Chapter Text
Stiles could pinpoint the day that his father stopped trusting him. It was eight months before his mother passed away and she’d had an episode. It had been a bad one. One that had ended up with him having a bruised cheek and Claudia being committed to the hospital, to the room where Stiles had watched her breathe her last breath. The Sheriff had been called into the station early in the morning leaving Stiles and Claudia to get themselves together for the day, but given that it was Saturday he hadn’t been too worried. There was nothing for them to do, which was the problem.
When Stiles had made it to Scott’s house after the incident that afternoon he’d lied to Melissa about what had happened. He’d told her that his mom was crying, that she wouldn’t stop, and that he didn’t know what to do. So, Melissa had grabbed her first aid kit and Stiles, Scott was with his dad, and she’d started back to the Stilinski house. But Stiles wouldn’t go inside, until Melissa in her hurry to make sure Claudia wasn’t about to do something drastic or burn the house to the ground tugged him inside.
Claudia had come around the kitchen island that moment and spotted them, her gaze zeroing in on Stiles. She’d shrieked with a fury Melissa hadn’t known her friend capable of and then she’d flung herself at Stiles. Melissa went to shield the little boy who was like her second son, but he’d stepped in front of her, seemingly intent on take his mother’s rage upon himself. Melissa managed to separate them and call for help, the Sheriff’s department relaying the call to John who’d sped over to the hospital.
By the time John arrived Stiles was sitting still, unnervingly so, in a room while Melissa tried to coax him into letting her see his injuries. He’d gone to Claudia first to find her under sedation and then found an orderly to point him in the direction of his son.
“ ‘m fine,” whispered Stiles as Melissa came closer again with gauze.
“Stiles, sweetie, you’re not,” Melissa replied, trying to keep the fear and frustration out of her voice, “You’re bleeding, honey, and I need to see why.”
Stiles shook his head, then winced, closing his eyes as the movement seemed to trigger great pain.
“Stiles!” John’s voice was loud, stern, and not all warm and comforting. It made Stiles flinch, full-body flinch that made John’s eyes fill with tears, but he needed his son treated before anything else, “Stiles, you need to let Melissa see. Now,” his tone brooked no argument but he tried to soften it by putting a hand out to cup Stiles’ face when his son actually pushed himself off the examining table away from his father.
John immediately pulled back his hand, palms out, showing Stiles that he wasn’t armed and he stopped moving. The pieces started to click in his head, the bruises Stiles had told him were from rough housing or clumsiness, “Mica,” his voice went soft, almost like a croon, and he squatted down to try appear less threatening, “Mica, please let Melissa see, please.”
Stiles backed into a corner and ducked his head, shaking it, “No, she said I can’t.”
Melissa took in a sharp breath, “Stiles, sweetie, what did she tell you that you can’t have?”
Stiles stayed quiet. Melissa spoke again, voice even softer, “Stiles? Did she tell you that... when she hurt you should keep it a secret?” She took the silence as confirmation. “Was today the first time?” even though she felt she knew the answer she wanted to ask him. Again silence. “Stiles, will you come back to the table if I leave for a bit?” Slowly, so slowly Stiles inched forward as Melissa backed away.
John stayed where he was though and Stiles seemed hesitant to come closer to him. “I’ll sit over here, Mica okay?” John murmured, inching toward a chair by the table. Stiles inched forward again, but he stopped short of climbing back up on the table. He leaned against it instead.
“Mica?” John whispered, “Do you need help?”
Stiles stayed quiet, but he tried to climb up onto the table on his own. As he did so the blood on his shirt became apparent to John who saw the moment Stiles began to slip and he darted forward to catch his son. Stiles fell into his dad’s arms, attempting to twist his face away but John caught his cheek gently. John made himself look at the damage his wife had inflicted upon their son, three long scratch marks stood out bright red from Stiles’ right ear to the middle of his neck. That was nothing compared to the dark purple bruise that decorated the left side of Stiles’ face, “Oh, Mica,” his voice wavered, “How long has this been happening?”
Stiles still refused to speak. John wouldn’t, he couldn’t let it slide, “Please, Mica.”
“Just today,” Stiles’ voice was small, raw, and stubborn.
No matter how many times in the following days that John or Melissa asked him that question Stiles stuck his story that it had only happened once. No matter that the scars on his torso or the bruises on his arms told a different story.
Stiles stuck to his lie.
And that’s where it all began.