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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[ 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. ]

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

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