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1/1/30 00:00Dude, you know the drill.
Stiles and the damn fools that follow him back to Beacon Hills step into an ordinary looking teenage boy's bedroom. There's the usual furniture—bed, desk, dresser, bookshelf—and decorations—band posters, telescope, pile of smelly lacrosse gear. It doesn't look like much in the way of a werewolf investigative headquarters.
"Welcome to mi casa," says Stiles. "Dad's not home, thank God, so he won't notice we're here."
Add 'weird people traveling in through my closet' to the many things Stiles would rather not have to explain to his father.
"I need to talk to Scott," he say, punching the speed dial on his phone at the same time. He pauses for a moment listening to the phone ring, ring, and finally go to voicemail before hanging up. "And he's not picking up, so I'm going to go see if he's at home. You staying here or coming with?"
"Welcome to mi casa," says Stiles. "Dad's not home, thank God, so he won't notice we're here."
Add 'weird people traveling in through my closet' to the many things Stiles would rather not have to explain to his father.
"I need to talk to Scott," he say, punching the speed dial on his phone at the same time. He pauses for a moment listening to the phone ring, ring, and finally go to voicemail before hanging up. "And he's not picking up, so I'm going to go see if he's at home. You staying here or coming with?"
Tags:
Stiles was right. Scott is a werewolf now. It’s too bad Scott didn’t believe him the first time—Stiles was up all night researching at Milliways, but even with all that evidence Scott wouldn’t listen—but better late than never, right? At least nobody got hurt, and Stiles knows a lot more about werewolves now.
Also he’s exhausted, because what’d he do after staying up all night researching? Went back home and stayed up all night trying to make sure Derek Hale—also a werewolf, awesome—didn’t kill Allison Argent and Scott didn’t kill anyone or get arrested for public indecency. He’d picked up Scott near the preserve early in the morning and dropped him off at home, but once Stiles got back home, he’d unsurprisingly found himself unable to get to sleep. He honestly knows better than to exceed his Adderall dosage like he had last night, but when you think you best friend might go feral and kill half the town, what else are you supposed to do?
It’s cold out by the lake, and it looks like it’s about to rain any moment. He borrowed a jacket from Bar, but forgot to ask for a pair of gloves, and his hands are starting to turn a little red from the chill. He should probably go in soon, but it’s nice out here. Quiet.
“You look like shit, kid,” says a voice from behind him.
Okay. This is worse than he thought, because if that voice belongs to who he thinks it does, he has to be hallucinating. Deep breaths.
“You should go inside and eat something. Then go to sleep.”
“I’m not hungry,” he says, staring purposefully at the lake. It’s bad enough that he’s talking back to an auditory hallucination. He picks up a small rock and launches it as far as he can into the lake, listens for the sharp splash as it hits the water and studies the ripples along the surface.
“Stiles, look at me."
He knows it’s not real, but it’s been eight years and he can’t help it. He turns around. He hears a sound, something between a gasp and a sob, distantly processes that it must’ve come from him.
“Mom.”
She looks exactly like he remembers and nothing like her remembers. Her chestnut hair is long, like it was before, before she got sick and lost it all to chemo, but it’s streaked with gray in the front now. He recognizes the beanie she’s wearing—red, with this floppy flower on the side—that Grandma knitted while Mom was in the hospital. Maybe he should be thankful that his hallucinating mind has spared him having to see her again like he did last, slowly slipping away from him, even if she’s come with reminders of her illness anyway.
“You’re not real,” he says. “You’re dead.”
She sits down next to him on his rock and reaches out of his left hand, which won’t stop twitching. Her hand is warm and it’s smaller than his own. Two things he wasn’t expecting.
“Well you’re right about one of those things,” she says. “I’m still dead. Sorry, monkey.”
“But… how?”
“I don’t really know,” she says with a shrug. “I’m just here. Now. Guess that means I’m supposed to be.”
“But you’re not staying.” It’s not really a question at all.
“No, I don’t think so,” she says.
That figures. Seems he just gets the potentially lethal impossibilities come to life, like, hey, real werewolves! Something as mundane as getting his Mom back? Not a chance.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about this place,” she says.
“You always acted like you did, though.”
“Didn’t wanna kill your imagination. I wasn’t cruel, geez.”
“You wouldn’t let me get a dog,” he grumbles.
“Oh my God, let it go,” she says, laughing. “Seriously, though, I’m glad your friends here, the ones you talked about, were here for you.”
They lapse into silence for a moment. He can feel Mom’s eyes on him, but his own gaze has drifted back toward the frigid lake. Why does this have to be happening now, when he’s too drug-addled to think straight? If this is his second chance at a last conversation with her, he wishes he could make it more meaningful.
Mom takes a deep breath before she says, “Okay, look, I hate to be the mom who shows up just to nag you, but you need to take better care of yourself, okay? This is all going to get worse before it gets better, Stiles.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know,” she says. “I’m dead, I can get away with that vague pronouncement shit.”
“I should’ve known you weren’t a hallucination. In my imagination, you don’t cuss.”
“Because when you were little I tried to have some self restraint,” she says. “But that’s not really the type of mothering you need these days, is it?”
She’s right. Stiles always thought he lived in one of the boring worlds, but it turns out his world is far crazier than he expected. He’s so far from needing protection from swear words these days.
“I miss you,” he replies.
“Hey, come’ere.” She grabs him into a tight hug, and Stiles finally releases some of the tension he’s been holding in. There’re possibly a few tears sliding down his cheeks, but luckily there’s no one here who’ll judge him for that. “I love you so much, monkey. You’re stronger than you think, I promise.”
Stiles wakes up hours later in a room he hasn’t used in years. There’s a bookshelf stuffed with kids books, a bunch of Lego minifigs on the windowsill, and a too-small baseball glove on the otherwise empty desk. When he sits up, he realizes at some point before finally falling asleep he changed into astronaut pajama pants. Yeah, he doesn’t remember that at all.
He doesn’t remember much after to talking to his mom. She’d walked him back in from the lake, insisting that he eat a bowl of soup then go directly to bed, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. (She was a ruthless Monopoly player. She always beat him and Dad.) That must be what he’d done, but the details are… blurry.
There’s a steaming cup of coffee on the nightstand, and on top of a worn copy of The Phantom Tollbooth, an invitation to a Halloween party in an alternate Univille, South Dakota. It’s Halloween here, huh? Well, when in Rome, amiright?
No use putting on real pants before he goes down for breakfast. If Bar’s up to her usual tricks, he’ll end up with a dumb costume of her making the moment he steps off the stairs. That’s as good an excuse as any.
Also he’s exhausted, because what’d he do after staying up all night researching? Went back home and stayed up all night trying to make sure Derek Hale—also a werewolf, awesome—didn’t kill Allison Argent and Scott didn’t kill anyone or get arrested for public indecency. He’d picked up Scott near the preserve early in the morning and dropped him off at home, but once Stiles got back home, he’d unsurprisingly found himself unable to get to sleep. He honestly knows better than to exceed his Adderall dosage like he had last night, but when you think you best friend might go feral and kill half the town, what else are you supposed to do?
It’s cold out by the lake, and it looks like it’s about to rain any moment. He borrowed a jacket from Bar, but forgot to ask for a pair of gloves, and his hands are starting to turn a little red from the chill. He should probably go in soon, but it’s nice out here. Quiet.
“You look like shit, kid,” says a voice from behind him.
Okay. This is worse than he thought, because if that voice belongs to who he thinks it does, he has to be hallucinating. Deep breaths.
“You should go inside and eat something. Then go to sleep.”
“I’m not hungry,” he says, staring purposefully at the lake. It’s bad enough that he’s talking back to an auditory hallucination. He picks up a small rock and launches it as far as he can into the lake, listens for the sharp splash as it hits the water and studies the ripples along the surface.
“Stiles, look at me."
He knows it’s not real, but it’s been eight years and he can’t help it. He turns around. He hears a sound, something between a gasp and a sob, distantly processes that it must’ve come from him.
“Mom.”
She looks exactly like he remembers and nothing like her remembers. Her chestnut hair is long, like it was before, before she got sick and lost it all to chemo, but it’s streaked with gray in the front now. He recognizes the beanie she’s wearing—red, with this floppy flower on the side—that Grandma knitted while Mom was in the hospital. Maybe he should be thankful that his hallucinating mind has spared him having to see her again like he did last, slowly slipping away from him, even if she’s come with reminders of her illness anyway.
“You’re not real,” he says. “You’re dead.”
She sits down next to him on his rock and reaches out of his left hand, which won’t stop twitching. Her hand is warm and it’s smaller than his own. Two things he wasn’t expecting.
“Well you’re right about one of those things,” she says. “I’m still dead. Sorry, monkey.”
“But… how?”
“I don’t really know,” she says with a shrug. “I’m just here. Now. Guess that means I’m supposed to be.”
“But you’re not staying.” It’s not really a question at all.
“No, I don’t think so,” she says.
That figures. Seems he just gets the potentially lethal impossibilities come to life, like, hey, real werewolves! Something as mundane as getting his Mom back? Not a chance.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about this place,” she says.
“You always acted like you did, though.”
“Didn’t wanna kill your imagination. I wasn’t cruel, geez.”
“You wouldn’t let me get a dog,” he grumbles.
“Oh my God, let it go,” she says, laughing. “Seriously, though, I’m glad your friends here, the ones you talked about, were here for you.”
They lapse into silence for a moment. He can feel Mom’s eyes on him, but his own gaze has drifted back toward the frigid lake. Why does this have to be happening now, when he’s too drug-addled to think straight? If this is his second chance at a last conversation with her, he wishes he could make it more meaningful.
Mom takes a deep breath before she says, “Okay, look, I hate to be the mom who shows up just to nag you, but you need to take better care of yourself, okay? This is all going to get worse before it gets better, Stiles.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know,” she says. “I’m dead, I can get away with that vague pronouncement shit.”
“I should’ve known you weren’t a hallucination. In my imagination, you don’t cuss.”
“Because when you were little I tried to have some self restraint,” she says. “But that’s not really the type of mothering you need these days, is it?”
She’s right. Stiles always thought he lived in one of the boring worlds, but it turns out his world is far crazier than he expected. He’s so far from needing protection from swear words these days.
“I miss you,” he replies.
“Hey, come’ere.” She grabs him into a tight hug, and Stiles finally releases some of the tension he’s been holding in. There’re possibly a few tears sliding down his cheeks, but luckily there’s no one here who’ll judge him for that. “I love you so much, monkey. You’re stronger than you think, I promise.”
~*~
Stiles wakes up hours later in a room he hasn’t used in years. There’s a bookshelf stuffed with kids books, a bunch of Lego minifigs on the windowsill, and a too-small baseball glove on the otherwise empty desk. When he sits up, he realizes at some point before finally falling asleep he changed into astronaut pajama pants. Yeah, he doesn’t remember that at all.
He doesn’t remember much after to talking to his mom. She’d walked him back in from the lake, insisting that he eat a bowl of soup then go directly to bed, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. (She was a ruthless Monopoly player. She always beat him and Dad.) That must be what he’d done, but the details are… blurry.
There’s a steaming cup of coffee on the nightstand, and on top of a worn copy of The Phantom Tollbooth, an invitation to a Halloween party in an alternate Univille, South Dakota. It’s Halloween here, huh? Well, when in Rome, amiright?
No use putting on real pants before he goes down for breakfast. If Bar’s up to her usual tricks, he’ll end up with a dumb costume of her making the moment he steps off the stairs. That’s as good an excuse as any.
(no subject)
21/8/13 13:32Elsewhere in the country, students might dream about a snow day delaying their return to school in January, but Stiles has lived in Beacon Hills, where the temperatures seldom fall below freezing, his whole life, so he grew out of hoping for snow a long time ago. He expected to spend his last night of freedom at home with his Dad. Dad would watch college bowl games on TV while Stiles finished his winter break homework—he's only halfway through reading The Metamorphosis—while providing commentary on why lacrosse is superior to football.
It's after dark on Tuesday evening when ESPN's halftime commentary is interrupted by Dad's ringing phone. He glances briefly at the caller's name on display before answering, "Sheriff Stilinski."
Now clearly in Sheriff mode, Dad frowns, then leaves the room. Stiles knows that's a clear symbol that something serious is going on, because Dad only ever tries to hide the good stuff. This isn't just shoplifters at the 7-Eleven. As soon as he's sure Dad's not looking, Stiles slides his book onto the coffee table and stalks after him as quietly as possible. Dad's pacing the kitchen, but if Stiles stands just to the side of the doorway, Dad shouldn't see him. Not for the first time, he's thankful that Dad keeps the volume on his phone so loud. It's just loud enough that Stiles can follow most of the conversation.
Some of the world's dumbest joggers—the deputy doesn't use those exact words, but they went jogging in the Preserve after dark, so it's apt—found a dead body in the woods. Or, more accurately, half a dead body. They think it's a woman, probably in her 20s, possibly murdered, definitely gruesome looking.
As Dad puts in a call to the state police requesting extra manpower to look for the other half of the victim, Stiles retreats back to the couch. He props his feet on the coffee table casually and feigns interest in his book. Even if he hadn't listened in on the conversation, it wouldn't be surprising when Dad comes back into the room and apologizes that he's been called back in to work. Stiles is the only son of the Sheriff, so he's used to shit like this cutting into Stilinski bonding time.
Scott has to hear about this. Dad's barely out the door before Stiles is pulling out his phone to alert his best friend. Why isn't Scott answering? The night is still young, and they've got half a dead woman to find!
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in the beginning
20/6/13 17:19Stiles Stilinski has a very active imagination. Nobody, least of all his parents, is surprised when their six year old son says there's an intergalactic restaurant in his closet, and it was awesome Mom, and the pancakes were almost as good as yours, and there's even a lake outside and he fell in and that's why his clothes are kinda wet, and he met Batman.
It's just that they don't actually believe it's true.
Which, okay, so there aren't really ghosts in the McCall's attic, and just because Mrs. Alvarez who lives next door has a black cat doesn't actually mean she was a witch and he and Scott didn't actually hurt the cat, okay, and, no, Stiles, for the last time, there aren't wolves in California and so, no, they're not out there howling at the full moon, but this is real! There really IS a restaurant in his closet.
I mean, not really in the closet. The closet door is just the entrance. And it's only there sometimes. Inconveniently, never at any of the times he's tried to show anyone.
But whatever, what do his parents and Scott know? Milliways is awesome, whether they believe him or not. It doesn't show up often—usually his closet is just full of t-shirts and sneakers and the red suitcase on wheels he basically only ever uses when they go to visit his grandparents—but over the years Stiles is a regular, if infrequent, visitor.
Until he isn't, and that's okay. Starting high school is rough enough, especially when your Stiles Stilinski, always a little weird, a little distracted, a little hyperactive, and still missing his mom like crazy—not that he will ever, ever say that out loud. He has friends, he does, though most of them are Scott, but he doesn't really need to push the weird envelope by sneaking off to a place that he's long since given up on trying to convince anyone is real.
High school isn't bad, though. Lydia Martin's in a bunch of his classes, and even though she never notices him, being around her is still pretty awesome. A guy's gotta start somewhere, right? (Scott thinks Stiles should set his sights a little lower, but Stiles insists one day Lydia will fall in love with him.) They play JV lacrosse and discover that it's a lot harder playing on a team than just tossing balls at each other in the backyard, but it's a lot of fun, and they're determined to make varsity next year. They both make the honor roll, which is reassuring to both Sheriff Stilinski and Mrs. McCall and assures that they'll actually be allowed to play sports again next year.
The summer after freshman year they start the most ill-advised lawn care business ever. Between Stiles's lack of focus and Scott's asthma, it's a miracle they make any money at all. Luckily some of the neighbors take pity on them and hire them to cut lawns and plant flowers, even if their work is slapshod and inefficient. It's not like Stiles can be blamed that when Scott wraps a bandana around his face he looks straight out of a Western and they have to stop to have a standoff in the the noonday sun.
So things are pretty good. Beacon Hills still isn't the most exciting town in California, but it's home. Anyway, Stiles has plans to make sure that sophomore year will be more eventful and more socially rewarding—and, no, he won't be deterred by the rumors that Lydia is dating Jackson #@*$(! Whittemore—than last year, so help him. All he's gotta do is convince Scott of the genius of his plans, and they're golden.
It's just that they don't actually believe it's true.
Which, okay, so there aren't really ghosts in the McCall's attic, and just because Mrs. Alvarez who lives next door has a black cat doesn't actually mean she was a witch and he and Scott didn't actually hurt the cat, okay, and, no, Stiles, for the last time, there aren't wolves in California and so, no, they're not out there howling at the full moon, but this is real! There really IS a restaurant in his closet.
I mean, not really in the closet. The closet door is just the entrance. And it's only there sometimes. Inconveniently, never at any of the times he's tried to show anyone.
But whatever, what do his parents and Scott know? Milliways is awesome, whether they believe him or not. It doesn't show up often—usually his closet is just full of t-shirts and sneakers and the red suitcase on wheels he basically only ever uses when they go to visit his grandparents—but over the years Stiles is a regular, if infrequent, visitor.
Until he isn't, and that's okay. Starting high school is rough enough, especially when your Stiles Stilinski, always a little weird, a little distracted, a little hyperactive, and still missing his mom like crazy—not that he will ever, ever say that out loud. He has friends, he does, though most of them are Scott, but he doesn't really need to push the weird envelope by sneaking off to a place that he's long since given up on trying to convince anyone is real.
High school isn't bad, though. Lydia Martin's in a bunch of his classes, and even though she never notices him, being around her is still pretty awesome. A guy's gotta start somewhere, right? (Scott thinks Stiles should set his sights a little lower, but Stiles insists one day Lydia will fall in love with him.) They play JV lacrosse and discover that it's a lot harder playing on a team than just tossing balls at each other in the backyard, but it's a lot of fun, and they're determined to make varsity next year. They both make the honor roll, which is reassuring to both Sheriff Stilinski and Mrs. McCall and assures that they'll actually be allowed to play sports again next year.
The summer after freshman year they start the most ill-advised lawn care business ever. Between Stiles's lack of focus and Scott's asthma, it's a miracle they make any money at all. Luckily some of the neighbors take pity on them and hire them to cut lawns and plant flowers, even if their work is slapshod and inefficient. It's not like Stiles can be blamed that when Scott wraps a bandana around his face he looks straight out of a Western and they have to stop to have a standoff in the the noonday sun.
So things are pretty good. Beacon Hills still isn't the most exciting town in California, but it's home. Anyway, Stiles has plans to make sure that sophomore year will be more eventful and more socially rewarding—and, no, he won't be deterred by the rumors that Lydia is dating Jackson #@*$(! Whittemore—than last year, so help him. All he's gotta do is convince Scott of the genius of his plans, and they're golden.
