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After the Foxes Have Known Our Taste

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After the Foxes Have Known Our Taste

Stiles bolted up from his bed and dashed into his bathroom. His knees hit the tiled floor with a solid thunk just before he started to vomit up everything from the small bit of dinner he managed to choke down for his dad to what felt like vital internal organs making their escape.
A part of his brain trying desperately to distract himself until he could get control again wondered if there was such a thing as nightmare induced bulimia. Considering this was the fourth time in two weeks he has woken up to bow to the porcelain gods, it might be worth looking into.
When he finally had nothing left to give up, he slowly crawled up the sink; clinging to it until he could stand on his own. Rinsing out his mouth and washing his face, Stiles couldn't help catching his reflection in the mirror above. He looked like shit. He could literally see the toll everything was taking on himself. From the lines starting to carve themselves into his skin from worrying about freaking everyone, to the dark circles bruising his eyes to constantly remind him that there was never enough hours in the day for any of it, to the wild hollow look in his eye proving that he still isn't sure he actually was awake. He hated it.
Tonight's horrific dream was still echoing in his head and making it impossible to stop the trembling in his limbs. Its not like he didn't expect them. With everything that has happened since Scott was bitten, he would be worried if he didn't have nightmares. Most of them were almost comfortingly familiar at this point. Its not like he had lied to Danny when he had said that he knew he was a terrible person; so all of the visions of blood, death, violence, and general mayhem had become oddly soothing. Like proof that he was not yet so jaded that going after the latest big bad with the intent to kill them didn't shake him up despite his sociopathic tendencies. Yet this one would never fail to send him racing to throw up anything he had eaten in the last month. Give him dreams of fire and blood any day of the week. Those would just have him jerking awake and unable to go back to sleep. Hell, he would even take memories pushing the sword into Scott, or the Nogitsune whispering in his ear all night.
He griped the sink until his knuckles were white in an effort not to just smash his fist into his reflection as it stared damningly back at him. A part of him really wanted to to see if the resulting crash would drown out the voice ringing in his ears, but he couldn't bring himself to give his dad one more thing to worry about him. It was bad enough with the helpless looks being thrown his way or how he was being treated like something fragile.
Stiles took a deep breath to push back the nausea still churning in his gut and to gather enough strength to make it back to his room. He padded softly back to bed and huddled in the corner against the headboard. His hands buried themselves in his hair as he whimpered as her voice floated in his mind to haunt him again.
"Its okay, Stiles. It wasn't your fault. I forgive you."
He couldn't help but whisper back brokenly, " Oh God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Allison."
Why did the dreams of forgiveness always hurt so much than the ones of pain and accusations?