(please read part i first :)
Stiles is acting strange after waking up from the coma, even when he gets his memories back. Sometimes he's a completely different person: aggressive, distant, and cold. Others, he's back to his old self. Once the pack n...
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"Stiles." Scott gave his best friend a gentle shake, but his glazed eyes stared blankly past him. The lightning marks were clearly still visible on the back of his neck, though they had faded slightly after the seizure he had just had.
"He's still poisoned." Lydia walked over and knelt next to him, rubbing her wrists after Isaac busted her out of the handcuffs. The sheriff joined her a second later.
"So..." Scott released his tight grip on the boy, sitting back on his heels. "So he's not anyone right now?"
"Well, he's Stiles right now," Kira said, giving Stiles' head a prod. He didn't even blink at the movement. Scott would have thought he was dead, if not for the faint thump of a heartbeat. "And Stiles was poisoned."
Dread grew in the pit of Scott's stomach, faster than the Adderall overdose had been absorbed into Stiles' system. They were back to where they started, square one, with a comatose Stiles.
Things can't get much worse.
"I think I know who we should call," Lydia said.
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Things could get worse, Scott determined as Peter marched across the floor of Derek's loft several minutes later, looming over Stiles and wrinkling his nose. They'd moved him to Derek's bed, careful not to trigger him again. Although with all the Adderall they had given him, they knew it was only a matter of minutes.
Peter crossed his arms across his buff chest after a brief examination. "He doesn't look like he'd survive a slap across the face," he said flatly, "much less the bite of a werewolf."
"You don't think it would work?" Scott asked, and Peter clicked his tongue.
"This is more a war of the mind than the body." He drew himself up to his full height. "There are better methods to winning this battle."
Derek moved in front of Stiles' unresponsive body as if to shield him from his seasonally evil uncle. "What kind of methods?" he demanded. Without missing a beat, Peter grabbed Scott's arm and yanked it forwards, pressing his thumb in a certain spot on his wrist to make his claws slide out.
"We're going to get into his head. Root around for pale and sickly evil Stiles to find pale and sickly real Stiles."
"You'd better hurry, then!" Lydia stood up quickly from where she had been kneeling next to Stiles. Who was, as Scott was horrified to realize, starting to seize. And not just his face and a shoulder or two; a full body convulsion. He coughed and groaned, white foam that smelled like the drug bubbling up out of the corners of his mouth.
Maybe we gave him too much Adderall.
"Quickly," Peter said, urgency in his voice. Scott took up position beside the bed, claws held hesitantly towards Stiles' neck that was twitching too much to get a clear shot. Guilt stabbed him through the chest at each of Stiles' muted, frothy vocalizations wrenched from his throat.
