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It gets to him sometimes.

It’s not just the werewolf thing or the Scott thing or the Allison thing or the Jackson thing or the Lydia thing or the Derek thing or his dad or his—his mom. It’s everything. Every bit of everything. And, it’s just so weird because it’s like everyone fits in this in some way—even Lydia—and then, there’s just him, just Stiles, caught in the shitstorm without an umbrella. And the shit piles. He doesn’t talk about it often, this powerlessness, but that’s because he doesn’t feel it often. But, sometimes, it just gets to him, tears at him.

That’s why when It—not it but the real big IT—gets to him, he doesn’t think twice before giving in. I mean, he’s buried under this awful, dark, smelly pile of dog shit. He just grateful for the shovel, you know? Some way to get back to the surface. It promises him that, offers it with a crooked grin and a black, bony hand that Stiles can only see in his mind’s eye.

“I’ve got you,” It coos, casting an empty, empty stare down on him. “S’long as you’ve got me.”

Stiles doesn’t think. He just nods, shakes Its hand—Its fingers don’t have claws, they are claws—and says yes. Yes yes yes yes.

Because, on paper, it seems like a solid deal. Stiles gets control for the most part, but whenever he’s faced with something that, you know, he shouldn’t—(can’t)—deal with, It will take over for him, take care of it. All in exchange for a bit of room and board. Everyone wins. Stiles wins for once.

It sounds good on paper and it’s not too shabby in-action. Sure, the mornings still get to him. Stiles just can’t adapt to the fact that he’s not alone anymore, that he’s got another voice talking in the back of his mind that doesn’t sound like his own. It’s not bad, per se, just weird. Besides, how can it be bad when the first thing It says when he opens his eyes is, “Morning, sunshine.” (Of course Stiles had to get the cute demon. Not that he’s complaining. Better than, you know, the murder-y kind.)

There’s also the issue of privacy, or the lack of it. Stiles is no voyeur, so having someone comment on his ass when he steps out the shower, pulls his jeans on, especially from some ethereal hell creature is just not on. And, yeah, jacking off? Almost out of the question. Almost. When he does break and do it—because he can’t not, he honestly can’t—It always promises, swears to the heavens, or hell, whatever, that It tunes it out. That It’s not there.

But, then It mentions something about how he might exaggerate Lydia’s dominating personality a bit (a bit being to dominatrix levels) or point out that, you know, Danny wouldn’t give him the time of day let alone take it up the ass for him, and Stiles knows that It’s a lying little cunt.

Besides that stuff, though, the pluses are greater than the minuses. As far as demon-things go, It is not that bad of a companion. Days pass and this strange sort of . . . friendship forms between the two of them. He doesn’t complain when Stiles rambles on and on in his head about nothing and though It doesn’t laugh at his jokes, not really, It still laughs when he tells them, thick chuckles Stiles feels in his throat, hears in his head. It also doesn’t mind when Stiles pesters it with questions about life, death, the in-between.

It tells him, straight-up, that he can’t contact his mom. It does mention, though, it’s because she’s not wherever It is—was—and that saves Stiles a few sleepless nights.

What’s best, though, is the way It stands up for him, makes him more assertive than he is. Like, when Scott decides to blow him off for to flounce with Allison again. Sure, Stiles has it in him to tell Scott that he’s pissed, but It elaborates, presses that, you know, Scott? You’re being a dick friend, you really are. Seriously, who’s been on your side since the very beginning, since ever?

It’s so strange to hear the words leave his mouth, to look in the mirror and see him but not him, and, at first, Stiles thinks that he’s being too harsh. But, then, on the other end of the call, Scott . . . apologizes. Apologizes and, the next thing Stiles knows, they’ve scheduled a night just for them, the two of them and Simon Pegg movies.

It smiles with Stiles’ teeth. “How was that, kid? Have I earned my place in this hunk of meat, yet?”

“And then some,” Stiles breathes.

The demon laughs amiably and Stiles can’t ignore the warmth that spreads in his chest.

It knows him. It knows him, because, in a way, It is him, and it’s so deliciously narcissistic this—this—this whatever that’s growing inside him. And, there is something, something scary and awful and terrible and though he swallows it down, stuffs it away somewhere, he knows the demon knows. It knows that there’s a growing ache here, but says, does, nothing.

As time passes, though, It gets progressively fouler to the others. It, the spirit, demon, whatever, is able to be nasty, to—to say things, these awful things, that pop into Stiles’ head sometimes, but has never thought to say. It’s not nice, maybe not even fair, but at first it feels . . .

It’s just so good, you know? To be able tell Derek that, you know what? He’s not his fucking psychiatrist; he’s not here to be his verbal/physical punching bag. And, Jackson? He can shove that attitude right up his pretty, orphan ass, because at least Stiles isn’t some cock-sucking lizard puppet.

It is nasty. It is a nasty, cruel, petty fucking creature and the things it says to his friends should horrify Stiles. And, it does, it tortures him. The guilt keeps him up at night, but It stays up, too, holds him close and whispers, “But, that’s what you wanted to say, wasn’t it? I thought that’s what you wanted.” There’s something small in that layered voice, something childish that forces Stiles to assure that, no, It did fine, did what Stiles wanted It to, even when Stiles knows that this is a fucking demon he’s dealing with, not a five-year-old.

Still, this is wrong. Bad wrong.

The demon disagrees. It points out that Derek hasn’t knocked him around lately (hasn’t even looked at him), that Jackson hasn’t bothered him (can’t even be in the same room as him); isn’t it everything he wanted? And, it is, and it’s not, and—fuck—he’s just back in that mound of shit again, isn’t he? This shit, though, is his own, his own fault.

You’re the one who called me, you know,” the demon points out gently and the scariest part of it all is the fact that it’s probably true.

He wants to stop this—this thing, this mistake—but there’s still that pull deep in his chest, that ache that won’t leave him alone. As much as he needs to get rid of It, he can’t help but to need it as well. It becomes a weight on him, the demon, the darkness. It drags down his shoulders, his spine, and makes movement difficult, impossible. He shuffles, but gets nowhere. Scott though, stays by his side, matches his pace, and for a moment he doesn’t understand why, why he stays when It starts barking about him, his mom, his dad. It doesn’t understand.

Then, he meets his eyes. And, Stiles understands.

Heh. Who would’ve thought he’d be saved by the power of friendship? Not the demon, that’s for sure.

Surprisingly, there are no bitter feelings. Stiles just says, “Out,” and It just shrugs with his shoulders and says, “Whatever. I was getting bored of this meatsack anyway.” (Really, there has to be a better word for his body.) He expects to, you know, feel when It leaves, to feel some sort of pull or something. But, no, he just watches the black drain from the sclera of his eye in the mirror and It’s . . . gone.

 He knows he shouldn’t be hurt that It didn’t say goodbye, but it doesn’t help the fact that he is. He’s relieved that the demon’s gone, sure. It leaves an empty, lonely hole in his chest, though.

And, it’s not like all his problems are solved. Though Derek has seemed to accept his apology, especially with the whole ‘possessed’ thing, he’s still . . . sore? No, that’s not the word. He’s still hesitant around Stiles, that’s for sure, like the demon will just pop out from him any second. He’s still better than Jackson who still hasn’t spoken a word to him. The guilt stifles Stiles, chokes him, and he never thought that he’d miss Jackson’s glares, his insults. The other teen doesn’t even acknowledge his existence anymore.

Oh, wow, he’s really, really, really, hurt him, hasn’t he?

Maybe he wasn’t powerless at all, not that it matters now. He just might have fucked up things beyond recognition.

“You’ll make it right,” Scott assures him with utter seriousness. “I know you will.”

Stiles glances at Jackson’s back and frowns. I’m not sure about that. “Why aren’t you angry at me? Wasn’t I kind of a dick to you?”

A shrug. “I just knew it wasn’t you. You’d never say those things.”

No, no, of course he wouldn’t. He thinks them sometimes, however. Stiles wonders if Scott knows about that. It kills him to think that maybe that demon—It—knew more about him than his best friend does. More than anyone, even himself. And, though he tries to move on with his life, the idea haunts him. The one person—thing—entity—in this world that—that—

He lies awake nights, wondering (never asking, never) if he will ever meet It again.