friends.”
“I’ll take it back if you can justify that they’re not. Where does Star Wars take place?”
“In space.”
“Where does Star Trek take place?”
“Uh, in space.”
“Exactly, and they all run around with their little alien friends, saving the world and doing God know what else.”
“You clearly haven’t watched Star Wars or Star Trek. Scott was bad enough. It drives me insane.”
“Then enlighten me. Tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
So he told her just that.
“So basically, in this film there are giant talking teddy bears forming an underdeveloped species in outer space?”
“When you put it that way, yes, I guess. But they’re called Ewoks. There’s a distinction.”
They’d been talking for a good half an hour. Lydia was, or was pretending to be genuinely intrigued by what she was hearing, although she didn’t hesitate to call him out on something or other every five seconds. Stiles knew exactly what was happening, but he didn’t mind. It was comfort for both of them. Hearing her voice; the soft touch of Lydia-like frustration every now and then when he mentioned something particularly absurd was like a blanket of warmth, simply due to its familiarity; its commonplace.
“We should watch it sometime.”
That caught him by surprise.
“Wait, what? You and me? Watch Star Wars?”
A short breathy laugh came through the phone.
“Yes, Stiles. You and me. I’ll be interested to see if your synopsis does it justice.”
Stiles’ mouth hung open for a few seconds before he shook himself to reply.
“Definitely.” He said with a vibrant nod of his head, as if Lydia was right there able to see it. “We can definitely do that. We can do that several times. Several times in one night even. Watch Star Wars I mean. Obviously.”
A sound came through the phone and Stiles couldn’t tell whether it was a laugh or a sound of disgust.
“You seem more like you again.” Came her voice, and thankfully Stiles could sense the smile behind the words.
“Yeah,” he said, shuffling a little to get more comfortable where he perched against his headboard. “I guess so.”
Things went quiet again, but only for couple of seconds.
“So how are things?” Lydia’s voice returned, smooth and kind through the phone.
Stiles sighed.
“You know, they’re alright.” He said rather dismissively. “Just school. Three weeks off because of illness leaves you with a hell of a lot of homework. Coach is threatening to literally take my head off with an axe…”
“No, Stiles. I meant how are things with you?”
Stiles frowned. He didn’t like where this was going.
“Uhh, I guess they’re okay.” He said hesitantly. “I mean, they would be if I weren’t handcuffed to my bed right now for fear of killing everyone I know.”
“What?”
“Please forget I just told you that.”
“Handcuffed?”
“Well, yeah.”
“To the bed?”
“Uh huh.”
“Stiles, for the love of God, take them off.”
Stiles could hear shuffling on Lydia’s end then, and lots of it. His frown deepened.
“Lydia, what are you doing over there?”
“Don’t worry about what I’m doing.” She said rather defiantly. “Did you even hear what I said? Take the handcuffs off.”
“I don’t think that would be best.”
“No Stiles, let me tell you what would be best.” Said Lydia, and her voice came across stern. “You not living in a constant state of fear, that’s what would be best.”
There was the sound of something rattling; then a strange rumbling started up that Stiles couldn’t pair with anything in particular. It sounded a little like car engine switching on.
“Lydia, what’s going on?”
“I said don’t worry about it” Lydia’s reiterated, and now she sounded distant and flustered. “Have you taken them off yet?”
“Uhh, yeah.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am not.”
Stiles glanced up to the handcuffs that were still secure around his pale wrist and the back of his bed. He pulled upon them slightly for no particular reason and felt cold metal tug against his skin. Lydia didn’t respond to that one. The rumbling was still inherent in the background, and now Stiles swore he could hear music, albeit almost inaudible. Stiles wondered if he was simply imagining it. It wouldn’t be the first time his mind had played tricks on him.
“Lydia?”
“Still here.”
“Okay, but, are you gonna tell me what you’re doing?”
“I’m not doing anything.” Lydia said,only aiding Stiles’ frustration. “But hey, now it’s my turn to talk. Give me something to talk about.”
“Uh, I don’t know. You like makeup. Talk about makeup.”
“Really, Stiles? Makeup? That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Hey, I’m under pressure here. I’m sorry I can’t be the king of conversation topics right now.”
“Pick something else.”
“Uhh, I talked about Star Wars. So you talk about your favourite film. Is that fair?”
“You really want me to talk about The Notebook?”
“Yeah, why not.”
“Alright then. Well I know that you’d hate it. It’s full of clichés and unrealistic romance and true love.”
“I could do true love.”
“You could?”
Stiles didn’t respond. He couldn’t. One second everything was simply trivial and the next his hand was tightening around his phone until his knuckles turned white. His heart began to thud incessantly in his chest. Fear. Piercing, unforgiving fear injected itself into his system. The world blurred.
Standing in his room was a figure.
It stood in front of his door. In its hand was a kitchen knife. The same kitchen knife. It was too dark to see his face. But Stiles didn’t need to see to know who it was. There was no one else it could be. It was back. He was back.
“Stiles?”
Lydia’s voice was urgent. The sound of a car door slamming shut came with it. Then footsteps. Stiles had no clue how many times she’d said his name. Her voice was trapped behind a ringing that had flared up against his eardrums. And suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He gasped for air but each heave only brought in the tiniest amount. Each one seemed to birth a new wave of fear and panic.
“Stiles, answer me. What’s happening?”
He looked up, and the figure was gone, leaving his room empty and ominous. His mouth hung open and his body shook.
“He was here. Lydia, he was here.” He managed to gasp, before he let the fear overwhelm him.
“He’s not real, Stiles.” Lydia was saying, but Stiles could no longer hear her. “He’s not real. You hold on, Stiles. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
The phone dropped from his shaking hand and he found himself tugging,heaving at the handcuffs holding him in place with a frantic kind of madness. His body went sprawling as he kicked his covers onto the floor. And then the world swam out of focus. A horrible nausea rose in his chest and filled his head. The whole world suddenly felt like it was ending. And he could think of nothing else but him.
Suddenly the light in his bedroom flashed on, only scattering his thoughts further. Then his hand came free from his restraint. He had no clue how until he noticed pale fingers weaving themselves between his own, clutching on tight, doing anything to ground him. Then the same hands were upon his cheeks and he found himself gazing into wide green eyes, though they slipped in and out of focus as his head continued to spin.
“Look at me, Stiles.” Came her voice, only just piercing through the haze of panic that clung to him and refused to let go.
He couldn’t tell if he was going to be sick, or scream, or both. But then soft lips were crashing into his and his world swooped. The erratic little breaths halted. In fact, breathing halted all together. He felt one of her hands slip from his face to behind his head, curling into his hair, pulling him closer. It held him down, pinning him to reality – to sanity.
Her lips moved against his desperately at first, but as his quaking body slowly began to settle, her lips followed parallel, becoming gentler, and he found himself reciprocating, following her movements, bringing his own trembling hands onto her waist.
Ever so slowly, she pulled him from the abyss, one he was all too familiar with. It took time, and when their lips parted his breathing still came laboured and his body still shook. But it was different now. Better.
Stiles stared at Lydia’s face. The beauty of it. Solid and real. She stared back. Something shone in her eyes that could have been tears or something else entirely.
“You did it again.” Stiles uttered between shuddering breaths.
Lydia smiled, one full of warmth and sadness.
“Of course I did.” Her voice was breathy and light, and her cheeks were flushed with the sweetest shade of pink. “I always will.”