A breeze whips down the pathway, rattling the canopy and chilling the perspiration that's collected at the back of Stiles' neck. Mouth open and working wordlessly, he hesitates, casts a look down to his feet and then back up again. With utter clarity he registers that there is mud thick and cool between his bare toes, that the sunlight is warm where it slips through the trees and dapples his skin, that the fresh welts across his arms and cheeks are a constant low burn. It's an incredible amount of detail for any dreamscape, even if you're Stiles and endowed with the sort of hyperactive imagination that allows for more detail than most.

And sure, he's standing in the middle of an unlikely jungle and staring up at an even more unlikely Jacob Black, but his life has been a constant parade of the unlikely lately, and he and logic have been on the outs since his best friend turned into a werewolf.

The werewolf smiling down at him now is wearing a similarly gormless face, but Stiles knows sarcasm and Stiles knows crazy, and neither of those elements are making him feel very lucky right now.

"That is not remotely comforting, I hope you know," he finally says, eyebrows lifting for emphasis.