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He opens his eyes.
Nothing hurts. He's surprised at that. Something should hurt when you're dead, right?
Or...maybe not. Maybe this is Heaven where there's no pain and suffering, though, frankly he's never believed it existed.
Why it looks like an old-fashioned living room with a real fire burning in a stone fireplace and chintz covered, over-stuffed furniture, he has no clue.
He sits up and what looks to be a hand knit afghan--like his Nana used to make--falls to his lap from where it was covering him to the neck.
He fingers it. It's incredibly soft.
Just like Nana's.
He looks around, his quick eyes and quicker mind absorbing all the details of the room, and he notices immediately that there are no doors or windows. It's a box, about twelve by twelve, cozy.
A prison?
On a low table in front of the sofa he was laying on is a plate of cookies and a steaming mug of cocoa.
He's both thirsty and hungry, but should he be? Do the dead need sustenance?
Brains, his overactive imagination immediately goes to, and he snorts, then picks up a cookie. If they're poisoned, well how much more dead can he be?
They're oatmeal raisin, his favorite, just like his Great Aunt Arabella's.
Without even tasting it he knows the cocoa will have that hint of cinnamon just like his mom's.
Tears prickle his eyes.
Maybe...maybe there is a Heaven and he'll see them all, everyone he's lost, and his eternity will be spent eating cookies, drinking cocoa, cuddling beneath soft afghans.
That would be...
He nearly chokes on the cookie and the emotion, and tears slip down his cheeks.
He doesn't want to be dead, to leave his dad, his friends, his pack, but he's afraid it's too late, and he really wants to see his mom, to hold her and never let her go.
He never believed in an afterlife, but oh please let there be one.
"There is."
The voice startles him. High, sweet, feminine, cheerful, and he jerks his head up and there's a young woman standing there, hands in the back pockets of her low-slung black jeans as she rocks her feet in a pair of motorcycle boots. A large ankh hangs around her slender, white neck.
She's white, not just pale like him, and her eyes are black to match her hair.
Black and white. No shades of gray on her.
She smiles. "You're funny."
"I aim to please. Um..."
"It's nice to meet you, Stiles. That's what you prefer, right?" At his nod, she nods back in understanding. "My own names are many and strange, so I get that. You can call me Dee if you want to call me anything at all." She cocks her head slightly as she looks at him, and he feels a shiver he doesn't understand go through him. "You recognize me."
"Um, no?"
"Not who I am but what. Innately you know me. I've been hoping to meet you, just not so soon. You're one of the powerful ones."
"I'm a high school junior with ADHD, the inability to get a date, a mouth that won't shut up, and I'm pretty sure I'm dead."
Her smile widens and her eyes twinkle, actually twinkle. "You're not dead. Just, mostly dead."
He startles and stands up, the afghan falling to the floor. "What does that mean?"
"It means that you're too important to too many people to die yet, but you have to want to live to make it back."
A trembling hand goes to his chest as he remembers: Deucalion's claws piercing his heart and lungs. "I...I can't survive that."
"Sure you can. You're a wizard, Stiles." When he doesn't laugh because he's too busy being traumatized she rolls her eyes. "I mean it, kiddo. You're already healing yourself, but you need to want to go back."
"It'll hurt."
"Well, sure, but you're not ready for what's outside this room."
"Heaven?"
"I'm not allowed to say. I am allowed to bring certain, very important people, to this--let's call it a way station--and let them choose."
There's no choice. He's needed on Earth. Especially if she's not snowing him and he's a wizard.
He does chuckle at that. "Really? Harry Potter?"
"Even I get some spare time to read occasionally. Plus, Alan Rickman as Snape, with that voice..." She grins wider.
He has to agree with that. Some of his earliest fantasies revolved around that man's voice sneering at Harry and his friends. Probably why he gets turned on every time Derek grows at him.
Derek. The pack. The battle.
"I have to go back." Yeah, no choice at all.
She smiles softly and nods. Behind her an open door appears, only darkness beyond it. "We'll see each other again, Stiles, but not for many, many years. Let that spark inside you turn into a constant flame and become."
Become what?"
"What you were meant to be."
"Crypticism. Great," he drawls. "You know a guy named Deaton?"
"I know everyone." Turning, she beckons to the door. "Your family needs you." Somehow he knows she's referring to the pack and the battle that's probably still going on.
On trembling legs he walks towards the door. As he passes her, he knows her.
Morana. Thana. Valdis. Mara. So many others names, in every language, human and non.
Without looking back Stiles passes through the doorway.
Pain overwhelms him and he draws in a shuddering breath. Forcing open heavy eyelids he see's Derek crouched over him, panic on his face, his hands dripping with blood.
"Fuck, that hurts."
At his groan, Derek gives a start, then grins, actually grins.
Stiles snorts and lets the magic inside him he doesn't understand knit the holes in his body and flood him with adrenaline.
So...not dead yet.
End