Clairvoyant || Stilinski [1]

Twenty-Two || Wake Up Call

|| Wake Up Call

The hospital room containing patient 327 was nicely festive. A small christmas tree sat among old photographs on the window ledge and flowers from various people were spread around the room.

Patient 327, one with an impossible name to spell and even more to pronounce, was in a deep sleep. Drifting, you could say. With conciousness escaped, the shell of a boy who'd battled and befriended monsters was bruised and battered, but healing slowly.

A Christmas tune flicked on down the hall, faintly dripping into the room nearly void of sound. The only thing clearer was the humming and whirring of the machines around 327.

That, and a door shutting softly.

Jacy hesitantly approached, the screams she so typically heard calmed by the Santa Claus jingle. Her eyes should have gone to the boy in the hospital bed, but she couldn't look at him.

Stiles Stilinski; a hero, not a side kick

Jacy kept quiet, something she was good at. Her fingertips toyed with each other, her feet carrying her closer.

He'd done so much to Jacy in only a couple of weeks, and in truth, he'd never left this bed. He had never spoken a word nor opened his eyes, but his time with Jacy was so very real.

This town was a funny place. Funny, but so cruel.

Jacy drew the chair close to the side of Stiles' bed and softly sat down.

Not all batles are fought standing up, it seems.

Jacy studied Stiles like art; the bruise webbings on his body and how his eyelashes barely graced his cheeks.

He looked peaceful, but in the same way, he looked dead.

"Jordan said it's only a trigger." Jacy started feebily, taking Stiles' hand in her own rather carefully. "Something special that can do it to you." It was just Stiles she was talking to - the one battling death inside his body. "I guess by now I should have some clue to what yours is, but I don't. Hell, I didn't even know mine."

"So you were like me once."

Jacy jumped in her place, the voice startling her. She looked over her shoulder, finding a boy in plaid leaning on the back wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

Rather than being mad, Stiles only sounded interested. "The accident McCall talked about."

Jacy nodded lightly, "Two years ago."

"When you started seeing ghosts." He stayed where he was, well aware he could strongly feel her holding his hand across the room.

"In my family, a person has two triggers. One is how they get into their drifting state, and the other is how they get out of it." Jacy hadn't made a move to let go of the fragile hand. "You have to go through both to essentially unlock the power we harbor in our blood."

"What was your first trigger?" His hand, the near translucent one he had control over, felt warm.

"I was drowned - something I loved turned on me. State championships in the final relay." She smiled a little sadly, "My goggles froze over and seared into my skin. When I tried to surface and take them off, I was held underwater by a spirit. It kept pulling me down. It didn't let go until I stopped fighting and I died."

"Swimming. That's your sport." Stiles took the look she gave him and corrected himself. "Was your sport."

"Made captain freshman year." Jacy found herself looking at Stiles' hand in hers. "I, uh, lost it when I wasn't fit to swim. I never swam after that until Lydia's."