Chapter Text
Stiles couldn’t go back to sleep.
The night was unseasonably warm, but that wasn’t actually the problem.
No. The problem was that Stiles was home from college for only a couple of days to celebrate his dad’s birthday tomorrow—almost today, since it was close to midnight now—but said dad wasn’t home yet. From a shift he’d sworn he’d leave on time. More than five hours ago.
That wasn’t like him at all these days. Whenever Stiles was home, the sheriff became a family man first and foremost, his son being his top priority—barring only true emergencies.
But if there were an emergency to attend to, he’d either have called or texted to let Stiles know. Because, of course, Stiles worried. And Dad knew that very well.
So, why hadn’t there been any word from him since his lunch break? Why was the message Stiles had sent him mere minutes before his shift ended still unread?
He cursed the fact that he’d been so tired after several project-related all-nighters since the term started that he’d simply fallen asleep after dinner. He’d only gone up to his room to grab a book to pass his time until Dad came home.
He didn’t know what had woken him up again, but when he’d blinked his eyes open, he’d found himself on his bed, snuggling his pillow, his book lying on the floor, and the house being uncomfortably silent.
And now that he’d realized he was still alone in the house, there was no way he’d be able to fall asleep again. Not until he knew what was keeping his dad away.
First order of business: Ask Parrish! The deputy was on night shifts this weekend, so he wouldn’t have to worry about disturbing his sleep.
Small mercies!
~
Parrish had been a bust.
Well, to be fair to Dad’s favorite deputy, it wasn’t his fault. If your boss told you that he was just going to check something out real quick before his shift ended and that he’d head home directly from there, you didn’t start to worry when you didn’t hear anything else from him for the rest of the evening.
They were talking about the sheriff, after all. Even in a place like Beacon Hills, a man of the law didn’t tend to disappear quietly. It was only reasonable for Parrish to assume he’d be one of the first people to know if something had happened to his boss.
Now he was worried, though, and he’d promised Stiles to find out if that last call had gone south.
But Stiles wasn’t going to wait that long. Because with every passing minute, his anxiety got worse. Something had to give, so he was going to do his own kind of searching!
Bending down to pick up the book he’d dropped when he’d fallen asleep, he found it a bit eerie that his bedtime reading had been about the various magical ways of locating lost things. Lost people, too.
If Fate gave him such a glaring hint, that’s where he would start.
He wasn’t any good at scrying and divining, so a good half of the book would be useless to him on such short notice. However, he knew for a fact that the book contained a spell—similar to a blood ritual, really, which would get him an impressive side-eye from Deaton if he were inclined to tell the man—that was specifically aimed at finding family members.
An experienced mage would need nothing more than a map, a focus object that belonged to the missing person, and belief. Being blood-related would be enough to fuel the magic. Stiles, on the other hand, was no such mage. Not yet, at least. Maybe not ever.
He had belief in spades, no doubt about that, but he was seriously lacking in experience and practice. This study of magic had been an amusing side hobby so far. Something to challenge himself with in his meager free time, just to see if he could render Deaton speechless at some point.
Now, though, he was hoping that the extra boost of a few drops of his blood would make up for his current lack of skills. It would have to, because he refused to fail. Not when it was about his dad. He just hoped he’d be forgiven for staining the back of the photo that showed both of them at Stiles’ graduation—huge smiles on their faces and arms thrown around each other’s shoulders. Since the day the picture had been taken, it had been Dad’s most cherished possession. His words, not Stiles’. That should count for something, too, when it came to the spell… ritual?… whatever.
He laid out the map on the kitchen table, carefully freed the photo from its frame, and pricked his thumb so a drop or two of his blood could fall next to the caption on its back. Putting the photo down on the map—face-up, so the blood could touch the map—and placing his index finger next to it, he closed his eyes, spoke the required words, and believed.
For a moment, he felt his finger move. Relief filled him because this ritual was actually working. With any luck, he’d know where Dad was in a few seconds.
But his relief faltered abruptly when he felt a stab of pain race through his core.
What the hell?
That was not how it was supposed to go. When his finger stopped moving, it should have rested on the spot on the map where his father was. Or, failing that, his finger would have left the map, and he would have known to get another one that covered a larger area.
There wasn’t supposed to be nothing. It wasn’t supposed to hurt.
Had he done it wrong? Not believed strongly enough? There was only one way to find out!
He pressed his thumb wound-first to the photo, both to add a little more blood and to give himself this extra connection, and tried again.
And again, for a heart-stopping, painful moment, nothing happened—until he felt heat spread through his chest, slowly traveling upwards as if it wanted to reach his brain.
Are you willing to sacrifice a part of your life?
Stiles had no idea where that thought had come from. It didn’t feel like his own, while it wasn’t exactly foreign, either. It sparked a memory of a note he’d seen in the margins of the spell description, however. He didn’t dare to open his eyes to check, but the words were clear in his mind all of a sudden: If the subject is magically hidden or has been taken to another realm, a sacrifice may be needed to get the desired result.
In which case, there was only one answer: Of course, he’d sacrifice whatever was needed! Even if it was a part of his life. There wasn’t much ambiguity about what that meant. If his life ended up shortened to get his most important family member back, so be it!
What if it’s not time but a precious memory? Something that helped shape your personality?
What if? The answer remained the same: He’d do anything!
So be it!
On the heels of that thought, a memory shone brightly in his mind for a moment. A hug so tight that it had threatened to rob him of his breath. It was accompanied by a feeling of safety and relief—something he’d sorely needed after the lonely weeks that had followed his mom’s death. And then Dad’s voice, whispering in his ear: “I’ll always be here for you, you hear me? From now on, you can count on me. I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore!”
Then the memory began to fade, and it felt as if it was literally being sliced out of his brain… out of his heart.
Stiles felt tears running down his face, knowing what exactly he was about to lose. But he only allowed himself a short moment of grief, after which he straightened and decided to make the sacrifice count.
So, he believed with all the strength that he had.