Characters/Pairings: Stiles/Derek, Stiles/Jackson, Jackson/Derek, with other implied use-your-imagination ships. Lydia, Cora, Talia Hale, Scott, Isaac. (Okay, this list makes it seem like there's far more romance in this fic; there's not. Most is pre/post-ship or slow-burn.)

A/N: Written for bigbang_mixup for Tryslora's wonderful mix. The character and pairings for this fic were almost entirely inspired by Tryslora's list of faves, so hats off to her for inspiring me to go down this path.

This sticks mostly to canon up until the end of the season 3 finale, where I begin my twisting and turning, so it addresses canon character deaths several times. The ships are rather slow-burn, and the story is mostly pre-slash.

Also, this is my fill for the Wild ("Trapped between realities") square on my h/c bingo card.

I wanted to mention that while I actually like both Malia and Kira, they don't really serve a purpose in this story, so neither of them are featured. This story is four chapters long. Hope you enjoy, and feedback is much loved.

Chapter 1: No One Can Walk Away Truly Alive

Victory is sweet. Or so he's been told. He's reached the conclusion that victory is about as sweet as that lemonade he and Scott attempted to sell when they were kids. And life? Hands out plenty of lemons and not enough fucking sugar.

"We should talk. Mom said we should talk, but not about..." It's Scott trying to fill the silence this time. "It might help," he finishes lamely, shaking his head and looking more like 'old Scott' than 'True Alpha Scott'. "We have to try."

No one counters him, corrects him, or joins him.

Stiles wants to clap his hands together and begin a long babbling lecture on the difference between serial killers and spree killers, just to follow Scott's lead. Instinct points him in that direction, but for once he keeps his mouth shut, because nothing he says will make a difference. Especially for Scott, because Scott can't hear him.

Stiles winces at the thought. Shitty lemons.

He reaches out, holding his hand right over his best friend's shoulder, then pulls back at the last minute, folding his arms over his chest again. And turning to watch the bed, like everyone else in the room. Which, that in mind, he's certain there aren't supposed be visitors in this ward at this time of night, but chalk it up the powers of one Melissa McCall.

She, Melissa, visited. A few times. Always with that look on her face, like it's her Scotty on the bed.

It's not, obviously, because Scott is right where he belongs, slouching in the uncomfortable chair pulled too close to the bed, fingers digging holes into one corner of a pillow. Lydia's still there too, has been for hours, moving to sit on the edge of the mattress after Isaac's arrival. None of them takes the recliner. Even though he's left for a coffee and a clean-up, that seat is still clearly Dad's.

Stiles sighs. The sound must be louder than he anticipates, because Lydia lifts her chin, fear and hope mingling in her wet eyes as she looks around the room.

"He's back with us," she says, quietly.

Scott and Isaac both straighten, suddenly alert.

"What did he say?" Scott asks, eager.

Isaac is always to the point. "Did he find a way to fix this?"

Stiles hates this, this between. He almost wishes he'd kept his mouth shut the first time he'd awoken. That way Lydia wouldn't have heard. Wouldn't have told their friends. (Hope will only make them suffer longer.) Instead, in that moment of confusion, he'd panicked and told them - told Lydia, at least - everything he knew. Admittedly, not much other than, "Hey, I can't feel my toes, because I'm not in my body."

Lydia ignores the questions. "Stiles?"

Stiles steps out from behind Scott, careful not to touch him, and stops at the end of the bed. There's a bag at the side of the metal frame, slowly filling, and despite himself, he's embarrassed. Not that anyone might ever imagine Stiles Stilinski is big on maintaining his dignity, but there's something completely wrong with his closest friends not only seeing him mostly naked but also watching him pee in his sleep.

He swallows hard to keep himself from commenting and forces himself to look at the body on the bed. Pale and long and skinny. There are purple bags under his eyes, but he doesn't appear to be injured. Just sleeping, if he's prone to sleeping with a tangle of tubes and tape. Truthfully, he looks better than he has in weeks, and isn't that a kick in the pants?

Dr. Befuddled, as Stiles mentally refers to his attending, mentioned his body was breathing on its own, which is nice since it doesn't seem to be doing much else. Like waking.

Stiles spent an hour straight just trying to will himself back into his body after hearing the the good doctor. He spent another hour sitting in the hallway outside the room, angry-crying to himself, hoping that Lydia wouldn't be able to hear him from there.

Lydia. Who hears. Because, duh, banshee. And because, duh, he's basically dead. It isn't a comforting realization.

Stiles puts a hand over his mouth to stifle a desperate laugh and quickly recovers from his momentary bout of hysteria. "Yeah, Lydia. I'm here."

"You went away," she accuses. A tear runs down her cheek, countering her snappy tone. It's perfect, that tear, just like the rest of her, and Stiles wants to remind her of how pretty she is when she cries, but he doesn't. "Don't do that again," she tacks on.

"Sorry. I just needed some time. Plus, I figured you could use a break from Stiles-radio."

"Stiles?" Scott this time. Stiles smiles down at him, even though his friend can't see him. Or feel him. Or hear him. Scott clears his throat, looking at the empty body. "Man, I just...You just need to stay with us, okay? Deaton is looking into this. He's going to figure out what happened. You just...just hold on until then."

"I don't seem to be going anywhere, buddy."

"He'll hold on," Lydia answers for him, and the way she says it, Stiles is pretty sure there's a threating 'or else' hanging in the air.

Isaac leans forward in his chair, looking as much a wreck as Scott. Stiles doesn't think for a minute this trip to the hospital is the reason why, though he's still kind of touched that Isaac's taken a moment from his own grieving to visit, and to check on Scott. Stiles wracks his brain, trying to remember if he's ever really considered Isaac a real friend in the past and trying to figure out why the guy is now on his short list of closest companions. Facing death brings people together, he supposes, well, the people it doesn't actually kill.

Allison should be sitting there. As soon as Stiles thinks it, his eyes are burning. Allison should be sitting there, so Isaac is there for her, in her place.

"Thanks, Isaac," Stiles mutters.

Isaac doesn't hear, and Lydia doesn't do more than raise a brow in slight confusion. Stiles clears his throat, which is a weird concept in itself, because he knows that scratchy feeling probably isn't real, that he shouldn't be 'feeling' anything. But he does anyway, the same way he can hear himself breathing, even though there shouldn't be a need for it.

"Lydia, I need to ask you guys to do something for me."

"Is he talking?" Scott asks.

Lydia glares, and Scott quiets, waiting patiently.

"Oh, yeah, big bad Alpha," Stiles snorts. Then he sobers, back on track. Turns out being stuck as a spirit works better than Adderall at keeping him focused. In fact, being overly focused is part of the problem, which is weird, considering how off-the-tracks he's been over the past month. "You haven't told my dad I'm...like this."

"I wasn't sure if I should."

"No, you did good. I don't want him to know yet. Or Melissa. I don't...She doesn't need to know either. It's better that way."

Stiles eases himself down onto the bed beside Lydia, and it's strange. Even though the blankets don't wrinkle and the mattress doesn't give with his weight, he can still feel it beneath him. He can feel his own covered feet at his back. He can feel Lydia Martin's hand beside his, even if she can't feel him, but he knows if he squeezes her fingers he'll pass right through. And be reminded of how not real he is.

Lydia frowns, then looks from Scott to Isaac. "He doesn't want us to tell his dad or Melissa what's happening."

"I want you guys to promise not to tell them," Stiles corrects.

"Why?" she asks. When he's quiet, she lets out a sigh. "He wants us to promise we won't tell them," she lets the others know. "He's an idiot and thinks his father would be better off thinking he's in a mystical sleep instead of stuck between the world of the living and the dead, and, no, Scott, you can't tell your mom because you know she'll tell his dad."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Nice ad-libbing, Jennifer Love Hewitt. But, yeah, that's the gist. When did you get so insightful?"

Lydia shoots his body a vacantly cheerful grin. "I'm a genius, remember?"

"This isn't right."

Scott's declaration is quiet, but it's full of outrage directed at absolutely no one. His head dips down, and he catches it in both his palms, covering his eyes. It's Scotty-patented despair, and Stiles really wishes he could make it go away, but he can't. He knows before Scott lifts his head again that the next outburst is going to be louder.

"This isn't right!" Scott snaps, aiming it at Stiles' body. "We won. You won, Stiles! You shouldn't be in this bed, and we shouldn't be here. This is too much, too soon, and it's not freaking fair that I'm your best friend, and I can't even hear you, even though you're right here! I can't do this without you...I can't lose both of you."

Isaac stands up, arms shaking, as if he wants to punch someone, and his eyes lowered. Stiles half expects him to leave the room, but he crosses it instead. The other werewolf is at his Alpha's side a second later. With a moment's hesitation, he reaches out, touches Scott's shoulder, and stills, as if the contact alone grounds him.

It's not much, but it's enough to pull Scott's attention back.

"Isaac'll take care of him, won't he?" Stiles asks. "You both will, right?"

Lydia swallows hard enough for him to notice then nods once.

Scott and Isaac are already looking at the door before Stiles even notices they have company. When he turns, he sees Derek Hale stepping inside the room, not even bothering to shut the door behind him. And Derek is staring back at him. Staring at him, not the body on the bed.

"You can see me?" Stiles tilts forward on the balls of his feet, almost off the bed in excitement, and, Jeeze, wouldn't being known as the Clumsy Casper just be the cherry on top of this spectacular day? "You can! How the hell can Sourwolf see me and you guys can't?"

Lydia slides off the mattress, eyes wide. "He says you can see him?"

"Of course he can!" For emphasis, Stiles waves his arms in the air, and, yup, there's that look of annoyance that Derek wears just for Stiles. "Why are you just standing there? Dude, answer her already!"

Derek's eyebrows furrow in confusion, and it clicks. Derek can see him, but he can't hear him.

"Shit... He can't hear me, Lydia."

But Derek's eyes are now following his lips, and he frowns. "He's right."

Stiles tilts his head, smiling humorlessly up at the heavens. "Why isn't it surprising that you can lip-read? That must be covered in Creeper 101."

"What are you guys talking about?" Scott asks. "How can Derek see him?"

"I..." Derek shakes his head in apology. "I'm not sure. Deaton didn't mention that was a possibility when he sent me, and I didn't realize...He said Stiles should come with me. To meet my mother."

And there's that. Oh yeah. Stiles runs a hand down his face, frustrated. Somewhere between realizing Lydia could hear him and alerting their local druid of a disturbance in the force, they were handed the fact that 'BTW, there have been a few unplanned resurrections in town.' Stiles doesn't think it is a leap to believe in a complete lack of coincidence there, but as to what it all means...Who knows?

Maybe Talia Hale does, now that he thinks about it.

Lydia slides off the bed. "You think she can help him?"

Derek doesn't really answer, just stares past Lydia, and Stiles isn't really sure what his problem is, but the guy looks grumpy, despite the fact that his world isn't the one falling apart. His is the world coming back together. The one where his mother is alive now.

Stiles mouths the words slowly to make sure he can follow: "You. Look. Constipated."

Derek's stare turns into a glare, and he shakes his head in annoyance. "I think she might know what happened to him."

"Wow, lots of long sentences from him tonight," Stiles notes, and Lydia shoots him an amused glance, but there's no heart in it.

It's Isaac who skips to the 'how'. "Will you need his body? I mean, people will notice if he just disappears."

"He's traveled without it already," Derek says, and without so much as a goodbye, he turns, walking back out the open door.

"What does that even mean?" Lydia asks.

"Not really sure," Stiles replies. But that's not quite true. There are some memories tugging free now. They're gray and blurry, but they're there. "Stupid cryptic messages."

It's been over twenty-four hours since he laid down in his own bed in his own room, thinking the battle had been won. Thinking he didn't know how he'd ever be able to sleep with all that had happened, all that he'd done, running through his head. But, he'd been out in minutes, exhausted...And something happened between then and his body being found that afternoon. Something bad.

Something he's forgotten.

"You're going to be okay," Lydia assures, not for the first time. And she says it with that determination that makes her easy to believe.

Derek's shadow darkens the doorway once more, an aggravated grimace on his face. "Stiles!"

Stiles jumps slightly. "Yeah, coming!" He gives the room a glance. "Well, you guys know where to find me, I guess."

Lydia frowns slightly, and it says enough. Stiles has been haunting her for longer than he's been a ghost, and he knows what that expression means: 'we don't know this Talia woman' 'we don't know if she's who she says she is' 'how could anyone be better at solving a problem than me?'. But all she says is, "Be careful, Stiles."

"Will do, Lyds."

Stiles doesn't have to look over his shoulder; he can feel Scott's tension and knows his friend is about to argue against this. But something weird happens. Scott doesn't say a word. Stiles does look back now, and he sees Scott's head hanging slightly as he watches the body on the bed. Scott can't see or hear or feel him. To Scott, his best friend will still be in this room, no matter what he's told.

Stiles lets out a breath and follows Derek Hale out of the room.

The smoke burns. His eyes, his nostrils. His body burns, but only where it's been hit. The wolfsbane-laced ammo goes deep, shreds at his insides, but Derek's down, not out. Not until he sees her on the other end of the gun...

No. This isn't real. It's a dream. And for a moment, he drifts back out of it, to the locker room, where he's talking to Stiles. It's warm here, not burning. It's safe, but somehow terrifying...Because he's reaching a fast conclusion. His dream is not a dream, and reality is the dead woman about to kill him.

"It's real." He cups the gaping wound at the center of his chest. "This is real."

"That's right, Derek..."

She steps through the smoke, and he's struck by how much she looks like she's always looked, up until the moment her throat was ripped out. Healthy, eyes gleaming with excitement, strong. Stronger than she's ever been before.

"...And if seeing me is a surprise," she adds, with a cock of her head, "then watch this."

The transformation is practiced and dramatic, the way Kate always is when she's torturing him. Blue-black skin stretches as she lets out a growl from a mouth full of fangs. His subconscious has already put this part together, and he doesn't have the time or the will to question why his mind answers that hanging question using some dream version of Stiles Stilinski.

He knows how Kate was turned. He knows why she's filled his chest full of poison. He doesn't know how long she's been waiting for him or if her body was ever buried or if she rose from the grave like Peter. But it doesn't matter, because Kate's very existence means he's in for more pain.

This shouldn't be happening.

They'd won this night. They'd saved lives. And lost them. But they'd won the game, and he should be allowed to rest. That should be his pack's reward.

This shouldn't be happening.

"Oh, Derek." She smiles, face shifting back to its human form. "We have so much catching up to do."

"Kate..."

Some part of him, against all logic, almost tells her that something is standing in the smoke, moving in the shadows behind her. His knees hit the floor hard, but he can't feel much from the stomach down, which leaves him leaning back, then forward, swaying like a drunkard from his new seat on the floor. All he can do is watch as she thinks she's won.

But there's no winning tonight. It's the last thought he has before he sees her face contort in shock, a wet sound following her gasp.

The shadow behind her has claws, claws that rip into her back and pull at her spine. There's a disgusting snap, and she's swaying along with him suddenly. Kate's body crumples a second later, eyes wide and open, like they were the first time she died.

Standing behind her is another dream.

Derek imagines that he's dying, that his brain is giving him what he wants in these last few seconds. Because only in his imagination would She appear, to save him.

Talia takes another step forward through her shield of fading smoke. Her right hand is slick with blood that drips down the side of her thin dress, but her face is serene, knowing. Exactly the way he remembers her.

He tries to speak, barely aware of what he's asking, and coughs on the black blood in his throat. She crouches down in front of him, cupping his cheek in one hand, and his world goes gray, Stiles' voice still echoing in his head, asking if he's still awake.

"Derek," she says, a soft smile at her lips, "this isn't a dream, sweetheart. Now let me see those beautiful eyes."

He blinks, his vision clearing, and she's still there. Talia Hale is alive.

Derek blinks, as if to clear his vision, but the world through the windshield is as crystal clear as ever, and just as upside down as it was a few minutes ago. Because there's a ghost beside him, of the boy who was saved.

The world outside is loud as it always is at this time of night, but the passenger's seat is so quiet that it leaves a low buzz in his ears. It's absence, a void, where there should be a voice that never stops. Without meaning to, he gives the spot a sideways glance, and Stiles is still sitting there, staring out the window with a frown on his face.

He doesn't look semi-transparent, like he's fading from reality. He looks solid, like a living person. But there's no smell there, which confuses Derek's wolf senses. And there's no sound of movement or breathing or Stiles-babble, which frustrates Derek's human senses. It's just wrong.

"I don't know what you remember about last night." Derek lets out a breath with the statement, refocusing on the road. "But I saw you...In a dream, I think. And now that we know..." He trails off. "I think maybe it was really you. Maybe you weren't fully out of your body yet."

Another sideways glance. This time Stiles is staring at him, brow raised in confusion.

Derek grimaces. He doesn't enjoy talking this much, especially in a one-sided conversation, but he refuses to admit he misses Stiles' interruptions.

"I don't know what happened to you," Derek clarifies. "I had my own problems last night. There was an attack. I'm not sure how much Deaton told Scott when he called."

Something in his chest pinches, and he lifts one hand from the steering wheel, rubbing the wound. It's not fully healed yet, but it's getting there. Deaton offered to be the one to go to the hospital, to bring Stiles back to the apartment, but Derek needed to get out. And he isn't sure why the air there feels so stifling now, only that it has little to do with the recent bullet holes and the lingering scent of blood and smoke, and much more to do with the dead woman.

His world is pulling back together again, his mother, the sun at his center, has returned, and everything else will fall into place around her. A part of him thinks that is true, can even see it happening. When he called Cora a few hours ago, told her the news, he was promised she could get a guardian to escort her back to the States. His little sister is going to stay this time, he knows, no matter how much she loves the family she's made in South America. She'll stay because their mother is gravity; she's the Alpha.

Derek isn't sure how he feels about that anymore. If he can trust that instinct. If he can trust any of this. It all feels too much like a dream, and the spirit sitting beside him only intensifies that sense of wrong.

None of this is supposed to be happening.

Derek clears his throat, starting over. "But there's too much we don't know about what happened. Judging from that look on your face, you don't remember showing up in a locker room in my hallucination."

Stiles leans forward so that Derek has to see his shit-eating grin. Stiles rakes one finger across another - shame, shame - and Derek rolls his eyes in annoyance. At least this particular spirit can keep him distracted from his thoughts. A small blessing at a high price.

"Idiot," Derek huffs, but there's an unnecessary amount of heat at his cheeks that he hopes isn't visible to human eyes. Or ghost eyes. "It wasn't that kind of hallucination. But my point is, from the little information Lydia passed on, you didn't reach any form of consciousness until your body was in the hospital."

He's glad that the stop light is red, despite the deserted streets. He wants to see Stiles' reaction, to know if he's holding anything back, but the boy appears to not know where this story is heading.

"Then the last thing you remember before the hospital is going to bed?"

Stiles' brow is furrowed, and he gives one slow nod before he waves his hand - go on. Derek considers staying quiet. Scott hasn't told Stiles how he was found. Stiles hasn't asked before now, but his eyes are pleading.

"I only ask because you weren't found in bed at your house, Stiles."

Derek sighs. He doesn't want to be the one to say this, because he knows what it'll mean. It's the wolf in him that has the urge to reach out, try and comfort, because that's what wolves do for one another, even if he's kept that aspect of himself hidden for a long time now. He's aware, fully, that Stiles is not wolf, but since even before Derek joined Scott's pack, he's felt like the young man is one of them. It's one of the reasons the idea of killing the Nogitsune hadn't been an easy one to wrap his head around. But even if he tries to reach out, touch his arm, let Stiles know he isn't alone, it won't work. Because Stiles is alone. He is unreachable, and that chills Derek to the core.

Stiles just stares back, eyes slightly wet, and he doesn't move to ask Derek to continue, but the werewolf speaks anyway.

"From what I'm told, your dad went to your room this morning, and you were missing. He sent out a search party, and your friends found you in the preserve. They found your body at the Nemeton, Stiles. I don't know what it means or if..."

He lets the sentence fade, because Stiles has turned away, staring back out his window, every part of his posture cutting Derek off. Derek rubs at his own chest, feeling that pinch again.

The light is green. They go.

Talia Hale is powerful.

That impression hits Stiles before he's fully entered the room, and it's exactly what he expects, knowing that, pre-death, she was the Big Dog among the local Alphas and, oh-God, he makes a mental note never to use that expression in front of her. He follows that note with a scowl of regret that he didn't pull out all the proper puns when the Alpha Pack was giving them Hell.

He sees her, past Derek's shoulder. She's standing in front of Derek's desk, speaking to Deaton in hushed tones, wearing a simple gray shift dress, barefooted, hair dark and wild and hanging down her back. She raises a hand to cut off whatever Deaton is saying and turns to greet her son with a small smile. It shifts her face entirely; hard and fierce to soft and inviting. It's the same magic he's seen in Derek, on the (extremely) rare occasion that the grin on his face has been genuine and not predatory.

The resemblance between the Hales is easy to see, even if he hasn't been around Talia long enough to figure out if Cora and Derek get the attitude from her as well.

Talia cocks her head slightly, and Stiles goes from observing her to being observed. "Hello. You must be Stiles."

Deaton frowns at the space around Derek, looking oddly apologetic to the wall beside the doorway, and there's a check in the category of "People who can't see Stiles Stilinski".

Stiles steps forward, rocking on his toes slightly. "I must be, unless there's another spirit you were expecting," he says, aiming for no-sarcasm and failing. "Uh, congratulations on the 'not being dead' thing."

Talia doesn't so much as twitch when she says, "Thank you," confirming that she can hear him just fine, and gestures for him to step closer. "Derek, will you see Deaton out? I believe we've had enough talk for the day, and I want to get to know our friend."

Stiles knows he would be a bit peeved at being dismissed that way, but Deaton makes with that slow nod of his and gives a wide girth, as if keeping Stiles in mind. Stiles, having already had a nurse pass through him at the hospital, is thankful for the courtesy, but it comes as a surprise when the man hesitates at his side, his back to the Hales.

"Don't worry, Stiles. You're going to be yourself again."

It's a common reassurance, one that Scott and Lydia and even Isaac, after a elbow shove from his Alpha, have given, but there's something grounding in the way Deaton says it. As if it's already fact. Stiles appreciates the effort.

Before he can think to reply, Deaton is gone, and Derek gives his mother a long look before he follows him out without a word. Stiles suddenly realizes how awkward it is to be left alone with a previously dead woman, which, it probably shouldn't be, considering he's been left alone with said-woman's previously dead brother in the past. Fun times. At least he'd known Peter then, having been properly kidnapped by him and all; Stiles is completely lost as to how he's supposed to act in front of Talia Hale or Mrs. Hale or Derek's Mom, whatever he's supposed to call her.

"You may call me Talia."

Ah.

"So, uh, I don't know what I'm doing here, and while I don't meant that in an existential-crisis way, feel free to interpret as you will." Stiles takes a shaky breath. "Derek said you might be able to help."

Talia only stares back at him for a few seconds, and Stiles is about to ask if she's lost her ability to hear him when she takes two quick steps forward in the span of a blink. Stiles is somewhat proud of himself for not falling backward.

"Perhaps," she finally answers. "But I need to know what was done to you before it can be undone. Do you understand?"

Stiles nods. "Yeah, I get that, but the thing is, I don't remember what was done. Or if it was something I did or if it's some leftover awesomeness from having the Nogitsune riding my skin, since, you kind of missed this, but I've already nearly died more than once this week."

"Some I knew, some I was told, either way I am aware of what possessed you. Your current state is a different problem altogether, I'm afraid. This was done to you, Stiles, and not by the Nogitsune, but perhaps because of it." Talia frowns and tilts her head slightly, not breaking eye contact, which Stiles determines would be far creepier if he hadn't already been exposed to common Hale behavior. "And you know who did it," she concludes. "You're hiding this from yourself."

Stiles voice comes out quiet. "I'm not hiding it." Another second of the stare-off is all he can take. "But, I, uh, have some suspects in mind."

Talia smiles sadly and raises her hands, palms up, as if asking for something. "Reach out for me, Stiles."

"You might have missed the part where I'm basically a ghost."

Talia sighs, but there's amusement in her eyes, and Stiles thinks her weird, twisted sense of humor makes her prettier. "You won't be an easy student."

"Student?" Stiles' brow flies up. "Wait, by help, you meant teach? As in teach me to get back into my body? There isn't some sort of magical spell we can use or something? Deaton can't just draw me up an ice bath to fix this one? Why are you my designated Yoda?"

"Most problems caused by magic aren't so easily solved, and if it were something Deaton could help with, he'd gladly do so, but he knows very little about this. I can teach you, because I know the nature of the power that severed your spirit from your body. It was an Alpha's spark."

"What does that even mean? How did - "

Talia cuts him off. "Take my hands."

This is stupid, and Stiles hopes his frown says as much, but there's a growing pit in his stomach that's making him uneasy with the idea of figuring out what the hell happened to him. He was, after all, recently vomited up by himself, which is more than enough crazy for one lifetime. But he can't just stay as he is. He can't. He can't leave his dad, leave Scott, without trying.

Stiles feels panic bubbling up inside of him, and he wonders if his heartbeat is racing back at the hospital or if it's a purely spiritual fear making him feel like all the air is being sucked out of his chest.

Before he can think about it, he reaches out, his fingers curling around hers, and it takes him a second to realize he's not passing through her.

"I can feel you." Stiles blinks, glancing down at their hands. Hers are warm, unnaturally so, or maybe he's cold. It's hard to tell. "Oh my god, I can actually feel you."

Talia doesn't appear in any way shocked, and Stiles can't really blame her for that since she's obviously coping well with the being dead for a decade thing, but seriously it's a big fricking deal because he thought that was gone. His hands shake, but he doesn't let go of her, and he's glad no one else is here to point that out.

"And you'll learn to do more," she says, as if to appease him. "But first, Stiles, you need to close your eyes."

"Technically, my eyes are already closed. The ones in my head, attached to my body, and...Yeah, okay, here we go." Stiles takes a breath, reminds himself it's pointless, and squeezes his eyes shut. "Now what?"

Before the question is out of his mouth, he feels himself being pulled backward. No...not pulled. Pushed. A hand wadded in his shirt, pushing him down when he tries to sit up to turn on his lamp. His head hits his pillow, and he blinks, staring up at the shadow looming over him, holding him down.

"Don't scream, Stiles," it says. "We don't want to wake the sheriff, do we?"

And it leans forward, the moonlight from the window washing over his face. Peter. It's Peter holding him down. But the werewolf isn't wearing his usual snarky grin. This isn't some joke. He looks grim, displeased.

Stiles struggles to get away and fails. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Still, it comes out a whisper, because Stiles' instinct tells him that Peter is right. They don't want to wake his father. If Dad is awake, it means that Dad can get hurt.

Stiles feels his heartbeat speed up at the thought, because it suddenly occurs to him that this isn't a creepy Hale visit to impart some odd wisdom or foreboding bit of information. No, the look on Peter's face is resolve. Peter is here on a mission, and Stiles doesn't know what it is, but he knows he it's not good.

"You know, I wasn't planning to do it this way," Peter says, staring through Stiles, as if he's talking to himself. "I was going to draw you out. Tell you that Scott or Lydia was in danger, have you follow me into the woods. But I realized you'd know. Somehow, you'd know I was lying, and you'd get away. You'd warn the others. Because you're smarter than people think, Stiles. You're the one who figures things out."

And he does. He knows. Right then, he knows.

"Peter." Stiles swallows down his panic, trying for calm, collected. Hoping to God his voice isn't shaking, because Peter doesn't see weakness as something to be pitied. Peter is a wolf. "They'll know it was you. Whatever you're planning to do...They'll find out, and they'll kill you for it." Stiles pushes himself up few inches, straining against the werewolf's weight. "My pack is going to rip you apart."

"They'll try," Peter agrees, a hint of a grin at the corner of his lips. "And, if all goes as planned, they'll fail...How is it the kids put it these days? Epically? A bit dramatic, but oh-so true. You know, they spent so much time chasing their tails, trying to find out how to kill the fox inside your body...and almost no time considering why you were its host. What that really meant."

Suddenly the werewolf is somber again, less proud of himself. "I'm sorry, Stiles. I am. I wasn't lying when I said I liked you. You'd have made a great addition to my pack, but, unfortunately, you have a door in your head. One that's ever so slightly open. And I intend to use it..."

Pain. The pain blacks out everything else, and Stiles' world spins. He thinks he's being lifted, carried, but he's not sure which way is up and which is down. The pain brings him back...

He lets out a gasp, disoriented when he realizes he's standing instead of lying down. Talia Hale's voice sounds distant, as if it's traveling far to reach him, but she's only two feet away.

"What did he say, Stiles?" she asks. "What did Peter tell you?"

Her gaze is intense, and he thinks for a moment he sees the flash of one red eye. Her hands slip out of his, and then he's gone again. Where there's a steady beat sounding with his pulse, where his father's voice is telling him a story.

He likes it here. He wishes he could stay.