Broken Dreams & Silent Screams
Title: Broken Dreams & Silent Screams.
Author: fate_incomplete
Rating: M
Warnings: Angst, mention of panic and possible PTSD
Spoilers: Vague spoilers for Series 3B
Characters/Pairings: Stiles Stilinksi, Derek Hale (could be seen as either pre-slash or friendship)
Word Count: 1,100
Summary: The Nogitsune is gone but the terror is still with him. Stiles hates the nightmares, hates his weakness. He hates that almost everyone thinks he will break beyond fixing. So there is only one person he calls when he wakes choking on screams.
A/N: Title from Bones by Mr Mrs
......................
Cold eyes. Sharp fingers digging into flesh. Laughter always mocking, and that voice...laying down words that slithered and goaded their way inside, feeding self loathing and despair.
A chill slid down his spine, the thin material of his t-shirt clinging to clammy skin. He pressed his back to the wall, sliding down it on unsteady legs as remnants of dream came back, tattered fragments full of pain and terror, not truly aware he had woken till he hit the floor.
Stiles forced down panic as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, breath ragged, and his throat dry and hurting from the strain of screams he wouldn't let loose. His thoughts a jumbled mess as sleep clung to him even as his blood pounded with adrenaline and every muscle twitched with the flight or fight instinct. It took a full minute for him to realise he was in his room, slumped on the floor next to his bed with only the wall holding him up, nightmares having woken him yet again.
His knuckles were white, hands clenched into fists for so long his fingers ached, yet he still felt the slight tremor in them. The feeling of something crawling under his skin, itching, burning like at any moment the skin would split open and some unknown horror would claw its way out. The sensation started in his fingers and twined its way up his arms, twisted its way through the fibres of his muscles and leeched the warmth from him.
It felt like everything was spinning out of control.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking. If he could just stop them, if he could just control this one thing.
He unclenched his fists, laid his hands out flat on the floor by his sides, drawing his knees up and resting his head on them. He pushed his fingers harder into the floor, feeling the slight roughness of the carpet against his finger tips.
"It's gone...It's gone," he whispered to himself over and over again.
He knew the words were true, but that didn't seem to matter. He couldn't stop the cold spread of fear that crept over him, that had woken him, screams that wouldn't quite tear loose from his lips leaving him panting silently. He closed his eyes; it was just a dream, a normal dream.
"It's gone."
He could still remember the feel of the Nogitsune inside him. He remembered everything, its need for chaos, its hunger, desire for it. The way it had relished in bringing pain. Its cunning, twisting truths and half felt desires, making a fantasy of reality.
What if he hadn't just woken from a dream? What if killing the Nogitsune was the dream?
His breath hitched in his throat, terror clinging to him, suffocating him.
No, it's gone...Wasn't it?
Stiles' chest hurt, logic wavering against primal terror, till it felt like fingers were crawling down his throat and strangling him from the inside out. He knew he couldn't give in, let the fear take him. He forced himself to take a breath. Let it out slowly, shakily, then took another, and another. It wasn't enough, he needed... needed something more, something real and solid he could trust.
Stiles wiped his hands on the old sweat pants he had been sleeping in, before reaching up to his desk, fingers groping for the phone he knew he had put there before he went to bed. He stared numbly at the phone once he had it, fingers still cramped, shaking. His dad was down the hall, he could just call out, or he could call Scott. Stiles knew he wouldn't do either. He didn't want their worry, didn't want to hear the stress in their voices, the concern that he was falling apart.
He fumbled, fingers uncooperative still as he hit the number that had somehow found its way to the top of his speed dial.
A groggy voice answered after three rings. "Stiles?"
"It's gone...isn't it?" He asked quietly, the words little more than a broken whisper.
"Yes, it's gone. It's dead. Stiles you're ok, this isn't a dream."
"Are you sure...Derek are you sure?"
"I'm certain," Derek answered without hesitation, without the fear Stiles saw in his father or his friends all the time now.
The fear that if they weren't gentle Stiles would break and never be put back together right again.
Stiles didn't know why there was only one person he would let see how fragile the stitching holding him together really was. How somehow Derek made him feel like the damage didn't matter, that he could make himself whole out of the pieces, even if he didn't look the same when he was done. That maybe the new design would be stronger.
"Stiles?" Derek asked after a minute or so of silence.
"Ok...Thanks."
Stiles hung up, hating that he had needed to call in the first place. That he still woke up after a month not sure what was real and what wasn't. He wrapped his fingers around his phone, resting his head against his cold hands, feeling the solid plastic against his skin, grounding him. He let out a breath, feeling a faint edge of control seep back in.
His finger stopped shaking, at least for a little while.
Fifteen minutes later he woke to the feel of gentle hands on his shoulders. Stiles didn't need the faint light coming through his window to recognise Derek, wasn't at all surprised to see him, this was hardly the first time nightmares had woken him, nor that he had called Derek before anyone else.
Stiles let Derek help him to his feet and stumble into bed. Derek pulled the desk chair closer to the bed, tugging the blanket so it covered more of Stiles, his hand hesitating a moment before staying, fingers pressing gently into Stiles' upper arm.
"M'sorry," Stiles mumbled.
"Shut up and get some sleep, idiot," Derek replied, the faux harshness of the words draped in something that felt a lot like fondness.
Someday he would pull the pieces of himself together into something new, and Derek wouldn't care if the edges were a little rough and mismatched. That thought gave Stiles something to trust in, to wrap around himself to hold off the nightmares for the rest of the night. His skin felt warm where Derek's' fingers rested, driving out the cold clawing sensation beneath his skin and replacing it with something else that Stiles didn't know how to define, so he didn't try. He closed his eyes, content to just accept the comfort of it as he drifted into sleep, knowing Derek would stay.
......................
Author: fate_incomplete
Rating: M
Warnings: Angst, mention of panic and possible PTSD
Spoilers: Vague spoilers for Series 3B
Characters/Pairings: Stiles Stilinksi, Derek Hale (could be seen as either pre-slash or friendship)
Word Count: 1,100
Summary: The Nogitsune is gone but the terror is still with him. Stiles hates the nightmares, hates his weakness. He hates that almost everyone thinks he will break beyond fixing. So there is only one person he calls when he wakes choking on screams.
A/N: Title from Bones by Mr Mrs
......................
Cold eyes. Sharp fingers digging into flesh. Laughter always mocking, and that voice...laying down words that slithered and goaded their way inside, feeding self loathing and despair.
A chill slid down his spine, the thin material of his t-shirt clinging to clammy skin. He pressed his back to the wall, sliding down it on unsteady legs as remnants of dream came back, tattered fragments full of pain and terror, not truly aware he had woken till he hit the floor.
Stiles forced down panic as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, breath ragged, and his throat dry and hurting from the strain of screams he wouldn't let loose. His thoughts a jumbled mess as sleep clung to him even as his blood pounded with adrenaline and every muscle twitched with the flight or fight instinct. It took a full minute for him to realise he was in his room, slumped on the floor next to his bed with only the wall holding him up, nightmares having woken him yet again.
His knuckles were white, hands clenched into fists for so long his fingers ached, yet he still felt the slight tremor in them. The feeling of something crawling under his skin, itching, burning like at any moment the skin would split open and some unknown horror would claw its way out. The sensation started in his fingers and twined its way up his arms, twisted its way through the fibres of his muscles and leeched the warmth from him.
It felt like everything was spinning out of control.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking. If he could just stop them, if he could just control this one thing.
He unclenched his fists, laid his hands out flat on the floor by his sides, drawing his knees up and resting his head on them. He pushed his fingers harder into the floor, feeling the slight roughness of the carpet against his finger tips.
"It's gone...It's gone," he whispered to himself over and over again.
He knew the words were true, but that didn't seem to matter. He couldn't stop the cold spread of fear that crept over him, that had woken him, screams that wouldn't quite tear loose from his lips leaving him panting silently. He closed his eyes; it was just a dream, a normal dream.
"It's gone."
He could still remember the feel of the Nogitsune inside him. He remembered everything, its need for chaos, its hunger, desire for it. The way it had relished in bringing pain. Its cunning, twisting truths and half felt desires, making a fantasy of reality.
What if he hadn't just woken from a dream? What if killing the Nogitsune was the dream?
His breath hitched in his throat, terror clinging to him, suffocating him.
No, it's gone...Wasn't it?
Stiles' chest hurt, logic wavering against primal terror, till it felt like fingers were crawling down his throat and strangling him from the inside out. He knew he couldn't give in, let the fear take him. He forced himself to take a breath. Let it out slowly, shakily, then took another, and another. It wasn't enough, he needed... needed something more, something real and solid he could trust.
Stiles wiped his hands on the old sweat pants he had been sleeping in, before reaching up to his desk, fingers groping for the phone he knew he had put there before he went to bed. He stared numbly at the phone once he had it, fingers still cramped, shaking. His dad was down the hall, he could just call out, or he could call Scott. Stiles knew he wouldn't do either. He didn't want their worry, didn't want to hear the stress in their voices, the concern that he was falling apart.
He fumbled, fingers uncooperative still as he hit the number that had somehow found its way to the top of his speed dial.
A groggy voice answered after three rings. "Stiles?"
"It's gone...isn't it?" He asked quietly, the words little more than a broken whisper.
"Yes, it's gone. It's dead. Stiles you're ok, this isn't a dream."
"Are you sure...Derek are you sure?"
"I'm certain," Derek answered without hesitation, without the fear Stiles saw in his father or his friends all the time now.
The fear that if they weren't gentle Stiles would break and never be put back together right again.
Stiles didn't know why there was only one person he would let see how fragile the stitching holding him together really was. How somehow Derek made him feel like the damage didn't matter, that he could make himself whole out of the pieces, even if he didn't look the same when he was done. That maybe the new design would be stronger.
"Stiles?" Derek asked after a minute or so of silence.
"Ok...Thanks."
Stiles hung up, hating that he had needed to call in the first place. That he still woke up after a month not sure what was real and what wasn't. He wrapped his fingers around his phone, resting his head against his cold hands, feeling the solid plastic against his skin, grounding him. He let out a breath, feeling a faint edge of control seep back in.
His finger stopped shaking, at least for a little while.
Fifteen minutes later he woke to the feel of gentle hands on his shoulders. Stiles didn't need the faint light coming through his window to recognise Derek, wasn't at all surprised to see him, this was hardly the first time nightmares had woken him, nor that he had called Derek before anyone else.
Stiles let Derek help him to his feet and stumble into bed. Derek pulled the desk chair closer to the bed, tugging the blanket so it covered more of Stiles, his hand hesitating a moment before staying, fingers pressing gently into Stiles' upper arm.
"M'sorry," Stiles mumbled.
"Shut up and get some sleep, idiot," Derek replied, the faux harshness of the words draped in something that felt a lot like fondness.
Someday he would pull the pieces of himself together into something new, and Derek wouldn't care if the edges were a little rough and mismatched. That thought gave Stiles something to trust in, to wrap around himself to hold off the nightmares for the rest of the night. His skin felt warm where Derek's' fingers rested, driving out the cold clawing sensation beneath his skin and replacing it with something else that Stiles didn't know how to define, so he didn't try. He closed his eyes, content to just accept the comfort of it as he drifted into sleep, knowing Derek would stay.
......................