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“Mama! Dada!” Little Mieczyslaw “Stiles” Stilinski screamed from his brand new toddler bed.
His parents tumbled through the doorway, his mother scooping him into her arms while his deputy dad looked frantically around the room for an intruder. He glared at his wife chuckling at him, although she was just relieved he hadn’t run in with his gun drawn since he’d just walked into the house from work when the screaming had started. Once they were both assured there wasn’t anyone in the room, they turned their attention back to the sobbing child. “What is it, Little Mischief?” she asked, hiding her smile in his hair as she soothed him with her pet name for him.
“Monster!” the boy screamed, lisping in that way toddlers do, as he pointed at his closet, the door slightly open.
With an amused huff, John walked over and pulled the door completely open to show his son there was nothing inside besides a mess of clothing and toys. His son’s face was buried in his mother’s shoulder and he refused to look up, crying harder when his mother tried to encourage him. Sighing, John turned to shut the door completely, something he would have thought his wife had done before she’d put him down for the night, but maybe she’d forgotten this one time.
It was just about to click in place when he thought he heard rustling from somewhere near the back of the closet. He started to pull the door open again to investigate and make sure one of the neighbour’s cats or another animal hadn’t gotten into the house, but as soon as he pulled the door open slightly, Stiles thrashed wildly in his mother’s arms, his voice rising in decibel until John had to fight the urge to cover his ears.
“Shut it! Shut it! Shut-” His shrieks cut off as soon as John closed the door firmly.
Claudia sat down in the rocker in the corner with the quivering child in her arms. John watched the two greatest loves of his life interact while he moved through the room trying to clean up the mess they’d managed to step over and around while attempting to calm Stiles. The sheets were torn off the bed, probably in terror when the boy had tried to hide and the room was littered with stuffed toys. As he picked them up, he realized they were laying in a scattered path between the bed and the closet and John imagined his son using them as ammunition and chucking them towards the closet and whatever monster he believed was inside. As he looked over the animals, he noticed that Filut , his son’s favourite stuffed fox was nowhere to be found. He glanced at the closet for a moment and took a step toward it when his son’s giggle distracted him.
“No, Mama! A door can’t be a jar! You’re silly!”
The three of them sat together telling stories until Stiles fell back to sleep and Claudia laid him in his bed. His parents watched him sleep as they left the room, Claudia’s smile was fond while John just prayed that the monster in the closet wouldn’t be making a regular appearance or there would be too many nights of not enough sleep in the Stilinski household.
Despite his constant prayers, the monster in the closet did indeed become a regular visitor. More nights than not, John and Claudia would take turns going in and shutting the slightly open closet door before either rocking Stiles to sleep or climbing into the tiny bed with him to sleep, only to wake up with cricks in their necks and a child who seemed to have forgotten the horrors of the night before. John wasn’t sure when it slowed down, probably around the same time Stiles had started kindergarten and became friends with another little boy named Scott McCall.
Whenever Stiles spent the day with Scott, he’d come home exhausted and sleep through the night, allowing his parents to sleep peacefully. Despite being given the ability to sleep, some nights John knew Claudia tiptoed into their son's room to check on him. He missed his wife, but when he heard Stiles’ giggling instead of screaming, he was able to fall asleep.
One night, when Stiles was about five-and-a-half years old and was spending the night at the McCall’s and Claudia was locked away in their bedroom with one of her becoming far too frequent headaches, John decided to skip sleeping on the sofa. He laid a sleeping bag out on the floor of Stiles’ room, his toddler bed still just a little bit too small to be comfortable, and shut the closet door before he climbed into the bag and went to sleep. He woke up when he heard the creak of the closet door and when he sat up, he saw it was cracked open and thought he saw an amber glow coming from inside. For a split second, he believed in Stiles’ monster in the closet.
Shaking himself, he stood and crossed to the door, letting out a laugh when he found himself looking at a large stuffed wolf with plastic eyes. As he stood, a car drove by, the headlights flashing through the room and reflecting off the bear. Shaking his head, John grabbed the large bear, wondering if it was another toy his wife had snuck past him into the house and put on Stiles’ bed before his son threw it in the closet pretending to be too grown up for baby toys.
Over the next couple of years, John became distracted from the mystery of the closet monster by the illness of his wife. He spent too much time at the hospital and at work, while his son spent too much time at the hospital as well, especially for a child that age. There were a lot of nights when his son ended up spending the night in a chair next to his mother’s bed, the nurses watching him without complaint but an abundance of pity. It wasn’t unusual for John to come home after a night at the station and stare at his son’s unmade bed and struggle to remember where his son was before remembering he’d been at the hospital all night.
One night when Stiles was about seven years old, on one of Claudia’s good nights, a night during the time when she was able to come home and be with her family instead of being constantly monitored, John was passing Stiles’ room and heard him chattering away on the other side of the door. At first he thought he was on the phone with Scott, getting caught up after not having seen each other for a few days, but then he’d starting talking about Scott. When John peeked inside, Stiles was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the open closet door, all of his attention focused there. When he paused in his talking, he tilted his head like he was listening and if John focused, he thought he could hear a low rumbling.
“What’s up, kiddo?” he said during one of these pauses, unsurprised when his son flailed before turning his attention to his father.
“Nothing,” he responded, eyes darting to the closet and back to his father.
“Who’re you talking to?” John asked, stepping into the room, concerned as he wondered if Stiles was too old for imaginary friends and if he should take him to see the counsellor the doctors at the hospital kept recommending. He watched his son mirror his movements to keep himself between John and the door and he wondered if he realized he was doing it. “The closet monster?” he teased, the memory of the nightly visitor popping into his head.
His son gasped, freezing for a split second before snapping his mouth shut and jumping into action and flinging shut the closet door. “Don’t be silly, dad. You and mom always say there’s no such thing.”
“That’s right,” he assured his son, watching the closet and making a mental note to check it out later when his son was getting ready for bed, but he was distracted by his pager going off with the code requesting his presence at the station and he resigned himself to missing out on a night at home with Claudia and Stiles.
***
Stiles was almost eight years old when his father had brought home a computer he’d bought in an auction. John knew nothing about computers himself except for the small amount he used the one at the station, but he thought the new item would give something to keep Stiles’ occupied and his mind off his mother. His father was only partially correct; Stiles was occupied, but his mind was always on his mother. It took up most of his desk, but he was having fun looking at the book on programming his dad had also bought and creating easy programs, the green blips on the screen making him laugh as he wondered if he changed one number in the code if he could alter the speed of the blips. He was just about to try when he heard a crash and a loud howl coming from his closet.
Pushing his chair back, he raced over and ripped the door open. “Mon!” he shouted. He’d originally started calling his friend Monster around the time he’d stopped being afraid of him, but had shortened it to Mon when he’d been informed that being called Monster hurt his feelings and made him not want to talk to Stiles anymore. He stared into the closet, looking for the eyes. He could hear breathing so he knew Mon was there, but he didn’t see the gold lights that accompanied his visits. “Mon!”
Two blue pinpricks of light appeared, accompanied by a whimper that made Stiles’ heart clench with sympathy and a little bit of fear. He stood frozen in the doorway for a moment before moving into the closet, but just like every other time, he was met with the back wall and the lights got no closer. It was a strange feeling knowing something was there but not being able to touch it. “Mon?” he whispered.
“It...it’s me,” Mon’s voice came out, sounding rough like his mouth was full and his throat was clogged.
“Are you alright?” Stiles asked, settling onto the floor of his closet, leaning against the pillows he’d piled against one wall a few weeks previously when he and Mon had sat up all night talking about the pretty girl from orchestra he’d met.
“No,” Mon responded after awhile. “Paige…”
“Oh no,” Stiles breathed out. “Did she break up with you?” There were times he wished he could hug Mon; this was one of those times. As soon as he thought about it, he shook his head, knowing people would think he was crazy if he talked about his friend in the closet, but despite how it appeared to everyone else, he believed Mon was real; he just didn’t know how he was or how to explain him to anyone else.
“She’s dead.” Mon’s voice was soft, but the words echoed off the walls of the closet, surrounding Stiles until he felt like he was drowning. “She’s dead and it’s all my fault.”
Stiles started to ask a question, but was cut off by the sound of a door slamming and the disappearance of the blue lights. He tried calling out a few more times before he heard the front door open announcing his father’s arrival home from work. Stiles was in bed, eyes closed, controlling his breathing before his father came up to check on him, but it was hours before he fell asleep, mind racing with thoughts of Mon and what had happened to Paige.
***
Stiles woke the next morning and stumbled down the steps, finding his father in the kitchen sitting at the table still in his uniform and looking more exhausted than he’d seen him in months. His lips turned down at the corners as he looked over the papers in front of him, rubbing a hand over his face before startling when Stiles stepped up behind him. He’d just gotten a glimpse of a school picture of a pretty girl with brown hair and moles that reminded Stiles a bit of himself before the Sheriff slammed the file shut.
“Morning, kid,” he greeted before pushing himself to his feet. He stepped away from the table towards the fridge and Stiles creeped closer to the table, his small hand reaching out but his father snatched the file away before he even got one finger on it. Shaking his head, a fond smile on his face, the Sheriff put the file on top of the fridge and went about making breakfast, yawning the entire time.
Stiles waited for Mrs. McCall to pick him up for school while his dad tried to get some sleep before heading back to the office. When the McCall’s arrived, Stiles climbed into the car, high-fiving Scott and blowing a kiss to his mom with a laugh when she winked at him in the rearview mirror. “How’s my favourite man?” she asked and grinned when Scott squawked in protest.
Scott bounced in the seat next to him, but kept quiet the entire ride so Stiles started babbling about Lydia Martin, the red-haired girl that had shared her crayons with him the day before and Stiles’ declared he was going to marry one day. By the time they arrived at school, Stiles was already planning their wedding and Scott still hadn’t said anything.
They waved as Mrs. McCall drove away and turned toward the school. Stiles took a few steps, but Scott jerked him backward by the straps of his backpack, dragging him as he flailed behind a tree in front of the school. They were in clear view of the office and teachers’ lounge windows, but Stiles didn’t point that out as Scott whispered, “Did your dad tell you about the dead girl?”
Stiles immediately thought of the file his father had been looking at and shook his head. “My father never tells me anything!” Stiles pouted as Scott’s face fell.
“I was hoping you knew something because all I know is she was attacked by an animal.”
“Wow,” Stiles responded. “That’s crazy. Do you know who it was?”
“Some girl from the band at the high school,” Scott said. “I don’t know her name or nothing.”
The bell rang and they both raced towards the door of the school, the conversation dropping as they were swallowed up by the hustle and bustle of the other students.
***
Just under a year later, an eight-year-old Stiles sat on his bed, rubbing at his eyes, trying not to wrinkle his suit as he waited for his father to come to get him. He was feeling itchy and he just wanted his mother, but she’d died and he had to dress up to go watch them put her body in the ground. He knew it was something that had to be done, but he didn’t want to go to the cemetery. He’d already been there, alone in the hospital room when she died, he didn’t want to see her in a coffin now. It wasn’t his mother anymore; hadn’t been his mother for a long time because of the disease, but that didn’t make it hurt any less to lose her.
He wrinkled his nose as the smell of whiskey grew stronger before his father appeared in the doorway, looking dishevelled and definitely not ready to go. They stared at each other for a few moments and Stiles sighed at the double feeling of loss he felt looking at the man who looked like his father, but all the similarities to the man he’d known before his mother died ended there.
“Dad,” Stiles told him, sighing and climbing off his bed, falling into a caretaker role that he knew he was too young to fall into but did anyway because he loved his father and his mother had made him promise to take care of him when she couldn’t. “You need to get dressed.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” his father snapped. He took a step towards Stiles and his son took a step back; in his heart, he knew his father wouldn’t hurt him, but it was a natural reaction to the aura of threat that filled the room around the older man. Scott’s mom appeared in the doorway, laying a hand on John’s arm and pulling him out of the room and down the hall.
Stiles listened to his father complaining to Melissa and her soothing tone in response. When he heard the hangers moving in the closet in his father’s room, he took a step toward his own closet and pulled open the door. He didn’t hear or see anything, so he called softly, “Hello?”
There wasn’t a response, but Stiles wasn’t surprised; the sun was still up and he’d never heard or seen anything until after the sun went down, but he really needed to talk to someone and his friend in the closet always seemed willing to listen, even if he didn’t respond very often. Digging through his desk, Stiles pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled a few words on it before balling it up and throwing it into the closet. He wasn’t sure if his friend would find it in the mess or not, but it was worth a shot.
That night, Stiles dragged himself into his room after having tucked his drunk father into bed, leaving a glass of water and bottle of ibuprofen on the nightstand, something he’d seen Melissa do for his dad when he’d been this bad before. Stiles was emotionally exhausted, having spent the better part of the day hiding in corners and crying as people wandered around looking for him to tell them how sorry they were about his mother. Everytime someone had managed to catch him and express their condolences, Stiles had to find a new place to hide. After all of that, having to practically drag his father up the stairs and into his bed had physically exhausted him as well. Walking into his room, he sat down on the end of his bed, he dropped his face into his hands and surprised himself by still having tears left to cry.
It was as his tears were slowing down that he heard the creak of his closet door and he looked up eagerly. He remembered when the sound used to terrify him; when the glow of eyes coming from the closet and the grumble of the voice would make him scream for his parents. Now, he waited eagerly for those sounds, feeling the comfort of his friend, knowing he was probably in his head and he was most likely losing his mind, maybe getting sick like his mother, but he still loved the comfort that it all brought to him.
Even after that night when Mon had appeared, eyes changed and so much sadness in his voice, Stiles still felt comfort from him. He’d learned quickly not to mention Paige or the different colour of his eyes and instead focussed on other things. He’d talked about his mom being ill and how scared he was that she’d never get better; something that had come to pass. That night he needed his friend more than ever and he’d hoped his note earlier telling Mon what had happened and what he’d had to do that day had managed to somehow reach Mon even though Stiles never could.
Approaching the closet, he looked inside, smiling at the blue glow. “Hi,” Stiles said, watching the slow blink and hearing the growl and shuffling. He pulled the door open wider, but still could only see the eyes, not the face that held them. He stepped inside, upset that he couldn’t get close enough to touch his friend because he could really use a hug, but they’d both tried to reach each other before and could never manage to do it.
The shuffling kept up until something soft hit him in the shins and fell to the floor at his feet. Reaching down, he picked up a stuffed wolf with golden eyes. “For me?” Stiles asked.
“Yes,” the voice answered. “To replace Filut .”
“You’re not gonna give my fox back?” Stiles asked, snuggling the wolf against his face.
“Mine, now.” Stiles laughed at his friend but it quickly turned into a sob he buried in the wolf’s neck. “I got your note. Are you alright?”
“No,” he answered simply, muttering into the fur, wondering if his friend could even understand.
“I’m sorry. That sucks,” his friend responded, sounding decidedly uncomfortable. “I can’t even imagine losing my mom; losing Paige was hard enough.”
Stiles wiped at his eyes when he heard noise from his father’s room. “I have to go,” he said. “Thank you for the wolf.”
“You’re welcome, Mischief,” his friend said.
Stiles wanted to cry again at the name, memories of his mother calling him that flooded, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell his friend to stop calling him that. “Good night, Monster.” The grumble in response set Stiles off into giggles that felt wrong considering the sadness of the day, but the amused huff that came in response to the laughter told him that he was forgiven.
The closet door was closed and Stiles was curled up in bed when he heard his bedroom door open. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt his father settle onto the edge of his bed and ran his hand over his hair, brushing against the buzzcut he’d given himself the morning after his mom had passed. He didn’t know how long his father sat there because he fell asleep, but he was gone when he woke up the next morning.
***
The next few months, Mon and Stiles spoke every couple of days, but suddenly the visits stopped. Stiles would leave his closet door open every night and toss a note in every day, but there wasn’t any response. He was just about to give up on Mon, nearly convinced he’d been a figment of his overactive imagination when Mon appeared again.
“I’m sorry, Mischief. I have a new girlfriend,” he told him when Stiles asked him where he’d been.
“Another girl from school?” he asked, wondering if this girl was as pretty as Mon had said Paige had been and wondering what the burning feeling in his stomach meant.
“Kind of,” he responded. “She works there and is older. I can’t tell anyone else about her, but I...I love her and I had to tell someone.”
Stiles smiled even though the words made him sad, like he was losing something he never really had. He wanted Mon to be happy because he deserved it, but he didn't want to lose him and he had a feeling that a serious girlfriend, an older serious girlfriend would be just the thing to put an end to their friendship. He wanted to tell Mon he was happy for him, but, “I miss you,” came out instead.
“I miss you, too,” Mon said and he sounded like he was telling the truth, but then he said he had to go and Stiles had a feeling that was the last he’d hear from him.
***
Less than a month passed since he’d last spoke to Mon and Stiles was sitting working on his homework or rather tossing a crumpled up piece of paper that had been the first page of his book report in the air and catching it before doing it again. He was up to fifteen successful catches in a row when he heard his father’s pager go off and then the rushed sound of his father moving around and speaking urgently to someone. Counting down to ten in his head, he reached one just as a triple beat knock sounded on his door followed by his father’s voice. “Huge fire in the preserve, kid. Gonna be a long night.”
“See ya,” he said, standing up and pulling the door open and stepping into his father’s arms. “Love you,” he called as his father raced down the stairs, already speaking rapidly into the radio he kept on his belt. “Be safe,” he whispered, almost in a prayer as he watched him disappear from view.
As soon as the front door slammed downstairs, a crash sounded from Stiles’ closet. It wasn’t like the sounds he usually heard that he attributed to Mon; this sound was loud and scary. He stood up and approached slowly. He was a few steps away when what sounded like a roar rattled the hinges of the door, spurring Stiles into action.
Reaching out, he yelped as the knob burned his fingers. Ignoring all fire safety rules that told him he should race out of the house and call 911, he wrapped his shirt around his hand and twisted the knob, yanking open the door. A blast of heat knocked Stiles off his feet and across the room. His head banged against the far wall before he crumpled to the ground.
Howling filled his ears as the ceiling above him swam and he choked on thick smoke. The room began to darken as green orbs swam into view. A shocked “Mischief?” was the last thing he heard before his world faded to black.
***
John stood in the yard as the firefighters struggled to put out the last bits of the fire on the remains of the once grand Hale Mansion. The house had crumbled just as John had pulled up. He’d spoken to the chief who’d announced that although screams had been heard from within the house when the first responders had arrived, no one had been found inside. His face was morose as they discussed the inevitable fates of the extended family that had lived there.
John was getting ready to radio the station to tell his deputy to search for next of kin when there was a commotion along the tree line. Striding across the yard toward him, eyes on the remains of the house was a large crowd of people. He instantly recognized Talia Hale at the head of the group. “Talia!” he shouted, racing towards them.
“Sheriff,” she greeted. “You need to get home. Now.” She continued past him to the fire chief as John stood stunned.
“Please, Sheriff,” a young man pleaded with him. Turning his gaze on the boy, he identified Derek Hale, the oldest son of the Hales whose green eyes were watching him from a soot-covered face, his arms clutching a stuffed fox that reminded John a lot of the one his son had lost when he was younger. “Just listen to mom and go home.”
John’s radio sparked to life, Deputy Graeme’s voice coming through. “Sheriff, there was just a 911 call from one of your neighbours. They reported loud noises coming from your home. We have a unit on the way, but thought you would want to know.”
“On my way,” John responded already on his way to the cruiser, the Hale family’s strange appearance already forgotten as he shouted orders to the other deputies as he climbed in and took off, gravel spitting from the tires as he tore out of the driveway. He dialled his house and cursed when the phone went unanswered; his son never ignored the phone when he was home alone.
He arrived at the house before the unit that had been dispatched and wasted no time letting himself in the house, the smell of smoke filling his nose as he raced up the stairs to Stiles’ room. He reached the doorway and saw his son unconscious on the floor, the room clear of anything but the smell of smoke still strong. As he knelt next to Stiles and radioed for an ambulance, he looked around for a source of the smoke and finding none chalked it up to the smell having saturated his clothing at the Hale house.
“Stiles, son,” he spoke softly, patting the side of his face as he looked him over for injury. There was no response, but he could see the rise and fall of the boy’s chest so he could breathe easier himself. “C’mon, kiddo, open those eyes for me.”
He kept talking to Stiles without getting a response until the paramedics came in and loaded him onto the stretcher. Following closely behind, he climbed into the ambulance, staying out of the way as they gave him an IV, swallowing hard and knowing Stiles would’ve been flailing and trying to talk them out of doing it because the boy was absolutely terrified of needles. He flexed his fingers to stop himself from reaching out and taking his hand, knowing that he had to let the medics work.
He prayed for the first time since before his wife had died.
***
Stiles blinked against the too-white light that filled the space around him. His head felt like it was drifting above his shoulders briefly before pain sparked through it, bringing the world into too sharp focus. Low voices filled the room, rapid fire in disappointment or discovery, stopping only when Stiles let out a groan that tore at his throat. He blinked back tears before lifting his hand to wipe them away, freezing at the tube coming out his arm. A tube he knew was attached to a needle. A needle that was in his arm.
Stiles screaming caused his throat more pain which led to more screaming and flailing which pulled on the needle. Blood began dripping down his arm starting the entire cycle of screaming and pain all over again. Strong arms held him down, voices speaking rapidly. “Stiles!” his father snapped, bringing him out of his panic, but he kept crying and begging him to take the needle out. The woman standing beside his bed across from his dad said she’d get a nurse and hurried out of the room, but Stiles barely noticed as he locked eyes with his dad.
His father lifted a styrofoam cup into his field of vision, cutting off the screams. He tried to get the straw into his mouth but it was sneaky and he kept missing. Finally, his father took pity and held the straw still. Stiles took a large sip and began choking, more tears falling as Scott’s mom walked in the room with the woman who had been there earlier and a man in a white coat.
“Slow sips,” Melissa admonished him as she started checking his vitals.
“Nice of you to join us, Stiles,” the doctor greeted. “I’m Dr. Antony. Do you know where you are?”
“Take it out,” Stiles demanded through clenched teeth when Melissa began trying to fix his IV.
“The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we can discuss removing your IV,” the doctor responded, voice firm but eyes dancing with amusement.
“The sooner you get this outta my arm, the sooner I’ll answer your questions,” Stiles sassed back and the doctor actually chuckled. “I’m so not joking right now.”
“Son, listen to the doctor,” the sheriff ordered.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, Stiles leveled his father with a glare. “Fine. I’m at Beacon Hills Memorial. The month is January. I can’t tell you what day it is because I don’t know how long I was out, but the year is 2005. The president is George W. Bush. My father is Sheriff of Beacon County.” He rattled everything off in a monotone before screaming out, “Now get this stupid thing outta my arm!”
Melissa choked back a laugh before removing the IV with a nod from the doctor. Stiles wanted to kiss her when she put a Batman bandaid over the still bleeding slightly hole in his arm. Soon after the doctor and Melissa left the room to get Stiles’ discharge instructions leaving him with his father and the strange woman.
“Kiddo, do you remember what happened?” Stiles recognized the voice, this wasn’t just his father, this was the sheriff asking. Stiles looked at the woman who was standing just inside the door and twisted his fingers together before reaching for the water glass. “This is Talia Hale,” his father explained. “It was her house that caught fire in the preserve tonight.”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, looking up at her and she took a step closer to the bed, her back straight, but a soft smile on her face. “Is everyone alright?”
“Yes, everyone was able to get out through a tunnel that my son Derek told us about,” she explained. “None of us even knew it was there.”
John let out a strange chuckle, thinking back on the story that Talia had told him, but they’d agreed to save the details until Stiles remembered them for himself. He started to ask Stiles again if he remembered how he’d ended up unconscious on the floor of his room, hoping they could settle this craziness quickly, but Stiles started talking instead.
“Do they know what started the fire?” he asked. “Was it faulty wiring? I’ve seen your house before and it’s pretty old. Has it been inspected lately?” He turned his attention to his father. “Will insurance cover-”
“Stiles,” Talia interrupted. “You don’t need to worry about us. You need to answer your father’s questions, alright?”
Stiles nodded but kept his focus on Talia. “Why are you here?”
Talia and the Sheriff exchanged a glance, neither answering for a moment before Talia finally responded, “My niece is down the hall and I stopped to stay hello and find out if the fire marshall had discovered anything when you woke up. I can leave now if you’d like.”
“No, you can stay,” Stiles told her. “I like your eyes.” He wasn’t entirely sure where the comment had come from, but it was true. Her eyes were a green that nearly glowed and when she smiled, the colours swirled and filled Stiles with a feeling of safety and familiarity.
“Thank you,” she told him, smiling and reaching out to touch his cheek. “I like your moles.”
Stiles laughed and swatted her hand away, but she took it in hers and Stiles smiled as he turned his attention back to his father. “I don’t remember much. There was a crash in my closet and I opened the door and then cut to hospital scene.”
“It’s not a movie, son,” John told him, looking up at Talia who shook her head minutely. “I’m going to walk Talia out and then come back and make myself comfortable.”
“Go home and get some sleep, dad,” Stiles told him. “Melissa will make sure they take care of me.” John watched Stiles’ eyes darting around the hospital room, the clamminess of his skin belying the confidence of his words.
“I’ll be right back,” John stated again.
“Good night, Stiles,” Talia said to him, cupping his face with her hands and John watched Stiles’ eyes well with tears, probably reminded of his mother. “It was an absolute pleasure to meet you and I am thrilled that you are alright.”
“Night, ma’am,” Stiles told her, reaching up and patting at one of her hands and giving her a wet smile.
“Talia, dear, always Talia,” she told him and leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead. “Sorry for being forward, but you remind me so much of my son,” she told him.
Sitles’ smile grew. “It’s alright, Ms. Talia. See you soon!” He waved as they left the room, shutting the door behind themselves.
They moved a short distance down the hall. “I apologize,” she said to John who waved her off.
“My son’s injury is not your fault and as worried about him as I am and as crazy as your story seems, I am so thankful that you and your family are alright.”
Talia pulled John into a hug. “Claudia loved you so much and as angry as I was when she cut herself off from me when she met you, she only did it to protect you.”
“I understand, but I guess that’s done and over now. I’m assuming Derek will be coming to see Stiles?” John was still confused by everything Talia had shared with him that night, werewolves, soulmates, old wives’ tales, sparks; his head was spinning. However, Claudia used to tell Stiles fantastical stories that shared similar themes and he began to wonder how much of those tales were actually true.
Talia shook her head sadly. “No. We are leaving for New York, respecting Claudia’s wishes to keep you away from us and our lives. Coming here tonight was to say goodbye, I’m just glad we don’t have to tell Stiles what he’s losing.”
John’s anger burned through him and Talia took a step backwards, eyes flashing a bit of red. “That monster in the closet has been Stiles’ closest friend for as long as I can remember. There are closets everywhere, Talia.”
“There are, but Derek will not have access. I’ve already discussed it with him and he agrees, especially after tonight; things could have turned out so much worse.” She swallowed and reached out for John’s arm, but he jerked it away. “Soon, Stiles will forget about Derek, will convince himself it was just a silly whim of childhood. He will grow up and do great things.”
“You’re damn right he’ll do great things, but my son does not forget,” John told her, turning back to the room. “You’re making a mistake.” He let himself into the room with his already sleeping son, not even noticing if Talia stayed or walked away.
***
As the years passed and Stiles grew from a hyper child to an obnoxious teenager, John shared stories with him. He told the stories Claudia had told and mixed them with the truths Talia had told him that night at the hospital. He told the stories until Stiles could repeat them back to him, but he never once revealed to his son that werewolves were real or that he’d met one or two before.
Imagine his surprise when sixteen-year-old Stiles sat him down in the kitchen one day, fidgeting and tapping his fingers on the table only to burst out with, “Scott’s a werewolf!”
Turned out the boy had been attacked one night when he and Stiles had snuck out to the preserve to search the woods for a missing girl. They’d hidden what had happened, cleaning and dressing the wound themselves while googling treatments. The next morning when they’d pulled off the dressing to change it, they were shocked to discover unbroken skin.
Stiles had immediately known what that had meant, despite his father having always presented the stories as myths, and confided in his father. The same night, John reached out to Talia for help, putting aside his anger in reverence to concern for Scott. Stiles’ heart had broken when Talia had taken Scott back to New York, but the new wolf had promised to keep in touch; John just hoped Talia would allow it.
***
Stiles attended graduation only because it meant so much to his father. He had no desire to celebrate the ending of high school beyond the fact he’d never have to see any of his classmates again.
After Scott had left, Stiles went from being known as half of the oddest duo in school to being invisible. He thought about the episode of Buffy where the marginalized girl had literally become invisible and wondered if it would happen to him. If werewolves were real, couldn’t spontaneous invisibility be as well.
He spotted his father standing next to the stands waving something white in the air above his head. Stiles was ready to hide in embarrassment but he zigzagged between groups of friends taking pictures and talking about “last times.” He was only a few feet away when he identified the item as an envelope. I really large, fat envelope.
He quickened his steps, not even apologizing as he bumped into Greenburg, probably the only kid less popular than him, sending him sprawling and the lacrosse coach shouting at both of them. He reached his father finally and snatched the envelope bearing the NYU log, holding it to his chest. “It’s big!”
“It’s big,” his father agreed, smiling.
Tearing the envelope open, Stiles pulled out the letter and scanned it, cheering when he was done. “I got in! I’m off the waiting list!” He threw his arms around his father’s neck and the two of them cried happy tears that something had finally gone right for him.
A few months later, on the eve of his departure to New York, Stiles stood in the doorway of his closet; it was something he’d done at least once a week since the night he’d woken up in the hospital. He held the letter in his hand, he’d spent hours earlier writing it even though he was sure it was a waste of time. Even the discovery that werewolves were real didn’t completely erase the nagging doubt that Mon was a figment of his imagination, despite all of that, he didn’t feel right leaving Beacon Hills without letting Mon know where he was going.
Crumbling the paper, he threw it toward the back of the closet, then stood listening for anything. When the silence stretched on, Stiles sighed and reached up to the shelf next to the door and pulled down Wilk from his hiding spot, stuffing him into his carryon for the flight the next day. “Good-bye, Mon,” he whispered as he closed the door.
***
John followed Stiles off the plane, smiling at his son’s eagerness to get out of the airport and begin exploring his home for the next four plus years. They chatted as they reached baggage claim, Stiles listing off all of the places he was determined for the two of them to visit before John flew back to Beacon Hills a few days later.
He was trying to talk his son out of visiting the Empire State Building, World Trade Center Memorial, Statue of Liberty, and ten other locations in one day when his eyes fell on a not entirely unexpected face. His smile faded into a grimace and Stiles stopped talking to follow his father’s gaze.
“Miss Talia!” Stiles shouted, racing between people and throwing his arms around the woman who hugged him back, her eyes on John’s over the boy’s shoulders. He was surprised to see there were tears in her eyes before she closed them and pressed a kiss to Stiles’ temple. “I haven’t seen you since…” He trailed off.
The buzzer announcing the dropping of their luggage covered whatever Talia said back to Stiles. Stiles had only two bags, the rest of his things having been shipped a few weeks before. When Stiles had gotten his acceptance letter, John had contacted Talia; whether to share his pride, warn her, or rub it in her face that she couldn’t hide anymore, he still wasn’t sure.
Surprisingly, she’d offered Stiles a place in one of the buildings her family owned free of charge and John would have been a fool not to take her up on it. He’d wanted to ask after Derek, but she’d changed the subject quickly leaving John wondering if she was still determined to at least keep the two of them apart.
Talia kept an arm around Stiles’ shoulder when the hug broke to watch the carousel carefully. Stiles dove for his first bag, tripping over his own feet and nearly landing on the carousel only stopped by Talia’s quick reflexes and a shirt fisted in the back of his jacket. The collecting of luggage was done in relative silence broken only by shouts of, “That one!” and “Thanks!” Once they had everything, John and Stiles followed Talia out of the terminal to a long black car.
The apartment building wasn’t far from campus and Talia explained it was mostly filled with students who applied and got housing based on their grades and rent was set based on their financial aid packages. A lot of people jokingly referred to it as the Unofficial Honors Dorm aka Hale Hall. “I know you were concerned Stiles wouldn’t be around people his own age when I offered.”
“This is awesome!” Stiles said as he stood in front of the ten story building and tilted his head back to look up. “There’s an elevator, right? Please tell me there’s an elevator...or I’m on the first floor.”
Talia laughed a she led him inside, greeting a few students who were moving through the lobby by name and introducing Stiles quickly before pressing the button for the elevators that lined the back wall of the lobby. “Yes!” Stiles said, earning a laugh from his father as the doors opened to the far left elevator.
Getting inside, Talia tapped the button for the tenth floor. “Top floor for you, Stiles. I’ll admit to giving you a bit of special preference when this unit opened up for this year.”
“You didn't have to do that, Talia,” John argued while Stiles watched the numbers as they lit up above the doors. There was something Talia wasn’t saying and the longer the ensuing silence went on, the more he was determined there was something about this particular apartment that made her choose it.
The elevator dinged and let them out on a long hallway that only had three doors, one at each end and one directly across from the elevators. “The building superintendent lives there,” Talia explained pointing to the right and a door marked 10C, “and that door is a room that can be rented for parties and other activities with access to the roof.” She handed Stiles a key and pointed to “10A” across from the elevators. “This is yours,” she told him.
Grinning, Stiles used the key to unlock the door and pushed it open, gaping when he was greeted by a spacious room and a wall of windows looking over the university. “This...this is too much,” he argued, but he was already moving over to the windows and pressing his forehead against the glass.
“Talia,” John started, but the woman held her hand up and leaned in close to him.
“Consider it an apology,” she told him as they watched Stiles exploring the space, already ripping into some of the boxes that had been shipped ahead. “After you called to warn me that Stiles was coming to New York and I know it was a warning, I reconsidered everything and wanted to help.”
“And Derek?” he asked.
Talia glanced down at her feet for a moment, an unusual show of hesitation for her, before she looked him in the eye and opened her mouth to speak. “He-”
“Miss Talia,” Stiles interrupted as he raced back into the room. “Why are there no closets?”
John’s mouth set in a firm eye as he glared at Talia. There it was, the catch, the other shoe he’d been waiting to drop.
***
Stiles sat cross-legged on his bed, the first night in his apartment on his own; his father had flown home earlier in the day after staying for a few days to help him settle. Talia had invited him over for dinner that night, but Stiles had declined wanting to get used to being on his own. He’d ordered takeout from a Chinese place down the street, eating in front of his computer watching Netflix. Now, he was looking out the window in his room at the city lights and feeling more alone than he’d ever been.
Back home, he would’ve opened his closet door and tried to contact Mon, but there was no closet here. He wasn’t even sure if it would've worked anyway, having never contacted Mon through any closet other than his own, but he wanted to give it a shot. Climbing off the bed, he padded over to the dresser to pull out pajamas, stopping at a knock on his front door.
He walked quietly over to the door, looking though the peephole for a moment before shouting and yanking the door open and throwing himself into the unsuspecting arms of his best friend. “Scotty!” he screamed, unsure who was laughing or crying louder as the two embraced in the hallway.
Keeping one arm around each other, they shuffled through the doorway into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind themselves before stumbling down onto the couch. “How’ve you been, man?” Scott asked, wrapping an arm around his neck and scrubbing his knuckles against his head. “Your hair is so long!”
“And yours is so short!” Stiles countered, leaning back and looking at him. “Jaw’s still crooked.” Scott flashed his eyes at him. “Eyes are still gold.” He laughed when Scott shoved him none-too-gently, sending him tumbling off the couch. “Talia know you’re here?”
“Of course she does! She was worried when you turned down dinner. It’s your first night alone in the apartment and everything.” Scott explained. “So, I’m here until you throw me out.”
“Never sounds good,” Stiles said, laughing. “This place is way too big for just me.”
“That’s what Derek always said, too,” Scott told him.
“Derek?” Stiles asked, his brain trying to figure out how he knew that name.
“Hale. Talia’s son? He lived here for the last few years, but moved back to Beacon Hills just before you arrived, something about rebuilding the old Hale house.” Scott kept talking as he began fiddling around with the gaming system, catching him up on what he’d been doing and how the Hale Pack was doing.
“Derek became an Alpha a few months ago, which is why he’s heading back to Beacon Hills; it’s too hard having two Alphas in the same territory,” Scott wrapped up with and Stiles yawned loudly.
“How’d he become an Alpha?” Stiles asked before pulling Scott to his feet. “Bed, now.”
Scott nodded and followed Stiles to the bedroom, stripping to his boxers and climbing into the bed after Stiles. “An Alpha came into the city and started trouble with Talia, Derek killed him protecting his mom.” Stiles gasped at how blase Scott was while discussing murder. “It happens with wolves, man. So, now he’s an Alpha back home. Your dad knows this, he contacted him before he moved back.”
Scott started snoring before Stiles could say anything back and Stiles didn’t know why it bothered him that he hadn’t known a part of the Hale pack had moved back to Beacon Hills. He made a mental note to talk to his father about it before exhaustion took hold and he fell into a deep sleep comforted by the presence of his best friend.
***
Stiles remained in Hale Hall until he graduated, Scott moving into the spare room after the first year. They’d shared space and picked up their friendship where they’d left off and growing stronger. Through it all, Stiles learned more about werewolves. The only thing that felt off was the absence of Mon in his life. He got into the habit of checking closets everywhere that he went, but none of them had the pull that he had felt whenever he’d opened the door to his own back home.
His classes kept him busy and his job at Hale Industries kept him busy and unable to go home very often. The few times he did, he’d checked the closet and discovered the notes were gone, but they’d been emptied of everything so he’d never been sure if it was Mon or his father who had taken the notes.
He felt his college experience had been pretty average despite the advantages he was afforded by his job and living arrangements. The only thing that he felt was off was his lack of romantic experience. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve suspected Scott and his boyfriend Isaac went out of their ways to cock block him at every turn, but he needed to believe it was just bad luck and not sabotage. He just hoped that once he left New York and Scott behind, things would be different.
Now he stood in the doorway of his childhood room, a college graduate due to start work at the Sheriff station in the newly founded Cyber Crimes division while he attended the academy to become a proper deputy as well. He was hoping to find a place to live that wasn’t his father’s house, but for now, he would settle in and try to forget he was sleeping in the same bed where he’d had his first wet dream.
He threw his bag on the bed, hoping that everything he’d shipped home would arrive soon because he’d only packed enough clothes and necessities for a few days. He unzipped the duffle and pulled out Wilk , setting him on the pillows on the bed before pulling out shirts and turning towards the closet to start putting things away.
His hand was on the knob when there was a knock on his open door. Turning, he was surprised to see his father and Talia standing in the opening. “Hey! I didn’t know you were in town!” Stiles crossed the room to give her a hug, surprised when he pulled back and saw the serious expression on her face.
“We need to talk,” she explained, looking at Stiles’ father who gave her a small smile and nodded, following them down the stairs and into the living room.
John settled into his recliner while Stiles and Talia sat beside each other on the couch. “You’re looking pretty grim, Talia, did something happen? Is your family alright? Is there anything I can do for you?” Talia let out a small laugh. “What?”
“The night I first met you, do you remember?” Stiles nodded his head, thinking about the hospital and the events that had led up to that which he’d never shared with anyone. “You were more worried about me and my family than yourself. You have such a big heart and it hasn’t changed.”
Stiles puffed his chest up at the praise but tilted his head to the side. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to sing my praises and you know if you get me started on a tangent we’ll never get back to what you actually wanted to talk about, so why don’t you just get to the point.”
“I knew your mother when we were younger. She was my dearest friend for a great part of my life,” Talia began, sighing when Stiles gasped. “I thought we would be friends forever, but then something happened.”
“What? What could’ve happened that my mom would stop being your friend and never mention you to me? She used to tell me everything!” He didn’t like being told his mom had kept things from him; they had been so close before she got sick, thick as thieves she’d always say. They didn’t keep secrets, he’d even told her about Mon.
“She never told you about werewolves,” John commented. “She grew up around them, knew about them and had even told me about them.” Stiles could feel his anger growing and opened his mouth to scream but his father talked over him. “And then one attacked me while I was out on patrol in the Preserve one night.”
Stiles leapt to his feet, tripping over his own feet and ending up sprawled in his father’s lap. “Are you alright? Did you get seriously hurt?” He gaped at his father and began pushing at his lips and staring into his eyes. “You aren’t…” He hooked his hands into claws and gave a growl.
Talia chuckled behind him. “I should find that offensive, but it’s really hilarious.”
Stiles pushed himself off his father’s lap. “It wasn’t meant to be funny. Is my father a werewolf?”
“No, Stiles. I’m perfectly human and the attack wasn’t that severe-”
“Two weeks in the hospital recovering from an ‘animal attack’,” Talia interrupted using air quotes around the last two words, her smile soft as Stiles glared at her, but returned to sit beside her on the couch.
“Who attacked him? Was it you?” Stiles demanded, mentally cataloging where he kept the mountain ash and wolfsbane powder; he didn’t care if she was an alpha, he would kill her.
“Of course not,” she answered, offended. “I would never hurt anyone that Claudia loved.” John scoffed. “Hush you, my intentions were not to hurt.”
“Okay, as much as I love a good tangent, I need to know the whole story. Right the fuck now,” Stiles demanded.
“Stiles, language,” his father admonished.
“No, he’s right,” Talia said, laying a hand on Stiles’ arm, hurt flashing across her face when he jerked it away and slid towards the arm of the couch, curling up into himself and glaring at her. “After the attack, your mother made me swear to keep my family away from yours. You were only a few months old and she feared for your safety, despite having been my best friend for years and no one had been injured before that.”
She curled her fingers in her lap, staring down at them. “I loved your mother enough to honor her wishes and as far as I knew, there was no contact between our family and yours. I didn’t realize that wasn’t completely true until the night of the fire.” She looked up at Stiles then. “We asked you that night what you remembered and you said nothing; is that still accurate?”
Stiles bit his lip and shook his head. “Not entirely. I remember hearing noises from the closet and burning my hand on the knob before opening it.” His father gasped. “And I thought I heard someone call me Mischief.” He looked at his father, blinking back tears. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think I was crazy. I was pretty sure that I wasn’t crazy, but…” He trailed off with a shrug.
“You weren’t crazy,” his father reassured him. “I know you haven’t mentioned him in a long time, but do you remember Mon?” Stiles’ head whipped up, choking on whatever words he was trying to push out. “He wasn’t imaginary.”
“Werewolf lore holds tales of soulmates connecting before actually meeting, but I had always believed it was make-believe until the fire. We couldn't get out of the house because it was surrounded by Mountain Ash, but my son led us to his closet and inside. Suddenly we came out in your room and found you unconscious.”
“Your son?”
“Did you ever meet my son? He’s a few years older than you,” Talia asked.
Stiles shook his head. “I know his name is Derek and he’s an Alpha. Scott thinks he’s the coolest guy in the world.” He rolled his eyes, thinking of all the times he’d sat and listened to Scott wax poetic about the awesomeness that is Derek Hale. “Beyond that, nothing.” Silence fell between them as he waited to find out what Derek had to do with anything.
When John huffed and pushed out of his chair mumbling about a drink and smart kids who were dumb a posts, Stiles tried to go back over the conversation to figure out what he was missing. They’d been talking about Mon and then werewolf soulmates and then Talia had asked about… “Wait...is Derek, Mon?”
“Ding, ding, ding,” his father shouted from the kitchen, his voice dry and lost beneath the sounds of clinking glass.
“And Derek’s closet connected to mine,” Stiles asked. Talia nodded and pulled her phone out, fingers flying over the screen. “You mentioned soulmates and connecting before meeting.” He closed his eyes, breathing slowly to control the rabbit pace of his throat. “You think Derek is my soulmate?”
“She doesn’t think,” John said, coming back into the room, handing a tumblr with two fingers of whiskey in it to Stiles and another to Talia. “She knows. We both do.”
“The apartment in New York without the closets. Derek lived there and then I did. He came back to Beacon Hills when I went to New York.” The panicky feeling began to morph into anger. “If you knew he was my soulmate, why would you keep me apart?” He glared at his father, clasping the glass tightly to temper the urge to toss it in someone's face.
John raised his hands in surrender. “It wasn’t my idea. I did everything to help you figure out what was going on.”
Stiles turned his glare on Talia. “Does Derek know?”
“He found out the night of the fire that you were Mischief, but he doesn’t know what it means.” Talia twisted her hands together. “I was hoping I could keep respecting Claudia’s wishes-”
“Fuck that!” Stiles yelled, holding up a hand to stop his father from admonishing him for his language. “My mom would’ve wanted me to be happy!”
“She wanted you to be safe,” Talia argued, her voice even and eyes flashing a bit of red before she closed them and took a deep breath. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but I’ve realized now that Derek is here with his own territory that I’m not.” She glanced down at her phone when it buzzed, eyes flying over the screen. “An Alpha needs his mate.”
“So, I’m just supposed to drop everything and marry a total stranger?”
“The relationship doesn’t have to be romantic, there just has to be a connection. Like the one the two of your developed when you were children,” Talia told him.
There as a crash from upstairs followed by insistent knocking. “What the-” Stiles asked before his eyes widened and he jumped to his feet.
As he raced up the stairs, he tried to convince himself he was still in bed sleeping and all of this was a crazy dream. Maybe his entire life since the night of the fire was a coma hallucination, but something in his heart told him differently. He stepped into his bedroom, the knocking echoing and his closet door vibrating.
Approaching slowly, he ducked back for a few moments to grab Wilk off the bed. Finally, he stood in front of the door and the knocking stopped. “Mischief?” a voice called from behind it and Stiles’ throat went dry. Despite it being a bit deeper and rougher, he knew that voice.
Grabbing the knob, he opened the door to reveal a dark-haired, stubbled man in a leather jacket holding Filut in his hands, worrying the large ears. “Mon?” he asked, hugging Wilk tighter.
The man’s face broke into a smile revealing white bunny teeth that softened his entire look, and his green eyes sparkled. “It’s Derek, actually.” He held out a hand.
Stiles took it, squeezing instead of shaking. “And I’m Stiles, not Mischief.”
“Actually, you’re Mieczyslaw,” he said, his pronunciation perfect. “Your mother taught me when we were young. She’d sit outside the closet after you’d fallen asleep.”
Stiles realized they were still holding hands when Derek pulled him closer, his eyes veering from his to a point over his shoulder. Stiles followed his gaze and saw his father and Derek’s mother in the doorway to his room. “Did you know my mom knew?”
Talia shook her head. “Not until a few weeks ago when Derek told me. If I’d known she approved, I would never have kept the two of you apart.”
Stiles looked up at Derek. “Is she lying?” He knew werewolves could hear when someone lied but Derek just shook his head, his smile still bright. “Well, I hate that you’ve been lying to me for so long, but I can appreciate why you did it, so I suppose I can forgive you.”
“Don’t hurt yourself, son,” John teased. “Now, Derek, why don’t you come join us for dinner.”
Derek cleared his throat and looked up at John. “Actually, I was hoping Stiles could join me for dinner. It’s just about ready to come out of the oven.” He looked over his shoulder deeper into the closet and inhaled sharply. “We should go.” His eyes found Stiles’. “That is if you want to join me for dinner.”
“I’d love to,” Stiles told him, waving to the adults as he allowed Derek to lead him through the closet. A part of him fully expected to run into the back wall of the closet, that somehow Talia and John had smuggled Derek into his closet as an elaborate practical joke.
“Ready?” Derek asked as he pushed past the hangers and pressed his palm to the back wall and shoved revealing another room. Stepping through, Stiles took in the space, awed at the minimalistic design.
He moved through the room, touching the surfaces of the dresser and desk, the built-in bookshelves before moving to the bed. The duvet was fluffy and black and there was a dip near the pillows. Tilting his head, Stiles moved around the bed and leaned in to place Wilk in the dip, smiling when he didn’t fit exactly. He looked up as Derek stepped up beside him and placed Filut next to him, causing Wilk to tip slightly and lean into Filut.
Stiles allowed himself to lean into Derek, smiling when he wrapped an arm around his shoulders and leaned in and nosed at his hair. “They’re meant to be together,” Derek whispered.
Looking up into Derek’s eyes, Stiles licked his lips and nodded. “Yeah, they are,” he whispered, stepping a bit closer so their faces were only a few inches apart.
“They’re not the only ones,” Derek breathed out before pressing their lips together as he heard his mother and John chuckling and a door closing in the distance.