#and stiles is SomethingTM

[the-cookie-of-doom]

POSSESSION

n. 1. The state of having, owning, or controlling something.

Stiles climbed out onto the roof where Mitch was sitting, looking out at the stars. For the first time since Stiles had met him, he looked peaceful. He got the impression that peace wasn't something Mitch saw a lot of, in his line of work.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," Mitch told him, not turning around. Stiles shrugged even though he knew Mitch wouldn't see. At this point, he wasn't surprised that Mitch knew he was there, no matter how quiet he was being.

"Not tired yet."

"Try closing your eyes."

"In a few minutes." Stiles careful climbed down to sit beside Mitch, warily eyeing the edge. He'd never been particularly graceful, and if ever there was a time for him to fall and break his neck, with his luck it would be now. Casting a glance at Mitch, he saw that the exorcist didn't appear to care about the height. Of course he didn't; he'd seen much scarier things than a fifteen foot drop onto soft grass.

"This doesn't work if you don't go to sleep."

"I will, just…" Stiles chewed his bottom lip. He knew what the truth was, that he was afraid, but he didn't want to say that. Not to Mitch, who was never afraid of anything, never even surprised. "Just not yet."

"I don't like it when people waste my time, Stiles."

"I know, I'm sorry, I'm not trying to."

"Then stop lying to me." Mitch finally turned to face Stiles. His features were mostly cast in shadows, backlit by the light down the street. Not that it would make a difference; Stiles could never get a read on him. Mitch was closed off, better at hiding his emotions than anyone else Stiles had ever met. It made him feel at a disadvantage; Mitch never had any trouble reading him like an open book, even if they were strangers.

"I don't know what's going to happen after I go to sleep," Stiles said after a while, Mitch watching him in impassive silence, waiting.

"You're worried you'll hurt someone." The teen nodded, looking down. "I won't let you." Stiles laughed humorlessly, pulling his knees up to his chest. Mitch made it sound so simple, when it was anything but.

"Will you kill me?"

"Do you want me to?"

"It's rude to answer a question with a question."

"You're evading."

Stiles thought he might have seen the shadow of a smile out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn't be sure. Probably just a trick of the light, since Mitch had never actually smiled around him. He wondered what his smile looked like. He wondered if he would ever get to see it.

"I'm losing time. It started with just a few minutes here and there, and then hours at a time. Now it's full nights. And when I wake up, I'm dirty, but I have no idea where I've gone, and I think… I think I might be hurting people. No one believes me when I try to tell them, not even my dad." Stiles took a deep breath, hugging his legs tighter. He could feel Mitch's eyes on him, heavy and scrutinizing, simultaneously making him want to hide and bare everything. "I don't want to keep living like this. Even if I'm not the one killing people, there's still something wrong with me, and if even you don't know what it is, what hope do I have?"

"I don't know everything. If I can't help you, then someone else can."

"Or maybe no one can." Stiles rubbed harshly at his eyes when he felt them stinging, wetness spilling over. "I just—It feels like God must hate me, or something. It's like I'm cursed. Either I'm insane, or I'm possessed, or it's some as-yet-unheard-of problem, and I just—I can't deal with it. And if this is just some divine plan or whatever—" Mitch scoffed, cutting him off. Stiles' attention snapped up to him.

"God doesn't care about you. He's a kid with an ant-farm and a magnifying glass. Those unfortunate enough to make him want to take a closer look just get burned."

"How can you say that, knowing what you know?"

"I can say it because of what I know."

"Then why did you become an exorcist?" Mitch wasn't looking at him anymore, face tilted up towards the stars. After a minute passed, Stiles thought he wasn't going to answer. He was almost surprised when Mitch finally did.

"This is my penance for the life I took."

It was on the tip of Stiles' tongue to ask what that meant. Then Mitch took out a pack of cigarettes and held one to his lips. When he flicked his lighter to life, Stiles saw the gruesome scar running down his wrist, silvery-white in the light, and he knew there was undoubtedly a match to it on his other arm.

The flame died a second later, once again casting them in darkness with nothing but the stars and moon for light. Stiles felt like he'd briefly glimpsed a sliver of Mitch's soul.

Mitch didn't tell him to go inside again, letting Stiles stay out on the roof with him. Maybe because he knew what Stiles was going through; the constant self-doubt about what was real and what wasn't, the feeling that God had condemned him. The crushing loneliness. Maybe, just for tonight, Mitch had decided he didn't want to be alone anymore either, finding a kindred spirit in Stiles.

After Mitch put his lighter away, his body language changed. If not quite welcoming, it was at least open, leaning back on his arms with his long legs stretched out in front of him. Stiles hesitated, still bound up tight with the way he was sitting, but gradually he relaxed as well. Slowly he moved closer to Mitch, waiting to be pushed away like always, but the rejection never came. Mitch just rhythmically tapped his cigarette on the asphalt shingle, like a metronome. Stiles wondered if it was a nervous habit, and almost immediately cast that thought aside; he was the last thing in the world that would make Mitch nervous.

Stiles watched his nimble fingers move, Mitch's arm not quite around Stiles' waist, but close enough that it would only take a small movement to put it there. Stiles wished he would.

As Stiles watched the cigarette slowly turn to ash, burned away to nothing, Mitch would occasionally bring it to his lips for a deep drag. Each time Stiles would lean a little closer. Each time Mitch would let him.

"Can I have one?" Stiles asked when Mitch put out the cigarette a while later, expecting him to reach for another.

"No."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

Stiles turned so that he could better see Mitch, carefully pitched forward on his hands and knees to keep from falling, the position all but putting him in the exorcist's lap. Whatever question he had died on the tip of his tongue, or maybe it was just an excuse. Permission for something he didn't realize he was going to do until he met Mitch's dark eyes.

When he kissed Mitch he could taste the bitter nicotine on his tongue, sharp and unpleasant. But he didn't care because Mitch kissed him back, pulling him closer with a hand curled around the back of his neck, and it was everything Stiles has been dreaming of ever since Mitch pinned him up against the door with his hand around Stiles' throat that first night. Mitch kissed him breathless, until Stiles' lips were swollen and tingly, and he gave a soft whine of disappointment Mitch broke it.

"You should go to bed," he whispered, lips brushing Stiles' like he didn't want to pull away either.

"I don't want to."

"Stiles."

"Come with me," Stiles quietly pleaded. "I don't want to sleep alone." He knew there were seventeen reasons why this was a bad idea, but he couldn't help but want. And he knew Mitch wanted it too, could feel it in the way he kissed, like he was holding himself back. For a moment, it seemed like Mitch would go with him. Then he took Stiles by the shoulder and shoved him away.

"No," Mitch decided, his tone harsh, final.  "Either you leave or I will."

Stiles reeled back as if he had been slapped. He didn't expect such a cold rejection, especially after that kiss, and it stung. More than he would like to admit, sudden tears stinging his eyes from the humiliation.

Not wanting to show how much Mitch cut him, Stiles pulled away and stalked back to his window, climbing through and slamming it close hard enough to make the glass rattle.

 -

Mitch swore, closing his eyes against the emotional whiplash he was picking up on from Stiles, the closed window doing nothing to serve as a barrier against his projections. Usually Mitch was able to block him out, a skill that had been hard earned, but he was starting to get a migraine.

He'd never seen anything like Stiles before; he wasn't a half-breed, or any kind of psychic, and yet his will was strong enough to get through years' worth of defenses Mitch had built up in an effort to not hear the thoughts of everyone around him. Or maybe he was just distracted by the kiss, by his desire. It had been a long time since he'd wanted someone as much as he wanted Stiles. But the last thing he needed was a teenager panting after him like a puppy, especially when said teenager's father was the local sheriff.

Bruising the kid's pride now and showing him that Mitch was not the kind of person he wanted was in both of their best interests. But even as Mitch tried to convince himself of that, Gabriel's words came to him, haunting. 

There is nothing you have ever done for someone else that wasn't first and foremost self-serving. You can dress it up however you like, but you're a selfish prick through and through, and that is why you will never buy your way into heaven.

In his room, the humiliation and longing and loneliness and a dozen other emotions were pouring off of Stiles like poison, and Mitch cursed because he knew what he was going to do as soon as he saw the tears gathering in Stiles’ eyes.

"Fuck me," he said, bitter, and got up. His soul was damned anyway, right?

-

Stiles sat up in bed when he heard the window slide open, the wood grating against itself in protest. A second later Mitch was climbing through like a spider, all black-clad long limbs and grace. He hadn’t expected Mitch to come after him, and he felt cornered, hiding in his bed with blotchy-red cheeks. He felt like a stupid kid after a temper-tantrum compared to the cool and confident exorcist. 

“What do you want?” he asked, proud that he managed to keep his voice steady. It was probably pointless; Mitch could read him like a book before, and that was without Stiles wearing his emotions on his face. 

That was the question, wasn’t it? What did he want. To save his soul, mostly. To not have to spend eternity in hell for the mistake he made when he was fifteen and saw no other way out. To deport as many demons as he could. To get the hell out of this shitty little town that had a way of getting under his skin. 

But none of that mattered to him now. He didn’t want to leave Beacon Hills if it meant leaving Stiles, and the furthest thing from his mind was saving his soul, when all he could think of was ways to damn it further. 

When Stiles got out of bed and cautiously approached, Mitch gave him the raw, unadulterated, sinful truth. 

“You. I want you.”