Stiles (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
skybluejeep) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tushanshu_logs2013-08-13 09:01 pm
skybluejeep) wrote in tushanshu_logs2013-08-13 09:01 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Characters: Stiles and ??? Open to those with previous CR / castmates.
Date: After certain woofs have appeared.
Location: The realm of Death in Sinbrilee.
Situation: Stiles just has to go exploring because that's who he is, after hearing all the shenanigans happening in the dead city. And of course he stupidly pokes his head inside the realm of Death, because that's a good idea.
Warnings/Rating: Featuring actual death, lots of feels, and Lis being the queen of Teal Deers. No, seriously, this is long. Brace yourself. Oh, and lots of Teen Wolf spoilers for all three seasons.
Hot.
The first kiss lands like a pistol shot, quick and surprising and ripping through him easily. And his hands find Heather's waist, gripping on to her slight frame for some sort of support. A flash of Lydia's face across the inner lids of his eyes, and then she vanishes in the tsunami of what Heather is offering him. Sex. Sex? SEX. Now, here, sex, okay! XXXL condoms, no problem, sex is gonna happen now sex sex sex forgive me Lydia it should have been you but can you blame a boy for wanting it...
Gone. She's dead. The window is smashed, and there's wine leaking like spilled blood across the concrete floor. Heather's Eucharist, her last communion, her sacrifice, her body and blood, even if he didn't realize it at the time. The land around him wheels around, spinning him off course. Vines overtake cracked and greying marble in a blink, and then just as quickly whither and crumble away.
Cold.
The mist is creeping over the forest outside of Beacon Hills, worming its way into the rotting undergrowth, the thick carpet of dead leaves and pine needles. Footfalls make no sound here, and small animals freeze as the wolf passes by. In the hard ground, a spiral of wolfsbane blooms on a rope infused with mountain ash. Stiles grabs the free end of the rope and pulls, pulls hard, freeing it from the cracked ground, clumps of dark earth falling from it like rain. Pulls and pulls, pulls the earth up, reveals the hole...reveals where the vivisected body of Laura Hale has been buried. Buried under the pack's symbol of vengeance, Derek Hale's promise to his sister. The spiral, the reminder that it all comes around again, the wheel of death and destruction becoming wider and wider with every drop of blood spilled. Ice blue eyes peer at Stiles through the darkness, accompanied by a gut-clenching growl, the kind which sent Stiles' ancestors scrambling for their spears and bows and fire.
There is no fire in this land. And the cold is eating him.
Hot.
The stench of lubricants and anti-freeze is thick, a particular miasma only found in garages. It makes his nose wrinkle, the steam cloying around the back of his neck, his collarbone, sweat trickling down his left temple. Fix my damn jeep, you idiot jock, I'm paying you, aren't I? Jesus, it's like every horrible cliche come to life, how could I even be interested in lacrosse when boneheads like this guy are too?
And out of the corner of his eye, movement. Lizard, lizard, giant G.D. lizard skulking and crawling above his head. He tries to call out a warning, and then he's numb. His whole body goes numb, he can feel his hot blood congealing in his veins, his nerves on fire with the paralyzing agent in the Kanima's venom. It was like nothing he'd ever felt in his life before, his body refusing to obey his brain. The heat was searing his flesh, charbroiling him in one spot, keeping him captive. And he had to watch, watch, as the idiot jock working on his jeep was fucking crushed to death by a hydraulic lift. Hot life's blood oozes out from under the lift, the scathing crunch of bone barely audible beneath the screech of metal against metal. He's witnessed death before, but this one is particularly brutal.
Cold.
His legs are like stone, the icy feeling of fatigue crawling up his hips as he holds Derek aloft in the chlorinated pool. This is torture, two hours in a pool treading water. There's Coach Finstock's idea of endurance training, and then there's stupid. Of course, Finstock is plain stupid anyway but even he has limits. This? This is the limit. He'd never imagined himself treading water this long, especially not to escape a goddamn lizard. The blue-green reflections on the distant walls remind him of glaciers and ice cubes, even if the water is somewhat comfortable. He might not feel the cold now, but it's coming. The idea of safety is supposed to be warm, and yet he cannot feel anything but frigid cold and ice. And as he lets go of Derek, letting him sink to the bottom of the pool, knowing the water will flood Derek's lungs in a matter of seconds. He has to strain his aching muscles to the limit to even move, let alone swim to the edge of the pool. It feels like ice water in his veins, as he thrashes through the water as fast as he can. Death is a breath away...
Hot.
Stiles can feel the humidity in the air, and he swallows against the visions assaulting him. Yeah, walking through that foreboding archway? Big mistake. He can handle all this stuff, no really, he can. Sure, his heart is pounding and his hands are shaking and the fight or flight instinct is screaming at him right now. But he's gotten really good at overriding that instinct over the last year or so. He'd never stop running if he hadn't gotten good at it. It's horrible, yes, but he can handle it, he can handle it...
Numb.
Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.
The slow, steady rhythm of his mother's heartbeat is being broadcast to the world, part of the background noise of the hospital. Her blood oxygen levels are way too low, though; she's just not getting a clear breath in. The oxygen mask over her face blocks out her upturned nose, hides her lips, stained white by dried saliva, cracked red where they're broken and bleeding and desert dry. There's a line cut into her flesh now, the mask having been in place for so long. The cancer had spread from her ovaries to her intestines to her lungs. He's too young to pronounce the word 'metastasized' but he knows it's not a good word. He hasn't had his medication in the last two weeks. His prescription ran out, and he didn't tell anybody. But he has no problem focusing now. There's nothing here to distract his attention away from her.
He takes her hand, her cold and unresponsive hand. She hasn't gripped his hand back all afternoon, but he keeps trying, hoping for just one little curl of her fingers against his. The edges of her fingernails are a faded blue, like the distant sky, forever out of his reach. And even though her eyes are closed, he knows that the whites of her eyes aren't anymore. They're an ugly yellow now, with broken red capillaries throughout. Her eyes haven't been focusing all day. Daddy, daddy where are you? You promised you'd be here by now, you promised that after school you'd be here. Every night they had a ritual, they'd visit mommy in the hospital, and they'd sit together on the uncomfortable chairs and eat dinner, and then they'd go home. But occasionally there was a phone call, late late late, waking them up at three in the morning. His father hadn't shaved, his stubble would scratch at his face whenever they would hug, whenever he would carry him to the cruiser at three in the morning to rush to the hospital. The red and blue flashing lights on empty streets had become strangely comforting to his young self. Even though they represented an emergency, get out of the way...to Stiles they became a beacon. Here comes help. Here comes family.
There's no change in her, her eyes still mostly closed, unseeing through drooping lids. He'd overheard a quiet conversation between his father and the doctor, the oncologist who was supposed to be his mother's savior, he'd overheard words he wasn't supposed to hear. Being put on a ventilator was a big step, Mr. Stilinski. That's not something you come back from. The cancer in her lungs is inoperable. It's not one big tumor, it's like somebody got her with a shotgun. Thousands of little cancerous spots, spread like buckshot through her lungs, her guts, her bones. Her gall bladder is one big tumor, we could open her up but her prognosis isn't good, you should put her in hospice, there's nothing we can do. She would be comfortable, no pain, palliative care, chemotherapy would kill at this stage...
Die by chemo, die by cancer, die by air being stolen away, die a thousand little deaths, no one tumor big enough to kill, her body turning on her, eating itself alive, millions of little wounds, billions of traitorous cells.
There's no tender good bye. There's no final moment. There's no returning grip to his hand. She's been long gone, gone too long, her self and her soul already lost, and only her heartbeat went on. There's nothing left of Claudia Stilinski but a pulse, and there hasn't been for several days.
And even her pulse gave out in the end.
The rush of doctors and nurses around him makes no sense. The long, slow drone of a flat-line makes no sense to him. All that makes sense is that he's being tugged away from her, his warm fingers dragging one last time against her cold ones as he's ushered into the hallway. There's no waiting room this deep in the hospital; the ICU has one small bench with a carefully chosen soothing pattern. Pastel pink and turquoise and plastic cushions, in a window seat looking over the forest outside. It is on this bench he's deposited, and told to stay right there, don't move, your daddy will be here soon...
Not soon enough.
Stiles sinks to his knees in the realm of Death, his own breath stolen away, gasping as he relives his mother's passing. Alone, always alone, no comfort in that last second.
"...Mommy?"
Date: After certain woofs have appeared.
Location: The realm of Death in Sinbrilee.
Situation: Stiles just has to go exploring because that's who he is, after hearing all the shenanigans happening in the dead city. And of course he stupidly pokes his head inside the realm of Death, because that's a good idea.
Warnings/Rating: Featuring actual death, lots of feels, and Lis being the queen of Teal Deers. No, seriously, this is long. Brace yourself. Oh, and lots of Teen Wolf spoilers for all three seasons.
Hot.
The first kiss lands like a pistol shot, quick and surprising and ripping through him easily. And his hands find Heather's waist, gripping on to her slight frame for some sort of support. A flash of Lydia's face across the inner lids of his eyes, and then she vanishes in the tsunami of what Heather is offering him. Sex. Sex? SEX. Now, here, sex, okay! XXXL condoms, no problem, sex is gonna happen now sex sex sex forgive me Lydia it should have been you but can you blame a boy for wanting it...
Gone. She's dead. The window is smashed, and there's wine leaking like spilled blood across the concrete floor. Heather's Eucharist, her last communion, her sacrifice, her body and blood, even if he didn't realize it at the time. The land around him wheels around, spinning him off course. Vines overtake cracked and greying marble in a blink, and then just as quickly whither and crumble away.
Cold.
The mist is creeping over the forest outside of Beacon Hills, worming its way into the rotting undergrowth, the thick carpet of dead leaves and pine needles. Footfalls make no sound here, and small animals freeze as the wolf passes by. In the hard ground, a spiral of wolfsbane blooms on a rope infused with mountain ash. Stiles grabs the free end of the rope and pulls, pulls hard, freeing it from the cracked ground, clumps of dark earth falling from it like rain. Pulls and pulls, pulls the earth up, reveals the hole...reveals where the vivisected body of Laura Hale has been buried. Buried under the pack's symbol of vengeance, Derek Hale's promise to his sister. The spiral, the reminder that it all comes around again, the wheel of death and destruction becoming wider and wider with every drop of blood spilled. Ice blue eyes peer at Stiles through the darkness, accompanied by a gut-clenching growl, the kind which sent Stiles' ancestors scrambling for their spears and bows and fire.
There is no fire in this land. And the cold is eating him.
Hot.
The stench of lubricants and anti-freeze is thick, a particular miasma only found in garages. It makes his nose wrinkle, the steam cloying around the back of his neck, his collarbone, sweat trickling down his left temple. Fix my damn jeep, you idiot jock, I'm paying you, aren't I? Jesus, it's like every horrible cliche come to life, how could I even be interested in lacrosse when boneheads like this guy are too?
And out of the corner of his eye, movement. Lizard, lizard, giant G.D. lizard skulking and crawling above his head. He tries to call out a warning, and then he's numb. His whole body goes numb, he can feel his hot blood congealing in his veins, his nerves on fire with the paralyzing agent in the Kanima's venom. It was like nothing he'd ever felt in his life before, his body refusing to obey his brain. The heat was searing his flesh, charbroiling him in one spot, keeping him captive. And he had to watch, watch, as the idiot jock working on his jeep was fucking crushed to death by a hydraulic lift. Hot life's blood oozes out from under the lift, the scathing crunch of bone barely audible beneath the screech of metal against metal. He's witnessed death before, but this one is particularly brutal.
Cold.
His legs are like stone, the icy feeling of fatigue crawling up his hips as he holds Derek aloft in the chlorinated pool. This is torture, two hours in a pool treading water. There's Coach Finstock's idea of endurance training, and then there's stupid. Of course, Finstock is plain stupid anyway but even he has limits. This? This is the limit. He'd never imagined himself treading water this long, especially not to escape a goddamn lizard. The blue-green reflections on the distant walls remind him of glaciers and ice cubes, even if the water is somewhat comfortable. He might not feel the cold now, but it's coming. The idea of safety is supposed to be warm, and yet he cannot feel anything but frigid cold and ice. And as he lets go of Derek, letting him sink to the bottom of the pool, knowing the water will flood Derek's lungs in a matter of seconds. He has to strain his aching muscles to the limit to even move, let alone swim to the edge of the pool. It feels like ice water in his veins, as he thrashes through the water as fast as he can. Death is a breath away...
Hot.
Stiles can feel the humidity in the air, and he swallows against the visions assaulting him. Yeah, walking through that foreboding archway? Big mistake. He can handle all this stuff, no really, he can. Sure, his heart is pounding and his hands are shaking and the fight or flight instinct is screaming at him right now. But he's gotten really good at overriding that instinct over the last year or so. He'd never stop running if he hadn't gotten good at it. It's horrible, yes, but he can handle it, he can handle it...
Numb.
Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.
The slow, steady rhythm of his mother's heartbeat is being broadcast to the world, part of the background noise of the hospital. Her blood oxygen levels are way too low, though; she's just not getting a clear breath in. The oxygen mask over her face blocks out her upturned nose, hides her lips, stained white by dried saliva, cracked red where they're broken and bleeding and desert dry. There's a line cut into her flesh now, the mask having been in place for so long. The cancer had spread from her ovaries to her intestines to her lungs. He's too young to pronounce the word 'metastasized' but he knows it's not a good word. He hasn't had his medication in the last two weeks. His prescription ran out, and he didn't tell anybody. But he has no problem focusing now. There's nothing here to distract his attention away from her.
He takes her hand, her cold and unresponsive hand. She hasn't gripped his hand back all afternoon, but he keeps trying, hoping for just one little curl of her fingers against his. The edges of her fingernails are a faded blue, like the distant sky, forever out of his reach. And even though her eyes are closed, he knows that the whites of her eyes aren't anymore. They're an ugly yellow now, with broken red capillaries throughout. Her eyes haven't been focusing all day. Daddy, daddy where are you? You promised you'd be here by now, you promised that after school you'd be here. Every night they had a ritual, they'd visit mommy in the hospital, and they'd sit together on the uncomfortable chairs and eat dinner, and then they'd go home. But occasionally there was a phone call, late late late, waking them up at three in the morning. His father hadn't shaved, his stubble would scratch at his face whenever they would hug, whenever he would carry him to the cruiser at three in the morning to rush to the hospital. The red and blue flashing lights on empty streets had become strangely comforting to his young self. Even though they represented an emergency, get out of the way...to Stiles they became a beacon. Here comes help. Here comes family.
There's no change in her, her eyes still mostly closed, unseeing through drooping lids. He'd overheard a quiet conversation between his father and the doctor, the oncologist who was supposed to be his mother's savior, he'd overheard words he wasn't supposed to hear. Being put on a ventilator was a big step, Mr. Stilinski. That's not something you come back from. The cancer in her lungs is inoperable. It's not one big tumor, it's like somebody got her with a shotgun. Thousands of little cancerous spots, spread like buckshot through her lungs, her guts, her bones. Her gall bladder is one big tumor, we could open her up but her prognosis isn't good, you should put her in hospice, there's nothing we can do. She would be comfortable, no pain, palliative care, chemotherapy would kill at this stage...
Die by chemo, die by cancer, die by air being stolen away, die a thousand little deaths, no one tumor big enough to kill, her body turning on her, eating itself alive, millions of little wounds, billions of traitorous cells.
There's no tender good bye. There's no final moment. There's no returning grip to his hand. She's been long gone, gone too long, her self and her soul already lost, and only her heartbeat went on. There's nothing left of Claudia Stilinski but a pulse, and there hasn't been for several days.
And even her pulse gave out in the end.
The rush of doctors and nurses around him makes no sense. The long, slow drone of a flat-line makes no sense to him. All that makes sense is that he's being tugged away from her, his warm fingers dragging one last time against her cold ones as he's ushered into the hallway. There's no waiting room this deep in the hospital; the ICU has one small bench with a carefully chosen soothing pattern. Pastel pink and turquoise and plastic cushions, in a window seat looking over the forest outside. It is on this bench he's deposited, and told to stay right there, don't move, your daddy will be here soon...
Not soon enough.
Stiles sinks to his knees in the realm of Death, his own breath stolen away, gasping as he relives his mother's passing. Alone, always alone, no comfort in that last second.
"...Mommy?"
→ scott and stiles
He thinks about dropping by Scott's tree house but he figure they'll go by after. All three of them. God, are they going to be Musketeers, now? Fine, Stilinski isn't that bad. He's just impossible to actually get along with when he gives him such grief.
Isaac gets there first - or so he thinks, impatient and not really having a reason to hang around his (admittedly awesome) suite. He checks out the bridge, misses having a phone to mess around with while he waits, and catches a familiar scent, frowning. Looking back out toward Sinbrilee, he's pretty sure the most stubborn, ADD-prone, easy to fluster Beacon Hills High student has been and gone.
Or, he sniffs, taking a step onto the bridge. Been and continues to have been. He didn't wait.
Great.
Now, he has to wait for Scott, let him know and they have to go track him down. He reflects on where Stiles could be. Hopefully, if he follows the path - shit, he can't not. Giving a look back, he steps onto the bridge fully and follows the trail quickly, stopping outside the archway which oozes black -- blood?
Even greater.
He didn't wander into Dream. He wandered into Death. He bets Stiles didn't take the crash course in Sinbrilee like he did. Fuck. He jogs back to the bridge. Hopefully, Scott will be there. Because, they're going to have to rescue Stiles.
no subject
At least boredom wasn't a problem for Scott. Still, he missed the days when making the lacrosse team was his biggest concern. He's hoping Stiles and Isaac get along while they explore together and they won't make him feel stuck in the middle of them arguing...
He spots Isaac in the distance waiting for him on the bridge and immediately knows something is wrong. He can smell Isaac's worry and with no sign of Stiles anywhere, Scott's heart immediately starts to race as he joins Isaac on the bridge.
A sniff of the air confirms Scott's fears. Stiles was here... and now he's gone.
Damn it Stiles, where did you go?
"He didn't wait." Of course he didn't, he's Stiles. Scott knows Stiles well enough by now, he probably knows Stiles better than Stiles knows himself. He should have got Stiles first and they should have come together.
Scott meets Isaac's eyes with a frown, trying to keep it together instead of panicking. Panicking will only slow them down and the quicker they find Stiles, the quicker Scott can tell him to never not wait for him ever again. "We have to find him."
no subject
"He didn't." First off, they all should have come together. Or, maybe Stiles should've stayed home. How about that? If he can't stand still and wait for his BFF and Isaac, then when could he? They're new to this entire floating turtle thing. Stiles has no idea what could be in those arches and Isaac knows this because he picked door number two.
"He went into the Death arch. The one on the right. The trail ends there." Probably because it picks up inside. But, he's focusing on not worrying Scott because a worried Scott doesn't help anyone. Isaac tries his best to mask the judgment in his voice.
"Did you hear any of the stuff on the network? It's bad news. Your worst fears come to life. It's Freddy Krueger's amusement park." And in some cases, he just might be there, too. Who knows if anybody fears the nightmare on Elm Street. "Luckily, he should be fine. Just pretty scarred if anything actually manifested. And I already checked. If the turtle decides he's had enough of his dead bestie, we'll be brought back. Physically."
Which doesn't seem like a funny idea now. Damn it, Stiles.
"So, we're not going to miss the boat." He sighs, indicating with his head. "Come on. Let's go retrieve your BFF."
no subject
He felt somewhat comforted by Isaac telling him what he'd found out from the network. All Scott had heard about arches was from Miles saying, 'If you see an archway with some weird writing above it, don't go through it.' And what had Stiles done? Gone through it of course.
Scott appreciated Isaac's help, he really did, but he wasn't going to willingly let Isaac step through the arch, not after what Isaac had told him about what was waiting for them. He wasn't going to let Isaac suffer his worst fears.
"I'm going alone." Scott stared into the arch like it was his worst enemy, which it was because it had taken his best friend from him and Scott was going to get him back, or die trying. "Go back to the turtle," he told Isaac.
no subject
"Scott." That he's not expecting but he's also not surprised by. "We were going to explore together, we're getting him back together. What if you get stuck there with him? The three of us go through, there's a better chance we all make it back in one piece."
Normally, he listens to Scott, hands down. But, this isn't Derek and this isn't home. There are new rules. Maybe Scott's this true alpha but there's no proof yet. And he's not Isaac's yet. Maybe in name only. He's an AINO. And Isaac's alpha is back home dealing with the consequences of his wandering lonely, wolf dick.
"I'm going with you."
no subject
"But..." Scott really looks like he wants to argue with Isaac, but Scott knows he's right. He has a better chance of finding Stiles with Isaac's help. Two werewolves are better than one, after all. Besides, Scott can't stop Isaac unless he uses his claws, and Scott would prefer not to do that. Scott felt bad enough about restraining Isaac by the throat when he was wolfed out and attacked Allison. Isaac was his friend. Scott didn't like laying a finger (or a claw) on Isaac, or anyone, unless he absolutely had to.
"Okay," Scott finally agrees to Isaac joining him, not that Scott has much choice in the matter. "Stay close to me. Don't leave my side, okay?"
After waiting for Isaac's response, Scott takes a deep breath and steps through the foreboding arch, sensing Isaac right behind him.
no subject
He leaned his head in, raising an eyebrow. But what. He'd love to hear this. But, then Scott doesn't protest. He says, 'Okay.' Crisis averted. Two can play it at the claw game.
"Yeah, sure," he replies, waiting for Scott to take the lead, now. "Okay." It's hard to but he manages to acquiesce. They can't step in together or he knows Scott would insist they do. Isaac steps in after Scott. "Right behind you." Just in case he couldn't see Isaac or he loses him. "Anything happens, call out." He's not trying to take over Scott's job. It's just an idea he gets. If they succumb to their fears then they can probably bring each other out of it.
As soon as he steps through, Isaac feels a complete shift in - something. Or, the more accurate way of putting it would be he doesn't feel. Suddenly he's aware of how much he can't pick out be it smells, scents - particularly Stiles'. He sniffs, looking around. Something's definitely off. He attempts in vain to wield his claws, Spreading his fingers he just looks like he's trying to a bad impression of Wolverine.
Well, fuck.
"Scott..."
no subject
And suddenly Stiles' scent is gone. It was gone as soon as they stepped through the arch and Scott is confused. Stiles' scent led them here. They should be able to pick up on it and follow it...
But Scott can't even smell Isaac behind him. He can't even hear Isaac's heartbeat and Scott whirls around to make sure Isaac is not only okay but alive, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees Isaac is fine. He looks at Isaac's fingers that are spread like his claws should be there, then raises his own hand to make his appear.
Except they don't. Everything about his hand is human right now.
"Did anyone on the network mention that abilities wouldn't work here?" Scott has a feeling the answer is no, otherwise Isaac would have warned him... Maybe there aren't any people like them with abilities on the turtle. Or maybe there are. Point is, it's going to be a lot harder than Scott thought to find Stiles. Hopefully he hadn't wandered too far once he stepped through the arch.
"Looks like we'll have to find him the human way." Stiles' dad did it all the time, so could they. "Come on." He gestures for Isaac to follow him as he starts walking, looking for any sign of footprints on the ground. "Stiles!" he yells out, praying his best friend will hear him. "Stiles!"
no subject
Isaac looks back behind him at the doorway, making sure it doesn't dissolve into nothing. It's there and it's not going anywhere. Staying close behind, Isaac also calls out to Stiles, echoing Scott. Scott's looking down so Isaac looks up and around. He doesn't know if they're going to witness someone's nightmare or if it will be in Stiles' head. So, he looks for anything - a sign that Stiles is there or that a scene is playing out.
"Stiles!" he calls out again.
oops I accidentally angsted :(
He's about to complain out loud about it to Isaac when suddenly Scott sees Stiles. Except it's not really Stiles, it's one of Scott's fears playing out in front of them.
"Stiles!" Scott immediately starts running towards the vision of Stiles and stops in front of him. The fake Stiles is knelt on the ground, clutching at Sheriff Stilinski's dead body, Stiles' cheeks stained with tears.
"Stiles..." Scott stares in horror. This can't be real. Stiles' father wasn't here. This place was playing tricks on him. It had to be.
"How could you let this happen, Scott? You said you'd bring him back to me alive. You PROMISED me. Now both my parents are dead because of you."
Scott can feel tears springing to his eyes. He tells himself that none of it's real, but the sight of the sheriff's dead body and Stiles sobbing... It's too much for Scott. He's paralyzed by what he's seeing right now.
i'm sorry, it happens!
"Of course," he says. Scott wants to complain about the temperature, Isaac's going to complain about - well, he can't really complain anymore. He takes a few steps towards Scott, watching the scene before him. At first he thinks this is the real Stiles and his fear of losing his father is getting to him. But, then Stiles speaks and Isaac gets it right away.
"Scott..." he starts, making his way beside him. "Scott!" He stops right behind, peering down at the vision. Scott's not moving. He's paralyzed with fear and all of a sudden they're in the motel again. He tries blocking out those bad thoughts as he steps in front of him and sets his hands on Scott's shoulders. "Scott, this isn't real. It's not Stiles. His dad's not dead." That they know of but that doesn't help anyone right now. "You know him. He's your best friend. He wouldn't lash out at you like that. He wouldn't say that."
He might. Isaac doesn't know for sure but he's using anything he can to snap Scott out of it.
"Okay? We have to find Stiles. That's not him."
no subject
"Okay." He looks back into Isaac's eyes and nods gratefully at him for snapping him out of it. He can't believe he considered coming here without Isaac. Scott was so worried about Isaac facing his fears, and here Scott is almost crumbling apart from his own. "The sooner we find him, the sooner we can get the hell out of here," Scott tells himself.
This is seriously the most messed up place Scott has ever visited. Why would the turtle bring them somewhere you could easily step into a place that was practically torture for whoever entered it? Why hadn't the arch been destroyed or blocked off? So much for exploring. This was a living nightmare.
talk about an accident!
"Stiles!" he called out again, whirling around. "I can't tell how big this place is," he says, looking back at Scott. It's dark and he can't see far in front of his face. It's like he's driving on a dark foggy night.
He takes a few steps away from Scott, hearing something distinct and not a memory he would have. It's the distinct sound of a heart monitor flatlining.
"Scott, do you hear that?" It's not his abilities or super hearing, they're nearby. They're near something. He moves away from Scott, following the sound, not meaning to move so quickly but he's determined to get them all out. If Scott can't, then he will.
"You're running? In the house?" He slows down, stopping in his tracks. "You got up off your ass finally, and it's to track mud and who knows what else into my house?"
He shakes his head, refusing to believe that this is happening. Because it isn't. It's a nightmare. It's not real. He's not here. He's dead. Jackson killed him. He's dead.
He would hear Stiles nearby but he's being enveloped in his own nightmare.
"This isn't your house." He can't yell. He can't speak above a dull roar, almost under his breath. His father comes into sight, stepping out of the darkness.
"I pay the mortgage. My name is on the deed. It sounds like it's my house."
"This isn't. It's not - you're not. I'm not."
"Worth it? A complete waste of space? A thorn in my side, my son?" Every word is like a knife slicing into his heart. He's finding it harder to breath. It's just him and his father. Mr. Lahey draws closer. "What isn't this? Fun? Fair? Life isn't fair, Isaac."
"No. No. It's -" His breathing trips up, heart beat racing. He takes a step back, tripping. There was ground there. He knows there was. But, there isn't anymore. He hits the bottom of the hole with a thud. His eyes shoot open. This isn't a hole.
It's the freezer.
Finally, he lets out a sound louder then a whimper. He screams.
And the lid snaps shut.
stand in the corner and think about what you did
"Isaac, slow down." With how dark it is, they need to stick together, but Isaac is ignoring him and running ahead, Scott feeling dangerously close to losing him. "Isaac!" Scott yells in vain, but it's too late. Within seconds, Scott has lost Isaac to the darkness.
Scott can hear voices, Isaac talking to someone, but with the sound of the flat-line getting louder, Scott knows he must be getting closer to Stiles. Scott hates having to choose between them, but when Stiles seems so close now, Scott makes the decision to get to Stiles first, then go back for Isaac.
Finally, Scott sees him knelt on the ground, and Scott sprints towards him, crashing to his knees in front of his best friend. "Stiles," he says in relief, clutching at Stiles' shoulders that are real, unlike the Stiles he'd come across earlier. "Are you okay? We have to--"
A scream in the distance cuts Scott short, sounding like it came from Isaac's mouth. Scott knew it was only a matter of time until this place made Isaac suffer his fears, and Scott knows more than anyone how bad they are. Scott's been in that freezer that Isaac has nightmares about. Scott could barely stand five minutes in there.
Now he has Stiles, Scott can go back for Isaac, but he can't go anywhere unless he gets Stiles to move. "Stiles, you have to get up and come with me to find Isaac, okay?" Then they could all get out of this hellhole.
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"Scott?"
He croaks his best friend's name, looking up at him slowly, before struggling to his feet. Everything is hot and dizzy right now, and he's losing his grip again.
But then, he's staggering into Scott, throwing one arm around his shoulders helplessly. Help me, hold me up, I need you, I'm sorry, I'm an idiot, don't leave me here. All unspoken in that one gesture.
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"It's okay, I've got you." Scott helps pull Stiles up, supporting him with his arm around Stiles' waist. "We'll be out of here soon. We just have to find Isaac." Scott leads Stiles to where he last saw him. "Isaac! Isaac!" Scott's hoping for a response from him to give Scott some idea of where he is. But if Isaac can't hear him, Scott will search everywhere to find him.
Scott notices how woozy Stiles looks. "Please don't pass out." An unconscious Stiles really wouldn't help right now. "Stay with me, okay?"
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It's an automatic denial, because he feels honestly too anxious to pass out, his blood pressure and pulse too elevated for him to faint. The woozy was for the opposite reason, the panic making his throat and chest tight, and his legs rubbery.
But...Scott was here. Scott had come looking for him. And that helped alleviate the panic considerably.
"Isaac's here? You brought Isaac into the realm of Death? Oh, crap, that's bad. That's really bad."
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"My abilities don't work here," Scott mentioned. "I can't track his scent--"
And then Scott saw it. The freezer.
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Scott, out of everybody, will understand that. As much as it pains Stiles to admit how stupid it was to come in here, in a way he had no choice. Because...what if it had been his mom? This was a realm between death and dreaming, right? So what if she was here? Just behind that archway?
And he's about to protest further, when his eyes lock on the freezer, and his stomach flops over.
"Oh, crap."
He lets go of his friend, his brother, long enough to scramble over to the horrible thing, trying to pry it open immediately with his bare fingers.
"Scott!"
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His dad's voice is unmistakable. Isaac knows he's standing there, waiting for his time to be up. His punishment goes for longer each time. Bad grades, that's two hours. Car accident, that's three. Sleeping through a shift, saying the word 'no' - he just expects the sun to come up before he gets out.
Back where you belong.
He shuts his eyes.
Through the din of the freezer, he hears something. Stiles. He's yelling.
"Stiles?" he says, quietly. Stiles is here. Stiles is here because he's not. It's not real. If he can overcome it... He presses against the top, bringing his foot there, pushing. "Get me -" He's done. He is done with this. "Stiles! Scott!" He pushes harder, slamming a flat palm against the top. He has no strength. He's human. He can't get out. "Let me out of here!" he screams, almost yelling into a whine.
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"We have to break the lock or find a key. Isaac, just stay calm and hold on! We're gonna get you out!" At least whenever they managed to get the freezer open, Isaac wouldn't be all homicidal like when he was trapped in the school closet. Scott looks at the ground. "Stiles, do you see a key anywhere?"
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"Everything we've seen in here, it's all self-generated. It's all in our heads, right? So...Isaac has to get the key. Or tell us where it is."
He slaps his hand down on the lid, trying to get the poor guy's attention, hoping it doesn't freak him out too much.
"Isaac! Where did your dad hang the key? In your home! Where was it?"
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"He doesn't - he doesn't hang it," he yells.
Boys, his father says. Why his father's voice is clearer - maybe it's because it's his father, his nightmare.
"He's there, He's there. Get out of there!" He smacks the ceiling again ineffectually, trying to get out.
Do we have a problem here? His dad smiles, tries to come off as a sweet, uninteresting guy. He's harmless.
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Scott had a feeling this was going to turn really ugly, but they weren't leaving without Isaac. He'd fight Mr. Lahey if he had to, even though the odds of him winning a fight against him as a human were next to nothing.
"Mr. Lahey." Scott steps forward and in front of Stiles, shielding him protectively. "Where's the key?"
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If I do have it, it's none of your business what goes on in my home.
The light glints off Mr. Lahey's glasses, and Stiles sets his jaw. He and Scott have always been the underdogs, but now it's time to stand up for Isaac, and try to make this right. This is his fault, after all...and it has to stop now.
"Yeah, except this isn't your home, and you're an abusive prick. Give us the key!"
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