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Precocious (adj.) - (of a child) having developed certain abilities or proclivities at an earlier age than usual.
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John Stilinski looked on in horror from the forest floor as his son held back the werewolf-creature-demon-thing with an outward palm; he had to have at least been ten feet away from the animal. Stiles wasn't even touching the snarling thing! Yet, it was as if it had been caged in an invisible force field. John glanced to his right and saw Derek Hale on his side, propped up on a healing arm, gashes apparent through his tattered shirt, staring at his son with wide eyes, disbelief written across his face. The other two teenagers in the area didn't look much better.
John tore his gaze from his right and looked to his left. There lied the bodies of what he assumed were the current captured creature's friends, allies, family – whatever. He ignored the blood dripping from his brow and looked toward his son once again to find him walking toward the snarling animal, clawing at its imaginary clasps.
“Stiles!” John yelled, crawling on his knees toward his son, ignoring the stinging pain of his broken leg. The only response he got was a turn of the head and a smile.
There was no way to prepare John for what he would soon discover about his son. Stiles had always been an extraordinary child; finishing puzzles at a quicker pace than those usually at his age, questioning ideas that a toddler had never questioned before, and even going as far to learn simple multiplication by the age of six.
His mother and father had innocently proclaimed that their son was naturally intelligent, his father being the only one of the two who actually believed what they were saying. Stiles' mother had always known what was wrong – what was extraordinary with her son.
Claudia had known ever since she walked in on Stiles attempting to assist a bird with a broken wing to fly again; he was taping the wing with masking tape, oblivious to the bird's obvious lack of a heartbeat. She cracked open his bedroom door, seconds away from making herself known to her son, when she heard him gasp. She immediately backed into the hallway, looking through the sliver of light through the doorway, eyes widening at what she saw.
The bird was alive! It struggled against its confines; chirping bitterly as Stiles laughed and gently took the tape off. The bird immediately flew out of the room through the open window, Stiles running to the frame, waving his hand out to the sky with a laugh bubbling out of his chest.
Claudia backed up against the wall opposite of the door, hands clasped together in front of her chest.
Have I been blind? He is so young...
She stumbled down the hallway; the left side of her body dragging against the wooden panels of the wall.
What do I do? Can I stop it? Did I do this?
She entered her bedroom, silently climbing into bed beside her husband. She stared at the ceiling, counting the stars imprinted into the drywall. Thoughts racked her brain, raping her of any sense of reality, forcing a tear to flow from her eye down to the pillow propping her head up. She closed her eyes, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling...
The next morning John was making toast, spreading the margarine onto the slices as he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Good morning,” Claudia muttered, hair rustled in various directions, grabbing a glass and opening the fridge to get some orange juice.
John smiled, “Good morning. You're usually not up until around eleven and it's,” John glanced at the clock above the microwave, “barely past eight.”
Claudia smiled at her husband behind her glass of juice, taking a sip before sitting at the kitchen table. John set a plate of toast and sausage in front of her. She grinned her thanks. They ate in a comfortable silence, enjoying one another's company before their son inevitably woke up and ruined their peace and quiet. It wasn't like they minded much.
“You have to promise me you won't give up once I'm gone,” Claudia suddenly demanded, her plate and glass empty. John stilled. His sausage falling from his hand and landing with a plop onto his greasy plate. With shaking hands he wiped his mouth clean, glancing up into his wife's brown eyes.
“I promise.”
Although John promised his wife that he would keep it together for their son's sake, her passing hit him much harder than he had expected. No one is truly prepared to lose their spouse, especially from something as crippling as dementia. He immediately took to alcohol, working long hours, sleeping until his alarm, and repeating. His life turned into a vicious cycle of self-hate and despair for the following years, his son only a thought in the back of his mind.
Stiles slightly knew what was happening to his father, but he had no control over those turn of events and decided to ride it out. His mother's death left him feeling lost, out of control, and alone like he had never felt before. Claudia was the one he counted on. His dad tried throughout Stiles' life to connect with him, and Stiles knew John loved him, but they never connected like Claudia and Stiles did. It wasn't that natural or instinctive bond. It wasn't maternal.
Over the years Stiles grew more into himself. Going to school every day, scouring the internet for information he didn’t need to know, and simply growing from a boy into a young man. He moved on from his mother’s death, learning to live with the pain it caused on a daily basis: some days were harder than others. Although Stiles’ curiosity never completely vanished, it certainly did diminish over time, especially with Scott by his side.
Stiles and Scott met when Stiles was five and in kindergarten. Jackson Whittemore, the biggest douche to ever breathe, had pushed Stiles out of “his” swing. Scott, being the hero he is, stepped in to save the day, only to get beat up by Jackson, forcing Stiles to walk with him to the nurse’s office after the teacher had found out about his injuries (scrapes). They immediately became friends when the nurse asked what character Scott wanted on his bandages and he replied with “Batman.”
One night during their high-school years, Stiles persuaded Scott to go looking for a dead body in the woods, resulting in Scott being attacked by some rabid animal (werewolf, as they find out later). They soon run into Derek Hale while attempting to find Scott’s inhaler - blah, blah, blah. You know the jist. Scott and Stiles eventually graduated from high school and parted ways to go to their respective universities; Stiles attending UCLA while Scott attended a community college near Beacon Hills so he could be close to home, since he’s, you know, a True Alpha and all that.
Two years into college, Scott gets a call from Derek saying something smelled off in the preserve. The pack disperses later that night to try and find a trail to track, but to no avail. They call Stiles, he comes, he uses the magic he had discovered he carried, and they hunted down whatever was leaving a burnt-out trail in its wake. This is where the story left off.
John peeled open his eyes, the simple act seemed to take effort he thought he never had. He saw white tile. Blinking rapidly before slowing to a moderate pace, he let his eyes adjust to the light before glancing around his hospital room. The rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor being the only thing he heard, he huffed.
“He’s awake!” Some disembodied voice yelled, although it seemed to be right next to him, loudly. He tried to turn his head but was forced to stop due to the pinching he felt as he moved. He had apparently made a sound when attempting to move because there was immediately a hand grasping onto his forearm, tan and slightly hairy. John lifted his eyes from the hand and saw none other than Derek Hale staring at him with… pity, shame, fear?
Why would Derek Hale be afraid of John? Yes, John had him arrested but he had been released and rightfully so. There was no reason for him to feel shame, what had John done to deserve that glint of the eye? He was a middle-aged man with a stable job and a good, albeit bratty, kid. He wasn’t the least ashamed.
The pity he could understand considering he was in a hospital gown and bed, probably looking like death incarnate. John couldn’t blame the guy; he deserved some damn pity.
Smiling at Derek, John failed to notice the black whispers crawling up Derek’s arm. He did, however, notice the absence of pain.
Damn, the wonders of morphine.
“Dad!” John shot up at the sound of his Stiles’ voice, soon being enveloped by his scent as he buried his face in his son’s grown-out hair. The Stilinski men hugged, John sitting up in his hospital bed with Stiles leaning over the railing. John just wrapped his arms around his child, holding on as if someone was trying to take him away.
Well, as the last thing John remembers outside of the hospital, someone was. Forever.
They separated at the alert of a high-pitched gruff from the doorway, revealing Melissa McCall.
“You aren’t supposed to be sitting up,” Melissa stated as she glided over and gently (not so gently) pushed John back onto his pillow.
John looked over Melissa’s shoulder as she instructed him on taking care of himself better and an endless list of things John obviously doesn’t care about as much as the reason as to why Derek Hale is so close to his son. Clearing his throat, John pulled their attention from whatever discussion they were having and toward him. Stiles automatically flushed when he realized the lack of space between him and Derek, and hastily worked to fix that.
“Now, you’re going to be released in a couple of hours. You sprained your ankle and only fractured your leg, so you’re basically all patched up. You’ll be on bedrest for about four weeks and then you will need to come in for a checkup. Alright?” Melissa breathlessly asked, although there was no room for a decline. John looked at her and noticed the wrinkles on her forehead and the absence of wrinkles around her eyes and lips. He would have to fix that.
“Yes, Melissa.”
About four hours later John was being wheeled out of the hospital by Stiles, even though his son was clumsy and kept banging his chair into various walls and corners. It was a struggle, but it was his son. He wouldn’t change a thing.
Getting into the car was eventful. Derek and Stiles spent about twenty minutes trying to get John into the car without bending his leg, but to no avail. They tried scooting him in backwards, putting him on his stomach, and even putting the seats down and laying him across: nothing had worked. They hadn’t even made a peep throughout the process, it seemed as if the two of them communicated through huffs, grunts, and facial expressions alone.
After about half an hour, Derek’s eye twitched a couple too many times and he had had enough. He grabbed John in a bridal carry from his chair a couple of feet away, making the man squeak, and placed him in the front seat of the car.
“I’ll have you know that I am a grown man, not a damsel in distress, and that I-” John was cut off as Derek shut the door in his face. He huffed and looked forward, looking through the rear-view mirror and seeing Derek smile at his son as they both got into the car.
Oh, no.
“So, what you’re telling me, is that werewolves are real?” John asked in disbelief, sloshing a bit of Jell-O in between his teeth.
Derek and Stiles nodded at their place on the couch. John nodded and leaned back into his recliner, shifting his propped-up leg to get more comfortable.
“You’re also telling me that you,” John pointed at Derek, “are one. As well as Scott, Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittemore, Vernon Boyd, and Erica Reyes? That thing I shot at was a rogue werewolf; an omega?”
They both nodded once more. John swallowed his Jell-O.
“My son is a Spark.”
Stiles closed his eyes, inhaled, and nodded. Stiles could feel the panic beneath his skin. He and his mom had conversed about his abilities before she passed, and she made him promise to not tell his dad until he was ready. He still wasn’t ready. He would never be ready. He could feel the tears beginning to form at the ends of his eyes.
“I love you, Stiles.”
The tears fell.
After the emotional caboodle that was John’s enlightenment on what was really going on in his town, it was time for the real question. Derek had been long gone, leaving before ten o’clock, leaving John and Stiles alone in the living room with the television on re-runs of The Office.
“So, what’s going on with you and Derek?” John asked, nonchalantly, sipping some water in his mouth before swallowing his pain pill. He chose to ignore the tension in his son’s shoulders.
“What do you mean?” Stiles asked in a wavy voice.
“You know exactly what I mean, Stiles.”
Stiles glanced down, eyes drawn away from his father’s gaze, not wanting to meet his father’s disgusted look. He didn’t know he would see tears in John’s eyes and a soft smile on his face.
“I remember when I met your mother.”
Stiles perked up, looking at John with wide eyes, glistening with hope and sadness.
“It was cold outside and all I wished for was a coffee. I entered the local shop, you know, the one on Elm? Yeah. I walked up to the counter and ordered a coffee, but when I went to pay the cashier informed me that the lady in front of me had paid for my drink.
“I was flabbergasted. I quickly glanced around and saw a bouncing head of brown hair leaving the store, so I ran. Long story short, I caught her. She yelled at me because apparently ‘That isn’t how these things work, man!’, and I asked her out. She looked at me in suprise and told me her name. Claudia.”
Stiles was tearing up at that point, rubbing under his eyes and grimacing with grief. John smiled.
“Stiles, look at me.”
He did.
“Claudia would want you to be happy. I want you to be happy. Now, I don’t know much about what is going on with you and Hale, but I want you to know that I’m happy for you. Love doesn’t come easy, nor does it come often, and we have to work to keep those that are unlucky enough to fall for us Stilinskis, alright?”
John smiled, Stiles nodded with tears running down his face.
“She would be proud of you Stiles,” John said as he laid back in his chair and closed his eyes. He heard the front door open and close. He smiled.
Stiles drove thirty miles over the speed limit to get where he was going; he had only one object in mind: Derek.
It didn’t take him long to reach Derek’s apartment, quickly running up to the door and buzzing his way in. A century of seconds passed before a gruff voice came through the intercom, “I’ll be down in a second.”
Stiles wasted no time in running hands through his hair to make sure it was styled and patting his clothes to unwrinkle them. He wanted it to be perfect. The door opened and Derek came out, dressed in a white t-shirt and loose sweatpants. Stiles had never seen anything more beautiful.
Derek walked down the steps with a quizzical look, “What are you doing here, Stiles? It’s almost one in the morning. Is something wrong?”
“Yes. I love you.”
Stiles could never love something more than the glint of stars he saw in Derek’s eyes as they widened, then crinkled when he smiled.
John Stilinski looked at his ceiling with a grin on his face and a bottle of water in his hand. He exhaled as he closed his eyes, slowly reopening them. His eyes shined with glee as the smile he bore grew even more. He inhaled.
“We did it, Clauds. We did it.”
Stiles glanced up at the night sky as he and Derek embraced. There were twice as many stars as usual.