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"You haven't found him yet!?" Derek's voice was loud enough to carry through the large metal door to his flat, the tone of worry and anger causing Stiles' lips to quirk upwards a bit. His voice was getting louder, or closer, and the door slid open just as his hand was raised to knock.
For a moment, the two merely stared at each other.
"I'll call you back, Isaac," the former alpha said, hanging up without waiting for the reply. "Where the hell have you been?"
"I- I'm sorry," he stuttered out, Stiles' eyes trying and failing to meet Derek's, arms wrapped around his midsection. He had changed clothes since leaving Eichen House again, since the nogitsune had taken the Oni and used them to kill Stiles' friend. "I didn't know where to go, I didn't know what to do. I- I just... I can't, Derek. I just can't."
He started sobbing then, quietly and gently at first, but it quickly turned into shaking and hiccuping. Derek awkwardly wrapped an arm around him and Stiles' face was immediately buried in the werewolf's shirt.
"It'll be okay, Stiles," Derek said, gently guiding him into the room, the door sliding shut behind him. "It'll be okay."
"Will it?" he demanded, Stiles' voice muffled from the shirt it was spoken into. "Will it? It was my hands. My hands that hurt, that killed... It was my fault! Blood on my hands! I close my eyes and all that I see is everything I caused!"
"It wasn't you." Derek's voice was stern as he pried Stiles' head up, forcing the teenager to look him in the eyes. "It wasn't you. It was the nogitsune, not you."
"Is that what you tell yourself?"
The words had Derek freezing, had him staring down at the teen in silence for a single, long moment.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, with Paige and... And Kate, and the fire. Is that what you tell yourself? Is that what I'm supposed to tell myself?" Stiles' voice was fragile, a thin sheet of glass that could be shattered by a single wrong answer. "That it wasn't my fault, even though it was? That I didn't cause all of this to happen, even though I did?"
"But it isn't, and you didn't."
"Actually." The change on Stiles' face was immediate. The smile that warped it was cold and sharp, nearly as sharp as the knife that slid its way into Derek's chest. Too distracted was he by the distressed teen, he hadn't even smelled the wolfsbane until it was too late. "I did."
"Stiles?" Derek's voice was weak, trembling. The knife pressed up farther, twisted, and he could feel ice following the warm flow of blood down his front.
"Nope. Guess again, Sourwolf." The nogitsune grinned, taking pleasure in the pained expression on the man's face as he twisted the knife just so. "Everyone has it, no one can lose it. And he didn't lose me. But oh, everyone's about to lose him."
He used his free hand to cradle Derek's head, bent in close to whisper sweetly into his ear.
"Do you hear her? Lydia isn't screaming for you. Oh no, no one's gonna wail for you." He shifted the both of them, moved to look directly into Derek's eyes, to watch as the light faded out of them. "And just between you and me? You were, perhaps, the worst alpha ever."
The nogitsune let him go, watched as he flopped backwards to sprawl weakly on the floor.
And all the while, across town, Lydia screamed.
The wind was tearing at his clothes, at his hair, at his courage. The pavement below him was a long way down, and Stiles felt dizzy every time he looked down at it. Mere floors below him was where Allison lived. Past tense. It was where she had eaten, done her homework, argued with her father. It was where she had slept each night and woken up each morning.
Except that she wasn't ever going to wake up again.
Even if it wasn't entirely his fault, he still bore at least some of the guilt and blame on his shoulders. It was his demon that had done it, his shadow. Blame by association, then, if not directly blood on his hands. It wasn't like they weren't dripping with it now, anyways.
His phone was clutched in his hand, pressed loosely to his ear. Scott was yelling at him, demanding to be told where he was and what was that noise, was that the wind? Lydia was in the background, frantically telling someone (Scott? The sheriff?) to hurry up and drive faster. She knew what was coming, Stiles could hear it in her voice.
In the distance, closing in on him, he could see his father's flashing lights.
"Stiles, whatever it is you're going to do, don't," Scott said. He was begging, really, fear gripping the words and shaking them as they passed his lips. They must have known where he was, or at least followed Lydia's supernatural compass, as the sheriff's jeep pulled into the parking lot just below him. He watched the three of them jump out, his father and Lydia and Scott. "Stiles, no."
"I have to, Scotty boy," he said, fighting the vertigo as he looked down on the people he considered family, on the ones he loved so very much. "I mean, there's a chance that this'll kill it. He is me and I am he and we are all together, y'know. Goo goo gachoo and all that?"
His father wasn't with them anymore, he wasn't sure when that had happened. He had a good idea where he had gone, though.
"We'll think of another way, just... Don't. Please."
"Think of another way? When? After someone else gets killed because of me? Allison is dead, Scott!"
"I know!" his friend, his brother, shouted back. "I know she is. And I can't lose you either, Stiles. Please."
"But I can't stand by while this thing kills everyone I care about! This can stop it, it has to."
"Please Stiles, please, just-"
Just what, Stiles didn't hear. He hung up, cutting off Scott's pleas, and dropped the phone by his feet. The wind was more persistent after he clamored onto the wall that lined the edge of the building's roof. The vertigo sent terror down his spine, sent his survival instinct into overdrive, but he closed his eyes and saw all the people that were hurt or dead because of him.
No more.
The roof top door opened behind him just as he stepped out into the air. A hand tried to grab him, finger tips just missing, the effort only serving to twist him around as he fell. He met his father's eyes, watched his heart break through them, and almost wanted to take it all back right then.
But Stiles was falling, the wind filling his ears, and gravity welcoming him down like the arms of his mother so long ago. He could hear Lydia's screams, the wailing of a banshee, and he could see his father's hand stretched out uselessly.
And when he hit the ground, all he saw was black.