divine || emptier than the void pt. ii

- - - - - -

"I have a surprise for you," the sheriff said over dinner after an evening of awkward quietness. Stiles was back into his usual grumpy mood, and while the sheriff had wanted to give the surprise to him when he was a little happier, i.e. after he switched during a seizure, he supposed now was a good a time as any to start embracing this new normal.

"Is it a new brain?" Stiles asked quietly, and the sheriff set his fork down onto the table forcefully.

"No." He stood, taking his and Stiles' empty plates and putting them into the sink. Opening a kitchen drawer, he pulled out a pair of keys with a flourish.

Stiles felt his throat go dry. "You...fixed it?"

"Not me personally." His dad meandered towards the garage door and motioned for Stiles to join him. "It was, uh, gonna be a pretty expensive fix, and they said we'd be better off junking it. But the guys at the station and some faculty from your school had other ideas."

The sheriff opened the garage door with a smile, as if expecting a gratitude parade. But it was all Stiles could do to push down a whimper as the lights flicked on and he stared at the machine that had, in the midst of a freak wind of supernatural origin, slid off the road and into a tree, busting his head open and letting all these problems waltz in. The jeep that had always served as a reminder that he was nothing but the group chaperone, as a reminder that it was the last thing his mother had given to him. A reminder that she was dead.

He stared inside the window, at the seat where he had woken up alone in the middle of that ghostly parking lot, with no memories and no way to get home. Where the Nogitsune had pushed him into the fire.

Swallowing back a sudden bitterness, Stiles put one foot in front of the other and forced himself to step into the garage, shivering at the cold stone beneath his bare toes. He brushed a hand along the hood, which didn't look like the exact same shape that it used to be and was covered in primer. The grill, too, had been replaced, and the driver's side headlight was masked by duct tape.

"I know you can't drive it anymore," the sheriff said, making Stiles jump, "but I thought it would still be nice to take on a drive with you sometime."

"No," Stiles whispered, shaking his head and stepping away from the jeep. "No, I--I never wanna see this thing again."

"Well, pardon me for having so many dear friends pay tens of thousands for the damage." The sheriff tossed the keys angrily to the workshop counter. Stiles watched carefully as they slid across its surface and came to a stop next to a toolbox. "We could've bought a new car with that money, Stiles, do you understand? Maybe two."

"I don't care." Stiles rubbed at the goosebumps on his arms, trying to push past his dad and get into the warm house, but he blocked him.

"Stiles, I don't know where your attitude is coming from, and I know you're easily frustrated now or whatever, but I'd appreciate it if you showed some gratitude for once. This hasn't been easy for me, either."

Stiles glared at his dad, feeling irrational agitation well up inside him. "I'm jus' tired, okay? I was hoping I would never have to see that s--stupid jeep again. So, yes, thank you for wasting everyone's money. You can give it back, tell them it's a birthday present."

The sheriff's son had finally snapped him. "You know what, go to your room. If you're so tired, you must need some sleep. Now," he barked when Stiles hesitated. "I don't want to see you until the morning."

Stiles shoved past his dad and stormed up the stairs, not caring that his uneven gait was resounding through the entire house for his dad to feel guilty about, not caring as he accidentally knocked a picture frame off the wall in his desperate attempt to lock himself in his room.

He slammed the door with a bang that reverberated through his walls, knocking off one of the many post-it notes his dad had taped to his door. They were focal seizure triggers, and his dad had written them in big letters so Stiles could read them.

Breath shaking, he bent over to pick it up.

Stress.

He smelled the gasoline before he had the chance to suck in an actual breath of air. Despair welled up in his chest and he started to pace the room, swallowing and fluttering his eyelids, knowing that he was about to fall into another relapse. Another blackout, where a different person would be inside his head.

A void.

- - - - - -

Scott was roused in the middle of the night by his phone vibrating. Scrambling upright and blinking away the sleep from his eyes, he tried not to panic as he read the caller ID. Stiles, who hadn't called him since the accident. Only a curt text here and there.

"Hey, man, what's up?" he asked. All grogginess was drowned by panic as he heard nothing but ragged breathing on the other end. "Stiles, are you okay? What's happening? Are you having another seizure?"

"Scott?" Stiles' frightened voice whimpered. "Scott, I--I don't know where I am, I don't know how I got here. I--I think I was sleepwalking."

"Okay, um..." Scott swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Can you see anything? Just--just tell me what you see."

"It's dark, it's hard to see." Stiles let out a gasp of pain. "I'm in a parking lot. I think there's something wrong with my---"

With a definitive beep, the line disconnected. Startled, Scott brought the phone away from his head and stared at the caller ID that had been so familiar, so nostalgic. His best friend's innocently smiling face, taken a mere four months ago.

He tried to call him back multiple times, but it rang out until voice mail. Growing desperate, he began to pace the room. Unlocking his phone to try and call a fourth time, his heart leapt into his throat when Stiles' caller ID popped up. He didn't even give it the chance to vibrate before he answered it.

"Stiles---"

"Scott, I don't think I can get out of here," Stiles said, half-sobbing. "It smells s--so horrible, I can' breathe, 'n my eyes're watering... My--my leg is stuck on something."

Scott yanked at his hair and bit his lip. "Can you tell what it is?! Are you hurt?"

"It--it hurts, I..." His voice trailed off, and Scott heard his frightened, gasping breaths blow against the phone's speaker. "It's a tire."

"Oh my God." Scott's blood turned to ice. Without wasting another second, he started digging through his dresser drawer and pulling out warm clothes. He was going to have to go find him. "Are--are you okay?! Is it bleeding or broken or anything?"

"Don' think so," Stiles said, voice started to slur. "I--I wanna go home, Scott, I...please come find me. Don' tell m--my dad."

"Stiles, I can't make a promise like that! What if I can't find you? What if you're hurt or you have a seizure?"

"Y--you can find me, Scott... I know you can... Just...please..."

With a jerking moan, Stiles hung up, leaving the disconnect tone ringing in Scott's ears.