It was the end of his shift, almost midnight, when Chris heard the call over the scanner for a suicide attempt in progress. The code itself sounded more dramatic than it was, for all they knew a driver had spotted a drunk kid on the abandoned bridge and assumed the worst, it wouldn't be the first time, and as concerned as everyone sounded when they called in these kinds of code, they never stuck around to see if the person was okay.
It was fine. It was on his way home. He'd swing by, talk the boy into climbing back over, like he has a handful of people before until he called it a night.
He never expected it to be anything more than that.
There’s not much reason to talk. Sometimes, if he’s quiet enough he thinks his dad forgets him. If he’s quiet enough, and he hopes, Dad will walk right by. Those are good days.
"So this is what Stiles does. He lies in Scott’s bed and waits for Melissa to say she’s found someone to get it out of him, to cure him of the wrongness and the bad, and he dreams.
God, he dreams.
He dreams of fire and swollen bellies and that scene in Alien, of giving birth to jackals through his urethra, the whole horrific nine yards. His head is a terrible place to be, he can’t imagine his stomach is much better, why anyone would want to put a thing inside of it."
