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Melissa hears the loud crash from up in her bedroom. She pauses in the middle of folding a towel. A sound like that never bodes will when there are two rambunctious 10-year-old boys around. She drops the towel back into the laundry basket with a sigh and goes to investigate.
She passes Scott on the stairs; he doesn't even look in her direction as he runs past her, wheezing slightly. No one follows him up.
Melissa decides to leave him be for now and continues down to the living room, which is the room directly underneath her bedroom and the likely source of the crashing noise. It's where she keeps all of the breakable things her estranged husband's family has gifted her over the years. It's not that she wants these things broken, but accidents happen, and these are items she won't miss.
The mess of ceramic shards she finds on the living room floor used to be a particularly ugly lamp she'd gotten from her mother-in-law. She is not at all sad at its loss.
Standing next to the mess is Stiles, who is staring down at his feet. Melissa automatically follows his gaze to find a bloody footprint. Scott appears with a First Aid kit then and Melissa takes it from him, immediately switching into nurse-mode.
"Okay, Stiles," she says. "Come over here, away from the broken bits. Scott, go get a broom and clean this up, please." She reaches out an arm towards Stiles to guide him through a safe path around the broken ceramic. Scott rushes off for the broom and dust pan. Melissa leads Stiles over to the kitchen table and the boy leaves a trail of bloody smudges in his wake.
She sits him down on one of the kitchen chairs and drags another chair over so that she can sit facing him. She pulls the injured foot up into her lap to inspect the damage.
"Does it hurt much?" she asks. Stiles says nothing, only shrugging. Melissa keeps her head down as she removes Stiles' sock (which is headed straight for the trash, it's ruined) and checks for bits of ceramic embedded in the flesh. She brushes off a few stray bits, luckily none are in too deep, and peeks up at Stiles through her lashes.
The boy is quiet and sullen, eyes trained on his hands in his lap instead of on his foot and whatever Melissa is doing to it. He's slumped back in the chair, not even pretending to be interested.
Usually he'd be twisting around trying to get a better view and generally getting in the way. Usually his mouth would be going a mile a minute, spouting out facts or a long, rambling tale about how the lamp met its end. Usually Melissa would be shaking her head at it all and trying not to smile because she is the adult here and the boys don't need that kind of encouragement (she's fairly sure that she's supposed to be teaching them that damaging property is generally a bad thing).
But this isn't 'usually'. Melissa hasn't heard Stiles ramble in weeks, hasn't learned any new facts about superheroes or multiverses or whatever else has piqued Stiles' fancy at any given time. She can't even remember the last time she'd heard Stiles laugh or joke. It's been a while. It's gotten to the point where Scott has mentioned it to her more than once, large brown eyes filled with worry as he'd stared at her for answers.
She's almost starting to forget that Stiles. The Before Stiles. He's being taken over in her memories by this quiet boy who doesn't smile and rarely speaks.
He barely even reacts as she cleans his injured foot with an alcohol wipe. All he does is wince and tear up. Not even an overdramatic 'ow' to play for sympathy or make Scott laugh. He doesn't react at all when she bandages the foot, gaze aimed at her hands but staring vacantly.
Finally, she's done and she gives Stiles' foot a soft pat.
"Okay, sweetheart," she says. Then Stiles finally moves, jerking his foot out of her lap and raising his head to glare at her.
"Don't call me that!" he snaps. He's angry. Melissa is taken aback. This is the most emotion she's seen from Stiles in so long.
"Don't call you what?" Melissa asks. "Sweetheart?"
"Don't!" Stiles pleads. Melissa is confused. This isn't the first time she's called Stiles a cutesy nickname. She does it so often with Scott, and Stiles is so often around that it's transferred over to him. It's the same with Stiles' mother and Scott. Or, it had been.
"Stiles, are you alright?" Melissa asks. Stiles doesn't answer her right away. He's slowly shaking his head and there are tears forming in his eyes. His breathing is starting to become laboured.
"Don't... You... Mom..." he chokes out. And suddenly Melissa gets it. In a flash she gathers Stiles in her arms and pulls him onto her lap. He puts up no resistance and curls up against her chest, face pressed into one of her shoulders. He's crying now, Melissa can feel his tears soaking her shirt and his body trembles in her grip.
He's a bit too big for it to be comfortable (he's tall for his age, and still growing), but Melissa just holds him tight and rocks him back and forth.
"Mom," he whimpers. Melissa knows he isn't talking to her, but she tightens her grip on him anyway and she lets him cry.