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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
"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?"
no subject
"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?"
no subject
"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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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!"
no subject
Attention he doesn't need.
Isaac lived like that for years. Shrugging away from attention. The sheriff had come to the cemetery but he'd looked away, answered minimal questions and shrunk down. That's all he'd done in the presence of his father.
I don't like your tone of voice, young man. Mr. Lahey takes a step in towards Stiles. Isaac, are you okay? He calls out, not waiting for a response. He's not saying he isn't. Tell you what. Come back later and we'll be having dinner. Another step into Stiles.
If I don't do this, then how will he learn?
no subject
The closer Mr. Lahey gets to Stiles, the more anger that swells up in Scott. To prevent him getting any closer to Stiles, Scott stands directly in front of Mr. Lahey's path, blocking him from going any further.
"Give us the key and nobody gets hurt."
Scott doesn't mean for that to sound so threatening. What he really means is that he wants Mr. Lahey to hand over the key without anybody being harmed. But what it probably sounds like to Mr. Lahey is that if he refuses to cooperate, Scott will hurt him (or more accurately make an attempt at hurting him since the odds aren't in his favor).
no subject
Lahey's face is purple with rage, and his arms are outstretched and aimed at Scott's throat. He's trying to choke him!
"NO!"
Stiles is the one who stumbles forward, trying to push Scott out of the way. Here, they're both just human, no werewolf powers to give Scott the edge. And he's not going to let his best friend, his brother, get hurt, not if he can help it. So he's the one that ends up partially deflecting one of those hands. It has the unfortunate side effect of knocking him to the side, the smack that landed against his jaw ringing his bell for a moment.
no subject
Mr. Lahey's hands try to take a hold of the front of Scott's shirt. He's not a strangler. Not, yet. He's more the backhander. Throwing dishes and glass and utensils. But, he can get rough.
Stay out of this!
no subject
Scott's thrown to the ground, and once he's down, Mr. Lahey kicks him in the stomach to make sure he stays there. All Scott can do is curl up in pain.
"You can do what you want with me," Scott begs Mr. Lahey. " You can beat the crap out of me, I don't care. Just don't hurt them. Please. Let Isaac go..."
no subject
And his fingers close over part of the rotting landscape. In his hand, it's surprisingly and reassuringly heavy. Scott...Scott's the moral one. Stiles has been around enough to know that sometimes, in extraordinary circumstances, it's them or you. The sheriff's son has no illusions about lethal force, and would prefer in the end that the good guys walk away.
Staggering to his feet, he lifts the rock high over his head, and brings it down with force on the back of Mr. Lahey's, just as the man is about to deliver another kick at Scott. His collapse is pretty anti-climactic, honestly. He just crumbles, a mortal man after all, a bloom of red spreading through his salt and pepper hair. And his glasses fall off his face, to the side, as he goes down.
And Stiles stands panting over him, sick at what he's done, but also feeling a black sort of triumph.
no subject
Clutching his stomach, Scott stares up in shock at Stiles. He can't believe Stiles did that, but what other choice did he have? The man could have beaten the crap out of both of them if Stiles hadn't done stopped him the way he did. Besides, it's not like Stiles actually killed someone, but something told Scott that Stiles had hit Mr. Lahey with that rock with every intention of wanting him dead.
"You okay?" he asks Stiles with a grateful look for saving him from more pain.
no subject
He is so not okay. This whole place has been a terrible nightmare from start to finish, and now he's gone and actually killed somebody. Or at least a something that looked like a somebody. His skin is both pale and flushed, splotchy and red as the blood pools at his jaw, and drains from the rest of his face.
Dropping the rock carelessly, he reaches down to help Scott up, first and foremost. The key can wait a second. Making sure Scott's in one piece is his main priority.
"You?"
no subject
"It's okay. It's over now." They just need to get Isaac out of the freezer and find the exit. He lets Stiles go and bends down to search Mr. Lahey's body, figuring Stiles wouldn't want to touch him after what he did.
Searching Mr. Lahey's pockets, Scott finds a key and feels like crying in relief. "Got it." He stands up again and moves over to the freezer.
He hesitates before he puts the key in the lock, looking over at Mr. Lahey. Shit, how was Isaac going to react to that? That was Isaac's father... sort of. But it would be a waste of time moving his body so Isaac wouldn't see what Stiles had done. Isaac would know they must have done something to him. They need to get Isaac out now so they can leave as quickly as possible, so Scott puts the key in the padlock and once it's unlocked, pulls the chains away from the freezer to open it.
no subject
The land of death isn't a land of light. More darkness invades but at least beyond that darkness, he sees Scott.
"Scott?"
His hand finds Scott's and another grabs the side of the freezer as he's pulled up and out. He almost trips over the side, his hand now gripping Scott's shoulder. He's all right. He's out. It's dark but he's out. His eyes find his father's body. He'd never seen it back in Beacon Hills. Not after. He ices over, jaw setting. This isn't the time. Anyway, he deserved it, didn't he? He may not always have but at this point, he did.
"Let's go."
no subject
"...Yeah. Let's get the hell out of here. Please?"
That was as much as he was willing to admit. He didn't like relying on Scott to "save" him, but now? That was just fine. Scott, save him.
no subject
"Sorry," he says quietly to Isaac. He looks back at Stiles who's staring in a way that's worrying him and seizes Stiles' arm in one hand, holding onto Isaac's arm with his other as a precaution. He lost Isaac before by letting him run ahead, he doesn't want to make that same mistake again.
He winces as he walks in the middle of them, his stomach still painful from when Mr. Lahey kicked him. The quicker they get out of here, the sooner he'll heal, and the sooner he can take Stiles' pain away too.
"Keep your eyes peeled for the arch."
no subject
Normally, he'd roll his eyes at arm holding and 'stay near me's' but, it makes sense. They'd all separated and gotten stuck. He hates this place with a passion now. He kind of hates Stiles for wandering in but attacking the guy wouldn't do well for anyone. He's glad Scott was there, though. Without Scott, he'd still be in that freezer. He doesn't know who did what - how his father ended up on the ground, but he does know he needs to get out of here.
Isaac can feel how Scott is moving, he can see that he looks like he's in pain.
"Scott, are you okay?" he asks, keeping his eyes peeled. What direction should they be going in?
no subject
He was going to be beating himself up over this little misstep for a very long time. Now he had technically, sort of, maybe killed somebody?
He glances back to where Mr. Lahey and the freezer was-...vanished. Gone. Just like his visions of his mother, of the other deaths he'd witnessed. So. Great. Just an illusion. But that still meant that he had that in him, the ability to kill. And that was something that was gonna chew him up for a while.
"Here, lean on us, Scott. We've got you."
And then he glances to his left.
"...There's the arch!"
no subject
"Thank god," Scott sighs in relief when Stiles points out the arch. He quickens his pace over to it until the three of them are through.
Within seconds of being out of the realm, the pain has disappeared from Scott's stomach and he's completely healed. Now to help Stiles.
"Hey, hold still," Scott tells Stiles, touching his face gently with his hand. Stiles should feel some of the pain fade away. "Better?"