Stiles Stilinski (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
myonlydefense) wrote2014-08-28 12:17 pm
myonlydefense) wrote2014-08-28 12:17 pm
Entry tags:
August 8, 2014: I crept into your heart, you can't make me disappear.
Stiles hasn't been sleeping well this week. Or actually, while he's at it? Existing. Stiles hasn't been existing well this week.
After the episode in the comic shop, he thought that things would go back to normal. Their normal, anyway. Work, sleep, hanging out, the whole nine, but for the past few days, he hasn't been so lucky. The apparent dyslexia, lying awake for hours - it hasn't stopped, and it's all been more than somewhat unsettling. Smart people would tell someone about it, but he's not smart people, apparently. And besides, it's Darrow. Fucked up stuff is pretty much par for the course, right? It never lasts.
It doesn't feel quite right, though. Sudden onset dyslexia strikes him as pretty low key for the city and all its weirdness, and he's been having trouble staying awake. In class and at home.
The dreams have been unsetting, too. His friends are everywhere in his head; friends from Darrow, friends from home. He talks to them about how hard things have been, how he's stuck here, how much he misses them. He sees Lydia when he closes his eyes and lets her purse her lips at him while he talks about being trapped in some odd square miles of bubble universe, lets her tell him that there's always a way. A door, somewhere. Something about a door.
His dreams often end with doors, open ones that won't close, and every time, every dream, something happens that shakes him to his core, that he can't remember, and he wakes up.
He wakes in a cold sweat every time, has all week, but tonight, when he wakes up, after a dream about being back in Beacon Hills with Scott, Derek is next to him in bed, watching him. Stiles had gotten home late from impromptu bowling and beer after work; Derek must've woken up to join him.
"Another bad dream?" Derek is concerned, but he always is. There's something in his expression that tells Stiles that he's pretty tired of asking, but that's nothing new, either. Derek can hear when he lies; he's just been nice and given Stiles space this week.
Maybe he shouldn't.
"You know, at some point? You're gonna tell me." Derek's tone is certain after Stiles answers him with silence, but he has that teasing but cocky tone, too. It kind of drives Stiles crazy, but he knows Derek isn't wrong.
"Just a dream." That's the easy answer. Easier, anyway, than 'I feel like I'm losing my mind.'
They're making breakfast and Derek brings it up again. It feels stupid to have hid it from him for so long, and Stiles feels his resolve crumble. He tells Derek everything, and it feels good to get out. Derek's supportive, like he always is. Maybe they can figure out what's been going on with him together.
"So they're just dreams? Maybe it's prophetic or something. Maybe you're psychic." Derek wags his eyebrows and Stiles just rolls his eyes.
"I'm definitely not psychic, because then this morning? Would've gone way different." Stiles just rolls his eyes, grinning. "I mean, we would've started with McDonald's. Like, before my feet hit the floor, there would've been demands for..."
When did they get to the kitchen?
How did they get to the kitchen is actually the bigger question. He stops everything he's doing and stands there. Derek is saying something, but he doesn't listen, doesn't hear.
They were in bed. He'd just woken up, and Derek asked him about his dream. He asked about his dream, and then... and then what?
They were in bed... and then they were here. He doesn't remember how he got here.
The entire room seems to shake and Stiles start to lose focus - or maybe everything else does. It's all blurry and vibrating, humming with a frenetic energy, and it's not him, because he's standing entirely still.
He wakes up - again - and he's back in bed. He can feel Derek's warmth radiating from his side of the bed, the soaking wet, clammy sheets over him and under him, and the slick of the sweat dripping down his forehead.
He thinks this is real, somewhere in the back of his head, is pretty sure it is, but he still can't stop screaming.
After the episode in the comic shop, he thought that things would go back to normal. Their normal, anyway. Work, sleep, hanging out, the whole nine, but for the past few days, he hasn't been so lucky. The apparent dyslexia, lying awake for hours - it hasn't stopped, and it's all been more than somewhat unsettling. Smart people would tell someone about it, but he's not smart people, apparently. And besides, it's Darrow. Fucked up stuff is pretty much par for the course, right? It never lasts.
It doesn't feel quite right, though. Sudden onset dyslexia strikes him as pretty low key for the city and all its weirdness, and he's been having trouble staying awake. In class and at home.
The dreams have been unsetting, too. His friends are everywhere in his head; friends from Darrow, friends from home. He talks to them about how hard things have been, how he's stuck here, how much he misses them. He sees Lydia when he closes his eyes and lets her purse her lips at him while he talks about being trapped in some odd square miles of bubble universe, lets her tell him that there's always a way. A door, somewhere. Something about a door.
His dreams often end with doors, open ones that won't close, and every time, every dream, something happens that shakes him to his core, that he can't remember, and he wakes up.
He wakes in a cold sweat every time, has all week, but tonight, when he wakes up, after a dream about being back in Beacon Hills with Scott, Derek is next to him in bed, watching him. Stiles had gotten home late from impromptu bowling and beer after work; Derek must've woken up to join him.
"Another bad dream?" Derek is concerned, but he always is. There's something in his expression that tells Stiles that he's pretty tired of asking, but that's nothing new, either. Derek can hear when he lies; he's just been nice and given Stiles space this week.
Maybe he shouldn't.
"You know, at some point? You're gonna tell me." Derek's tone is certain after Stiles answers him with silence, but he has that teasing but cocky tone, too. It kind of drives Stiles crazy, but he knows Derek isn't wrong.
"Just a dream." That's the easy answer. Easier, anyway, than 'I feel like I'm losing my mind.'
They're making breakfast and Derek brings it up again. It feels stupid to have hid it from him for so long, and Stiles feels his resolve crumble. He tells Derek everything, and it feels good to get out. Derek's supportive, like he always is. Maybe they can figure out what's been going on with him together.
"So they're just dreams? Maybe it's prophetic or something. Maybe you're psychic." Derek wags his eyebrows and Stiles just rolls his eyes.
"I'm definitely not psychic, because then this morning? Would've gone way different." Stiles just rolls his eyes, grinning. "I mean, we would've started with McDonald's. Like, before my feet hit the floor, there would've been demands for..."
When did they get to the kitchen?
How did they get to the kitchen is actually the bigger question. He stops everything he's doing and stands there. Derek is saying something, but he doesn't listen, doesn't hear.
They were in bed. He'd just woken up, and Derek asked him about his dream. He asked about his dream, and then... and then what?
They were in bed... and then they were here. He doesn't remember how he got here.
The entire room seems to shake and Stiles start to lose focus - or maybe everything else does. It's all blurry and vibrating, humming with a frenetic energy, and it's not him, because he's standing entirely still.
He wakes up - again - and he's back in bed. He can feel Derek's warmth radiating from his side of the bed, the soaking wet, clammy sheets over him and under him, and the slick of the sweat dripping down his forehead.
He thinks this is real, somewhere in the back of his head, is pretty sure it is, but he still can't stop screaming.
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"Stiles, it's okay. You're okay." Derek doesn't have much experience with being comforting, but does his best because it's Stiles, and he's in pain. "I've got you, Stiles. Come on."
He presses his mouth against Stiles' sweaty temple and puts his palm over Stiles' heart, biting back a whine at how fast it's beating. "Breathe, it's okay."
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He lets out a gasping sob and wants to squeeze his eyes shut, but he's too scared to, settling instead for staring at the other side of the room. He's shaking, choking on his own breaths, but he tries to slow them down and control himself.
It takes a few minutes and he's still shaky when he inhales, but he nods at nothing at all, voice raw and barely audible. "I'm okay."
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He shakes his head, harder than he means to, biting back another sob. He's fine. He just needs to get a handle on this. "I don't even know what's going on."
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"We'll figure it out, okay? We always figure it out." He presses a kiss to Stiles' forehead like a reverent promise, nudging their noses together and giving him a soft kiss on the mouth. "And I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
He finds that it comes easily to him to comfort Stiles like this, because it's Stiles, and all Derek wants is for him to be okay, to know that he's safe.