Chapter Text
It was a series of events that led Stiles down this path. He was planning on enjoying his summer with Scott. He’d just gotten his license and they were sixteen and mobile. Scott was using his jeep to practice and prepare for his own driver's test, and everything was good.
Until one bright and sunny day, when his mom called and asked them to drop off the lunch she’d forgotten. They were only playing video games, and both Stiles and Scott would do anything for Melissa. So they drove to the hospital, and as Scott delivered his mom her meal, Stiles wandered aimlessly through the halls. The nursing staff thought Scott was adorable, and Stiles didn’t want to stick around as they pinched his cheeks and squeezed him in tight hugs for thirty minutes.
Stiles had a sadly good knowledge of where everything was in the hospital, he’d been everywhere because of Scott, Ms. McCall, and his mother. So when he stumbled across an unfamiliar and creepily dim hallway, he assumed it was either where they kept an ancient hidden tomb with a cursed mummy inside… or the coma patients, as the sign said. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be down here, but it wasn’t like he was bothering anyone– it’s not like he could.
A shred of panic hit him when he saw the security camera, but he relaxed when he realized it wasn’t blinking red. In hindsight, it was strange that this area of all places didn’t have a working camera. None of the patients could even defend themselves.
He’d resumed his walking only to stop a second later when he heard footsteps headed in his direction. Panic not being his friend, he opened the nearest door and entered, ducking under its window, praying no one entered. After what felt like hours, whoever entered the hallway left he was excited for approximately two milliseconds before the hall was flooded with bodies. “Fuck,” He muttered.
He didn’t recognize the man, why would he, but nevertheless, once he caught sight of the scars, he had an idea. It was confirmed when he picked up the chart on the side of the bed and read, “Peter Hale.”
He let out a huff of air; “I’m going to hell– Sorry for intruding, man, but I don’t know if I’m even allowed on this floor, and if I get in trouble again, my dad's going to kill me.” He took a seat next to the bed–the only seat in the room.
“Hey, while I’m here, I read somewhere that talking to coma patients can help them wake up!” He sat up straight at the opportunity to rant to someone uninterrupted. Usually, Scott had to cut him off at school so Stiles didn’t make a fool out of himself, and he truly appreciated his best friend for that.
“I’m not sure what to talk about– I mean, have you seen Star Wars?” Stiles waited an embarrassingly long time for an answer before saying, “I kind of hope you can’t hear, cause I just forgot you couldn’t answer.” He sighed and thought. He’s never been out of a subject to talk about. He snapped his fingers, “Oh! My dad still has the Hale fire case!” Stiles thought back to the last time he looked through his father's things.
“It’s technically considered an accident, but he’d also thought something was off about it. Whenever he drinks, he picks the files back up. I’ve never read through it, but he’s usually really thorough with investigations. I think he feels guilty because he couldn’t investigate that one himself. I- mean– my mom died around the same time, and he’d taken leave.” Stiles didn’t know why he’d started spilling family secrets–well, kind of secrets. Maybe he’s been wanting someone to tell. His father's drinking is substantially better than it was, and he’d never in a million years hurt his son–Stiles knows that. But sometimes he had a feeling his father was trying to hurt himself. And that, more than anything, scared Stiles.
He wished he could get rid of the sadness and guilt that burrowed into him every morning.
He snapped out of his daze when his phone pinged–it was Scott asking where he was.
“I gotta go. Again, sorry for bothering you, man– and thanks for not jumping out at me like in the movies!” Stiles did his superspy/sleuth impersonation as he ducked out of the door.
The second thing happens several days later. He’d been grounded for something that was entirely not his fault and was forced into cleaning out the attic. It was so gross and dusty that he was beginning to think he was allergic to everything in it. He’d called his father, and when sent to voicemail, gave him a long and detailed explanation of his actions and why he believes he should be released from his imprisonment. After twenty minutes, he sent his father a text message telling him that he was probably going to suffocate on dust mites and Ms. McCall would be in charge of his diet moving forward.
He wasn’t even a third of the way through when he’d stepped on a loose floorboard and slammed his face into the wall. “Ah! Fuck! Son of a bi–Agh!” He was holding his dripping nose in one hand and his scratched-up leg in the other. Writhing in pain for several painful minutes. Calming down, not because the pain had subsided–it didn’t, but because he saw a bunch of books in the hole he’d just made with his foot. The nosebleed was still going strong, and his shirt (It was Scott's, he stole it) was already a goner, so he was keeping it in check while he struggled up and fixed himself up.
There was an energy in the attic that Stiles didn’t notice until he was out of it. The electrical hum quickly became silent as soon as he was down the ladder.
His father came home while he was distractedly throwing his shirt away, still thinking about the books upstairs. Books in his house weren’t unusual. He was part of a family that used to relax in the living room together on Saturday nights, reading their books in the company of each other. Those books were different. They were his mothers. He knew that for a fact, unless his father randomly learned how to read Polish. Stiles had a generic understanding of how to read Polish. He could speak it fluently enough — he hasn’t since his mother died, but sometimes he’d realize he’d been thinking in the other language. Reading it might be more difficult, however. He’d been a shit student when his mother was teaching him. Assumed he’d never need to read it, and speaking it was enough.
“What the hell is that?” His father asked, alarmed. Stiles snapped out of his daze and looked over to see his father staring at his hands.
He moved his eyes to the shirt and snorted, “Tripped in the attic, slammed my face into the wall, and cried for a couple of minutes while my nose bled onto Scott's sixth favorite shirt.” He smiled, and his father looked at him like he was insane. “There’s still blood on the wall if you don’t believe me,” Stiles added, trying not to sound offended.
“No, I believe you managed that. I just don’t know how.” His father's exasperation drew a laugh from him.
“What do you want for dinner?” He asked, and his father went suspiciously still. “I was thinking I could cook tonight.” He said. Stiles was immediately tense.
His father was a good cook– they both were, but the Sheriff only cooked when it was a special occasion or he was trying to placate his son.
“What?” Stiles asked.
“And you don’t have to finish the attic style, I think you’ve put enough blood and tears into it.” He tried and failed not to chuckle at the last part. Stiles would’ve joined him if he weren’t already certain of the reason for his father's sudden change of tune.
“You’re going back to work?” He made it a question, but by the cringe his father gave him, he didn’t need an answer.
“Dad, this is the third double this week.”
“There’s a bug going around the station–”
“And you wanna stay there and catch it?”
“Stiles,” His father let out a tired sigh. “You know I don’t want to.” God, how Stiles wanted to get that resigned look in his eyes out. He was aware that this probably wasn’t his dad trying to overwork himself to death, but he couldn’t help the anxiety that wrecked him. His dad could take care of himself–logically, he knew that.
Illogically, he wanted his dad to retire and become something safe like a florist or professional bird-watcher. His dad was his entire family, and he needed to protect him. So he’d do it in any little way he could.
Nodding, Stiles deflated. “I’ll cook, you should get a nap before you go back,” He said. It was just a fraction, but he saw a bit of the guilt leave the Sheriff’s eyes. He could still try and get him into bird-watching later.
It was several hours later when the thoughts about the books got Stiles out of bed and his pitiful attempt to fall asleep. So he grabbed his empty (for once) laundry basket and went back up there. As if waiting, the low buzz made itself known. It was only bizarre for long enough for Stiles’ brain to come up with an explanation. Maybe the air conditioning was connected to something up here, it was cold enough. Much colder than the kind of cool they kept the rest of the house.
He didn’t want to stay up here longer than necessary. Especially since the buzzing was getting louder, like it was coming from the inside of his head rather than whatever vent he’d first assumed. There were eight books in total. Most of them looked like they were older than America, but when he touched them, they felt firm and sturdy. Not like they were going to fall apart. “Jesus, Mom.” He muttered. Because of the heft of the book, it took him three trips to get them all into his room.
He felt like giggling as he read some of the titles. ‘Znak i Dusza: Wiedza Przodków,’ a book that might be about invocation, spirit work, and traditional magic. ‘Obrzędy Krwi i Księżyca’. This one seemed more occult-like, something about rituals and the moon. Stiles was partially using the Polish dictionary he had to translate. He could barely understand it. Some of the words he’d simply never seen or heard before.
He looked at the books around him and considered whether he should just put them back and move on. That’s when he spotted it. A grayish-blue leather-bound book. He was shocked he didn’t realize earlier, but he knew that book. Sat on his mother's lap as she wrote on it.
His mother’s diary. He nearly died as he dove for it. His hands were shaking as he struggled to unlatch it– he needed to be sure to see her beautiful handwriting himself.
The strangled sob he let out when he tried to read her pretty Polish words on the page. He let out an amused breath as he recognized the heart she put over the ‘i when she wrote “Mischief”; it always made him feel special whenever he saw her write it. The pages all had dates on them, and he was flipping through them to see his nickname in her scrawl. He felt warmer and warmer the more he did it.
His motions all completely halted when he saw a name he wasn’t expecting to see in his mother’s diary. “Talia.” His brain rebooted for a couple of seconds as he slowly went back to see if she’d ever been mentioned before.
She had.
He’d tried to use Google to translate his mother's words, but it gave him a confusing garble of words. From what he could glean, his mother was having nightmares and told Talia something awful was going to happen to her pack. Stiles hates translating. Things never fit in a way that made sense. Talia was kind and told her everything was going to be okay, but his mother knew she didn’t believe her. That she was being kind to the ‘unstable lady’ as she called herself. It wasn’t surprising. She was at the worst point of her diagnosis. Random fits of rage, not recognizing him, sometimes not even recognizing his father. As he thought it over, all of the blood pumping through his veins slowed down. Because he’d researched his mother's illness obsessively.
One thing that was true for every single patient was the loss of fine motor skills and tremors.
But his mother's beautiful handwriting stayed forever
consistent till the very last page.