hypercompetent | IC INBOX

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Yo, this is Stiles. I'm out saving the world or something, so leave me a message and I'll get back to you.
text > voicemail > email > whatever!

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[ The dam just breaks, and Stiles suddenly feels like he's eight years old again, and they're telling him his mom might not know his name anymore--he almost trembles with the force of trying not to cry until she pulls him in.

And that's the end of that--his arms circle around her immediately and Stiles buries his face in her collar, even if he has to lean halfway over to do it, letting the panic and the sadness and the fear pour out of him all at once, because he was terrified, because he saw what happened to her, he saw what happened to Derek, saw Tom advance on him with that pickaxe before he could even dodge out of the way. He wanted Scott, he wanted his dad, he wanted--

Stiles sucks in a breath that heaves, his shoulders twitching forward as whatever he was going to say comes out in a half choked sob, and he manages to blubber out an "I'm sorry", because he doesn't even know what he's sorry for, but he doesn't even know where to start. ]

[ mary margaret just leans up into the hug, up on the balls of her feet so he doesn't have to lean over too much when he buries his face in her collar. she feels him shake, can assume he's crying, and she just closes her eyes. rubs the back of his neck as she tightens her arm around him. she's probably muttering soothing words, strings of things that don't really mean anything other than trying to soothe him in some way. she feels that horrible tightness in her own chest at how much pain he's feeling, at what he must have seen, gone through. she knows there's nothing that she can do to fix it, but god, it almost makes her cry thinking he would try and deal with this alone.

and then he heaves, and she catches some sort of i'm sorry and she stops, her brow furrowing a little as she pulls away from him. the moment that he's untangled from her, she's got her hands on his cheeks, making him face her. mary margaret almost looks offended, but when she's finally got his eyes it all melts away. ]

Stiles. [ her thumbs rub over his cheeks, wipe off the tears that have started falling. she tries to smile a little for him, but it comes out a little pained. she just wants to help him, help soothe that agony, pain, loneliness she sees there. ] Don't you ever apologize to me for something like this. Ever. Alright?

[ mary margaret has small hands, but stiles moves with her like he's made of soft wax, lifting his head and trying to swallow back the tears he'd just been crying into her shoulder a few seconds ago. it's mostly futile, considering, and he sniffles, nodding his head into her hands until his eyes crinkle and he keeps nodding, trying to keep the rising stem of panic back.

it wouldn't be the first time he had a panic attack in front of someone new, sort of, and it's a little scary that he's already willing to let go so easily in front of her. maybe it's because of the way she moves, the way she speaks, the way she smiles, because stiles misses his mother so badly sometimes that it aches, and mary margaret has already--from day one--started to help stitch that open wound up again. ] Okay.

[ his voice comes out hoarse, and he repeats it again, okay, okay, hands coming up halfway to reach for his face to wipe his tears but stopping near her wrists instead, like he doesn't quite want to pull away.

stiles wheezes out a breath and hiccups--he was so goddamn terrified, when he saw her, let alone when derek came just a few days after, and the relief and agony mixed together was almost too much to handle. he'd cry himself dry right here in the doorway if he had to, with the relief that everyone was okay, with the panic that they almost weren't. ]

[ there's something incredibly fragile in the way children look at you after crying. mary margaret found it out herself as a teacher, but she's noticed it more and more the more adults she finds. it's that needing, that wanting to be needed, to have someone to tell them it will be okay, that there's hope. the power in hope never ceases to amaze her, from storybooks to a simple text asking stiles to come over. to come see her. mary margaret is still a bit shaky herself, finds that there are moments where she'll just zone out, relieve those awful moments, come back to find tears on her cheeks and her hands shaking.

but there's something in her gut, in her chest, that can pick her back up. that can stand here and look at stiles, sees his eyes watcher and his shoulders slouch and she just wipes his cheeks. waits for him to respond. and when he does, she gives him that little smile of hers before she leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead. it's incredibly intimate, judging from how she has only known stiles while they've both been here, a place that apparently doesn't exist, but she doesn't care. it's that same gut feeling that's making her do this, that has her lips pressed to his forehead for perhaps a moment or two longer than necessary, before she pulls back to find his eyes again. ]

Okay. [ and she pauses, tries to figure out if she wants to move them into her room or to just wrap her arms around him again, but after that pause the first idea wins out and with one last swipe over his cheeks she drops her hands from them, slides her hands into his (albeit larger ones) and tugs him back through her door. and just like she guided him before, she guides him now, sitting him down on her bed while she goes to gather the mugs she'd already put together of hot chocolate, grabs her blanket from the chair in the corner, and sets it all down on the bedside table next to where he's sitting. wraps the blanket around his shoulders, tight, before setting her hands on his shoulders again.

the process is done almost automatically, like there's that part of her that needs to do it so she does without much thought. it's just one step then another and then there are two mugs of hot chocolate on the bedside table and stiles has a blanket over his shoulders and he's sitting down, she's standing up, which is the only real reason when she wraps her arms around him again, she can actually cradle his head against her chest. kissing the top of his head. ] It's okay. Everything okay.

[ he shouldn't be upset, he should be helping mary margaret. mary margaret doesn't live this kind of life, doesn't see dead bodies on a daily. (doesn't actively seek them out, which was what got stiles started in this whole damn mess.) she died too, and that was the kind of personal, horrific blow that stiles was sure he was going to have nightmares about for a long, long time. it had felt too much like losing his mom again, minus the hospital beds and plus the blood, and he can still recall the image if he shuts his eyes for too long--although which image might just be the question.

he takes in a tiny, shuddering breathe when her lips connect with his forehead, feeling for all the world like a little kid again. his mom forgot him: stiles never got the chance to say goodbye, because she was already lost. the last forehead kiss he had came from melissa mccall, and she was a great surrogate mother, had done so, so much for stiles--hell, for the stilinskis--but this was different, this was the fact that they'd only been here in the same area for maybe a couple of months, and mary maragaret started to feel like home. it makes something inflate in his chest that makes it hard to breathe, and he doesn't speak when she brushes his cheeks, takes his hands. stiles just nods, sniffling and following her directions, letting her move him around in the way that he doesn't feel like he can.

he should have been there, he should have helped her. should have helped derek, allison, lydia. instead, he went with his stupid brain and followed his stupid intentions to his own death, too. that feeling of being futile resonates so bone deep in his ribcage that he can feel it when he breathes, the heavy weight of a panic attack just ready to knock him swinging.

he gives her a face that could only really be described as lost when she sets the cocoa in his hands again, searching her face for a "why are you doing this" or a "why did you let me die" or all the things his mom (and erica and boyd and deputy tara and his dad disappearing with the darach) says when he dreams at night. but nothing comes and he leans forward into her chest like he pulls. eventually, strong arms come up to wrap around her stomach, too, so he can hold on tight and try to stem the panic in the smell of familiar perfume and the warm arms of a woman who'd come to mean entirely too much to him since her arrival here in wonderland. he gets it now, why emma speaks about mary margaret with such fondness, because she really is one of the best people he's ever known.

finally, he speaks up again, voice soft and watery but there. ] It's okay--it's, it's okay for you, too.

[ that's all he can really offer, some feeble message of care and reassurance. she told him not to apologize, but that's all he wants to do. ]

[ mary margaret can't even find herself thinking back on that. with stiles in the room, there's another part of her that takes over. that has her leading him back to her bed and sitting him down. that has her fixing the cocoa and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. it's the part of her she doesn't really understand, that need to fix and heal. it's mothering, she can understand it as mothering, but the fact she can't remember ever having a mother or ever having a child or any real, solid proof of this is how you do it, this is what you're supposed to do, how would she know? it's just an instinct, something that takes over the moment she needs it to - whether it's a student in class or a child in wonderland or even emma, when she's looking at mary margaret like there's nothing left.

the look on stiles' face has that feeling in high gear, and has everything else pushed away. the conversation they'd been having before he even got here had her shaking, had her battling that tightness in her chest, that burning on her hands, in her feet. when she closes her eyes she both tries to remember and tries to ignore what happened, and she can't organize her thoughts enough to know why. to know how. she tries to compartmentalize, tries to push it aside and keep going and make it feel like she can be herself, that she can get up in the morning and smile and live her day like any other. but emma's eyes still follow her, henry still comes and spends more time with her than she's sure he really wants to, and mary margaret knows its because she's not quite there. but with stiles? with stiles she can move, she can think, because she has a need to help that takes precedence over all else. she sees his eyes and she hurts, hurts more than she had since that day, maybe even more than that physical pain, because he shouldn't have to do this. he should have to deal with this.

his eyes are lost and she holds back that breaking in her ribs, the fact that all she wants to do, all she can do, is to give him this space. this time. she needs him here because she needs to see she's helping, needs to see she can still help at all. he needs her here because he needs someone, someone who accepts, someone who cares. someone who loves. there's a fleeting thought of his parents, what his mother must be like, but then it's gone again because she's pulling him to her chest and his arms lift up and around her stomach. she lets her fingers run through the hair on the back and top of his head, her other arm wrapped around his neck, the hand settling on his shoulders. she just wants to be that pressure for him, that warmth he can lean on. there's nothing he needs to say, to do, because honestly mary margaret would be perfectly content just to stand there for a good while and hold him.

but then she hears his voice, vibrating a bit from her chest. it's soft, quiet, but she picks up on it well enough. it's okay--it's, it's okay for you, too and her breath hitches a little, almost like a laugh. she's smiling, not that he can see, and hopes that he can't tell that she's also not entirely solid. that there's the slightest tremor to her hands. he says it's okay and she wants to believe him, recognizes how she's been muttering the exact same thing to him, and her eyes close. ]

We're both okay. Nothing can happen here. [ she's not going to make him answer her, not going to make him mutter out that same okay she'd requested from him just a few minutes before. but her hold does tighten around him just a little, pulling him a little closer as if that will convince him.

convince her.

because for all she doesn't like wonderland, before now it has been alright. before now, she's been able to adapt, to manage. things change, events happen, and she and henry and emma have been able to survive it all. but then there'd been this, there'd been mary margaret waking up to that phantom pain on the backs of her hands, and to emma running at her with wet eyes. a tight hug. she hadn't seen stiles and derek, too lost in her own selfish grief to see, but that network post by derek was all she really needed.

she hates it.

if this is what comes of this place, if this is what happens to the people she cares about here, she'll hate it. hate everything about it. she'll fight what she needs to fight and change what she needs to change just so she can keep this from happening to stiles, or henry, or emma, or anyone else ever again. ]

Stiles. [ she mutters it into his hair, combing it back with her fingers. ] You're safe for now.

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