Sheriff Tom Stilinski hasn't had a single nightmare since he met Claudia.
Sometimes he wakes with a vague feeling of unease, but it's never full nightmare material: he never wakes with his heart pounding, sweat beading on his skin, panic threatening to swallow him whole as a scream catches in the back of his throat. Not anymore. And a blessing that is, too; shortly before he met the love of his life, he'd had to kill a man on duty. He wasn't able to shake the sight of the blood blossoming over the criminal's heart until the first night he and Claudia slept in the same bed. After that, he never dreamt of it again.
He called her his good luck charm. His home. His queen, his guardian angel. She'd always just smile, large and bright and the sweetest thing he'd ever seen, and changed the subject.
She named their child, a tiny, delicate little boy with pale skin and amber eyes and sharp features, especially for a creature so round and innocent as he was. Tom had given her a few solid side-eyes at the lengthy monstrosity of a name she assigned their boy, but caved underneath her blinding grin and claim of family ties. She had always been a little odd. He loved that about her.
Still loves that about her, even now.
Their child grew up quickly. He was still cheerful and mischievous, still asked a hundred questions as he tottered around and grabbed at everything he could reach. But there was something in his eyes, something in the way he talked about things that was just a little off-kilter, a little abnormal. His quirks mirrored his wife's to a tee, and at his son's young age, it was a cause for a concern. He never said anything, though, because it was at that point that he started to lose Claudia.
It was subtle at first: she was a little more tired, a little more hungry, a little snappish. But Tom was always quick to forgive, and he only wanted to know that she was okay. She always said yes, even when she slowly began to pale, go a little darker around the eyes and the hollows of her cheeks, heave a rattling cough at odd times. The doctors, when Tom finally convinced her to get looked at, were baffled. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with her at all - a little iron deficient, perhaps, but Claudia was never one for red meat or spinach.
Their son was healthier than ever.
Sometimes Tom caught snippets of a strange conversation between his wife and son, things that quite didn't make sense. Claudia would tell him to eat more, though by all rights their boy had a big appetite and never had problems eating. He would beg her to take her share for the night, saying things like It's not too late and just one good dream, mom. Claudia would sigh and whisper a promise, and he would always accuse her of lying.
"You shouldn't let him talk to you like that," Tom had told her once. She'd smiled wanly at him and disagreed.
Claudia Stilinski died in her sleep. She left behind her husband, the newly elected Sheriff, and their sweet, if hollow-eyed, son. Tom figured this was it: his wife, his love, his happiness, was gone. It was only a matter of time before the real world truly kicked in. Here would come the darkness. The nightmares.
Only, nothing changed.
**8**
Stiles takes to sleeping in his dad's bed after his mom… after. He feels awkward, cut adrift, like he doesn't know how to function properly. His mom was everything to him: parent, friend, mentor, and confidant. Young as he is, he understands that claiming that his mother was the only person who could understand him wouldn't be taken seriously, nor would it be taken well. All the same, it remains true.
The door to the master bedroom creaks, loudly into the quiet of the night hours, as he nudges it open. Stiles has taken to wearing shirts and shorts to bed, which is cold during the later months, so he made sure to bring his favourite blanket, tucked under one arm. One corner trails on the floor behind him. The bathroom light is on at the end of the hall. His toes rest at the very edge of the circle the light casts on the floor, right at the doorway to his dad's room; before him, the darkness is absolute. His father's gentle snores echo throughout the room. The familiar sound urges Stiles on, encouraging him to take the first step through the doorway into the room. His feet are cold on the hardwood floor.
"Dad?" he whispers, stumbling a few steps forward until he bumps into the bed. His hands reach out to feel their way up the bedcovers, forgetting his own blanket where he first stopped. "Daddy?"
The snores stop. Stiles hears a shuffling and feels the covers move. "Dad?" he tries again.
"Stiles?" his dad groans, voice slurred by sleep. A large hand wraps around his own. "What're you doing?"
"I can't sleep in my room," Stiles admits, voice hushed. The sheriff's hand is warm on his own. "It's too quiet. Can I sleep here?"
The sheriff's voice is muffled as he grumbles a few choice words into his pillow. Stiles knows that he's won and eagerly tries to climb on to the bed. There's a body in the way but he makes do, clutching onto the comforter and clambering over covered legs. "Stiles - oof," his dad chokes as an errant knee hits him in a particularly sensitive place. All the same, his arm reaches out to pull Stiles close as soon as he wiggles under the covers.
"Yeah, dad?" Stiles says, already half-asleep. He shamelessly snuggles closer to his dad's side, warm, comfortable, and hungry.
The sheriff sighs and settles back down to sleep. "Sweet dreams," he says finally.
"You too," his son says with a half-hearted smile, knowing very well that the sheriff won't sleep poorly for a second. Not with Stiles around.