entrancelogs | "and i'm--losing my freaking mind."

Entry tags:

"and i'm--losing my freaking mind."

who; stiles stilinski (of the FUTURE!!) and you!
when; december 15th--the end of the event
where; anywhere in the mansion
rating; probably r
summary; crazycakes stilinski returns from the not so distant future, not so pleasant side effects included.

[ It's hard to tell the difference between waking and sleeping nowadays.

It's been a year since the core mission. A year. Stiles Stilinski was one of the main planners behind it--it was his baby, fostered in dark rooms around Wonderland, just trying to keep away from the Jabberwocky long enough to fling it into the Core and be done with it for good. He'd had a lot of hope for what could have happened when it was over--as bleak and as miserable as things had been, he could only imagine that Wonderland might be able to fix itself as time passed without the Jabberwocky there to render it apart.

And in what seemed like just seconds, anything he was holding onto--any hope, any optimism, the plan, his friends, Castiel--Meg--Allison--Derek, they were dead, and he didn't even have threads to hold onto them by, no hopes that they'd come back. He stopped functioning, like it was when his mom died, and when the Jabberwocky attacked the section of the mansion where he'd been staying, that had held his and Derek's stuff, he'd practically let it rip him into pieces.

By the time he came back, something wasn't right. There was this need, this deep ache in the bottom of his bones to find the Queen of Hearts, who'd been missing for so long, but it's hard to focus on that, hard to focus on anything, because everywhere he turns, there are ghosts of people he loved. Words melt off pages, panic seizes around his chest and clutches and he sees visions, screaming, blood, Derek, his dad, his mom, hands reaching into the darkness, grabbing at the vestiges of his sanity and eating them whole, until he's left quivering in the dark, screaming for people who aren't real, against forces that are trying to render him limb from limb, things he can't see.

There's no sleeping. Horrific nightmares catch him when he closes his eyes. His hands move on their own, scrawling on the mirrors, the walls, anything he can get his hands on wake up, wake up, wake up wake up--

And it's in one of those dazes that he does.

When Stiles' eyes open, he's staring at Wonderland--rather, the Wonderland of the past. It's...cheery in here, there are Christmas decorations, and confusion and horror flicker across his exhausted face as he looks across the hallway before he hears it again ("Look what it could have been without you, look what you did, look what you always do"--) and his hands clutch up to his ears, knotting fiercely in his dark brown hair, until he slams into the wall beside him in the main hallway and lets out a strangled scream. It can't last, it has to end eventually, he's going to just--he has to just wake up-- ]

{this is a catchall log! ie: if you don't want to respond to this prompt you don't have to! on the 15th it will be difficult to get stiles away from derek. on the 17th through the 19th, it'll be a little easier. His sanity will slip between the three days, more lucid on the 17th and less on the 19th. By the 20th, he'll have holed up in his room, uninterested in anything and anyone. 21st-23rd on the other hand will be mostly spent with pack or people from the future, and he can easily be pulled away during these three days, with a fairly decent level of lucidity. The 24th is his and Derek's day alone. }

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[ It's the third day since Stiles and Isaac went missing, and Derek still hasn't slept. It's not exactly a new state of being, even before Wonderland he wasn't exactly getting much sleep on the regular. When they were dealing with Peter as an alpha, he'd gotten maybe two, three hours of sleep if he even slept at all during the day. It'd gotten progressedly better after Peter's death, but then everything went downhill with the alpha pack, with the darach, and now Wonderland's events.

So he continues going through the mansion, the grounds beyond it, trying to get some sign of his missing packmates. If he could just find something, maybe it'd help ease Scott and Allison's nerves on the matter. But he's not going to relax until they're back, until he can just see them himself.

He'd literally seen Isaac maybe an hour, two, before he disappeared. At least they'd been talking, absent conversation with their cats and just spending time in each other's company before Isaac had decompressed and headed back to his room with Scott and Stiles.

Derek hates that the last time he and Stiles actually spoke face-to-face was almost three goddamn weeks ago. Their last conversation of any kind was made up of two short texts, and that was it. He's worried out of his mind for both of them, because Beacon Hills was never kind but Wonderland is even less, but he is feeling frayed beyond belief over the fact that Stiles is one of the missing numbers.

Maybe it's because he's so keyed up, on edge and poised for Wonderland to throw a shitstorm their way, that he hears the scream from clear across the mansion. Maybe it's because he's straining to find any sign of missing pack, of Stiles, that he hears it. It's not like Lydia's scream, it doesn't resound and call. It's muted by leaps and bounds in comparison. But he knows it immediately, and before he realizes it he's moving, running through the halls until he can get to the main hall.

And something ties itself into knots in his chest, heart in his throat and breath trapped in his lungs. Because something is so unbearably wrong here, but it's Stiles, it has to be, but there's a second of hesitation. ]

Stiles? [ It comes out strained, like it's been punched out of him. ]

[ Stiles is practically tearing his hair out, it's--it's never been this bad before, it's never been this real. Sometimes it feels like when he's "sleeping", it's like he's walking in the past, and a part of him tenses up at the sound of what seemed to be thudding footsteps, he's just--waiting for the scream, Lydia's banshee scream and the hands around his throat or clawing at his face and...

What he sees, what crosses into the main hallway is ten times worse.

He absolutely freezes, staring at the person in front of him with impossibly wide eyes, breath catching in his throat, heartbeat skipping--these are always the worst, because they're true. He knowsknowsknowsknows Derek's death was his fault, that the time he couldn't come back was because Stiles sent him to it.

His hands jerk in front of him for a second, protectively, left covering the right and whatever's on his hand, and they knot together as he just-- ] No--nononono, no. No.

[ He's always wanted to see him again, and that's what makes these nightmares the worst. Four years of them lost because of a faulty plan, slipped through his fingers when there could have been hope, had it succeeded. When Derek is in his dreams, he doesn't scream at him.

He thanks him. And that's worse than anything Stiles can handle. ] You're not--you're not real, you're not real.

[ He takes a step back, and that's fright, his heart hammering away at his ribcage, because he's become so goddamn helpless since this started, no matter how hard he tries to force away his demons, they always come back to haunt him. It's been a year, and he's still lost. ]

[ Here is the proof that everything is wrong.

Derek stares at Stiles, and his blood runs cold because whatever's happened, Stiles is-- he's a wreck. The knot in his chest tightens, painfully, and he falters as he stands there. He doesn't know what's wrong, what's caused this, but Stiles looks different, looks and sounds broken, and he's going to rip Wonderland apart for causing it. That's the only thing in his mind for a minute, as he steps back from him.

Moving forward, like he's approaching a spooked animal, he brings his hands up carefully. ]

Stiles, it's okay. [ No, it's not. Nothing is okay, but he has to try and soothe him somehow. He's been missing for two days, but it's like he's been missing for longer.

And maybe he has been. He doesn't know, can't say he'd be surprised if that was the case. But there's something else to this, and he's going to figure it out, if only to try and find whatever's caused this to happen to Stiles, to someone he--

Drawing closer to him, Derek silently hopes that he doesn't spook, doesn't run. ]

[ It doesn't come. There's no--that look on his face. The sad smile he always gives him, uncharacteristic and strange and not his Derek, who only smiles when he's being an asshole (or for Stiles, when they are--were--spending time together in the quiet, telling jokes or laying in bed or doing a thousand other things, looks he's meticulously categorized and is trying not to forget.) It's not there.

It's just Derek. He moves a little closer, even, like--looking at Stiles like Derek is the one who's terrified. It's like nothing he's ever seen before, and the horrified, high thrum of his heart practically stutters as he stares at him, still frozen, still half mad, hands clutched into a tight fist to protect whatever's in his right hand, dark circles under his eyes huge and pronounced and looking slighter than ever and more like a deer in the headlights than the teenager who'd last been stumbling around the mansion, chased by mistletoe.

Maybe it's a moment of lucidity, but it hits Stiles as he's standing there, holding his breath, and doesn't move. Because the lights are on. The main hall's been destroyed, and even in his dreams, his visions, the parts of Wonderland that are broken are always, always broken.

His shoulders shake for a second, and he drops his hands, just for a second, pulling the right one in closer to his chest and extending his left with slow, trembling fingers. Like if he reaches out and touches him (it's fake it's fake it's fake) it'll be real. Every dream has faded when he tried to reach out, left him screaming in bed and sitting with Lydia or Scott, trying to shove his way through the panic that used to ebb at his conscious that's become a tidal wave.

(There's a spark. A tiny, tiny spark of hope. It's the first one he's felt in months.) ]

[ Maybe saying that Derek is terrified isn't that far of a stretch. But right now, he's looking at what might as well be a ghost, himself. He looks exhausted and small, hurt, and it's literally breaking his heart in two. His jaw works a little as he steps, slow and steady, towards Stiles, as he tries to find words to say. But there isn't anything he can really say in the face of this, no comfort that he can offer to try and bring him back down.

But something happens, realization seems to strike Stiles, and he seems to ground himself a little more. There's still something else there, still something wounded, and that's what draws him closer. He and Stiles have always had a gravitational pull, from day one. It wasn't as pronounced at the beginning, but over time it's just grown and grown.

So he follows it now as he always does, drawn in by the shaking hand that he extends. Wordlessly, he brings one of his own hands up, brushing his fingertips over the back of his palm once he's close enough. He wants to steady the tremble that seems to reach all the way to his bones, but he has one thing to do first.

Still silent, he walks right into Stiles' hand, presses it to his chest where his heart is thundering like he's gone and run a marathon. But he doesn't stop there, and he slides his hand up, until he can overlap and press long fingers into the pulse in his neck. Eyes scanning his face, he pushes, so that he knows that he's real, he's-- ]

I'm here. It's okay.

[ He flinches when he steps forward, closing his eyes, ready for the pain that's going to come, the ghost whooshing over his body and leaving him tired and cold and holding another snapped thread of his sanity, but there's just what feels like electricity against his palm, and he snaps his eyes open again and watches, something like wonder underneath his gaze when Derek's pulse comes under his hand.

Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.

It's the lifeline. The same one he's listened to a thousand times over, dozing off in bed in the mornings, goofing around at night. It's there. The ghosts, the visions, whatever they were, they never touched back. They never had that tattooed beat, th-thump, th-thump, th-thump, the one that filled into the spaces between his and his face just crumples as he looks at him.

Is it a miracle? He doesn't know. Stiles doesn't care. The logical part of his brain is so far gone lately that it spends all of its time trying to find ways to blame him for things more--all that matters is this is Derek, this is his Derek, standing right in front of him, breathing and leaving and the first real anchor that he's had since the day everything went so horribly wrong (he remembers a conversation, once, he and Allison had about anchors, how everyone needs something to keep them sane). If Wonderland is fixing itself, if this is some kind of--demented Christmas present, he doesn't care.

The lump in his throat is so big it feels like it's choking him; he whispers, just barely audible, like he might break the spell-- ] Derek.

[ And his hands are moving, then, up his neck where Derek placed it and touching his shoulders, his chest, coming up and grabbing his face, and looking so--shocked, wondrous, and the smile feels unfamiliar on his face when he's confronted with the first vision he's ever been happy to have and uses the grip he's got on his jaw to push himself forward and press a kiss to his mouth, hiccuping out a sob and letting go of his face to fling his arms around his shoulders.

He's alive. ]

[ Heart wrenching in his chest at the look on Stiles' face as he moves his hand, presses it to the vulnerable line of his throat without hesitation, Derek tries to stay steady. Tries to ease his heartbeat down from panicked worry and the rush to find where Stiles was, what had taken him, some sort of goddamn clue to whether he was all right or not. And what he's found isn't all right, is shattered and broken, but he tries to hold him together as best he can.

Everything is a whirl of confusion and his chest aching, but he holds fast to Stiles, trying to anchor him away from his panic and in something that's... he doesn't know. Something real, something that is tangible and solid and alive, instead of whatever's haunting him the way it is. He can see it in his eyes, and the way that his fingers tremble, in the way he holds himself. Stiles is seeing ghosts everywhere, even in him, and he doesn't know why.

The corner of his mouth twitches downwards a little as he whispers his name, just the smallest quirk in an attempt at reassurance. His fingers loosen to let his hands explore, and he doesn't resist as he grabs hold of his face.

That doesn't mean he's prepared to suddenly be kissed, and Stiles smells and tastes like an ocean storm, like regret's been soaked straight into the marrow of his bones and made its home there. For a second time, he's taken off guard. This time, though, he manages to get his hands on Stiles before he can go anywhere-- running away or just suddenly disappearing, it doesn't matter, he can't let him leave the way he is-- and he curls his fingers around his jaw, cradling his face gently. ]

[ Stiles can't decide if he wants to cry or scream or slap him to make sure he's real or kiss him harder or a mix of all four, because Derek is here, real and solid and alive under his hands, and one thing's for sure--he's not going anywhere. He doesn't resist at all when Derek cradles his face, doesn't spook like his self of the present had a few weeks ago.

He just returns it, like a drowning man needs air, relishing in the shape of his mouth, the barest burn of his stubble, something so stupidly familiar that he has to laugh a little, tiny and mirthful. He only pulls away to bury his face in his neck and shake, trembling like a leaf as the force of the emotions just drag him along for the ride, for the first real lucid moment he's had in weeks, and his fingers drop his face to clutch at his back, at his jacket. (It's the same one he's wearing, entirely too huge, worn leather and saved for his bad days, because the last thing he wants to do is wipe the smell of it away for good, get used to it.)

He's real. It's unbelievable. He repeats his name like a mantra for a second, like he'd been doing before, Derek--derek, Derek, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. What comes out of his mouth while he's curled there, when he can feel tears leaking out of his eyes and he's blubbering like an absolute idiot is just-- ] I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.

[ Stiles finds himself breathing again, and Derek drowns a little in this. Whatever's happened, it's happened over more than just two days. It's almost overwhelming, but it's not something he can't weather through, letting Stiles hold fast to him and find his bearings again.

And despite the shock of it, he falls into the moment easily, kisses him back with all that he gets. But with the laugh, small as it is, he softens the kiss before he pulls back from it, thumbs sweeping over his cheeks as he holds him still. It's so easy to adjust his hold on him after that, letting him move forward to tuck his face into his neck and sliding his hands along his shoulders. One arm wraps tight around his shoulders, fisting in the surreally familiar leather that mirrors his. The other secures tight around his waist, fingers folding over a bony hip.

He soothes gently, cheek pressed to his dark hair, little murmurs of I'm here, I'm here Stiles and a soft rumble in the pit of his chest, soundless and subconscious. His hand at his shoulders lifts up, curls in the mess of a nest that is his dark hair, and he holds him as tight as he can without breaking him. ]

Shhh, it's going to be all right.

[ It's so familiar it just aches, the hand in his hair and across his back, a familiar weight he had memorized in happier times, slung across the back of a couch or wrestling after an argument, when Derek could literally kick his ass sideways (and did, sometimes, but only because he was smug and never to hurt him) but let him win anyway. It's more than he knows how to deal with, this whole--coming back to life thing, you'd think he'd be a fucking expert at that by now, and a hysterical laugh bubbles out of his throat at the thought.

It brought him back.

It takes him four or five minutes to pull his head out of the crook of his neck, to try and compose himself--like that's not a joke, he hasn't been "composed" in six months--and to just look at him again. There are tears streaming down his cheeks and a smile that's so wide it's threatening to crack his face in half, because this is the best he could have asked for, and even if it's a dream he sure as fuck doesn't want to wake up.

Long fingers come up again, cup his cheeks, and he kisses him again, like he just has to be sure it's real, tugging him down with just a hint of his usual bossiness to make sure he gets the full effect, until he can press their foreheads together, stroke a thumb over his cheekbone, relish in the familiarity of stubble on his skin. ] You even did the stupid-- [ The rumble, that stupidly soothing noise he can't even quite put words on, and he just shakes his head and smiles at him, sniffling and keeping their foreheads pressed together.

Honestly, he's afraid to let go. ]

[ As they stand there and Stiles holds onto him, Derek closes his eyes and holds him through it, evening his breathing and his heart as best he can and hoping that it does something to help here. Help Stiles. He's held him before, slung his arm around his shoulders or pressed their palms together, mock-fights when Derek finally figured out the stupid game that Stiles was making him play in the game room and Stiles pretended to be sore about it. But this is different. This is desperation in a nutshell, and it's confusing and hurts and he doesn't know why.

His brow furrows a little when Stiles pulls back, smiles at him like that. What happened? comes to mind, but never makes its way to his mouth. Not yet, anyways, because his eyes scan over his face, his hand sliding through his hair to frame the line of his jaw with broad fingers.

A small snort leaves him, a little hysterical even in its brevity, at the way that Stiles tugs him down again. The bossy twist doesn't surprise him, but it also doesn't bother him. His confusion is what bothers him, worry snaking through him and refusing to let go. But he still kisses him back, and he tilts a little into the touch across his cheek when he pulls back. It takes a few seconds, but something makes sense-- the rumble, more vibration than sound, there isn't much else he could be referring to.

His hand comes up higher, and he sweeps his thumb across one cheek to get rid of the tears there. ]

It's not stupid if it helps.

[ Almost immediately, Stiles tilts his head into the touch, calloused and warm and familiar, looking at him with nothing but affection in his wet brown eyes. Derek's here. Something in the back of his head is whispering that this isn't right, that there's something off, but his instincts have been so out of whack since everything happened that Stiles has stopped trying to discern his paranoia from his lucidity, when the latter happens so much less than the former. ]

It's not--it's, it's really, really not. [ He shakes his head a little and sniffles, barely pulling away to wipe his face with the sleeve of the jacket that wasn't his and almost immediately invading his space again, long fingers curling in his shirt at the sides. ] They--don't usually make that noise, usually it's just, you say thank you, Derek, oh my god, oh my god.

[ He's making absolutely no sense, but he's happy. Stiles hasn't been happy in at least a year. He steals another kiss, short and sweet, tasting a little like desperation. ]

[ Part of him says that this isn't wrong, for as much as it's not completely right. Stiles keeps kissing him like he's aching for it and is talking him in circles, because he's lost in this with no idea of what he's really talking about. But Derek listens to that part more than the other, the one that says that it's not right, he needs to get Stiles talking sense. Because he knows, just knows, that he can't break Stiles even more right now with that question. If he did now, he would completely shatter.

So for now, he works on bringing Stiles back down. Anchoring him in place and away from what haunts him. ]

Well, I'm not going to do that. [ He makes a note, in the back of his mind, to not tell him thank you at all right now. There's nothing about this situation that's okay, and literally triggering Stiles into a meltdown is not something he wants to do. Instead, he rumbles at him, setting his hands around his shoulders as he kisses him again.

After he pulls back, though, he gives a little nudge around his shoulders and takes a step back. There's no break in contact, but it's prompting. ] C'mon, let's get you out of the main hall.

Yeah--yeah, okay. Yeah. [ Stiles nods a couple times--he's still shaking just a little, and his voice is still scratchy, like he's been screaming for hours, but it's. It's going to be okay. He's here. It's going to be okay.

He mumbles something again as he starts to walk a little blindly next to Derek. He knows where the room is, he's been there a thousand times, even in the present where it's been destroyed and he had to hold onto the shreds, but he's barely sure if his steps are real and concrete, still thinking this might be a dream.

Just in case, just to keep the contact, to make sure he can feel Derek solidly beside him, his hand slides down his forearm and finds his hand, twining their fingers together in a natural, perfect fit and holding on tightly, his thumb making erratic, shaky patterns across Derek's palm. ] It's okay.

[ That's for him, not for Derek. It's going to be okay. Everything's going to be okay. It's real. There's nothing fake here. No screaming monsters, no jabberwocky--at least not yet. It's real. ]

[ Glad that Stiles begins to move, for as shaky as he is, Derek leads him along despite the fact he knows Stiles remembers the way. He doesn't resist the hand that slips down his arm, finds his own hand, because that's not a foreign gesture. Between the start of the zombie event and Thanksgiving, it wasn't as if they didn't reach out for each other in the quiet, after Scott's death and with restless nights shared between them.

It's nothing to just squeeze their palms together, pressing his pulse into Stiles', filling the space between a jackrabbit beat. They're not synchronized, not exactly, but they're a steady tattoo combined. A pair as one.

There are a lot of stairs, between the main hall and their rooms. But he keeps going, slowing every now and then to just draw Stiles into his side by their hands, touch running smooth and steady across his knuckles. ]

[ He's quiet for a couple of seconds as he leans into Derek's arm when he's pulled, making his way up the stairs slowly but surely. It's not the same; this Wonderland is still apparently put together, but Stiles barely registers the fact that he's climbing stairs that don't even exist anymore in his time. He's too busy practically drowning in the fact that Derek's there, a combination of guilt and terror and--god knows whatever else is going on in his head.

When he mutters again, it's under his breath, "it's okay, it's fine, you're fine." It's not for Derek, and he squeezes his hand a little tight, crescents where his nails were pressed and shuts his eyes as he makes his way up the stairs.

It's easy then, to see the Jabberwock in his closed eyes, to hear the whispers of someone saying his name, Allison this time, How could you do this to me, Stiles, and he mutters again, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" and has to slump against Derek at the top of the stairs. It's--like seeing everything in duplicate, ghosts that haunt the staircases and reach out to touch him, and the real presence of someone at his side, and the walk to his room becomes a stretch as every step is a fight forward, pushing against his the figures screaming, the Jabberwocky roaring in his ears. ]

[ Listening to Stiles talk under his breath practically rips into Derek's chest, but he keeps moving, keeps leading him down the hall once they're to their floor. And he thinks about taking him to find Scott, or bringing him to the room he shares with him (and the still-missing Isaac), but instead he moves to his own door, opens it with his free hand even as he keeps Stiles close to him.

Because after everything, after the panic in Stiles' voice and the near breakdown, the rawness to his voice and the way that he fucking shakes, he's not going to just bring him to Scott and hope that it helps. He could stay-- of course he would-- but he needs to bring Stiles down before he risks setting him off. He doesn't know if he'd have the same reaction to Scott, to Allison, to Cora. Any of them.

Gently pulling Stiles into the room, he shuts the door and moves, crowds him against it and presses their foreheads together. His hands come up, and at first he just brushes his fingers over his temples. But he slides them further along, cups his palms over his ears. ]

[ This is the first time Stiles has been anywhere near the room he and Derek used to really share. He'd lived with Scott for most of his time in Wonderland, but in the last two years, he'd "moved out" so to speak, and ended up in here. There are none of the personal touches that had made it theirs, just familiar stacks of books, and when Stiles shuts his eyes, he can see the tears in the very walls of the room, ripped asunder, the bed they used to share destroyed in the Jabberwocky's mad rage to decimate the entire mansion.

All he can really do is try to fight it. Every hallucination is different, but if one thing is the same, it's that he can never connect to reality when they're happening, like he's stuck in a constant, looping nightmare. Stiles shudders as he gets crowded against the door, and suddenly, everything is just surrounded, and the world goes muffled--static visions over Derek's shoulders get pushed away, just clawing at the edge of his vision, and he melts into it a little, his hands instantly coming up and finding a grip, an anchor, scrabbling across his jacket and curling up tight, whispering to himself--I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. ]

[ For as much as Derek has no idea what's going on, what's caused Stiles to fall into this spiral, he still holds onto him. Still steadies himself and lets Stiles grip tight to try and find something stable, some anchor to bring him back down. The way he's talking, the way he's acting and the shadows that're in his eyes, he knows it's something bad. The way he looks at him? Worse.

Bowing his head forward as he whispers to himself, he presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes, keeping him closed in and the world around them out. Whatever's caused this, there are ghosts everywhere in the mansion for him. He's not going to let them get to him here, when he can do something to give him stability. ]

[ It takes another ten minutes for him to calm down again, to try and focus himself in the fact that Derek is sitting right here in front of him, that his hands are curled in the familiar coat and he can smell his aftershave and that weird leather smell that he'd buried his face in morning after morning. When he thinks about that, he can look the image of Derek's body, the massive hole in his chest crawling towards him, reaching for him (thank you for killing me, thank you) and anchor himself to the fact that it's just an image. That his mind is just playing tricks on him.

Swallowing down the lump of panic in his throat, he slumps forward, drops his head against his shoulder, and his entire body droops as he feels so small, empty and hollow but not panicking, not for now. He just wants to shrink into Derek's grip until he doesn't exist anymore--slowly, his fingers come free of his jacket, but his arms stay where they are, wrapped around him tight like he'll disappear if he lets go. ] I'm sorry.

[ It comes out again, voice in a low tremble, like that's all he can do is apologize. Like he did to his mom's grave, like he did to Scott when he told him what happened to Allison. I'm sorry. ]

[ Waiting Stiles out is almost excruciating, but he does it. He stands through Stiles coming down from old ghosts and panic, and keeps his hands secure over his ears so that maybe, just maybe, he can keep his focus on the now instead of whatever is haunting him. Derek hates that he can't do anything else but wait, but he'll anchor him as best as he can while he does.

The moment that he droops into him, his own body relaxes but doesn't pull away. He takes Stiles' weight easily-- it's not as if he hasn't noticed how thin he is, frayed at the edges as he is-- and slips his hands from his ears, slowly. They trace down his neck, keeping contact, before sliding along his shoulders so that he can wrap his arms securely around him. He bows his head forward a little, nosing into his brown hair and staying like that. ]

Don't. Just breathe, Stiles.

[ Breathe, that's easy, that's something he can do. He nods once, tries to loosen his hold a little, and focuses on Derek's chest rising and falling under his hand. He'd--they'd been lucky. The Jabberwocky usually ate its victims whole, and as disturbing as lucky sounded, at least Stiles and Allison and Isaac had had something to bury.

Stiles picked the tree. Dug the grave himself, until his palms were bleeding and he couldn't see straight, buried the body himself, asked Scott to scratch a triskele into the tree. He slept next to it that night, never bothered to clean the blood from his hands, in some kind of a vain hope that the Jabberwocky would swallow him whole, too. It'd been a year since then, but moving on was...

Well. It wasn't happening. Let's put it like that.

Slowly, he tries to calm himself down, deep breaths in time with Derek's chest, until the trembling has stopped a little bit, and he can muffle his face in the material of his shirt. ]

[So the most John's gotten at this point is that the peeps who were gone are back, and they're from the future, and they're kinda fucked up. He hasn't quite found out what happened (happens?) yet, and...part of him doesn't want to know.

He's already waved hello, already spouted a cheerful "Merry Christmas!" when he realizes. Stiles-- who he's always sorta wanted to get to know, who's around his age, who's goofy and nice and normal in ways that lots of people in Wonderland and back home just aren't anymore --is one of the Marty McFly's. Part of him aches as he realizes just how jazzed Dave would be at that comparison (as opposed to most movie references John made). The rest of him aches because he can already tell Stiles is different. This version, John could probably do without knowing.

But it's sort of too late, and John is nothing if not socially awkward, so he clears his throat after gaping awkwardly for a few seconds and says:] Uh. Welcome back?

[ (Stiles would also be jazzed by that comparison, were he normal. Back to the Future is classic.)

The voice is familiar, and where Stiles is spending time near the Christmas tree, idly picking at his stocking or reaching around and feeling for things, trying to figure out what's real, where the catch is. Where the Jabberwocky is just going to leap out at them. He doesn't even really startle, just a little, a jump of tense shoulders before he turns around and looks at him, squinting for a second and then, brown eyes widening in recognition. ] ...John.

[ He seems calm, at least for the moment. It's subdued, whatever's bothering him, and he fidgets, puts his hands in his pockets, picks obsessively at the inside of his red sweatshirt. ] It's a little better than being home, I think. So...thanks.

[ (Maybe they will all cheer up with a marathon when this is over.)

John approaches, eyes flicking over Stiles. The guy's so jumpy. Like he's hiding something or worried something'll happen. Which, uh. Seems fair, if the Jabberwocky stuff is true. God, they've all gotta have some serious PTSD, now that he thinks about it.]

Yeah. Um. Maybe Christmas'll be nice this time around. I heard once they just had a big party and a bunch of folks showed up who weren't normally here. Like, people from back home. That'd be kinda nice.

[He gets the feeling that that won't happen, but it's still nicer to think about than the timeline Stiles is from. God, if Dave were here, he'd probably have some idea of what you do to fix that sort of thing. Or Davesprite, like, wow, he's the expert. All John did in that timeline was die like an idiot.

He's kind of surprised he hasn't heard that about this one, actually.]

Um. [He starts suddenly, not even aware he's saying it at first, but.] You can talk to me about. Stuff. The future. If you want. I'll just listen. And maybe deliver some choice bro-hugs.

That'd be great. [ Something in his heart twangs at the thought of seeing his dad again, and he has to swallow down the lump in his throat. The mansion's not that kind, at least not to them--it's hard to even imagine it being kind at all anymore. Things are different here, the phantom memories mixing with the people experiencing it in real time, and it's all a lot to take in, even after a couple of days.

Stiles' eyebrows go up, and he looks at John for a second, considering. John is a friend in the future--they get along, they have similar senses of humor and equally awful taste in movies--but talking about it just seems...daunting. Stiles is so used to everyone knowing how shitty their lives are. ] It freakin' sucks, I can tell you that much.

Yeah, that's what it sounds like. I haven't really...I mean, I know a little. The Jabberwocky showed up and then the mansion sort of started...dying, right?

[John runs a hand through his hair.] It's hard to imagine, since it just went through its normal Christmas decorating thing and all. But I guess...I guess maybe I've just been here long enough to be used to how it works so. Things going off the rails for longer than event is kind of extra scary.

[He glances at Stiles.] People were saying we could change it, though? Do you think...? [He trails off, not sure whether this is...disrespectful, somehow. Like it just draws attention to deaths that were in vain or...something? He might not be doing a great job of comfort, here.]

[By now, it's common enough knowledge that those who had gone missing have returned -- and if the announcement over the network is to be believed, they've been gone a lot longer than it would appear to those who were left behind. Though there are a few brief moments of skepticism, it's an easy enough story to swallow. Time travel. Alternate dimensions. Angel's no stranger to either of them, though the former had been an isolated incident -- a day as opposed to five years.

A lot can happen in five years. He thinks of the last five years before he came to Wonderland from beginning to end, and the course of events that marched through those days and months come together to build a story that is so much bigger than he ever thought possible in what was once, to him, a minuscule blip when you thought of how much time someone like him got to spend on this earth.

So much time. Much of it had been wasted. In those five years, he had learned what it truly meant to make use of the time he was given, how to live in the world instead of simply watch it. Save it, rather than let it burn.

He refuses to waste the next five.

When he sees a familiar face, it seems like a golden opportunity. Making friends has never come easily to him, and there are so many people here in Wonderland that he has yet to reach out to, yet to speak to, but this one-- they may not be friends, but they know each other. It's as good a place to start as any.

He has to know what's to come. How to prepare.]

Stiles.

[His hands are deep in the pockets of his coat as he approaches, slowing to a halt beside one of the mirrors near the mansion's Christmas tree, drawing undue attention to his absent reflection.]

Can we talk?

[ Spending time with Derek present day or not, had helped to calm the nightmares and the visions in Stiles' head, at least to a smaller scale. The snatches of lucidity are starting to grow longer and longer, enough that he can kind of quietly assimilate what to do with the opportunity that was presented to them; it's obvious ending up here was some kind of a sign, some way to make things better in the future. Stiles doesn't know--he's taken a couple of things, hidden them in small, secret places, but as he forces himself away from Derek, he's mostly wandering around the mansion in a daze.

That's when Angel calls his name, and he startles a little, snapped out of whatever thought had carried him off, and stares at him for a minute. Angel is a familiar face, someone he can probably call a friend, even in the future, but he sounds purposeful in his tone, and a part of him wants to run. He's been avoiding telling anyone from the past what happened, at least not how--it was your fault-- but he holds his ground, long fingers clutching in the sleeves of a too long sweatshirt. ]

I...yeah, sure. [ His stomach drops in the bottom of his toes and he offers a slightly baleful look, fidgeting from where he's standing. ] What is it?

I have questions.

[That much was probably obvious, but stating the obvious was something of a specialty, something he often did for effect without even trying. His senses are sharp enough to catch the sudden shift in Stiles' stance, the tensing of muscles, the suppressed urge to turn away and bolt.

Angel could only guess that the future had not been kind to him.]

I've heard some about what happens. We need to prepare. I'd like details. Try to figure out what can be done now to lay groundwork for what's to come. Maybe even stop it altogether.

[ For just a second, Stiles looks at him like he's got two heads. He's had a few people approach him from the past, but none of them have taken such a direct approach--typically, he's something broken, something to be avoided. And Stiles doesn't blame them, not really; if it was him in their shoes, he'd be avoiding it too. His answers aren't as lucid as he thinks they are, and sometimes Stiles thinks he's wiped the memories from his mind, but they never really go away, the image of the jabberwocky eating people whole practically seared into his brain.

He takes in a slow, steadying breath, crossing his arms across his chest--but it's more of a hold than anything else, like he's anchoring himself in the present. ] It...

[ The first word comes out and then, the dam breaks. ] It was my idea--I caused it, the jabberwocky came and the Duchess disappeared with the sword so anytime we attacked it it just. Consumed everything. It ate swords and got sharper teeth. I thought--everything was falling apart, the mirrors were on our side and I thought if we threw it into the core of the mansion, it would die and we'd be done with it, forever, but no, it--it never made it that far.

[ Stiles swallows thickly and shakes his head furiously, like he's trying to shake the memory. ] The sword. You have to have the sword it's the only way--it's the only way to kill it.

And you know that for sure.

[It's a question, even if it doesn't quite come out like one. The way he's heard it, when this whole Jabberwocky mess started, they were able to kill it -- but never permanently.

If the Vorpal Sword would make all the difference, then there was no question about it. They had to find it, and they had to keep it safe. He could only assume that was the sword Stiles was talking about, but he'd heard the name enough to know. It had to be.]

If we use the Vorpal Sword, will it stay down? Will that kill it for good?

Edited 2014-01-06 19:40 (UTC)

I--I think so. I mean, that's all we've ever heard, that that's how it was killed for good the first time. Every time we kill it, it just comes back.

[ He can vaguely remember reading, researching, studying the Jabberwocky--it had been so useful when they first started, but his confidence had wavered since then, along with his mind. He looks at Angel and nods, hugging his hands around his biceps. ]

The shield--the shield would be good too, but the sword is what would kill it. It's the Duchess, I think she has it, even--in your time.

That makes the goal pretty simple, then.

[In theory. Maybe not in execution. Still, if that sword is going to be their saving grace, then there's nothing to be done but to put all of their resources into getting their hands on it and keeping it in their possession.]

I'm sure I'm not the only one who's thinking they need to have a talk with the Duchess now that we know we need the sword. Not like she makes herself easy to find.

[But he's a detective. Sort of. He can help pull this off.]

The Jabberwocky ate the shield, the way I hear it. Maybe it would be better to leave it off the battlefield, just in case.

[ He nods, imperceptibly, looking Angel up and down. It's kind of nice to see him again--he can vaguely recall a time where he did nothing but make fun of him for his existence but they...they got along, didn't they? Sort of. It feels sort of far away now.

Nowadays, it's not so easy to just talk to people. He can't even really tell what's real anymore. ] I thought...maybe if you could go backwards on the network, here. Try to see if she'd come up or give some kind of hint, or something. We don't have a network anymore, so that's...those are resources we need.

[ Stiles nods to himself again, like he's confirming. He can't read right now, can't do anything without the words melting into pieces in front of his eyes, and it's up to anyone who can actually do that to help this--help them, help themselves and their futures. ] And...rations, and supplies, we need those, too. We can't kill the Jabberwocky no matter what if we're starving to death.

Even the network is gone?

[He has no real love for that particular method of communication, but there's no denying it's useful -- and that having the ability to go back and comb through old messages for some sign of the Duchess would have been invaluable.]

Then we'll have to make the most of it now, while you're here to make use of it.

[He pauses, frowning.]

Sounds like there's not enough of anything. If we start storing things away now, there should be enough to last people a long while in the future.

[ He nods, reaching downwards for a second and pinching his own side, in a gesture. ] It's--the whole place is dying. It's not just us. I think...whatever stupid magic was left in that place, they sent us here with it. Like to try and set things right.

[ Is he grateful? Not really. But it has been nice to eat real food again. That's one thing he can do without nightmares. Stiles fidgets a little, obviously kind of uncomfortable--this used to be his element. Now? Not so much. ] I don't know if that's going to--I mean, it's like a bad episode of Doctor Who, you know...? Back to the Future kind of things. Don't sneeze in the past or you'll change the future.

I don't know if we're even gonna be alive still when we get back. If we fix things here... [ Hopefully that makes some semblance of sense, but Stiles is starting to figure it out--if you provide them rations and find the vorpal sword in the present, then why should this future have any reason to exist? ]

Then it changes the future.

[For the better -- there's no doubt about that -- but the implications haven't escaped him, either, and he at least has the sense not to say it out loud. Nobody needs to be reminded that they might not have an existence to go back to.]

So we take another path, the future branches off in a different direction. Given everything we've been told about what's to come... there's no other choice, is there?

[ she's still shaking.

even after cas healed her, even after scott held her hand and pulled her back into her room. talked her down that they'll figure things out, it'll be okay. it feels like no matter what she does, she turns and hears the cracking of her own bones breaking and it's hard. hard to think that isaac could do that to her, whether it's this one or the other one or whatever one it happens to be. scott does calm her down, though, explains to her what happened with stiles and how he's back but he's talking nonesense and how he's at derek's and allison.

allison needs to talk to derek.

so she and scott head off to derek's room. scott still attached to her hand, and allison more determined than ever. because isaac? that had been isaac. somewhere under those eyes and that look and the pale, sharp lines. he'd disappeared and come back but he'd come back different and allison just needed to know why. so there they go and she's the one knocking because she's determined, even if the only reason her hand isn't shaking is because scott's got his holding it. ]

Derek? [ a beat, and then the door opens and allison sees stiles there too and she almost wants to kick herself for forgetting at all. her voice sounds a little breathless. ] Stiles.

[ stiles had taken to more or less attaching himself to derek since he arrived. a part of him knew what was wrong, knew that this wasn't his derek--after all, his ring was on a chain around his neck, tucked under one of his layers--but it didn't matter. he wanted to be selfish for once, and he spent the majority of the first day fighting off a particularly vicious nightmare, a bitter, angry version of his father and a twisted up one of his mother, pulling at his skin until Stiles practically wanted to rip it off.

derek made it better. he made it stop.

so when there's a knock at the door, he's a little hesitant to roll out of bed. when derek pulls away, though, the gravitational pull has him moving too, peeking out from behind his shoulder and freezing at who's at the door. ]

--Allison! [ it's out of his mouth before he can even say anything. he saw allison lying there beside derek when they picked up the bodies. it made sense, if derek was here, why wouldn't she be, but--there's just a knot that tightens in his chest at the sight. allison had become one of his closest friends. he spoke at her wedding, was there for her funeral. talked to the little altar that tohru had made for each person with just as much frequency as he did to derek's.

he pushes past derek and looks at her, just a little bit of wonder in his eyes, and in two short steps, closes the distance between them and pulls her into his chest, hooking his chin over her shoulder and squeezing tight, staring into the distance to keep from tearing up. ]

[ it's one thing to have scott tell her that stiles is off. one thing to have it described to her by the best friend, who looks so sad and dark and guilt ridden for literally no other reason except that he is scott mccall and that is all he does, but it's another to see the look on stiles' face when the door opens and he sees her standing there. she's frozen in place because she's not sure how she's supposed to react, which is all well and good because stiles does most of the moving.

and he looks different, god does he look different. haunted and thin and scared. terrified. and maybe that's just allison projecting the same look she saw in isaac's eyes, when he had her shoved up against the wall, his hands crushing the bones in her arms, but he's there and he's lunging at her and she tenses, at first. can't help it. but just as quickly as she does the tension is gone because it's stiles. it's just stiles. so after just the briefest moment of hesitation, her arms go around his middle - the hesitation only because they're not really at hugging. she's not really a huggy person, besides with scott (and isaac, a bit, before he disappeared). but there's something in the way he clings at her that makes it a little easier to just melt into it. ]

Hey- [ which, all things considered, this is a much better alternative to her last reunion. so much that she ends up tightening her hold on him a little, tucking her face into his shoulder a little. ] Hey, it's okay.

[ He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the fact that these people who he sees every day--people who he saw ran through, literally, due to something he'd tried to put together. They appear in his nightmares, they appear around corners or in familiar rooms, darkened corners of their starving version of Wonderland, screaming at him and asking him questions, underneath his hands in his dreams where it's him killing them with his bare hands instead of by proxy. Allison is a common feature in these, second only to Derek, and on days when he's lucid, he misses her constantly, a painful ache in his chest that comes with the loss of one of your closest friends.

When he pulls away, he's trembling. A part of him had been expecting her to be see through, for his hands to just pass by into the open air, until something is laughing, taunting, and he takes a step back. In the present, he's not much of a toucher either--that's always been Scott's thing--but it's such an overwhelming concept, that wherever he is has these people that died, that he has to keep reminding himself that everything's okay. ]

Allison, I'm sorry. [ He says, choked up behind a lump in his throat--it's all he's been able to say since he's arrived, because that's all he can feel. Guilt, sorrow. Anger. His hands come together, a nervous gesture, twisting and pulling and he drops his shoulders a little, confidence gone from his posture. ] I'm so--I'm so sorry, I'm sorry.

[ she wonders if she should have done something differently. there's something wrong, something different, just as different with stiles as it had been with isaac. she can feel it in how tightly he holds onto her, before he's pulling away. allison can't help but think of what it must be like for all of them, later on. what it must be like to bring stiles and isaac to points like these.

he pulls away from her and he's trembling and allison doesn't know what to do. she's done this already with isaac, but whatever she did with isaac was so wrong it terrifies her. what if she sets stiles off like she did isaac, what if she says something and whatever mental wall stiles has built up to keep himself here comes shattering down? all she wants to do is fix this, fix stiles, but all she's managed to do so far is nearly die. is watch scott deal with that, from her, and the guilt weighing on her for that - the guilt she's feeling just looking him in the eyes, it's killing her. ]

Stiles. [ her voice is soft, calm. she tries to make it light, like she could even be smiling, but with how much that darkness in her chest has grown over the last hour or so, she's not sure it will happen. so she just keeps going, reaching out to set her hand over his, where they're bunched together. trying to get him to look at her, see her as she is now, and not how he remembers her. ] Whatever happened, whatever you think you did- it wasn't your fault.

[ she has no idea what she's talking about, is putting pieces together from what she remembers of isaac, what she's seeing in stiles. whatever they think they did...

and then allison forces herself to smile. small, reassuring (hopefully). ] We're fine.

[ His hands are still shaking when he turns them up, just to cup her smaller hand between his long fingers. He's not good with his words anymore, not sure how to form his jumbled thoughts into sentences, and trying to tell Allison everything he wants to say--that no, it was, that he got them all killed, he got her killed because he was too stupid to realize his plan would never work, that it was his fault and that he was so sorry--it's not happening. Instead he just nods a little, tries to manage a watery smile, but it's like the muscles in his face are still remembering how to do that, too.

He squeezes the hand in his for a second, then pauses, suddenly switching his grip to look at the top of her hand. It's not hard or anything, but there's something missing.

She's not wearing her ring.

Neither was Derek.

It clicks. It's a moment of clarity in a sea of confusion and hurt, and Stiles stares at her hand, then lifts his head to look at her, then at Scott beside her, and then back down, and he mutters, softly at first, just enough to fill the space-- ] This is the past.

[ And--boom, there's the panic, the blurring vision and it feels like Stiles is drowning again. He slumps against the wall and takes a deep, shuddery breath, withdrawing in on himself and trying to keep it away, just so he can figure it out, so he can try to understand who, when--how, how this had happened. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"and i'm--losing my freaking mind."

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the 16th :|a

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12/16!

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sprinkles backtags on

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JUMPS INTO ARMS!!!!!

spins in a circle!!!!

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backtags forever cries