Day 17 - When is a Door Not a Door [Teen Wolf]
Title: When is a Door not a Door
Author: Twisted_Slinky
Crossover: Teen Wolf
Rating: PG-13 (for violence toward a minor)
Summary: Stiles is certain he's being watched. He's right. And his stalker enjoys past times such sleeping in the daytime, playing with dolls, and talking crazy.
Wordcount: ~2200
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy or Teen Wolf, and I'm making no money off this fanwork.
A/N: Set in more of the Teen Wolf verse than the Buffy verse. Buffy is post series; Teen Wolf is post season 3A and takes place in 3B, but with Drusilla playing her part.
"Shh, now, little boy, mummy'll come back when that nasty sun goes down..."
Stiles shot up, only vaguely aware that he must have fallen asleep in his chair. He hadn't been out long, and he couldn't remember the exact subject of his nightmare, just that he'd heard a woman's voice. She'd had a strange accent, English, maybe. She'd sounded child-like...That was it. That was all that he'd held on to.
He half expected his dad to come in, check on him. Then he remembered that his dad had been called off to work in the middle of the night.
He was alone. Without a second thought, he walked through his house, double-checking the locks on the doors and windows. But he didn't think it would do much good, not against a nightmare.
"I think someone's following me."
It slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it and by the time he'd looked up from his gym locker, Scott was staring at him, mouth open slightly and worry furrowing his brow. Stiles didn't mean for Isaac to hear the confession too, but of course the other werewolf was standing there, behind Scott, looking more confused than worried.
"Following you?" Scott asked, still processing.
"Why would anyone be following you?" Isaac posed.
Stiles slammed his locker shut. "Well, if I knew that, I probably would have framed the sentence like, 'I think someone's following me because I took their lunch money.'" At Scott's expression, he let out a sigh. "I just...I get the feeling someone is watching me when I leave the house, especially at night, and sometimes when I'm leaving school after practice or stopping by the story. And swear, it's probably from the neighbors, but I keep hearing this singing, like a girl singing. It's probably nothing, just..."
Just leftover crazy from that time we all died and stuff. Stiles didn't voice that part, but Scott must have been able to interpret it easily enough, because some of the worry on his face was replaced by pity. Stiles wanted to slap him, but he didn't, because 'Scott means well'.
But he did regret opening his mouth. They all had enough problems without him bringing up a probably non-existent stalker.
The werewolves officially gave him the a-okay, trying to let him down easy when they didn't find any strange smells around his house.
It actually sent Stiles' anxiety up a notch, but he played down the reaction. As if he'd be pleased that the person following him wasn't real, just a figment of his imagination. Yeah, because going crazy as a second option was just awesome. The only upside was that imaginary people couldn't hurt his dad.
Scott being Scott, offered to stay the night or have Stiles over at their place. Stiles brushed off the suggestion, poking fun at the idea of it being too much like a sleepover with Isaac hanging around. The truth was, on the rare occasion he actually fell asleep, he'd been having vivid nightmares, ones that were bad enough to wake up his dad. Ones he wasn't always sure he'd woken up from. He didn't want Scott to see him that way.
And, plus, the danger was all in his head.
Stiles felt a chill run over his neck, like fingernails scraping at the skin, and he shivered as he took the extra step to his window.
"Are you singing, boy?" The call was faint, so much so that it could have been from the television downstairs, and it had this sing-song quality to it. It was almost familiar.
Stiles pushed back his curtain. It was dark outside, darker still because of the shadow off of a tree limb blocking the moonlight. But through the branches, he could see a shape. Someone was down there, slender and swaying. It looked like a woman in a long dress. When he blinked, she was gone again.
"All in my head," he reminded himself, a bit of sarcasm leaking through. But despite the urge, he refused to call Scott back. Because what if he came back and said the same thing? What if he came back and he didn't see the woman when Stiles did?
Stiles laid back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, the faint sound of singing lulling him to sleep. The neighbors really needed to turn down their music.
In the morning, he was certain there was something he wanted to tell Scott, something about a woman...Maybe it had to do with the research he was doing? Stiles couldn't remember what it was he was forgetting.
Stiles would admit it wasn't his most graceful moment, when he toppled out of his Jeep and onto the pavement, but he couldn't think of another reaction to seeing the doll sitting on his dashboard. He sucked in a shallow breath, steadying himself, then slowly pushed himself back up off the parking lot's blacktop. His hip cried out at the movement, as did his elbow, and he rubbed his torn sleeve mournfully.
After another second, he realized there wasn't any other movement inside the car, or at least, no evil lurking in the backset, and spun around, half expecting to find someone waiting behind him.
The grocery store's parking lot was empty but for a scattering of cars. Business wasn't exactly booming after nine, and he wouldn't have been there either if he hadn't offered to pick up some popcorn and Milk Duds. Alas, if he and Isaac were going to convince Scott that A New Hope was worth forgoing a night of Call of Duty, he needed to make it a full theatric experience. It wasn't exactly the liveliest way they'd ever spent a Friday evening, but damn-it, how could the guy fight the Dark Side continuously without seeing Star Wars? It was pure insanity. And it seemed like such a good idea, to embrace a bit of normal, considering all that was happening.
He sighed in relief, pinching the bridge of his nose. Exhaustion overwhelmed him for a moment, but he forced his eyes to stay open and glared back at the doll. She was extremely creepy in her Victorian-like dress and brown curls, her painted dead eyes watching him. He made a face and snatched her up, waving her at the dark parking lot.
"Very frickin' funny, you assholes," Stiles shouted.
Predictably, there was no reply. Stiles had almost hoped he'd hear some snickering, maybe from a certain set of murderous twins, some indication there were actual assholes who'd thought leaving a doll in his Jeep was amusing. And possibly to confirm the doll didn't crawl inside on her own, because, hello, this was Beacon Hills, where magic tree and reptile boy were becoming the norm by which all other crazy was measured.
"Really didn't need any more fuel for my nightmares," he whispered.
Something rattled inside the doll, and he glanced down to see a strange shadow in her hair. When he looked closer, he realized it was a hole the size of a dime.
He swallowed hard. "Well, that's subtle."
That familiar chill ran down his spine once more, and fear seized him. The one following him, the woman who wasn't real...This doll was hers. He wasn't sure where the thought came from but it was enough to leave his pulse racing. He fumbled for his cellphone and dropped the doll in his haste. Her head hit the pavement with a shatter, her ceramic bits fanning out around her dress like blood splatter.
The world was silent for just a moment before he heard the click of a heel on pavement.
"You killed her, you naughty boy."
He almost wasn't surprised that the voice had come from behind him.
The happy humming echoed off the walls, and though it wasn't very loud, Stiles wanted to cover his ears and block it out. Everything hurt, including his head, which had, at some point, bounced off his Jeep's hood. Not that the hit had been hard enough to knock him out. No, the fainting, that came afterward, when she bit his neck.
Stiles really wished he had less experience with being taken by crazy people, because he knew the odds of escaping yet again. And they weren't good. Granted, neither were the odds of actually being kidnapped by another crazy person, but he'd taken those on quickly enough. Not that Peter Hale probably counted their little drive as kidnapping, and Gerard Argent would probably have been offended by the term, since he liked to call beating the hell out of teenagers "making an example" or "leaving a message."
Assholes all around, in Stiles opinion. Maybe that made him an asshole magnet? He couldn't help the hysterical chuckle that burst out of his mouth like a cough. His whole body shook with hit it, and he kept shivering afterward. Maybe that was from the blood loss. He could still feel the shallow wound at his neck leaking down his shirt, even though she'd been nice enough to bandage it with a lacy handkerchief.
He tugged at the rope holding his hands behind the wooden chair, but the movement only seemed to make it tighter.
"So, you're a vampire?" Stiles asked, unable to stop himself. "That's just great. Just fantastic. Because I haven't been kidnapped by a vampire yet. Marking that off my bucket list now."
The humming came to sudden stop. "All those little puppies, bark your name, call you a Stiles, but that isn't your truth, is it, my sweet boy?"
"My real name is kind of a tongue twister, so, yeah, I'm Stiles. Which you probably know because you've been stalking me." He swallowed hard when he felt her standing behind him, her hands running up the sides of his arms to grip his shoulders. "What's..." He licked his lips, starting over. "What's your name? Or should I just mentally refer to you as Crazy Stalker Vampire?"
She leaned down, her long brown hair hair tickling his cheek. "I'll be your Dru," she whispered in his ear, as if it were a secret.
"Dru," he repeated. "Should I, uh, bother to ask what you want me for? Because if it's just a meal, there are much bigger people carrying around far more blood than me. I mean, I'm practically anemic, and all the onions and garlic I eat? I probably taste horrible. Do I taste horrible?"
Dru moved away from him, then danced into his line of sight, her invisible partner dipping her. "So sweet you rotted my teeth," she replied, possibly to the wall. "So sweet and broken and mine now."
Stiles frowned. "Of course. Because when a woman is actually interested in me, it happens to be a dead woman who's batshit and wants to eat me. Wonderful."
"None of that now," she scolded, pouting, but she smiled knowingly when she looked him in the eye. "You make such lovely sounds. They drew me here. I'd ran so far from mean old daddy, but when I heard your music, I had to dance again. The loveliest songs are sung by chaos."
"Yeah, there's really no arguing with that, is there?"
She came to a sudden stop, her small grin swept away, and she pointed a threatening finger at him. "Fox in the henhouse! Fox in the henhouse!" She let out a growl of delight and slapped him across the face. The blow left Stiles' vision spinning, but when it focused on her face, so close to his, her smile had returned. "Fox in the henhouse," she squealed, clapping her hands together. "Mummy's here to call you out. Here little fox, here little fox, the door is open and the box latch is broken, so time to play, my little fox..."
"Lady, I really don't know what you want from me, okay? Just, just tell me."
Stiles' heard his own voice trailing off. He suddenly forgot whatever he was trying to say when her eyes caught him.
"Be in my eyes. Be in me," she said, caressing the bruise at his cheek. "Be in me...Little fox? Oh, little fox? When is a door not a door?"
Stiles blinked, suddenly tired, so close to sleep he couldn't form words. He couldn't know that he was smiling darkly. And he was already asleep when I replied, cheerfully, "When it's ajar."