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whatisastilesStiles 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.