Chapter Text
On a Sunday, he finds himself sitting on the porch swing his dad put up last month, gazing out into the demurred neighborhood in the warm August night. The heel of his shoe pushes on the ground, providing momentum for his swing to leisurely move back and forth. His eyes stray up into the night sky, enraptured by the infinite stars as if he could begin to count them. The street is harmoniously quiet, only the chirps of crickets along with the occasional car driving by to break the silence.
He breathes in slowly, taking this rare moment to savor the relief that all seems right in the world. He just started his junior year and the most he's concerned with is wondering if he should buzz his head again as he runs his fingers through his longer snd often unruly strands. The pack is doing well, no threats appearing out of the woodwork for over the past 3 months after dealing with the Kanima situation. It feels good to not have to worry, to be able to exist without looking over one's shoulder. Mostly everyone made it out unscathed and stronger.
So in these few and far between moments, he likes to just breathe in the peace.
His dad took off a few minutes ago, headed down to the station to fill out some last minute reports. They had enjoyed a nice dinner, had smiled more often than not over random conversations. That’s another thing that’s been going good, his relationship with his dad. Time may not heal all wounds, but the truth can. He told him everything, with Derek and Scott’s help, and luckily his dad had seemed to accept it after a few days. The tight hug he has received that day had nearly made his eyes tear up. His dad’s overprotective streak has increased, but there’s no more tension between them anymore. It feels like a weighted load isn’t crushing his ribs anymore when he talks to his dad these days. It’s nice to be able to not have to lie to him.
Stiles breathes in the night air once more, letting his eyes flutter drowsily at the warmth like he's sated and drunk before gradually standing up. He decides to turn in early, feeling like his bed is calling his name. And who is he to deny his wonderful bed, given y when he has to head back to school tomorrow after this lazy weekend? He ducks inside the house and ambles his way up to his room, toeing out of his shoes and stripping down to his boxers and a worn faded t-shirt.
He climbs into bed and is almost ready to shut down his brain for the night, before his phone laying forgotten on the nightstand catches his eye. He picks it up and sees he has two missed texts from Scott that were sent about an hour ago.
Hey do you know if we’re gonna have that math test on Friday or did Mr. Dumune move it to Tuesday? Cause if so, I’m so screwed. Help me study!
Stiles? Dude1! Do you know?!! C’mon man!
A math test. He huffs out a laugh at how mundane their problems seem these days compared to the past year. He types out a quick reply,
Sorry! Left my phone in my room while I was eating with my dad. And don’t worry bro, the test is on Friday and I'll help ya study!
Plus we all know it’s a ploy. ;) just can’t resist me can ya buddy?
He smiles, knowing full well Scott will feel relief before getting flustered and annoyed at his replies. He powers down his phone and puts it on the nightstand, turning his lamp off and snuggling into the covers of his bed. The moonlight shines through his window, dimly lighting the dark bedroom and casting shapeless shadows over the wall. He lays on his back with one arm lay bent above his head, eyes blinking slowly, sluggishly fighting off sleep until he can barely stay awake.
He’s just about ready to close his eyes for the final time when he feels tingles covering his throat, almost to the point of tickling before a hand grabs him harshly by the throat and yanks him down into the darkness.
He’s choking, hands clawing uselessly as he struggles against the force wrapped around his neck. He cannot see anything, only a murky black nothingness in front of him before suddenly water surrounds him, the feeling of suffocation growing stronger each second. He thinks he’s in the ocean, the dark waters whipping him back and forth till he’s so disoriented he can’t tell which way is up. The hands is still tight around his throat, digging into the tender skin and crushing his larynx as wave after wave crashes down around him, making getting air impossible.
He’s realizes he's about to meet his end by drowning, before the grip around his throat disappears. A sharp pain shoots up his spine before he forces his eyes open and sees that the water is clearer and chlorine is making his eyes sting. He hastily swims towards the top, bursting through the surface of the water as he sputters with relief. He grabs onto the rocky ledge and pulls himself half way out, choking and coughing up water as oxygen tries to get back into his poor lungs.
Once he can finally breathe without sounding like he's about to croak, he survey the room and realizes that he’s in the school pool, not a soul in sight. If he weren’t still trying to concentrate on breathing properly, he would probably be consumed by a panic attack.
How the heck did end up here?!
Bracing his hands on the ledge, he pulls himself fully out of the water to sit on the edge, rubbing the water out of his eyes and face. He looks down to see he is wearing the same boxers and t-shirt combo he wore to bed, now both soaking wet.
“This is a dream. This all a dream.” He reasons, swallowing down the panic. “Time to wake up Stiles. C’mon.” He slaps his face a few timed and stops as it starts to sting. He even tries the trick of pinching himself, but he thinks that the only thing that gave him was a bruise.
This is real. Holy shit, this is real. He’s sitting beside the school pool at night and he has no freaking clue how he got here. His body gives a full fledged shiver, the wet clothing not helping.
He stands up and wanders towards the guy’s locker room, ignoring the slap of his bare feet. He luckily finds fresh towels they keep for athletes, wrapping the dry item around his shoulders. He checks his own locker and a little hope for more comfort slips away when he realizes he took his extra pair of clothes home on Friday. Guess this towel will have to make do.
Heading to the door leading into the school, Stiles finds it locked, making his nerves and agitation grow. He then tries the one going outside and thankfully it opens as he slips outside and into the parking lot near the field. The only lights on are a few of the floodlights on the empty field. He looks towards the parking lot and sees no car at all, making him curse a loud “shit” and pat around his clothing. No car, no cellphone, and no one around to help him. Did he sleep walk all the way here?
He sighs heavily before begrudgingly starting the long trek home. It gives plenty of him time to think about what the fuck is going on, tightening the towel around his shoulders as he mentally creates a list in his head of what he knows at this very moment.
List of things I, Stiles Stilinksi, know at this very moment:
- I went to bed around 11 pm, safe and sound in my warm, oh so very warm and comfy bed.
- I was about to fall asleep when I felt like I was strangled and then maybe passed out and woke up in the school’s pool, which was just lovely. *sarcasm fully intended*
- I have no idea how I got into the school’s pool nor even into the school since I obviously didn’t drive here and have to walk the shit journey back home barefoot on this gravel road.
4. I don’t have my phone which- excuse my language dad-fucking sucks.
- I’ve never sleepwalked before so I guess my body decided now was a good time to start? Whoop de doo!
- I’m gonna write a strongly worded letter to the school, because if somehow I can break in that easily then their security system obviously sucks, but anonymously of course because I definitely don’t need breaking and entering on my transcript.
- Man, I’m so tired. I feel like I'm about to fall asleep right on the side of the road, which note to self, would be a horrible idea.
- This midnight excursion is either gonna lead to me catching hypothermia or some flesh eating foot disease before I get home. Both seem plausible at the moment.
He runs out of things for his list and instead breaths and bitches through the pain when he occasionally steps on a rock or something sharp. Man, this sucks!
After what seems like an hour, but he’s gonna guess its closer to about 40 minutes, he finally sees his home and that damned porch swing. His dad’s cruiser is in the driveway, and he knows immediately he’s in deep shit. But small mercies, all the lights in the house are turned off, no sign of distress showing in the Stilinski house.
He walks up onto the porch soundlessly and tries the front door handle, only to find it locked. He backs a few steps to see if his window is open, only to find it closed. How the heck did he supposedly sleep walk out of the locked up house? He shivers again and decides to just forget worrying for the moment and picks up a potted plant near the swing, swiping the key hidden underneath there. He unlocks the door, tiptoeing inside as quietly as possible, then locks the front door behind him. He heads up the stairs, maneuvering each step gently as to not step on a creaking spot and wake his dad.
At the top of the stairs on the second floor, Stiles finds his dad’s door is closed, his muffled snoring coming from behind it. He turns and heads to his room, seeing his own door closed for some reason. He’s pretty sure he left it open before he went to bed, but maybe he closed it some time during the night? His dad usually checks on him, especially after the whole introductions into the supernatural world and the danger that comes along with it that his son had been frequently putting himself into. He can only guess the reports took him long into the night and he came home to see his son’s door closed, guessing him to be sleeping soundlessly behind it.
He breaths an inaudible sigh of relief, because the last thing Stiles wants to do is scare the crap out of his dad again by going missing or something. Supernatural stuff may be on the down low, but stuff down at the police station still works his dad to the bone. He deserves a goodnight sleep when he comes home.
He forgoes his room and heads into the bathroom to take a warm shower, ready to get rid of the pebbled goose bumps on his skin and the dirt off his feet. He shuts the door quietly and turns on the shower all the way to hot, letting the steam filling the space start to warm him up. As the room begins to fog, he can only decide mentally that if this is a sleepwalking problem or the beginning of night terrors, it needs to be put to an end and fast. If he can end up almost drowning in the school pool, there’s no telling where he might end up next.
He’s tosses aside the towel and is about to strip down when he notices his reflection in the slowly fogging mirror. His damp hair sticks to his forehead as do the clothes to his body, but that’s not what stops him. It’s something else that makes him feel shaken, sending a prickle of fear up his spine.
Because in his reflection, wrapped around his neck, are bruises in the shape of fingers.