Drag Me Down Quick (So they don't notice)

Everything Hasn't Gone to Shit Quite Yet

      Much later that night, Stiles disentangled himself slowly from a sleeping Lydia's grasp, dodging Liam and Mason's sleeping forms on the floor and creeping as silently as he could towards the hallway. 

       The day had been spent in conversation, pizza ordered and then Chinese, everyone catching up on the latest and Stiles skillfully dodging questions about what exactly he had been doing for the past two years, as well as managing to force down enough food that no one was concerned. When the clock had struck ten o'clock, Noah and Melissa had opted to go home, but the rest of the pack had stayed (minus Peter, who had slipped out at some point, thank God) and eventually ended up sprawled in various positions around the living room, all of them apparently forgetting that they all had rooms in the loft. 

       Stiles hadn't been able to sleep, hence why he was now slowly opening the door to the room that the pack had set aside for him, and slipping inside. 

       The bed was comfortable and Stiles sank down into it, hugging the giant R2-D2 body pillow to his chest. It smelled like Derek. Stiles' nose scrunched. That was wrong. He sniffed again. Definitely Derek. He slid down a little and smelled the sheets. Derek.

       So Derek slept in his room. That was.... Creepy? Weird? Endearing? Stiles didn't even know. He hugged the pillow closer, breathing in anyways. (And if that didn't mean he was just as creepy...)

       The loft felt different than his house, but there was mountain ash in the walls that Stiles could feel, and he could sense the pack in the other room, asleep. Derek was having a nightmare. Stiles didn't know how he could tell, but he could. There was something else too, just at the edge of Stiles' mind; not threatening, just there. It was calming, knowing where his pack was, that they were all together and safe.

       His eyes slid shut. He could sleep like this, he thought. His mind sunk below the edge of consciousness into darkness- so much darkness. There were things in the darkness, just at the edge of his vision. He couldn't make them out, and every time he turned to try there was a white hot lash of pain across his back, his sides, his legs. He was on his knees, choking as they ripped the skin from his body-

      Stiles jerked awake. Okay, so sleeping wasn't an option. He took several deep breaths.

      Then inhaled sharply. The door was opening. He sat up, hugging the pillow to him. It was Allison. She slid through the door and shut it quietly behind herself. Hesitantly she sat at the foot of the bed, about as far away as she could get. 

      Stiles stared at her, and she stared back. "You okay?" Stiles finally whispered. 

      She smiled a little, a quick thing, fragile. "I was gonna ask you the same thing."

      He shrugged. "Yeah, just weird, you know?" 

      She sat further on the bed, leaning against the wall. "I'm not going to beat around the bush. I died, didn't I."

      Stiles froze. "I-" 

      She held up a hand. "Don't try lying, okay? It makes sense. You didn't want to talk about who died, you can barely look me in the eye, Scott gave me a really long hug at the airport, and the next thing I really remember after that night at Camp Oak Creek is four months later in France, right before we got the call that you were- that you had- that they'd found your body."

      Stiles swallowed. "You weren't supposed to notice. There were supposed to be memories- or something-"

       Allison cut him off. "There were memories, foggy ones of leaving, getting on the plane with Isaac and my dad. But when I really thought about them, something was missing. And my dad and Isaac were really sad sometimes, randomly, and none of us knew why."