Work Text:
On July 4th, 2008, Scott cut Theo's hair. The McCalls were hosting a cookout: firecrackers and slightly-burnt hotdogs. It was 9PM when Scott grabbed Theo by the arm, pulling him into the house and up the stairs with Stiles scampering close behind.
Theo clambered into the tub in Scott's parents' bathroom (pre-divorce, but just barely). Stiles' idea, actually. So they could wash the hair down the drain. Scott kneeled behind him, safety scissors in hand.
"You gotta sit still," Scott cautioned, because even back then, his friends in pain was something he just wouldn't stand for. "I don't wanna cut you."
So Theo sat perfectly, positively still. Watched as clumps of dark hair started to flutter around him and gather on the porcelain. For some reason, he felt like crying.
He was a sensitive kid.
"You're gonna look so cool," Stiles piped up. He was watching from on top of the sink, twig legs dangling over the edge.
"Yeah," Scott agreed vehemently, still cutting. He brushed some of the hair from the back of Theo's neck. "You're gonna look awesome."
"What if my dad gets pissed?" Theo couldn't help but wonder aloud. It was a definite possibility. Mrs. Raeken might point and laugh at him, but she wouldn't be genuinely angry about it. Mr. Raeken was an entirely different story. He'd forbidden Tara from wearing pants and a shirt at her First Communion.
"Why would he get pissed?" Stiles asked, brow furrowing.
Theo shrugged. He didn't understand why – didn't have the reality of it drilled into him just yet – he just knew it was an outcome. Like bad weather. Or a skinned knee.
"Well, if he gets, like, super mad," Scott said, "you can come stay with me. My parents really like you."
Hot tears welled up in Theo's eyes then, but he blinked them away. Nobody made him feel quite as safe as Scott did. Nobody in the entire world. Theo had this feeling that, if Beacon Hills Elementary burst into flames, Scott would carry him out in his arms. Like Superman.
Maybe that was a weird thing to think. Theo wasn't sure.
"I think that's pretty good," Scott announced after awhile, sending a lightning strike of dread and anticipation shooting through Theo's gut. Scott got to his feet and offered a hand to help him out of the tub, which Theo gently took.
Stiles slid off the sink so Theo could take a look in the mirror. It was, objectively, a shitty haircut. Uneven in a number of places. But when Theo gripped the porcelain and peered into his reflection, all he saw was somebody he could make out more clearly through the fog. It gave him hope that, someday, he'd be able to reach out and grab himself by the sleeve. Take himself home – someplace he could really live.
That's when he started to cry.
"What's wrong?" Scott sputtered, dark eyes going wide with horror. "Did I screw up?"
Theo just shook his head, scrubbing his face with the back of one hand.
"No," he croaked. "No, I like it a lot."
Both Scott and Stiles threw their arms around him, hanging on oh-so tight, and Theo would never feel more loved than in that moment. Not ever.
He buried his puffy pink face in Scott's shoulder.
Outside, a firework burst into a million pieces.
On the car ride home that night, Theo's father had some predictably strong opinions about the haircut. He and Mr. McCall had drunk eight beers each, which made the fallout even worse.
"You can't just do this shit without permission," he spat, twisted around in the passenger seat so he could look his petrified son in the eye. Theo's mother was behind the wheel, sober and silent. The silence was also predictable. And more hurtful, somehow.
"It's just hair," Tara pointed out, Theo huddled against her in the back seat.
"It's not just hair, Tara!" Mr. Raeken snarled. "People are gonna look at her and think she's being neglected or something. I mean, Jesus, Theo, what were you thinking?"
Theo knew that if he opened his mouth to speak, to explain, he'd burst into tears. So he followed his mother's example and said nothing. Just pressed himself against his big sister and tried his best to imagine he was back in the bathroom. The hair falling. Scott's fingertips on the back of his neck. His friends hugging him.
His friends.
As soon as they got home, Theo slipped into his room and curled up in bed facing the wall. He had this stuffed animal – a lion from the San Diego Zoo – and he clutched it very tightly. Told himself, again and again, not to cry.
You're nine and a half. Don't be a baby. Don't cry.
He thought, once again, of his friends. Of Scott. Scott, who had made his body feel less like Alcatraz and more like a home to be made. Scott, who thought he looked awesome like this. Scott, who he could stay with if he needed to.
Theo was just starting to calm himself down when his bedroom door creaked open; a beat later he felt the mattress shift under his mother's weight. He didn't turn to look, curling into an even tighter ball than before. Maybe he'd get so small that nobody could see him anymore. That would probably be better than this.
"I like your hair short," Mrs. Raeken murmured, running her fingers through it. Damage control. "You look very nice."
Theo squeezed his eyes shut.
"You know I love you, right?" she continued softly. "You're my little girl. I love you more than anything."
Theo dug his nails into his knees. Prayed that he'd wake up in the morning and be so big and strong and jagged at the edges that nobody could call him that anymore. Little. Girl.
He'd prayed that prayer quite a few times, actually. He was starting to doubt anybody was listening.
"Goodnight, baby," his mother whispered at last, as if giving up. She gave his shoulder a squeeze before drifting away, light shutting off and door closing behind her.
Theo sucked in a ragged breath and let it go. Then, with a trembling hand, he reached up to touch his hair. Here, alone in the dark, he could be whoever he wanted. At least for a little while. He could be like all the other grassy-kneed boys on the Little League team. He could be like Stiles.
He could be like Scott.
Theo could've lulled himself to sleep at the thought, but the mattress moved again. At first, he thought it was his mother, back to issue more too-late, too-sweet compliments. Or maybe his father had come to apologize. He did that sometimes, though it was rare.
Then came the voice.
"Theo Raeken."
Theo went deathly still. It sounded like it was coming from a radio planted deep inside his own head. Fuzzy and yet painfully clear all at once.
"Listen carefully. Do not scream."
Theo probably couldn't have screamed even if he wanted to. He could barely breathe, let alone make a sound. His throat felt like it had been twisted shut, too malleable for its own good.
Almost like an asthma attack.
"We know what you want," said the radio-voice, sending cold ripples down Theo's spine, one after the other. "We know."
And, because he was still young and somewhat hopeful, Theo thought, if he just didn't move, it would leave him alone. Go up in smoke like a mirage. And then he'd tell Tara about it in the morning at breakfast.
I had this scary dream last night...
He was just starting to believe he was safe again when something cold touched his shoulder. It rolled him over, and he found himself looking up into a face that wasn't a face at all. It was a mask, inhuman and crawling with tubes.
Theo finally opened his mouth to scream, but that same cold glove covered his mouth, and the sound died within him.
"We know," repeated the voice behind the mask. It clicked like an insect. "We can help you."
Somewhere in Theo's chest, between all the panic and nauseating terror, ran a thread of embarrassment. Like he'd just been formally diagnosed with the condition he'd suspected all along. Even back then, he loathed the thought. Being faulty. Being seen as faulty.
The haircut was nice. Truly, it was. But it wouldn't give him what he really wanted. It wouldn't make him–
"Go to your sister's room," commanded the radio‐insect-voice. "Bring her outside."
The glove was removed from Theo's mouth, but now that he had the chance, he didn't scream. Because it dawned on him that screaming for his parents wouldn't bring him any closer to what he desired so badly. It wouldn't rearrange him into something nobody could deny anymore. But maybe this ghost in a mask could.
So Theo crawled out of bed and went to his sister's room.
He couldn't foresee what would happen after that. It was impossible. He was a kid and all he knew was that he wanted to be weightless. He wanted to be happy. Who doesn't?
Theo wanted to be happy. He also loved his sister. Those things were not mutually exclusive.
Theo wanted to be happy. He also loved his sister. Those things would never not be true.
Not even when he was seventeen and standing in front of Scott for the first time in eight years, nearly a decade spent sacrificing morality for manhood. But Scott was still beautiful. Still capable of carrying him out of a burning building.
And Scott was looking at him, looking at him like he'd just crossed over from another life, another universe. The universe where he'd sat behind Theo in a bathtub and cut his hair. But now, instead of fireworks, rain.
More fitting, probably.
"You don't remember me, do you?" Theo said, and some part of him hoped it was true. That he was so departed from that scared little kid that Scott wouldn't even recognize him. Because he was finally big, and strong, and jagged at the edges. Nobody could deny him anymore.
But this scheme depended on Scott's nostalgia. His ability to see the child Theo had come to despise so much. Theo had a debt to pay, after all.
We know what you want.
"I guess I look a little different since the fourth grade," he added, and smiled.
Yes. Nobody could deny him anymore.