Six Feet Under | Sterek

nine;

He's such a colossal screw up.

He wanders up and down streets with his skin stretched too thin over his bones and an keening whistle replacing any coherent thought in his head. He's drunk, of course he is, but he feels itchy as well - itchy in a place he can't reach. He's itchy under his strained skin.

His blunt nails scratch at his arms, and it feels like nothing. He doesn't even register it. People give him looks when they pass him, whisper about the Sheriff's boy and youth today. Old ladies shake their heads, teenagers just keep their head down and keep walking because Stiles isn't the only one who is self-destructive. They're all bombs, building and building before imposing and wiping themselves out.

Just because he can, he grins at the grandmothers, and delights in their wide eyes and horrified looks as they scuttle away like the useless, spindly old spiders that they are. He feels like a monster, all sharp teeth and horrible, jagged feelings. Maybe he is the monster. (Maybe someone will kill him now)

So he wanders, and he scares away the onlookers, and he nods to the other teenage monsters, and he still feels that stupid fucking itch. 

All too soon, he feels blood on his fingers because he's scratched through his skin. It doesn't sting, but people stare at him like it's supposed to. He has an instinctual, unexplainable urge to shout at them that he doesn't want to be like this, he doesn't! But he says nothing and eventually the people move on.

He keeps walking, and he keeps searching for that itch, and he doesn't find it by the time he's walking in the hospital, so he tolls down his hoodie sleeves. (He's getting blood everywhere, and he knows Peter, Scott and Derek will all tear into him about it, so he decides to get the wound cleaned up.)

"Hey," he rasps to the receptionist, who looks up at him and then frowns. "Is Melissa in?"

The receptionist nods, and gives him a friendly smile. It's strained, but it's nice and Stiles feels his skin loosen a little bit. "She's in the break room, Stiles."

Stiles thanks the woman, Lindsey, and walks through to the back, where he finds the familiar face of Melissa McCall. She doesn't notice him immediately, too busy fiddling with the coffee machine. He watches her for a moment, because she seems too tense, too unhappy and Stiles wonders if it's his fault.

"Hey Mama McCall," he says quietly.

She jumps slightly, and Stiles winces, but when her eyes meet his, she visibly relaxes. Some of that tension slides away. "Stiles," she breathes and that itch under his skin settles. "Hey honey, how are you?"

Honey. Stiles smiles stupidly, because he's missed that nickname. He's missed a lot about Melissa, and now he's here and she's here and everything feels right for the first time in a long time. "I'm okay."

Melissa frowns slightly, but hugs him anyway. "I somehow doubt that, but I'll let it slide." He holds her as tightly as he dares, inhaling the lavender smell of her hair. It smells like home, like love. She draws back and cups his face with a soft hand. (He almost starts crying again because he's been so cold and lonely.) "Your dad told me about the fight."

"Which one?" Stiles says bitterly, because there've been too many fights between him and his dad, and now there's a chasm widening between them. Soon, one of them was going to fall in. 

Melissa sighs softly, pulling him into another hug. "I'm just glad you're safe."

Guilt stabs him, sharp and horrible and ugly, and Stiles takes a very shaky breath. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, closing his eyes.

Melissa coos gently. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

But there is. There's so much to be sorry for, but Stiles can't bring himself to admit them right now. Right now, he just wants to go home with Melissa, and let his mom take care of him. (Melissa is his mother, and he's known it all along.)

But first....

He pulls up his sleeves, revealing his bloody torn arm. Melissa gasps. "There was an itch," Stiles explains, even though he knows she won't understand. "I don't want it to be infected."

"Oh Stiles," she breathes and her hands are shaking as she tries to wipe some of the blood away. Stiles says nothing more, and so Melissa says nothing either and just cleans the wound and binds it tightly. She hands him some pills, with the instructions printed on the label, and then grabs her coat and bag, and steers Stiles out the front door and into her car.

He tries to protest, what about her shift, but Melissa has none of it and tells him to be quiet or she's calling his father. Stiles goes silent after that. It makes Melissa sad.

"Scott's home," she says when they pull up in front of the familiar house, and Stiles's heart almost explodes in fright. He hasn't seen Scott for a while, hasn't dared to face him. "Just thought I should warn you."

He says nothing.

It feels like an eternity before they get to the front door, and when they open it, Stiles suddenly has an armful of werewolf as Scott grabs onto his and squeezes. Stiles wheezes slightly, but then hugs back twice as hard because Scott smells good, and he's warm and Stiles is cold, and Stiles had been so worried that he'd lost his best friend.

Scott's veins flare black. "You're hurting," he says, pulling away. Stiles misses the contact immediately. Scott has been the only one to touch him without hesitancy, and now he's hesitating and Stiles is cold. He's so cold. (He wants a hug.)

"Yeah buddy," he says hoarsely, and looks away. "I'm hurting a little bit."

Scott lets go and steps back, examining him from top to bottom. He sees the bandages and frowns, but then shakes his head and puts his hand directly over Stiles's hert. His veins flare black again, but this time Scott doesn't pull away. "Stiles," he says oh so softly. "Stiles, this is more than a little bit. You're hurting."

"Yeah," Stiles says again, and he focuses on the little black rivers under Scott's tanned skin.

Scott lets out a breath, and his hands move from Stiles's chest to cup his neck, and Stiles chokes on something that might be a sob at the affection in Scott's eyes, (affection that's mixed with sorrow and guilt). "You're my brother," Scott vows lowly, and he leans forward and touches his forehead to Stiles's. "I love you, man. Okay? I love you, and I miss you."

"I haven't gone anyway," Stiles whispers.

"Yeah you have," Scott says. "You've gone somewhere I can't follow and I need you to come back now."