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Stiles suddenly widens his eyes, jumps out of bed and breathes heavily, a cornered animal ready to jump up and run at any moment. He tightly squeezes the old silver knife given by his grandfather and counts to five, trying to calm the nervous trembling inside. Each of his movements is precise, verified, memorized over several years, but in his head, as before, there is confusion. A hundred thoughts, remnants of a nightmare and a worried heart beating in the chest, reminiscent of something forgotten. He looks at his watch, making sure there is no blood or wounds on his hands, and only then exhales with relief, allowing himself to relax. Everything is fine. He is home, in his room, safe, as is his child, sleeping on the next side of the newly emptied bed.
- Everything is fine. - He tries to force himself to breathe.
Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.
The cold night air burns your lungs, and your thoughts finally come into order. There are no living dead or corpses nearby. He didn’t kill anyone, and the scars, old and healed for a long time, look almost familiar.
There are no monsters hiding under beds and invisible enemies who have been pursuing him almost since birth.
There is no one else to protect or protect from here.
- Everything is fine.
- Daddy, - the girl sleepily rubs her brown eyes. - Did something happen again? Do we have to pack our things and run again?
Stiles wants to scream until his throat breaks, to the point of tears and hysterics, he wants to hide in the farthest corner of the bedroom, close his eyes and find himself at home again, sweating under the supervision of his father. The strongest and smartest father, and now he himself is the parent on whose shoulders lies the responsibility for a small, defenseless man. His blood and flesh. He has no right to fear and tears. Doesn't anymore.
Amara is completely dependent on him and his decisions.
- No, honey. — Stiles hesitantly hides the knife in his trouser pocket, hoping not to scare his daughter. - Everything is fine, honey. Sorry for waking you up.
- It wasn't you. - she yawns. - This time it’s not you.
- Nightmare again?
- No. Not this time. — her smile is sparkling, bright, unusual. - There was a boy, a little boy, and he was laughing. — She falls silent for a minute, as if going through memories. - I think they gave him a toy soldier, and he was so happy about it. - I'm very happy. I don’t understand these alphas, just give them toys in their hands and they immediately forget about everything. How stupid.
- Come on, Amara, you can’t say that. — Stilinski sits down on the edge of the bed and tucks a short, dark strand that has escaped from his daughter’s ponytail behind her ear. “They’re not stupid, they’re just different.” They are interested in what we are not interested in and vice versa. Do you think some alpha would enjoy drawing all day or playing with dolls?
Amara thought for a moment.
- No I do not think so.
- Here you see. — he straightens her blanket, hoping to catch up with the sleep that is rapidly escaping from him. They both need sleep after a long move and unpacking what seems like a whole mountain of boxes.
- Is that why dad doesn’t live with us? You and him turned out to have different interests, and you didn’t get along in character?
- Why did you decide that?
- Aunt Lydia told me so.— Amara crawled closer to her father. - She said that you couldn’t find a common language and that’s why you separated. So is she right?
Stiles opened his mouth, trying to quickly come up with an answer, and then closed it, unable to come up with a suitable excuse. What should he tell his daughter? That her father was furious when he found out about the pregnancy of his next passion, or that he threw a wad of money in his face with a request, no, almost a demand, to immediately have an abortion, so as not to spoil his reputation. Should he tell his seven-year-old daughter that her father doesn't want her to come? For eight years, Stiles believed that the best thing he could do for himself and his child was to lie. Lies skillfully, thoughtfully, with due dedication. Lie to everyone, including your friends, a few relatives, and even your father. It was easier for him to pretend, to play a role and at the same time live in anticipation of the worst.
The worst did not happen, the monsters of his nightmares did not appear, did not come to life to destroy his completely settled and peaceful life. The daughter did not become like him or her father. Magic did not awaken in her, she did not begin to imagine the living dead, and her instincts did not take over her mind. It even began to seem to Stiles that fate had mercy on him for the first time in twenty-six years, giving him a chance at a normal life until his little, wonderful girl woke up in the middle of the night, choking on tears in silent hysteria.
The dead did not come to her in reality, they did not torture her for days on end, but they came to her at night, and although there were times when instead of corpses she saw living people enjoying life, like today. Stiles was glad that his daughter at least had these short breaks when he suffered every damn day.
- So what about dad? He abandoned us, abandoned us because he didn’t love us?
And Stiles is lying.
- He loved us. - a quiet whisper, full of deeply hidden pain. - I loved you more than anything in the world. - He looked forward to your arrival so much that he could hardly sleep at night. You know, even your favorite doll is his gift.
- Then what happened?
- He died.
Amara is silent, thinking and biting her lip, just like Stiles himself does when he can't solve some too difficult problem at work or in life. A very difficult task.
- Don't be sad. - She touches her father’s cheek with her small palms. - I have you, grandfather, Uncle Scott and Lydia, and that’s enough.
- Is it true?
- Is it true. I love you very much.
- And I’m more of a sunshine than you. - Stiles whispers, swallowing tears of emotion. - Now let's go to bed.
The girl nods in agreement, wraps herself tighter in the checkered blanket and finally closes her eyes, hoping to return to that beautiful, colorful world full of laughter and joy that was so lacking in her own life. Stiles, of course, did everything in his power to provide her with everything she needed, but sometimes even he did not have enough strength.
Stilinski himself closes his eyes, intending to doze off for a while. He will still have to get up prohibitively early, at half past six in the morning, prepare breakfast, get Amara ready for school and hand her over to the capable hands of Alison, who is the only one of them all who has not connected her life with law enforcement, and then return home and finally finish with a bacchanalia called dismantling things.
- Everything is fine. - Stilinski whispers, already falling asleep, continuing to stroke his daughter’s dark, tangled curls until the phone lying on the nightstand begins to burst with the trill of a phone call.
Stiles hisses with displeasure, swears to himself because he can’t do it in front of a child, and clenches his fists until they turn white, ready to curse anyone who calls at three in the morning.
- Is this Uncle Scott again? Will you have to leave? — Amara’s voice is sad, tired.
- I promise you that I won’t go anywhere. My vacation is not over, and they simply do not have the right to kick me out of work this early. Never.
- You’re going anyway, otherwise you won’t be able to sleep again.
They both know it's true. They both know that a sense of duty will not allow Stiles to ignore a call from his partner and best friend, especially when someone's life invariably remains on the other side of the scale. He would like everything to be different, he would like to listen to his father then and go to study to become a programmer or psychologist, and not connect his life with the bureau, but what has been done cannot be undone. Life cannot be changed.
Stiles answers the phone.
- Hello?
- Hello bro. - Scott sounds tired on the other end of the phone. - I know you’re still on vacation, but we have something coming up in Buffalo.Six murders, the victims were mostly young girls between the ages of twenty-five and twenty-eight. We've put together a psycho profile, but something's missing. We need help. Your help. - a quiet sigh and a minute of tense silence. - Sorry. I shouldn't have called you.
- No. — Stilinski puts the call on speaker, picking up a perfectly white shirt from his chair, remembering which drawer he left his badge and holster in. - No. Everything is fine. I'll be there in about half an hour, about forty minutes.
- Will wait. By the way, I forgot to tell you we have a new boss. You should like him.
- I doubt. - Stiles whispers, hanging up the call and looking at his sad daughter. — I'll call Alison and ask her to come. She will take care of you until she wakes me up.
- Are you for long?
- I think this matter will take a couple of days, no more, and upon our return we will go to the zoo to look at the lions. Remember you asked last week. — He kneels down in front of the bed. - Don't be sad.
- Promise that everything will be fine.
- Darling…
- Promise. - Amara almost demands. - Promise me that everything will be fine.
And Stiles, tormented by doubts and uncertainty, for the first time in eight years knows what to do right.
He promises.