Chapter Text
His Mom loves to cook.
Naturally, Stiles loves it, too.
There’s this new farmer’s market a little ways out from Beacon Hills, just opening tomorrow morning. It’s an hour or two’s drive from their home, and the only reason Mom found out about it is because Greenberg’s Mom has gushed about how her sister’s husband is starting up a fresh-food-only store, which is supposedly his. Greenberg’s mom only gushes or dotes on things that are actually that good or will be that good ― note: not a peep about her son, and that’s just.. okay, ouch. ― so even Stiles is eying his Mom and a bit of his Dad from across the dinner table.
His Dad sighs with a smile on his face, noticing all the fidgeting and squirming she and Stiles are doing -- and then leaning over and kissing the top of his mom’s soft forehead with her soccer-Mom straight fringe. Stiles grins goofily with a little bit of scrunching of his face. Yuck written on it when his Mom pushes her head up quickly and steals a kiss from his Dad’s lips. They’re cute, but they’re his parents, so of course he's a bit grossed out.
“I’ll leave you some extra money before the shift in the morning.” His Dad is already starting on his vegetables that his Mom adamantly approves of. Mom smiles, looking Stiles in the eye, and they both giggle.
Tomorrow’s gonna be great, Stiles thinks as he digs into his mashed potatoes with a grin playing on his lips.
x x x
They’re already an hour and a half out of town, and mom just finished her entire Heart album. She’s been singing along to every song, skipping one or two and replaying some more than just a lot of times, when she points out that he should play songs he likes.
He just shakes his head, smiling, “No, how about on the way back? Make it fair? We’re twenty minutes away from the place, anyway.” He smiles and shakes his head slightly, just looking out at the scenery around them. It’s a two lane road, and they’re driving on the side closest to the wall of a cliff sort of thing, the other lane going a lot more to dirt and grass and down a slope to a big pond. There’s some people fishing down there, he sees.
His mom chuckles, turning up the radio and rolling the windows down more, the breeze whisking through his hair as his mom’s voice battles Ann Wilson on who can sing the most perfect, loudest note to the lyric “alone.” Stiles busts into a fit of giggles when his mom starts swallowing large gulps of air noisily after she finishes. She gives him a light-hearted glare, smacking his shoulder softly.
“You, know, I’m really glad we’re hanging out,” she says, eyes steady on the road.
“We always hang out,” he replies, eyes steady on the water that he smells from up here. It’s salty and sweet and wistful, in a way.
“No, we don’t,” She counters, “We hang out in the kitchen, while I’m cooking you and your Dad something that won’t kill us, but will eventually, and when I’m off work, you’re always with your friends.”
“Mom, you work at home as a writer for kids books. I don’t think you’re ever really at work.” Stiles turns his head to his mom, grinning.
His mom huffs. “Hey, that stuff is heavy business. You have to play with your words. Do I offend the child? Do I offend the parent? Do I offend the publisher? Do I offend myself? Do I offend the pride and honor of my family? That’s heavy stuff, man.” She grins slightly. “But.. you know what? I really appreciate you bailing on your friends to spend some time with your health-freak of a mom.”
Stiles quirks his head to the side. “You didn’t force me to be here, Mom.”
“No, I know, but I appreciate it.” His mom spares a glance to him, something earnest and happy in her eyes.
He smiles at her, hoping to convey the same sort of emotions reflected in her pretty brown eyes.
“I appreciate it,” He echoes back.
x x x
The entire backseat is full of fresh fruits and vegetables and all natural and organic herbs and spices, even butter and granola bars and cereals and just.. yeah, there’s a lot.
His mom makes him choose a song to play immediately when they get in the car.
He plays “Hey, Jude” by The Beatles because it’s the only CD she has in the car that’s lead singer is not a girl or dressed like one, and the car won’t let him play anything beyond a standard CD. Plus, it’s a classic, so..
His mom let’s him drive the way back.
When it’s over, his mom turns the radio off and starts digging for her phone. She sighs as she pats her pockets and then scurries through her purse. “Must’ve forgot it at home on the charger..” she mutters to herself.
Stiles digs his phone out his pocket. “Wanted to call Dad?”
“Mhm,” she says, taking the phone and finding his Dad’s contact name in his “favorites” list. There’s only four people on it; his parents, Scott, and Scott’s mom. “Have to tell him about that crazy old lady that tried to steal the oranges right out of our cart.” She laughs, pulling the phone up to her ear.
Stiles’ grin splits his face. “Oh, God, that was so funny. And creepy. Can’t forget creepy.”
“John!” His mom croons, tucking her brown hair behind her ear, starting in a ramble about the lady.
He’s watching the road around him, taking notice of everything. He sees a dark grey SUV behind them, speeding up. He keeps an eye on the car.
“And the lady would just not let go! I was legitimately scared that she wasn’t a lady, or old, but some man with bad skin and fashion choices.” Stiles cracks a grin, remembering the way his mom was just gaping at the little old lady as the latter looked on blankly with a bag of oranges in her clutches.
The SUV has made it up to them, and Stiles has to push fast on the brake as they hurry and cut them off on the two lane road. His mom jolts, a gasp coming out as her front gets shoved back by the seat belt.
“Motherfucker!” Stiles yells, honking his horn angrily. He can actually hear the unison of “Stiles, language,” by both his mother and father, even through the low volume of the phone.
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Didn’t mean to let that slip so loudly.” He did, and they know, but it’s let off.
His mom is almost finished wrapping up the story when he hears her stop mid-rant on old people and their delicate appearance despite their tough grip to ask, “When are we getting home?” She looks to Stiles, questioning.
He purses his lips, eyes going skyward for a brief second. “Uh.. an hour?” he replies.
His mom goes back to the phone, hitting her hand on the window from doing it so fast. He looks over at her habitually when she curses and she says, “We’ll be there in an hour.”
And suddenly the SUV in front of them swerves harshly to the left, last second, and a much closer, much smaller car is in front of them before he, too, can swerve around it. There’s people farther from it, the hood pushed up, and they must have been broken down.
At least he thinks they were before he was instantly flipping over the car, twisting and turning and bashing and scraping and cracking across the dry pavement of the road. There’s terrible noises, metal crunching and glass shattering and skids that aren’t right. Stiles doesn’t feel his heart beating for a few insanely long seconds, just continuing to flip as his mom is screaming, his eyes closed.
And then they’ve stopped spinning.
They’re upside down, he can tell by the way the mountains are on top of the trees. And the blood rushing to his head, pressure of the seatbelt holding him up to the seats.
His mom stops screaming and is making these uneven gasping sounds, neck tilted uncomfortably. She’s bleeding with scratches all over, but looks relatively good. He doesn’t know what he looks like, but his mom isn’t screaming again, so it must not be that bad, either.
They’re still gasping, shock and scared from the sudden flips and skids.
“Oh, my god,” Stiles says, witless and still breathing hard.
“Stiles, are you okay?” his Mom asks, worry and fear and a slight twinge of relief to know her son isn’t all dead lacing through her usually calm and upbeat voice.
Stiles looks over to her, catching her eye for a brief second, catching her facial expresion, about to reply with an affirmative and a repeat of her question, but is stopped as his eyes grow wide and looks behind her.
“Mom,” he gets out, barely above a whisper as his mom furrows her eyebrows. She notices he’s not looking at her, but out the shattered window to her right. She turns her head.
He hears a loud, shrill call of his name ― “STILES!” ― just before the white truck speeding down the road explodes against his mom’s side of the car.
They’re careening back again, spinning and bashing and scraping and cracking against the road again, this time less airborne and more low ground damage, still upside down.
And, God, the sounds and the pain and Mom.
He’s getting out of the car, too heavy grocery bags now blocking his view of his Mom that he can’t move with his injured right arm ― it’s probably broken ― and he has to crawl out of the window of his side, on his back. He’s gritting his teeth, the glasses shredding into his back as he desperately tries to get his right leg out. It feels caved under, and most likely is, but it’s hurting so, so bad.
His teeth are clenched, so the scream that’s ripping through him as the metal below his wheel rips through his leg is the only sound coming from around him, besides the steam of the flipped over car he’s under. He doesn’t hear anyone.
He doesn’t hear his mom.
Stiles manages to crawl out, spitting a bit of blood as he turns on his stomach and crawls with his elbows as he makes his way out. He can’t bend his right leg, and his heel won’t let him turn it so it’s twisted all wrong that he can’t even lean against it, the sharp and hot pain from the kneecap down feeling like he’s being stabbed repeatedly with it. His ribs feel weird, and eh can’t feel his right wrist that well.
He somehow manages to make it around the car, over to his mom’s side. There are various pieces of fruit and foods littered around next to the car with car parts and broken glass.
He’s saying his mom’s name in a steady tantrum as he hops to the door, stumbling over and over. He calls his mom name when he touches the front, right wheel that’s in the air.
“Mom!” He shouts again, tripping over something and falling in the metal surrounding that wheel, too light headed and focused on his mom to recall what the part’s called, and when he opens his eyes, holding on to his now throbbing and profusely bleeding head, he sees his mom.
And she’s dead.
He just stares.
And stares.
And stares some more.
With a slack jaw ― disbelieving ― and wide eyes ― terrified ― and his hand fallen limp to his front ― numb ― and just staring at his mom ― lost.
And then he can’t even say her name, backing up slowly, not bearing the site of his bloody mom that’s just gone now.
For the first time that he remembers in his life, Stiles can’t say a single damn thing.