Hello, first story in English on this fandom... I already published it but there were a lot of mistakes and I took my time to add stuff and things there and there... So this is an edited version of Him.

Rated T, because of the swear words and the angst, drama, and everything. But I didn't forget to humour things a little, because I fricking love humour.

Ships: Hints of Scira? Hints of Sterek? Hints of Newtmas, of Scallison, Stydia? I don't know, I mixed everything, and it's all subtext very sub...

I don't know what to say except that you can now enjoy the edited version!

Him

First chapter

That night he knocked at the door, his dad was out because of some robbery in the neighborhood. Stiles wasn't worried, the Sheriff was frequently leaving in the middle of the night for his job. Beacon Hills was a nice town, though full of danger. Let's not even start talking about the supernatural stuff.

It was over, it was really over, he kept repeating to himself. The Onis were gone. The Nogitsune too. He was fine. Everything was fine. Everyone was safe. Almost everyone.

That night he knocked at the door, Stiles was in his bedroom. He was streched out on the bed, pillows on his stomach, still clothed, shoes still on, lost in his thoughts. He still hadn't done his homework for the next day but he didn't care.

He didn't care much these days.

He was still having nightmares every time he closed his eyes and he had trouble sleeping, but it was nothing compared to what he had been through a few weeks ago. So he judged himself lucky, and he didn't complain.

As soon as he heard the knocking, he pushed the pillows, slowly got up and walked down the stairs.

"Dad, it's you?" he called.

Though the Sheriff wasn't supposed to come back within the hour.

Maybe it was Scott then. His best friend sometimes came to see if Stiles was okay, but he usually barged into the house by the window. Maybe werewolves were allergic to doors.

He stopped in front of the door.

If he had checked into the peephole, he wouldn't have opened the door.

He didn't check the peephole. He opened the door.

"I thought you were busy with the – oh god."

He just stood there, mouth hanging open, too shocked to even blink.

That wasn't right. That couldn't be.

"Oh god." he repeated mindlessly. "You... no."

And with that, he just closed the door in front of his face.

It couldn't be. It was impossible.

Scott had bit him and Kira had killed him. Stiles had seen his skin turn to cement and his body collapse to durn to dust, evaporating in the air like a fly. He had seen him die. He had seen it.

He couldn't be back.

The hammering started over.

"Excuse me?" Stiles heard the voice from behind the door. "I won't hurt you! Just let me come in, please!"

Stiles felt his consciousness slip away so he held up his hand and slapped himself across the face. It hurt. Vivid pain. It didn't stop the hammering.

That voice. That so familiar voice and so hated voice. His voice.

"GO AWAY!" Stiles screamed as he clenched his shaky hands. "GO AWAY FROM ME!"

The hammering ceased.

He had to call someone. He had to call Scott. Or Lydia. Or anyone.

("If you do that" he thought, "they're going to think you've gone mad or sleep-walking again. They're gonna be worried.")

How could he tell he wasn't inventing the scene?

"Please..." he said, and Stiles let go a faint whimper. "I don't know where I am. Can you just... tell me?"

Stiles held up the hand that slapped his cheek and slowly counted his fingers.

1

2

3

"Please?"

"Just SHUT UP!" Stiles yelled.

He started over.

1

2

3

4

5

He had five fingers.

Five fucking fingers. On both hands. Five plus five equals ten. He had ten fingers. Ten.

Stiles let out a sigh of relief. He wasn't hallucinating. He was fine. No demon, no evil fox, no dementia, maybe just PTSD.

That had to be it, PTSD.

It had to be.

When he looked at the door, it was wide open.

And the boy was in front of it. Stiles should have checked if the door was really locked.

Stiles let out a horrified scream and fell backwards in his attempt to keep away from him.

"GO AWAY! YOU'RE NOT REAL!"

He shut his eyes and took his head between his hands, rocking back and forth, back and forth, forth and back.

"You're not real." he kept moaning. "You're not – you're not real."

He felt a hand on his shoulder and almost fainted from the terror that rushed in him. He was immobilized, completely panicked. He started hyperventilating.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you... huh... A-are you okay?"

He couldn't even look at that monster, he couldn't speak nor move, his lungs wouldn't fill with air though he inhaled like a madman, his breath was frenetic. He wouldn't open his eyes but he felt the world tangling around him, spinning, twirling, and he felt suddenly nauseous.

Stiles suddenly felt the panic attack grow inside him and he brutally stood up and, without looking at the monster, he leaned his head on the wall.

("Just breathe normally. Breathe, dammit!")

His lungs craved for air and he couldn't bring it for them but he tried so much to breathe and he just couldn't and he felt dizziness flow to him. His strength left his body and he fell back to the ground. He shook like a leaf, he was weak as a leaf, he felt like he was going to break any second now. Black dots danced in front of his eyes. His heart was completely erratic.

He didn't want to faint.

("Breathe. Just breathe, Stiles. BREATHE!")

The monster was talking frenetically but it just made it worse. Stiles saw its chapped lips moving and that fucking voice – that voice was like a serpent ready to strike at your every step. he felt like he was going to implode or having a heart attack.

("Where the hell are Lydia's lips when you need them? - JUST FRICKING BREATHE")

A cold liquid suddenly rushed to his face and he let out a strangled scream, raising his hand to protect himself, and that is when suddenly he took the largest breathe he had ever taken because he just wanted to scream until his throat bled, or cry his eyes out, or maybe both – so he breathed.

The glass the boy emptied on his face fell and shattered in a dozen pieces.

Stiles slowly stood up and judged his savior. Water and tears and sweat rolled down his face.

"Why did you do that?" he murmured.

The boy was looking at him in apprehension and curiosity, but confusion was the most present.

"I wasn't going to let you die." he replied.

("Why did you save me if I am the thing you'd love to see dead?")

"Why did you come back? Why are you HERE?!"

"Do I know you?"

"Don't act like you don't know, asshole."

"I don't know. Okay? I don't know."

Both voices sounded the same. Both faces looked the same. Brown eyes and brown eyes. Moles on the exact same places.

Fragile pale skin and rough tanned epidermis. Shaky hands and bloody nails. Teen clothes and apocalyptic attire. Terror and despair.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"You know too damn well who I am." Stiles answered sharply even if his guts churned with fear.

"Honestly, I'm sure I don't."

Stiles' eyes flew to the baseball bat they always kept in the hallway and he nearly threw himself at it to threaten the boy. In response, he just raised his hands as if to insist he wasn't armed nor dangerous.

Like Stiles cared.

"Wow. Calm down, okay?"

"I'M NOT GONNA FRICKING CALM DOWN!"

"We can just talk, okay? Just talk. Please."

The more Stiles observed the boy, the more he noticed a few mistakes.

His hair seemed shorter and it had apparently been a while since he last washed it. He was skinnier but more muscular, like he was used to run. He didn't have those dark circles under his eyes and those were alert, quick, smart. He didn't have that ounce of nothingness floating in his pupils.

The boy put his hand on the bat, slowly lowering it down, and Stiles numbly followed the lead.

Once the bat was less threatening, the boy, who was still in that weird position like he was ready to start running to jump out the window and flee a long way away, he put a hand where his heart was.

"I'm Thomas. You?"

The boy looked like he was expecting an answer.

"Stiles." he finally let out.

His brain, which seemed to be frozen earlier, started to get back to work.

The teenager in front of him wasn't that screwed up duplicate of himself. It wasn't the Nogitsune's style to show up looking like a dazed apocalyptic survivor. No, the Nogitsune wouldn't have done that. He prefered possessing people, strife, pain, chaos, and all that stuff. Then what was he?

"Who are you?"

"Thomas." the boy responded, frowning.

"I mean what are you? An experiment turned wrong? A demi-Stiles created to kill the original? A shapeshifter?"

"No, I'm just Thomas. Can you tell me where I am?"

"You're in my house, duh."

Now that Stiles knew it wasn't the Nogitsune, he felt a whole lot safer. His sarcasm came back as well.

The Thomas boy didn't seem to understand.

"Is that a new test?"

"What do you mean a new test? This is just where I live."

The boy fell silent. He didn't look like the chatty kind unlike Stiles.

"Why do you look like me?" Stiles finally asked as the question burned his tongue since the beginning.

The boy frowned. "Do I look like you?"

"Hell, if I had a twin, that would be you!" Stiles yelled. "Someone should have warned me that scientists already created the T-1000. Has science gone that far already to create my brother twin?! "

"I wouldn't be surprised."

He certainly didn't talk that much, but he had a glimmer in his eyes that Stiles identified as raging curiosity. Robots weren't curious, so the boy couldn't be a Terminator. It was really weird, looking at those brown eyes that looked so much like his... It happened before, but it wasn't interest that gleamed into his pupils, it was pure hatred, tricky and mad fury, and void.

Stiles didn't know why, but he knew that this Thomas doppelgänger wasn't going to harm anyone.

He tightened his grip on the bat and pointed it at Thomas non-menacingly.

"Look, I'm just gonna go upstairs, okay? You stay here. Don't run away, don't do anything stupid like... whatever, just stay here. I'll be right back."

Stiles ran upstairs as fast as he could, hurried into his messy bedroom where the white screen of his laptop lightened the room plunged into darkness, grabbed his phone and leapt downstairs.

"If you're gone, I swear I'm going to-"

The boy, Thomas, was gone as he predicted. Stiles groaned.

"Awesome. If he bumps into my dad, I'm gonna be in so much trouble..."

"I'm here."

Stiles jumped in surprise and turned around. Thomas was standing in the middle of the living-room, next to the dinner table. He seemed to be looking around the place, especially at the micro-wave that seemed to interest him at the highest point.

As Stiles approached him, he was suddenly hit by the scent of the boy. Musk, dirt, sweat and fear. It stank.

"Whoa, since when did you take a shower or changed your clothes?" Stiles exclaimed.

"About two days... Let's say I didn't really have time." Thomas answered as he stopped playing with the micro-wave. "So this is your house? Do you live here on your own?"

"You sure ask a lost of questions, buddy. No, I live here with my dad."

The boy stared at him, and it was like Stiles could read his mind. It wasn't hard to understand his feelings because Stiles knew every single expression his face showed.

"You don't have a dad, do you?" the hyperactive teenager said, feeling guilty.

"No."

"I'm sorry." Stiles whispered awkwardly. "But do you have any family I can contact, any friends...?"

He was starting to believe that thing he read once somewhere as he was lazing about in the internet: you always have a twin on this planet you're not even related to. He's here and you'll probably never meet him. And Stiles thought that his twin was that kid. Who didn't seem like a kid, more like a young adult.

Thomas looked at Stiles' phone, perplex.

"Any number?" the teen insisted.

Thomas shook his head.

"I-I don't have anything."

"Awesome..." Stiles murmured. "I really needed to have as a twin an orphan and a complete asocial. Thanks destiny." He raised his voice. "Are you sure you come from our universe? Are you even sure you're human?!"

If Thomas could look more perplex, Stiles knew it'd be the end of the world.

"You know what? I'm calling the experts."

Stiles quickly called Scott and rose the phone to his ear.

"Dude, it's the middle of the night..." Scott's voice faintly said.

"Stop pretending you were asleep and move your wolf's ass to mine." Stiles cut. "I need you here right now."

"What, what is it?!" Scott suddenly sounded a lot less sleepy and ready to gut someone for his best friend.

"It's not an emergency – well I don't think it is – but please just hurry up."

"Give me five minutes."

Stiles slided the phone in his pocket and stared at Thomas.

"Who was that?" the weird boy asked, apparently still on nerves.

"Scott, a friend." Stiles quickly replied. "He's used to that kind of stuff, he'll probably find your way back home."

Thomas was eyeing the baseball bat Stiles still held in his left hand. The hyperactive boy felt his glance.

"Look" he began. "I don't ask you to trust him, okay? Just trust me."

"You're the one who screamed at me earlier and told me to go away and now I have to trust you. I don't even know you."

"I... I thought you were someone else." Stiles defended himself.

"Because I look like you, you screamed, that's right?"

Stiles shivered without knowing it.

"Kind of."

("Totally" said his mind")

"I don't think I really look like you though." Thomas said, surprising Stiles.

"What, you need a mirror so you can see by yourself?"

"Yeah, I'd like that."

They didn't have a lot of mirrors in the house and Stiles had to lead him upstairs in the bathroom. Thomas froze in front of his reflection.

He slowly raised a hand to his face and touched his cheekbone stained with blood. He had a cut right under his eye, and he could probably use some antiseptic, which Stiles gave him. Thomas eyed the small bottle and probably decided Stiles didn't want to shove it down his throat in an attempt to kill him because he took it between his gloved fingers and carefully applied it on the light wound. It stung a little. He flinched a bit. Not much.

Stiles stood next to him, and both of their reflections looked at each other in the mirror.

"It's been a while I haven't seen myself." Thomas explained as he ran a hand through his messy and dirty hair. "I didn't have such a tanned skin before... and mud all over me. But I gotta admit, we really are the same."

"You're sweating like a pig. Do you come out of a fight?" Stiles elegently asked.

"Kind of."

Thomas leaned against the sink and turned on the faucet. He splashed water against his face, trying to gain some humanity.

"Is that a yes or a no? Because it's really easier to use yes or no. So what's it gonna be? Yes I come out of a fight or no I just fell in a puddle of mud?"

"You were totally wrong when you said it wasn't the case of an emergency, Stiles."

Scott was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, claws out. Thomas didn't fail to notice them and jumped backwards. Little drops of water trickled down his blue shirt already wetted by sweat. Stiles hurried between the two.

"Whoa, Scott! It's fine! It's not him."

"The last time I saw that other you, he tried to kill us." Scott murmured, his voice dangerously low but they could hear him as if he had shouted. "He part succeeded."

"Not who?" Thomas asked, and Stiles noticed for the second time that his posture was like he was ready to run. As fast as he could. Even though there was no escape from the terrifying McCall.

Scott glanced at him and his face showed all the emotions Stiles had when he first saw the boy.

Disgust. Hatred. Fear. Pain.

Retaliation.

"Are you sure it's not him?" Scott insisted.

Stiles silently blessed their never-ending friendship. They always listened to each other.

"Not who?!" Thomas then shouted.

Stiles looked back at him, and quickly understood the boy had enough.

Thomas straightened his position and his eyes threw knives.

"I don't know where the hell I am, I just woke up on your doorstep and you start screaming at me – I-I was in the middle of a desert on a dead planet and a second after I was standing in a world where everything's screwed up!"

"Dead planet?" Scott repeated, so confused his claws retracted.

"Okay Thomas." Stiles slowly said, gesturing him to calm down. "We're gonna find a way to bring you to... wherever you're from, okay? But I think we may need some help first."

Thomas looked at his thin reflection on the mirror. And he realized how crazy he must have seemed.

His gloved hands were covered in dirt and his nails were brown. He had washed away with the water the traces of past tears that used to be visible from very close on his cheeks. His eyes were old, so old and so broken and the weird thing was that he saw the same thing in Stiles' eyes too. As if he had been through the same stuff.

His fingers wandered in his pant's pocket and he grabbed the wood-carven statuette. Squeeze, release.

"Fine."