Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not a thing.

Author's Note: I've been tossing around a couple of missing/extended scenes from "Weaponized" [4x07] in my head for a while now. [Actually, I sort of made a semi-similar trailer on Youtube, so if you'd like more information on that, it's at the bottom]
One of my biggest complaints about Season 4 is that the writers didn't ever go into Stiles obvious guilt and potential PTSD from his time being the Nogitsune. It seemed like he just brushed off all the suicidal angst from the 3B finale. I know the format of this is a bit chaotic, but I tried to imitate Stiles' choppy, accusatory thoughts.

"Shouldn't one of you get to live?"

Allison didn't. Aiden didn't. What makes me special? Because I'm human? That's the only reason I'm not on that damn list. I'm not worth anything.

"I think I saw them in the library. Or might've been the cafeteria. Definitely one of those two."

There was no way in hell Stiles was going to let this monster get to his friends. He would die before the assassin could ever reach them.

"I'm going to count to three."

Oh, God. You have got to be kidding me. He was going to die at the hands of a cliché Bond villain. Stiles would have laughed if he wasn't so damn terrified.

(Haven't you done enough laughing? You laughed when Allison died. You laughed when you twisted that sword into your best friend.)

He turned slowly, fixing the assassin with what he hoped to be a defiant glare. Internally the teenager was crumbling, but he forced his voice to stay steady. He had to pretend he was fine, imitating the same mask he wore every day.

(Always pretending. First for your friends and now for a murderer. Is there anything real about you, Stiles?)

"And then I'm going to kill you."

He wasn't concerned for his own life. A part of him had already resigned himself to an early death long before the deadpool list was created. He no longer feared death, but he didn't realize it until the cold barrel pressed into his fever-flushed skin. He supposed he stopped caring after the Nogitsune permanently strangled his laugh.

He lost a lot of things to the Nogitsune.

"Y'think you can scare me?"

No, he wasn't scared for himself. Stiles was more afraid for the other people in his life. My dad. What's he going to do? He's going to come in here and see my brain spla—oh God, no...He's never going to forgive himself. He'll think it's his fault.

(It isn't any different than when Argent saw Allison's lifeless body. But whose fault was that?)

He's going to be all alone. I…I can't leave him like that.

(Yours, Stiles. Your fault again.)

And Lydia won't know what happened. Maybe she'll scream, but she won't know who for until they wheel my body out in a black bag. I never got to tell her—I won't be able to apologi—

(What the hell, Stiles? Why are you so freaking selfish? Always thinking about yourself.)

(What about Melissa? And Kira's parents? What about them?)

Stiles forced himself to swallow the rising bile in the back of his throat. It burned, but he was grateful for the pain. It served as a caustic reminded that he was still alive to feel it. If he died right there, Scott, Malia, and Kira would soon follow.

(You failed them then and you're failing them now.)

The assassin didn't realize that for Stiles, living without his friends was a fate far worse than any death.

If he were dead, he wouldn't have to tell Melissa why her son was dead. That he was too weak, too human to fight against a little ball of icy lead. He wouldn't have to watch her crumple to the ground sobbing, each anguished scream carving another permanent scar in Stiles' heart.

If he were dead, he wouldn't have to meet Mrs. Yukimura's steely eyes as he whispered her daughter died because of him. This worthless human who had caused so much suffering already. He wouldn't have to meet Mr. Yukimura's vacant gaze every day in history class.

If he were dead, he wouldn't have to tell Mr. Tate that his daughter was gone for a second time. However, no amount of howling to the sky could bring her back this time.

"No, I think I can kill you."

Stiles had enough gathered information about gunshot murders to know that he would be dead within seconds of the bullet penetrating his brain. Most likely, he wouldn't even have time to register the shot before darkness consumed him. His death would be instantaneous and comparably painless.

His friends, on the other hand, would suffer physically and emotionally. The twin horrors of one's body literally shutting down combined with the impending terror of dying slowly would lead to a traumatizing, excruciating death.

"I just thought the countdown would make it more exciting. So…"

Stiles blinked slowly. His heightened senses were operating at a dizzying speed from the pure adrenaline coursing through his veins. He wondered if this was what it felt like to be a werewolf—the alertness, the heart pounding.

(The terror.)

He could feel every reverberation of his thudding heart in his bone-dry mouth, threatening to drown out every ragged breath in his tightening throat.

He could feel the trembling of his fingers as they scraped across his sweaty palms and curled into weak fists. A useless sign of defiance.

He could see the icy, merciless glint in the assassin's gaze. The man swallowed unhindered, easily able to stomach the notion of killing an innocent teenager.

(He could hear the tortured screams as his friends slowly died. Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe he was losing his mind.)

"One."

The barrel was cold against his forehead, sending him into another brief moment of shock and confusion.

He forced his expression to remain calm, undisturbed, but he knew his eyes were screaming.

(You're a pathetic coward. You don't even care about living and you're still scared.)

"Two."

(Scared of what? Going to hell? It's where you belong.)

Stiles felt his mask chipping. He could see his own fear reflected in the assassin's growing smile.

He thinks he can beat me. He thinks I'll crack.

His mask would shatter, but only after a bullet pierced his skull. Only after the last breath left his body.

(You'll be all alone. No one will be joining you. They're innocent. They won't be going where you're going.)

He could handle death. Hell, he deserved to die after all that he had done.

He could handle the pain. He could handle the taunting, the mental anguish, the accusing buzz in his head that made him want to scream.

He could handle the silence. The nothingness. The resigned acceptance that he was a failure, because in all honesty, he truly was worthless.

The assassin's grip tightened around the dry, steel handle of the gun. He wasn't nervous or scared. His index finger tapped contemplatively against the trigger twice before resting lightly on the metal piece. His hand was steady as it held the gun firmly against the boy's forehead.

Stiles watched as the tendons in the man's hand tensed before relaxing. One final stretch before ending a life.

Stiles could handle the things that happened to him, but he couldn't bear the thought of dying before being able to apologize. To Scott, to Allison, to his father. To everyone.

His best friend would die before Stiles could beg him for forgiveness for dragging him out in the middle of the night on a childish body hunt.

(What the hell were you thinking?)

His father would never know just how much Stiles loved him. Stiles wouldn't be there to remind his father to watch his blood pressure as the man drowned every last fiber of his being in alcohol.

(He's going to lose everything he had because of you.)

Mr. Argent would never know that Stiles couldn't look in the mirror anymore because all he saw was Allison's murderer.

(You destroyed his entire family.)

Lydia would never be able to sleep again without waking up screaming for every single one of her dead friends.

(This is all you, Stiles. You killed your mother and Allison, and now you're killing everyone else you ever loved.)

His gaze caught on his reflection in the assassin's glossy stare. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut.

He didn't need to see anymore.

Bang!

They were safe. Scott found the antidote just in time. The only fatality was the bad guy.

(So why didn't you die too?)

Stiles took a shallow breath, trying to convince himself that the hiccupping sobs building in his throat would not lead to another panic attack. He knew he was only staving off the inevitable.

(Maybe you'll suffocate and do everyone a favor.)

His gasping pants echoed loudly in the room. They sounded like the dying sputtering of a broken wind-up toy.

Stiles supposed in a way he was a broken toy. The scuffed up shell of "that weird kid" with the sarcastic quips and nervous giggle. The universe played too rough and now he was barely able to putter through each moment.

Stiles looked down at his shaking hands. They were covered in blood. His fingertips scrapped carefully across his crimson soaked sleeve and traced a tentative trail along his blank face.

Everything was covered in blood.

Feeling another surge of panic, the boy forced himself to look away. He wanted to cry, scream, beg, and laugh.

(He wanted to die. Why didn't he die?)

"Stiles?"

The boy froze, keeping absolutely still to prevent being discovered. The temporary relief of finding Scott and the others still alive had been quickly forced away by the unpleasant memories drudged up from his near death experience. As soon as the four of them left the Hale vault and worried parents and friends assailed the supernatural teens, Stiles took his quiet leave.

"Stiles?" Scott appeared around the corner, stopping short at the sight of the terrified, animalistic stare of his best friend. Stiles looked like the metaphorical rabbit caught by a malicious wolf.

"Scott," he whispered back. He had more control over his trembling voice when he spoke quietly. He didn't want his strangled screams to escape.

"Dude," the Alpha carefully entered the abandoned classroom. "We've been looking for you everywhere?" His movements were slow as to not startle his friend.

Stiles eyed him with a weak curiosity. "How did you find me?"

Scott hesitated, just as Stiles knew he would. "Your, uh, heartbeat." The boy shifted uncomfortably on the top of one of the desks, watching as Scott stepped closer to him.

"The blood," Stiles countered flatly. "The smell of blood." Scott's guilty expression confirmed the human's guess. "Damn your werewolf nose," the boy murmured halfheartedly. He glanced back down at his trembling fingers.

Scott watched with an unreadable expression as his best friend gently tapped each stained finger in a rhythmic procession. Something about the action seemed eerily familiar to the werewolf.

"Stiles, you aren't dreaming. This is completely real." Scott reached to steady the boy's fluttering fingers, but Stiles yanked his hands back as if he had been burned.

"You don't dream when you're dead."

"Jesus Christ, dude. We aren't dead!"

"How do I know this isn't some freaky post-death conversation? This could all be some final moment or the light at the end of the freaking tunnel."

"Then someone owes you a new final moment because this one really sucks. You aren't dead."

"How do you know?" Panic seeped into the boy's voice and his wide eyes grew even larger with barely suppressed horror.

Scott was at loss for words. "I'm here. You're here. Kira and Malia are fine. The assassin is dead." He learned forward. "Look at me, Stiles. Everything is alright now."

Stiles murmured something under his breath. Although Scott heard every word with his sharpened hearing, he still demanded that the boy repeat it.

"I said," Stiles tilted his head back to scowl defiantly at his best friend, "how will anything be alright while I'm still alive?"

Scott froze. He hadn't misheard the boy. A large part of him had been hoping he had.

Taking Scott's silence for permission to continue, Stiles felt every single repressed feeling of regret and self-loathing planted by the Nogitsune's anchors bubble out of his crimson-flecked lips.

"It's my fault. Allison's death. Aiden's death. All those innocent people are dead because of me." The boy ran a stained hand across his face. "Sometimes I wish that I died with the Nogitsune. It's what I deserved. It isn't fair that I'm still alive while more important people are dead."

A dark cloud thundered over the Alpha's expression. "What. The hell. Did you. Just. Say?" Scott growled, enunciating the words slowly. Each punctuated phrase caused the boy's lips to rise, revealing sharpened canines. His eyes blazed ruby as he fixed Stiles with a furious glare.

(He should kill you right now. It's only fair, after you screwed up his life.)

The human paused for a moment. He opened his mouth, but promptly shut it at the sight of Scott's impending transformation. Stiles knew that if Scott lost control and accidentally injured him, the werewolf would never forgive himself.

Stiles couldn't hurt his best friend anymore. He stayed silent as Scott tightly gripped his shoulders, digging tightly into Stiles' stained jacket with human fingernails. Evidently the werewolf was more in control than Stiles had thought.

"You aren't important? You aren't freaking important? Why the hell are you such a complete dumbass?" Stiles blinked, shocked at his friend's violent outburst. "You are one of the most important people in my life. I would absolutely lose it if you died, do you know that?"

"And what do you mean by you deserve to die?" Scott seethed, barreling into his next rant without giving the human a chance to defend his wording. "Nobody deserves to die. The Nogitsune comes close, but that's because it killed people."

"But, Scott. I killed those people," Stiles' voice broke as he got a word in edgewise. "The Nogitsune took control of me because I was too weak and killed all those innocent people. I deserve whatever punishment comes to me because I wasn't strong enough."

(You're so pathetic, Stiles.)

Scott jerked back, dropping his hands from Stiles' shoulders and staring horrified at his best friend. "You really don't understand, do you?" The teen's mouth dropped open, revealing humanoid teeth again. The Alpha's irises flickered between warm brown and fiery red.

Stiles set his jaw, but refused to answer.

"Dude, you're, like, the strongest person I know." Stiles' looked as he were about to argue, but Scott cut him off with a firm slash of his hand. He ran the hand through his hair with a frustrated huff. "No, shut up for a second. You're going to listen to me right now and get all of these stupid ideas out of your thick skull." Stiles shut his mouth obediently, wondering when it suddenly became his job to listen to the pep talks.

"You don't have any powers or special weapons, but you're still out there with us every single time Beacon Hills is in trouble. You're incredibly brave with just your freaking baseball bat. Like, idiotically brave, by the way. What the hell were you thinking anyway, going around by yourself with only a bat? You could get seriously hurt."

Scott shook his head and paused, trying to find his last train of thought. "You always think of someone—Lydia, your dad, me—before you think of yourself. I mean, you were about to sacrifice yourself to the Nogitsune before you figured out the divine move. Do you know how many times I've asked how you were and you responded with 'are you okay'?" Scott tilted his head, watching Stiles' expression shift from steely indifference to shock. Apparently, the human had never noticed this before.

"You do that, you know. No matter how bad you look and how much pain you're in, you always make sure that everyone else is alright. You never give anyone a straight answer because even when you're freaking dying inside, you still worry about our emotional sanity first. You never give a damn for your own safety, even though you getting hurt would devastate us. All of us. Do you know how screwed up that thinking is?"

The Alpha sighed and rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted from the combined stress of the PSATs and surviving a deadly virus from an assassin. "Stiles," he began softly, "I don't know what that monster put in your head, but this isn't you. You aren't weak and you aren't worthless. I know I would have died probably a dozen times if it wasn't for you. You've saved Lydia's life, Malia's life, your dad's life. You've saved Derek like a million times, though he'd never admit it."

Stiles suppressed a weak chuckle. "Yeah, Sourwolf wouldn't want his big bad reputation to be tarnished, always having to be saved by some kid."

Scott smiled faintly at his friend's first sign of revival.

The human gave a shuddering sigh and glanced back down at his stained fingers. Although they were still trembling, most of the wracking tremors had subsided. "Scott," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm sorry." Stiles peeked up at his best friend with bright, red-rimmed eyes. The dried crimson was still smeared across his face apart from a glistening, clean trail stemming from one of his eyes.

Scott reached forward and crushed his friend to his chest. It was a desperate, emotional hug and Scott could feel Stiles' surprised gasp echo through his body before the human relaxed into the embrace.

"I'm sorry too," Scott murmured into the hood of Stiles' stained jacket. Although the smell of human blood was overwhelming, he was grateful it didn't belong to his best friend. He was also grateful for the suppressed sobs wracking Stiles' body as he tried to conceal his emotions. The jerky movements assured Scott that his best friend was still alive.

He couldn't bear to imagine a world where Stiles could ever be deathly still.

Scott closed his eyes and felt his friend's pounding heart settle into a slow, rhythmic thud that reverberated through both of their bodies. After the human's breathing calmed to a manageable pace, Scott pulled back, pleased to see that Stiles no longer wore his previous expression of complete and utter dejection.

"Thanks for finding us, dude."

"Don't mention it," Stiles responded casually, flicking his hand back with faint chuckle. "You would've done the same thing."

Scott's smile widened. "Yeah, I would've." He straightened up and clasped the boy's shoulder. "Now, let's get you cleaned up. You really stink."

Thank you so much for reading! I would really appreciate knowing the things you liked and the things you didn't.

Now, for a little shameless self promotion. The "trailer" (as in AU movie trailer) is on Youtube under my channel (link on my profile), titled "The Lazarus Game."
Here's the plot summary:

"After Stiles discovers a dangerous secret, certain forces are determined to silence him. Scott blames himself for his best friend's death and refuses to let the past rest. While the others are consumed by catching a mysterious serial killer, Scott searches alone for Stiles' missing body and finds the shell of his best friend. Soon the connection between Stiles and the murders becomes evident: Stiles is doing everything in his power to ensure his own permanent death, even if that means becoming a monster.
A monster who must be destroyed."

I may or may not turn it into a fic, so let me know if I should. Thanks!