Chapter Text
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Boy Who Lived
Two Months Later
Stiles waited outside the physiotherapy clinic for his father. He attended physio three times a week, and he always waited outside for his dad, despite Becky's insistence that he was more than welcome to wait inside where it was comfortable. She didn't want him to feel he needed to rush out the second his session ended. But Stiles didn't want to be in the clinic any longer than necessary. Becky and the other staff were friendly and attentive, but he could detect the pity they tried to conceal. He hated feeling like a wounded bird they had discovered. Between this building and the psychiatrist he was visiting twice a week, Stiles felt like a loser. Damaged, broken, useless, shabby. Pathetic. He didn't want to be the kind of person people looked at with pity, shaking their heads and declaring "What a shame. The poor boy. A right shame."
Stiles had told his father repeatedly that he didn't need either the physio or the mental therapy – that he was just fine, thank you very much – but the sheriff had been unrelenting. Anytime Stiles brought the issue up, Sheriff Stilinski would adopt that authoritative tone of voice that meant Stiles would never win the argument, and told Stiles he was going whether he liked it or not. Though Stiles was stubborn and obstinate by nature, Stiles did not fight his father on the matter. Behind the parental sternness, Stiles could see the anxiety hidden in the sheriff's eyes. A profound fear that had appeared around the time of Marshall's return and hadn't disappeared. Stiles knew his father was forcing him to attend these sessions out of love, and for this reason, and this reason alone, did he do as he was asked – with only the occasional complaint and whining. He had only one condition: he wanted a female physiotherapist.
Stiles leaned forward and balanced his weight on his crutches; he had mastered doing this in such a way that it alleviated the stress on his upper body, without driving the sticks into his armpits, and maintained his established equilibrium. He examined the toe of his sneaker, stained with the mud and blood he couldn't completely scrub out; the tip was scuffed from the time he had tripped over the curb in front of the high school and fallen face first onto the concrete sidewalk. The most embarrassing day of sophomore year; he had walked around with a scabby chin for over a week, and taken the worst Yearbook photo ever. Such was his life: a constant series of humiliation, one mortification after another. He should sell the rights for his life to network television to make a sitcom. If he was going to embarrass himself on a daily basis, he may as well get paid for it.
Just to the side of his right foot, Stiles noticed a quarter. He was debating whether twenty-five cents was worth the effort required to bend down and pick it up, when his father arrived in the police cruiser. "Alright there, Stiles?" the sheriff asked, stepping out of the car. He raised his eyebrow at the weird position into which Stiles had contorted himself.
"Fine." Stiles forgot the quarter and straightened. His father opened the passenger door and offered his hand to help Stiles in. Stiles ignored the proffered limb and tried to successfully maneuver himself. Settling into a comfortable position was difficult. The crutches whacked against the police radio on the dash; Stiles grimaced and the sheriff shook his head. When he was sure Stiles was tucked safely inside the vehicle, he closed the door and grumbled "Stubborn" under his breath.
Sheriff Stilinski rejoined the late-afternoon traffic, navigating with one hand, and asked, "How did it go today?"
"Fine."
"What did Becky say? Any improvement?"
"I guess." Stiles fiddled with the dial on the police scanner and the sheriff swatted his hand away.
"Maybe I should meet with her soon, get an update on your progress."
"Yeah." Sheriff Stilinski sighed. Lately all his conversations with Stiles were one-sided. He had tried being patient, tried supplying topics and asking questions, tried bending over backwards in his attempts to draw Stiles out of himself, but all his efforts had been frustrated. The best he could get were few-word replies. Stiles wouldn't open up to him, wouldn't talk. He wouldn't even allow his father to attend any of his sessions with Becky or Joyce, his psychiatrist. He asked him to leave the room during check-ups with Doctor Ferguson at the hospital. Sheriff Stilinski was relieved to hear – from trained professionals, never from Stiles himself – that Stiles was making leaps and bounds on the road to his physical recovery, but the psychological consequences weren't faring as well. Ferguson had warned him something like this would happen, but he hadn't described just how painful it would be for both of them.
Stiles had shut him out. He was quiet and reserved. He talked little, rarely about himself, and never about that night in the woods. He locked himself in his room for long periods of time, and he didn't engage in any of his favorite activities. He avoided close proximity to his father, hardly looked him in the face, and denied any help the sheriff offered, even with the simplest of tasks. He tried to do everything himself.
The other day Sheriff Stilinski had returned home from work to find the staircase littered with dirty clothes, a dented laundry basket overturned on the floor, and a bruised Stiles halfway down, rubbing at a tender spot on his hip. He had rushed forward, but Stiles had shooed him away. Sheriff Stilinski had lost his temper. He had ordered Stiles to his room and angrily gathered the items up and put them in the wash. He didn't understand why Stiles insisted on doing everything alone. He shouldn't have been trying to get the laundry basket downstairs. His father would have done his load for him. Prior to 'the incident' (in his mind, Stilinski could assign no other term to it), the sheriff had to beg and plead with Stiles to do his chores, yet now, when he should be taking it easy, Stiles seemed determined to injure himself by refusing to ask for help.
"I was thinking about getting take-out tonight. How does Thai sound?" He knew this great restaurant downtown. It was a tad expensive, but he knew Stiles liked their menu.
Stiles shrugged. Great, they had digressed into non-verbal communication. Sheriff Stilinski exhaled heavily. He was at the end of his rope: he had tried concern, patience, understanding, reason, common sense. He had even tried guilt, anger, and avoidance. He had given Stiles space, allowed him to set his own terms. He had poured all his energy into helping Stiles. Nothing seemed to work. He was exhausted, confused, and, if he was honest, hurt. He didn't understand why his son wouldn't open up to him.
Joyce had provided him with pamphlets and advice, recommended books and websites, suggested a support group that met once a week in the Baptist Church basement, for parents whose children had been kidnapped or raped. Sheriff Stilinski had attended one meeting. The testimonies he had heard, from parents whose children hadn't been found or whose children were dead, from mothers and fathers who couldn't reach their children and eventually lost them to suicide or drug addictions, had struck him with such horror and shame he hadn't returned.
Sheriff Stilinski didn't know what else to do. He was limited, exhaustible; he was only human. But he wouldn't give up.
They rode home in silence, each Stilinski lost in his own private thoughts. Sheriff Stilinski parked in front of their house. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. Their neighbor, Mrs Mead, clad in a ragged t-shirt and gardening gloves, was attempting to carry a hideous gnome from her garage to her front yard. He watched her with meditation and amusement, and with a fathomless sadness he couldn't explain. Stiles watched her too. "What are your plans tonight?"
"Dunno. Probably shower, watch TV. Sleep."
Sheriff Stilinski's brow wrinkled. Stiles had been sleeping a lot. Excessively more than usual, even for a teenager. It was all he seemed to do anymore. "You should invite Scott over," the sheriff suggested. "Play some video-games or something. It's been a while since you two hung out. I sorta miss having him around the house."
"Maybe." Stiles opened his door and turned to grab his crutches. Sheriff Stilinski passed them to him, but did not release them. He looked seriously at his son.
"You can't keep doing this to yourself, Stiles. You should get out, have some fun, be around your friends."
"I'm fine, Dad."
"So you keep saying."
Stiles yanked the crutches from his father's grasp and slowly climbed out of the car. Sheriff Stilinski leaned across the seat. "Hey, Sty."
"What?"
"I'll be home no later than eight. Be careful in the shower, okay? And going up and down the stairs. I worry you might fall."
Stiles rolled his eyes, and for a moment Sheriff Stilinski recognized his son – his headstrong, sarcastic, intelligent, independent, totally impertinent son. "I'm not a little kid. I'll be fine."
"You're right, you're not a kid, but you are my kid. Be careful." Stiles mock-saluted and hobbled up the path to the house. Sheriff Stilinski waited until he had made it safely inside before leaving. He dug his cell-phone out of his pocket and dialled Scott's number. If Scott happened to 'coincidentally' drop by to check on Stiles, where was the harm in that?
Stiles grabbed a drink of juice from the kitchen, ascended the stairs, stripped off his clothes, and managed to position himself under the hot stream of the shower in half-an-hour. As he delicately scrubbed his body, he tried not to think of his father or the hurt he had seen in his eyes. Other people may have found it difficult to read Sheriff John Stilinski, but Stiles had learned to read him as easily as a picture book. One glance and Stiles knew what he was thinking or feeling, if something on his mind was troubling him, or if he was missing Claudia. The past few weeks, the sheriff read repetitively: worry, guilt, worry, love, worry, frustration, sadness, confusion, exhaustion, worry, worry, worry. It tore at Stiles to know he was the cause of all these emotions in his father. So he did the one thing he could do: he pushed his father away, pushed everyone away. Bottled everything deep inside, hid his pain, kept quiet. He didn't want to hurt his father. Didn't want him to see his brokenness and weakness. Didn't want his father to look at him and see Marshall, see what Marshall had done to him.
Stiles rubbed a bar of soap over his abdomen. White suds hid his marred skin in a rich lather. Pale yellow splotches the only remainder – and reminder – of the bruises. His own hands on his body felt strange and foreign. He was amazed he could be so traumatized by touch that even his own could bother him. Could bring back the awful memories he was fighting to forget. He wondered if he would ever feel comfortable in his own skin again.
Stiles rinsed the last of the shampoo from his hair, turned off the taps, and stepped clumsily our of the shower. He nearly slipped, and was reminded of his father's warnings of caution. Maybe he did give the sheriff reason to worry about him. He dripped into the purple bath mat. Around him, the room was filled with a thick layer of steam, fogging the lone window and the mirror. He towelled off and dressed quickly in fresh clothes without looking down. For weeks, Stiles had avoided looking upon his own nakedness.
Stiles ran his tongue over his gritty teeth. He remembered now that he hadn't had the energy or desire to brush them that morning – or the night before, for that matter. He cringed at how horrid his breath must smell and at how close Becky had been to his face earlier. She was too polite to say anything – possibly she had dealt with far worse: body odor and grotesque sores, patients who treated her with contempt – but he imagined the stench had nearly knocked her out. He thought she had looked a little green at one point. How humiliating! He liked Becky: she was pretty and friendly, challenging but in a caring way. Now she'd always think of him as the boy with sewage breath!
The way Stiles saw it, he had two options: snap out of this funk and start caring about his personal hygiene, OR keep his gigantic mouth shut. The latter choice appealed to him most, but he knew girls cared about things like cleanliness and effort – at least, one girl he knew did. The one girl he wanted to impress most. He'd never get a girlfriend with garbage breath. Who wanted to feel like they were making out with a trash bin? On the other hand, maybe if he just learned to keep his mouth closed, and shut the hell up, more girls would find him attractive. Cool. Mysterious. In the very least, they'd find him significantly less annoying.
Stiles grabbed the red toothbrush from the cup next to the sink. Its bristles stuck out at odd angles. He should probably buy a new one. His father's blue toothbrush was straight and firm. For Pete's sake, even the sheriff's toothbrush was a model of order and decorum. Even after all these years, it pained Stiles to see only two toothbrushes in the cup instead of three. The little things, he had come to realize, were the most difficult.
He squeezed out a large glob of Colgate paste and scoured ferociously. He tasted mint and blood from his sensitive gums. He rinsed the brush, gargled too-much mouthwash, nearly gagged, bent over the sink, and spit. When he straightened, the mirror had completely cleared and he caught sight of his own reflection – and the man standing behind him, his hands in his pockets, his fanged smirk wide and knowing, his steel eyes laughing. Stiles spun around, his heart hammering in his chest, but there was no one there. Of course, there wasn't. There never had been.
Stiles opened the medicine cabinet and removed one of the several orange bottles labelled with his name. He shook a couple pills into his palm and swallowed them dry. He closed his eyes and repeated desperately to himself: "He wasn't real. He's dead. He wasn't real. He's dead. You're safe."
Stiles kept telling his father he was fine, but moments like this reminded him he wasn't. He could fake sanity all he wanted, but it was a lie. The delusions had first started while he was in the hospital. He would wake up from nightmares and see Marshall standing over him in the dark. He panicked – screaming and thrashing against his sheets, until the light was turned on and the image dispersed. When his father asked him about it, Stiles brushed it off. Chalked the phenomenon up to sleep deprivation and restlessness; ghosts from his nightmares and imprints from his subconscious. He figured once he returned home he'd stop seeing Marshall. Once he was back in familiar surroundings, in his own bed, with his own pillow, he'd be fine.
Only the hallucinations hadn't ceased; they had worsened.
Stiles started seeing Marshall during the day. Glimpses of him in windows and on street corners, leaning against walls and reclining in chairs, standing behind him in mirrors or on the other side of his open locker. Smiling, waving. Waiting. He knew these visions weren't real, but he couldn't quite convince his brain, or his body, of this truth. He would see Marshall and his mind would go blank, his heart seize in terror, his body tense. Phantom pain would shoot through his insides – memories of previous injuries. Warning signs. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to hide his reaction when this happened, to fabricate a plausible cover lie as to why he was staring wide-eyed into space.
Finally, when the hallucinations had become too much for him to deal with on his own, he had told Dr. Joyce. She was the only person who knew. She had comforted and soothed him, assured him he wasn't crazy. Given his circumstances, she said – she always used that word "circumstances" - seeing his attacker was a perfectly natural side effect, especially since he was attempting to suppress his experiences, denied his feelings, and resisted opening up to her or anyone else. Joyce wanted him to tell his father, but he refused. He didn't want his dad to know. He didn't want to add another item to his father's long list of worries. Didn't want this to become another reminder of his fragile sanity, especially this soon after the nogitsune episode. He knew she couldn't break their patient-doctor confidentiality. Instead she had written him a prescription. Medication she promised would make Marshall disappear, if taken regularly.
The pills hadn't worked yet. Stiles hated them, hated the way they numbed his brain and made him feel foggy and detached. How they rid him of not only his hallucinations, but drained his emotions, desires, and thoughts as well. He wasn't himself. He was a ghost. What kind of life was worth living, if he couldn't live as himself? If he was numb, he was vulnerable. He needed to stay alert in order to protect himself. It became a vicious cycle he couldn't escape: if he didn't take the pills, there was Marshall; if he took them, his personality slipped away, he cared little for his own safety or for others, and Marshall was always there waiting as soon as the medication wore off.
Stiles wanted all of this to go away. He didn't want to be crazy. He didn't want to be a victim.
There was a knock on the front door. Before Stiles had a chance to tell them to go away, the visitor let themselves in. He should have locked the door behind him as soon as he got into the house. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was apparently useless at protecting himself. If there was an axe-murderer in the house, he deserved whatever happened next.
Maybe he could pretend he wasn't home.
"Stiles?"
Damn. Stiles stumbled down the stairs. There, in his entry way, stood Scott and Lydia. Part of him didn't want to see them, wanted them to go away and leave him alone. But his heart gave a quick flip when he saw them, betraying the truth of his contradictory feelings. He was secretly glad they were here. He missed his friends.
"Hey," Scott greeted, gazing somewhere over Stiles' shoulder.
"Hey," Stiles replied, glancing down at his feet. Lydia looked between the two of them and huffed. "Honestly," she muttered, "boys," and strode over to Stiles. Her four-inch heels and his stooped posture put them nearly at eye level. She wrapped her arms around Stiles, nestling herself against him. "Hi," she breathed into the crook of his collarbone.
"Hi." Stiles returned the hug despite his crutches. She smelled wonderful, like always – a mixture of fruits and flowers and a hint of a pleasantly feminine scent he couldn't place.
"Hmm, you smell good," she said, pulling back to look at his face. His words came out of her mouth, and he couldn't suppress the smile spreading across his lips. She smiled back warmly.
Following Lydia's example, tension broken, Scott clapped Stiles fondly on the back before drawing his best friend into a hug. Lydia inwardly fangirl-squealed over their bro-hug and beamed. Stiles led them them into the living room and indicated they should sit on the couch. "What are you guys doing here?" he asked, lowering himself into the recliner. He caught the glance they shared and groaned. "Dad called you, didn't he?"
"He thought you might like some company."
"More like a babysitter," Stiles grumbled.
"Now, Stiles," Lydia chided, "he's just worried about you. We all are."
"It feels like you've been avoiding us," Scott added. "We hardly see you, and you've been...quiet."
Stiles couldn't deny the accusation. "People complain when I won't shut up. They complain when I'm too quiet. I can't win." His tone was piercingly bitter. Scott drew back in surprise. He was used to his friend's sarcasm and biting humor, but normally it was funny or bold, rebellious and self-assured in a way Scott had always admired. This was different: cold, jaded, quietly wrathful, hopeless.
"I didn't mean it that way, bro. You know I didn't."
"He just means you've been reserved lately," Lydia said gently. "We're your friends. We notice when you aren't acting like yourself."
Yeah, now you start noticing me, Stiles thought, shocked at his own resentment. He knew he had been distant lately, quiet; he was imposing isolation and silence on himself. What was he getting mad at them for? What the hell was wrong with him?
"We want to make sure you're okay." Stiles didn't need to be a werewolf to be able to sense the concern wafting off Scott.
Stiles softened. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me." Scott and Lydia shared another knowing glance. This unspoken communication was starting to irk him. "What?" With her eyes, Lydia conveyed that Scott should take the lead.
"Dude, you are not fine. Besides the fact that I can smell the anxiety coming off you, you've been acting weird, you won't talk about what happened, you're sleeping all the time, your grades are poor, you never leave the house, you don't want to hang out. This is the first time I've been here in weeks, and your dad invited me. Don't tell me you're fine!" Scott had worked himself up; Lydia laid a pink-nailed hand on his shoulder, and he took a calming breath.
"I don't know what you want from me," Stiles said.
"God, Stiles. I want to help you!"
"You don't understand..."
"I want to," Scott pleaded. "Help me understand."
They lapsed into silence. Stiles struggled with a million clashing emotions raging within him. His desire to confide in them, to share his burden, to let them in was strangled by his need to protect them, his hatred of weakness, the horror he secretly carried that if anyone knew the details of that night they'd look at him differently. They'd see him the way he saw himself. They'd see the broken and damaged boy that kept him from looking in the mirror.
"Stiles," Lydia's voice was sharp. Though she had spoken quietly, a current latent in her voice captured and held his attention as if she had screamed. "I want you to listen very carefully. I'm going to tell you something, something very few people know. I want you to pay attention, because I am not going to repeat myself. Is that clear?"
Stiles looked to Scott, who shrugged. He equally had no clue what she was about to say. Lydia was staring at him, her back straight and rigid, waiting for an answer. "Well?"
"Okay."
Lydia took a deep breath and began, "I haven't always been the pretty girl that you see before you-" Stiles opened his mouth to protest – he had known Lydia since they were children, and he had always found her beautiful – but she cut-him off, "No interrupting, okay?" He nodded. "During the summer before we started high school, I suddenly blossomed. My body changed, and I was suddenly attractive." An almost laughable look of horror crossed Scott's and Stiles' faces simultaneously. Was this going to be a puberty story?! "Calm down, I'm just stating facts. Anyway, I had suddenly become the archetypal Pretty Girl, and other people noticed. Male-people specifically. Guys who had never cared about my existence started speaking to me. My friend group changed. I joined the populars, started going to parties. During freshman year, I went to my first official high-school party with some of my friends. Ryan Wilson was hosting-"
"Ryan Wilson?" Scott asked incredulously. "The Beacon Hills Midfielder? He was a legend!"
Lydia's glare burned. Scott's jaw slammed shut with a click. "Shut up and listen. Yes, it was that Ryan Wilson. I went with my friend Jenna; she was his little sister's babysitter or something. We were drinking. Ryan took a special interest in me. I hadn't drank much before, but that night I drank a lot. Whenever my cup was empty, Ryan would get me a new one. He was being so sweet and lavishing all this attention on me. I wasn't used to guys liking me. I was flattered and I let my guard down..." Lydia trailed off distractedly. "He tried to take advantage of me."
"What!" Stiles clutched the arm of his chair. Scott's eyes flashed red, and Stiles knew inside he must be seething as angrily as he was.
"I still had enough presence of mind to stop him before it went too far. I called my father and begged him to come get me. The look on Daddy's face: he was so disappointed in his baby girl. I spent all weekend in my room. I dreaded going to school that Monday. Rumors and gossip had already spread. Ryan had told all his friends that he had slept with me, that I was easy. I heard the word 'slut' quite a few times that day – but that's not the point. I held my head high, and I acted like their pettiness was beneath me. I wasn't going to let the opinions of hormonal jock-straps with the IQs of Neanderthals and a few jealous witches bring me down. I wasn't going to let them define me. I was going to define myself. And I have. Their malicious slander faded away, and I have worked hard to become the sort of person I want to be, regardless of my past mistakes."
Stiles stared at Lydia in shocked silence. In some minute, subtle way she had transformed before his eyes. He had always admired her strength and self-assurance, but those qualities now took on a deeper meaning.
"Experiences, people, they don't define you, Stiles. Marshall did horrible, unspeakable things to you, and you can't change that. None of us can, as much as we might want to. But you decide how you let those things affect you. They can tear you down or they can make you stronger. I'm not going to push you to talk to us or to make you do anything you don't want to, but don't think I am going to sit by and let you throw your life in the gutter because of some bastard! He doesn't get to take anything from you Stiles. You get to choose who you are." Lydia was impassioned. Each word pierced him like a sword and convicted him.
Stiles had no words to follow up. He stared at Lydia and she returned his gaze fiercely. "I care about you, Stiles. You have a lot of people who care about you. And if it takes Scott and I showing up on your doorstep everyday for the next ten years, that's what we're going to do." Stiles could feel his eyes misting and he tried to wipe at them casually. "Thank you," he whispered, because it was all he could think to say. "Do you guys want something to drink?"
Lydia and Scott stayed for another hour. They spoke no more about the matter, chatting instead about trivial matters, like school and the upcoming lacrosse game. They joked and gossiped, making bets over how long Cheer captain Jenna Wilder and her quarterback boyfriend Martin Brown would stay together this time. "I give it until Friday," Stiles wagered wisely, though he couldn't care less. Lydia's words rattled around inside his head, but he wasn't ready to open up just yet. He needed time to process, to think.
The police cruiser pulled into the drive at half-past six. The trio were laughing. They were swapping embarrassing stories, and Stiles had brought up a childhood memory that trumped all others. Scott's face was beet-red, and Lydia had fallen over in hysterics. Stiles' ribs ached when he laughed, but it felt good. He missed this. Missed fun. Missed letting loose and hanging with his friends. Sheriff Stilinski entered the house carrying a large bag of take-out. "Hello, Lydia. Scott," he grinned, seeing the smile on his son's face. "Would you like to stay for supper? I'm sure I've got enough."
"No thank-you, Sheriff Stilinski," Lydia declined gracefully, checking the time on her phone. "I should be heading home now." She leaned down over Stiles and kissed his cheek. Her long red hair brushed against his skin. "Think about what I said," she whispered.
"I will."
"I should get going too," Scott said, fist-bumping Stiles in parting. "Hey, Lydia! Wait up! Can you drive me home?"
Stiles closed the door behind his friends and shuffled into the kitchen. His father was laying out a number of cardboard cartons on the table. The food smelled delicious. Stiles' stomach rumbled greedily. Sheriff Stilinski smiled. "I hope you're hungry."
Stiles ate with a relish he hadn't felt in a long time. Sheriff Stilinski beamed over his son's appetite, serving second and third helpings each time Stiles cleaned his plate. Stiles asked him about his day, and they exchanged a few light-hearted sentences. Sheriff Stilinski scraped his fork against the bottom of the pad thai noodles carton. "So Lydia and Scott came by. That's nice."
"I know you called them, Dad," Stiles revealed, fried rice spraying from his mouth.
Sheriff Stilinski didn't even try to appear sheepish. "Yes, well, I'm glad I did. You seemed like you were having a good time."
Stiles smiled lightly. "Yeah, I was."
"See? That's great!"
Stiles knew his father was happy to see him acting like himself, but his excitement made him feel guilty for reasons he couldn't quite explain. He grew quiet and contemplative, picking absently at his meal. Sheriff Stilinski noticed the change in Stiles' demeanor and wondered if he had been the cause. He decided to drop the issue, but not before having his final say: "I love you, Stiles. I know the past two months have been difficult, but I'm not going anywhere. You're not alone, so you don't need to act like you are. Marshall's dead. Giving him the power to dictate your life, that's like letting him win. No one has power over you but you – and sometimes me; I am your father, and you're still a minor, but you get my drift." Stiles stared at his father incredulously. His words echoed Lydia's sentiment so exactly, Stiles wondered if the Universe was trying to tell him something and he was finally hearing it. Sheriff Stilinski misinterpreted the look on Stiles' face and immediately changed the subject. He'd kick himself all night for speaking that man's name in his house. Stilinski pasted on a smile and asked, "How about a movie after supper?"
There were no dishes to be washed, so Sheriff Stilinski and Stiles settled into the living room to watch a movie on cable. Choosing a film was easier said than done. They immediately ruled out campy creature-features and horror flicks. Sheriff Stilinski didn't like contemporary comedies about weed and a million other sexist and illegal activities that made him cringe. Stiles wasn't in the mood for a war flick, a western, or a courtroom drama – his father's favorite genres, and his father axed any mention of sci-fi. In the end, they settled on a Morgan Freeman movie. "Your mother always loved his voice," Sheriff Stilinski said as he scrolled through the channels, and that settled it.
Stiles went to bed as soon as the movie ended, though it was early. He left his father alone in front of the television, lounging in his armchair, a half-full beer in his left hand. As he began the tedious ascend upstairs, he didn't notice as Sheriff Stilinski's gaze drifted wistfully from the screen to his back. If the sheriff wanted to call something after his son, he kept it to himself.
Stiles grabbed a clean pair of pajamas and locked himself in the bathroom to get ready for bed. He took pains to wash up and clean his teeth. He had to admit: feeling clean did help improve his emotional state, just as Joyce claimed it would. (Maybe, he thought, he should listen more closely to her advice; she could be right about other stuff too.) He turned away from the mirror as he peeled off his t-shirt, and paused with it over his head. "What the hell am I doing?" When had he become so ashamed of his body that he couldn't stand to face his reflection? He exhaled slowly, turned slowly, and – he saw himself. 140 pounds of pale flesh, dark hair, brown eyes, a six-pack that could never quite develop because of his love for curly fries; 5 feet 10 inches of teenager that had grown from a tiny embryo comprised of the best parts of John and Claudia Stilinski. He had her nose, his father's hands. He traced the red, jagged lines along his chest and torso with his fingers. He twisted to examine his back, the slender curve of his spine, the solid shoulder blades, the pink skin of claw marks.
It was him, just him, plus a few scars. But what was life without scars? Scars were stories, proof his past was real. Stories he wished weren't true, a past he wished had never happened, but forgetting wasn't the answer. The scars would never let him forget, but for the first time in two years, he didn't want to forget. He could allow the scars to continue to hurt him, or he could use them to make him stronger. He could let these scars define him, or he could choose to define the scars. They didn't brand him as a victim: they proved he was a survivor.
He had faced hell and lived. The worst thing he could possibly imagine had happened, and he had survived. There was nothing left to fear. He hadn't been beaten down or broken, hadn't surrendered. His friends, his father, had fought for him, had refused to give up on him. He needed to keep fighting for himself.
Stiles knew he was there without looking. Marshall perched on the toilet seat eyeing him appraisingly, one hand raised in the air, claiming responsibility for the marks on the boy's skin. Stiles didn't reach for his pill bottle. He faced the apparition straight-on. Stared into those hollow eyes – now blue, now silver. "I'm not afraid of you. You will never hurt me again. You lost. You're dead, and I'm still here. I am not afraid of you."
Marshall disappeared. Stiles doubted he was gone for good, but he knew if he saw him again, he would not be afraid.
Stiles laid awake in bed. He was tired, but he couldn't turn his mind off. He kept replaying Lydia's words in his head. He started to think seriously about his sessions with Joyce. He ruminated on the many wonderful relationships in his life, reflecting on how fortunate he was to have people who loved and supported him. Just this once, he wanted to do what he wanted, and what he wanted was to surround himself with love and laughter. He also had to admit to himself that building walls and keeping his friends out wasn't right. He decided it wasn't fair to push them away. As noble as his intentions were – trying not to burden them with his problems and messes – they fell flat. Real friendship was a two-way affair. If Scott was upset, or if his dad was hurting, Stiles would feel hurt if they felt they couldn't come to him. He would want them to feel they could always talk to him, confide in him, depend on him. He owed it to his loved ones to be honest with them.
Stiles decided he wanted to heal, and he knew he needed to open up. One person, at the first, and possibly more as he found healing and grace. One person to start – the right person, to love and support him unconditionally. The one person who would never turn away from him, no matter what. He knew immediately who that person was, and it was not Dr. Joyce, who sat primly with a clipboard in her lap, charging his father outrageous prices by the hour, hiding behind her anonymity and university degrees. He owed her nothing, but there was one person – one man – he owed everything.
It was quarter-past eleven. John Stilinski's bedroom door was open. He liked to sleep with it open in case Stiles needed him in the night. He was in bed reading, the glasses he hated wearing in public perched on the end of his nose. He looked up when Stiles rapped lightly on the door. "Everything all right, Sty?" he asked in surprise. Stiles was crutch-less and barefoot, panting faintly and leaning against the frame. It must have taken him a great deal of time and effort to shamble down the hallway. He read the determination on Stiles' face and knew this was a good sign.
"Yeah. I was wondering if we could...talk."
Sheriff Stilinski set his novel – a crime thriller – on the nightstand and removed his reading glasses. "Sure." Stiles stepped awkwardly into the room and glanced around. Sheriff Stilinski pat the empty space next to him. "Come here, kiddo," he encouraged. "Come have a chat with your old man."
Stiles smiled, shuffled over agonizingly slowly, and sat on bed. He looked at his father's face and he could see his soul: brimming with love and devotion, strength and a peace Stiles felt he understood but couldn't explain. His father waited patiently for him to start, and Stiles remembered now what an awesome listener his father had always been. "I'm not okay," he admitted, and just like that the words were spilling from him. Spewing forth rapid-fire. His father listened quietly, nodding here and there. He never interrupted, even when the tears started.
When Stiles finished, Sheriff Stilinski drew him into a hug. He held him until Stiles finally broke away. Stiles smiled and his father handed him a kleenex to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. Stiles felt a million times lighter. Better than he had in months. "Can I sleep with you tonight?" he asked.
John smiled and nodded. "But the second you steal the covers," he warned, "I'm kicking your ass out."
Stiles laughed. "Deal." He climbed under the sheets, like he had when he was younger and had been woken in the night by scary dreams or strange noises. The two of them had slept together a lot after Claudia's death. He could feel his father's warmth, reassuring and present, beside him. Stiles didn't need to do this on his own. He had never been alone. Pierce was wrong, it wasn't luck that had saved him. It was love: the love of his father and friends. The kind of love Marshall Laundry would never understand.
Stiles knew he was going to be okay.
END