The ride from the Stilinski household to Beacon Hills High School was a quiet one. The Sheriff sat silently in the driver's seat, glancing at Stiles every couple of seconds and audibly grinding his teeth. Whether this was out of worry for his son or out of frustration at Stiles' lack of conversation, Stiles wasn't sure. Either way, he forced himself to stare resolutely out the window, ignoring his father's penetrating gaze.

It wasn't easy. Ever since his mother had died, Stiles and his father had been unbelievably close. Despite the Sheriff's constant griping that he was the father and Stiles was the son, Stiles knew that it wasn't as simple as that. The pain of losing his mother had nearly crippled them both and in the years following they had become a lifeline to one another. They took care of each other. They shared a loss that no one around them could understand and that, more than anything, made their relationship stronger.

But not today. Today Stiles needed every last drop of energy he had to deal with his classmates, his teachers and the countless other interactions he might be forced to engage in. He couldn't placate his father with a constant stream of words. He doubted the Sheriff would fall for his ruse anyways. After all, it had only been fifteen minutes earlier that his father had begged him to speak, to say something. If Stiles chose to make conversation now it would seem fake and rehearsed. And the Sheriff would surely call him on it.

Stiles sighed and blew out a breath on the rain-beaded windshield and watched as the heat of his breath condensed on the glass. It should have been a warm spring day, but the forecasters had been incorrect, as was often the case, and the rain came down quickly in fat drops, forcing the windshield wiper's to strain themselves to keep up.

Normally, Stiles loved the rain. He loved the way colors stood out profoundly against the overcast sky and how fresh and alive everything seemed after it rained. But he found little joy in it now. The Nogitsune had taken every last drop of joy from him and Stiles wasn't sure if he would ever get it back. The world seemed dull to him now, colors and sounds so muted that he imagined he could hear the greatest symphony ever composed while looking at the greatest piece of art ever created and feel nothing. He was a shadow now. A walking, breathing shadow, but a shadow none the less.

"I can't do this," the Sheriff said suddenly, nearly slamming on the brakes in his haste to pull of the side of the road.

"What?" Stiles said in alarm. "Dad, what are you doing?"

"I can't let you go into school like this," John explained. "You're not ready."

"We talked about this," Stiles said in exasperation. "I have to go to school. I've already missed too much. I don't want to have to retake my junior year."

"Why is this so important to you?" John asked quietly. "Why can't you see that you are still sick, son?"

"Dad," Stiles said, attempting a smile. "Come on. I'm fine. We're going to be late."

"Give me a reason," his father said softly. "One good reason why I should let you go."

"I told you—"

"Not that missing too much school crap. We both know you've never cared enough about school for me to believe that. Give me a reason. A real reason."

" I can't—" Stiles began, but had to stop. He took a steadying breath and then said, "I can't be on my own anymore, Dad. I need something to keep my mind off things or else I might go crazy. For real this time."

"I'll take time off work," John said immediately. "We can—"

"Dad," Stiles interrupted. "No. You need to be at work. You're the Sheriff and you only just got out of trouble with the department."

"You're more important than that," John replied. "And if they can't see that then—"

"I appreciate the sentiment," Stiles said, desperate for his father to understand. "But, I don't want you to take off work."

"Why?"

"Because…because I don't want you around," Stiles whispered.

He wished he could take back the words the second he saw his father's expression, but he couldn't. Besides, it was the truth. Not because Stiles didn't love his father or need him desperately. It was because he couldn't handle seeing his father's worry pinched face every time he looked at him. He hated being the cause of that, hated knowing that his dad couldn't sleep at night because Stiles was such a mess.

"Oh," the Sheriff said. "I see."

"Dad," Stiles said softly. "It's not like I—"

"You don't have to explain anything to me, Stiles. I understand."

Stiles could tell by the look on his father's face that he clearly didn't understand, but before Stiles could say another word, the Sheriff had put the car back into gear and had pulled into the street again. Silence ruled supreme once again, but this time Stiles wanted nothing more than to break it. He just didn't know how.

It used to be so easy for him. Talking was like breathing. He could talk about anyone and anything at anytime, but lately it was a struggle just to coordinate his own thoughts let alone configure them into words. It was as if the Nogitsune had scrubbed the very thing that made Stiles who he was from existence and left him to pick up the pieces. Which, in a way, was exactly what the spirit had done.

By the time Stiles had anything worth while to say to his father, they had pulled up in front of the school doors. Stiles was already late, but he didn't want to leave things with his dad the way they were.

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get any words out the Sheriff said, "Have a good day, Stiles. Call me if you need anything. I'll see you at home tonight."

The words Stiles so desperately wanted to say stuck in his throat and he couldn't speak. So he opened the door and walked out into the rain, shutting the door to the warmth of the car and to his father behind him. He didn't bother lifting his jacket over his head or looking behind him as his dad drove away. He merely stared up into the cloud-mottled sky and let the rain fall on his face. He shivered, but still he remained. The cold was where he belonged. Cold and dark…just like him.

The final morning bell suddenly rang and snapped Stiles out of his reverie. He realized he was drenched and shivering, his hair falling limply in strands on his face. So much for looking awesome my first day back, he thought before sprinting through the rain and into the front doors.

As the doors slammed shut behind him and echoed eerily through the empty halls, Stiles couldn't help but think about the last time he'd been here. Couldn't help but remember the final battle between the Nogitsune and his friends. A tidal wave of emotion and memories crested over him and suddenly it was all he could do to stand up right.

He panted, not able to take in enough air and his fist clenched his shirt where his heart would be. He could feel it attempting to thump its way out of his chest. Jesus, he was barely in the door and he was already failing at keeping his mask in place. Maybe he should have listened to his dad, should have stayed home because even with how haunted he was there it was nothing compared to this. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

Stiles collapsed to his knees, the sound of his gasping overwhelmed by the beating of his own heart. He was shaking violently and if the black spots forming in front of his eyes were any indication he was going to pass out at any moment.

And then, as if she had been called from some secret place inside of him, Lydia was there. Her arms were around him and he could sense her presence calming him in a way nobody else could. Her scent, the feel of her hair against his cheek, the way she clung to him as if he was as much her lifeline as she was his. She kissed his cheek and whispered softly in his ear and when he finally was able to look at her he didn't see revulsion in her eyes. Pity was there, which irritated him slightly, but there was no disgust and this, more than anything else, brought him peace.

"Stiles," she said softly once he could breathe again. "Are you okay?"

He knew she wasn't asking him about the long run. He knew because he sensed that Lydia understood that he might never be okay, but in this moment he could tell her a partial truth.

"Better than I was," he said hoarsely.

She nodded as if she understood. Then again, Lydia usually did. Stiles wasn't sure if being a banshee made her more sensitive to the feelings of others or if it was just her.

"I've been waiting for you," Lydia said softly. "Malia told me you were going to try and come back today."

"She's angry with me," Stiles said.

"She's worried about you," Lydia corrected. "We all are."

Stiles didn't have much to say to that, but Lydia didn't force him. He was grateful.

"First period already started," Lydia said, studying him.

"I know. We should get going."

Lydia stopped him with one arm, grinning softly at him.

"You aren't going anywhere until we fix your hair. No friend of mine will go around looking like a drowned rat. I pride myself on my appearance, you know."

Stiles grinned at her and was surprised to find that, for the first time in a long time, it was sincere.