Chapter Text
Stiles stared at the door for a long time, glancing at the dusty curtains behind the glass, and the half-lit neon sign that still proclaimed the name of the shop:
Mischief Tattoo
It was nestled into the almost-a-downtown district of Beacon Hills. If Stiles ever made it past the front door, he knew the walls were lined with bold, traditional artwork. There were some portraits, some Japanese style flash sheets, and even a sheet of new school from a time when his mom was feeling particularly creative.
Mischief Tattoo had been a home away from home, an escape from the day-to-day life of a 5, 6, 7, 8-year-old until one day, his mom had stopped, stared down at the design she was working on for a client and set down her pencil. She'd turned to Stiles with confusion in her eyes and that had been only a hint of what to come.
After a barrage of doctor's visits, Noah had reached out to the other artists at Mischief to suggest they look elsewhere for work. Despite offers, he couldn't bring himself to sell it to any of them. He'd just come by the shop once the last artist had cleared out their things, locked the doors and then returned to the hospital.
That was twenty years ago now. Stiles was an adult, had paid his dues as an apprentice and then spent eight years of tattooing once he'd been set free to leave permanent marks on the world. It was a part of him, something he'd always felt drawn to. The buzz blurred the lines of reality and otherness for him. His ability to hyperfocus focus on what he was creating on someone else's body became a strength rather than weakness. When he was in the moment it was like his mom was right there, guiding every stroke of his pen or drag of the needle.
For twenty years, Mischief Tattoo had sat empty. Purple decorations and dust and ghosts watched as the town moved around it, became larger, got new people, new names. Newcomers often questioned what the old tattoo shop was still doing there, why someone hadn't bought out the storefront.
Stiles knew.
He knew that in a lucid moment, Claudia had begged her husband to keep it safe, to give it to Stiles one day, so she could leave a legacy. She didn't want to be forgotten the way she was forgetting everything around her.
With uncharacteristically shaky hands Stiles stepped forward and unlocked the door, staring at the painfully familiar studio. With the hint of tears in his eyes a tiny laugh bubbled out of his chest, and to no one he said, "I'm home, Mom."