OH CRAP. WHY AM I DOING THIS AGAIN.
Yup – ChasetheWindTouchtheSky here. And I've decided to go ahead with my idea I got in the middle of Take Back This Soul That is So Rightfully Mine. I'm so sorry for those who aren't a fan of the stiles!Whump, but it's fun to write for me, so buckle down for another one.
This story will be entirely AU from the current season, but I'll probably take some elements. It's canon up until the first episode: it's an alternative suggestion to what the Calaveras were planning to do with Scott when he was strapped in the chair and a new set of consequences.
I can't believe I'm getting myself into these shenanigans again, but let's get started, shall we?
PROLOGUE
Once Upon a Time in Mexico
They say that when someone goes missing, there's a 48-hour window. That's it. 48 hours. That's 2,880 seconds. In the grand scheme of things, it's such a laughably miniscule amount of time to be searching for someone until all hope is lost.
But this was a proven fact. 48 hours and the percentage of finding the person – particularly alive and still in one piece – drastically drops until, mathematically speaking, there was no hope to find them.
48 hours.
For the Sheriff, it'd been one year, two months, and five days. That's a lot of hours to pass and a lot of time to be searching. The FBI teams had long given up, the posters had been torn from the walls, and the dogs were instructed to find a body, not a teenager. Statistically speaking, the numbers were not on his side.
He passed the excuse of using department resources a long time ago. So he didn't. He stopped using them (illegally) seven months ago. He stopped his own private investigation in the last five. And most importantly, he stopped thinking the wiry, annoying, frustrating, wonderful, creative, extraordinary teen would walk through the door someday in the last four months. Because the fact of the matter is, now?
Stiles is now just a picture and a memory.
One Year, Two Months, and Five Days Ago
The room is thick with tension. Scott is panting, his chest draped over the back to the chair he's restrained to, watching his pack slowly crumble. His eyes dart from Kira's hand on the knob controlling the electricity running through his veins, to Lydia strapped at his side. Just a while ago, they brought a fierce Malia and panicked Stiles into the room, adding to the severity of the situation.
Scott tries to think of something, but of course his mind is coming up blank. He just wanted to help get Derek back, that's all. How did things manage to go astronomically wrong in such a sort amount of time? He catches Stiles' gaze and his skin crawls. Stiles has got that look. That look of his brain going far too fast for him to ever keep up – usually with the conclusion being something he's going to hate.
"You think that a werewolf can come into my home," Lady Calaveras states, her tone and visage fierce. "And demand that I do something for them. Even if I knew where Derek Hale was, there is no way I would give his location. Because you've been around the Argents for far too long."
Scott winces, but no one has touched the dial of the device. Even the mention of her last name awakens something horrifying within him. Like an open wound that will forever remain open, only to be irritated with the slightest of ease.
He's awoken from his own horrifying world when he realizes that Lady Calaveras has come inches from his face. "Because here? In my home?" She spits. "We hunt those that hunt us."
She retreats from him, a vicious smile on her face. "I wonder how much a True Alpha is worth to certain groups of people?"
Scott freezes, unable to mask his own fear.
"Because, we catch Alphas all the time. But True Alphas? That's an entirely different story. I'm certain the right… bidder could present themselves if give the correct push."
"Are you crazy?" Lydia cries from his side, but Scott's already going numb. He knows the situation. His pack is in a life threatening situation and if he doesn't do as she says, he's certain she won't hesitate to harm them. "We're teenagers!"
"And the black market for the supernatural exists for a reason." Lady Calaveras states with a calm that only makes Scott feel even worse. "As long as we don't make a spectacle and sell those we catch too visibly, no one is the wiser. One missing teenager won't be the end of the world."
She grins at him with a vengeful look.
Scott can't help it; he finds himself looking at Stiles. Stiles always has a Plan B if something went wrong. Even in preparation for this rescue – although, they could've never really prepared for this – he stated he came up with several, just in case. And now?
Now he's looking contemplatively at Lady Calaveras and for some reason, that's all the more terrifying.
Lady Calaveras merely grins at the teenagers' apparent loss to the situation, nodding at one of her henchmen. He opens a laptop and starts typing furiously, Scott unable to come up with any solution that would get him out of being sold.
Sold.
Like an animal.
"I think you're making a wild oversight."
Scott looks up from his resignation to see that Stiles' face is completely calm. He smirks after his admission, eyeing Lady Calaveras with amusement. The guy stops typing and she turns around, frowning at the teen.
"I beg your pardon?" She asks shortly.
"I mean, don't get me wrong. True Alpha – yikes. Jackpot on that one." He plows further on, putting his hands up to reveal shackles that are keeping him in place. "Truly, truly an inspiration on your ability to lock up innocent teenagers trying to get their friend back."
"I don't know if I would call breaking into my home as a flair of innocence."
"Breaking in?" Stiles repeats with a snort. "You literally let us in and we tried to pay you for Derek Hale, who clearly, you don't even have. All of this is just dramatic bullshit that you're expecting to get a profit off of. But I maintain my original thought: you're making a pretty big oversight."
Lady Calaveras frowns, taking a few aggressive steps toward him. "Stiles, whatever you're doing, stop!" Scott shouts because A) he can't for the life of him figure out what Stiles is actually doing but B) knows that it can't be anything good if it involves provoking a seasoned hunter.
Stiles throws him a warning look that clearly states 'Shut up stupid, I know what I'm doing.'
"And who, exactly, am I overlooking? Out of a banshee, a fox, and a coyote, a True Alpha is far superior."
"Totally." Stiles agree. "I'm all for you letting all aforementioned people go because they are totally common and useless. I mean, banshees? Blech – been there done that, there's really no reason for her to even be here."
Scott can see the corner of Lydia's mouth from the corner of his eye.
"And I'm not arguing that a True Alpha isn't better than all of those," Stiles continues. "I used the word 'overlooked,' which, by definition, means you haven't looked at it yet."
"Stiles!" Lydia hisses, her eyes full of fear for the teen who is provoking the murderous hunter.
He waves her aside. "Because sure, they are rare. But they happen. More than once."
Lady Calaveras is now feet away from him, smirking. "Then who, may I ask, am I overlooking?"
Stiles smiles brightly. "Isn't it obvious?" He waves his hands out grandiosely. "Me."
There's an awkward pause in the room, clear that the Calaveras are waiting for the punch line. When it doesn't come, everyone starts to laugh. It doesn't dampen Stiles' smile. "Pardon me, but what exactly are you?" Lady Calaveras says through her grin. "Abominable snowman?"
Stiles snorts. "No, but that would be totally cool. Something a little darker than that." His goofiness fades and he states, "Nogitsune survivor."
The air in the room feels like it disappears.
Scott can see he's got her interest. And that terrifies him.
"Because I've done some research," Stiles continues because of course he has. "And that is something that's never happened before. People always kill the host. It's the only way they can think to kill the Nogitsune itself. Or, they die due to the drain on their system. No one has actually lived through it before."
He's different. Stiles chooses not to speak of the past few months. Even the word 'Nogitsune' has become something sort of taboo back home. Scott knows his best friend still has nightmare, still thinks that he's possessed at times, but he never talks about it. Even speaking about it now, the lines in his face deepen and his looks older.
A little broken.
"So sure, you can sell a True Alpha, that's fine." He shrugs. "But imagine what people would pay for something that, up until a couple months ago, didn't exist."
Lady Calaveras stares at him, her eyes lighting up. Scott can't believe it. She's seriously considering it.
"But, I totally understand if you don't want to," Stiles says, his charming demeanor coming once more. He puts his hands up. "I get it. Don't want to take the risk. But – I have taken economics. The greater the risk, the greater the reward." He shrugs. "You scared?"
Lady Calaveras closes the distance between the two of them, grabbing the back of his neck. To his credit, Stiles doesn't even flinch but eyes her like he's challenging her to take the chance. She peers behind him and Scott frowns, unable to see what has her attention. Then she smirks. "Interesting scarring, boy."
Scott closes his eyes because this is when he knows. He knows in this second that Stiles' plan has worked. She's running her fingers across the veins of his Lichen scars (something that never truly went away, much to Stiles' dismay). Stiles remains stony at her touch.
"You would do that?" She asks calmly. "For your friend?"
Stiles snorts. "For my brother."
The moment the words are out of his mouth, she grabs the chains connecting his shackles and drags him forward, forcing Stiles to stumble forward. He stumbles in a way that only Stiles can – all limbs and no grace – falling in line. "You're gonna wish you never suggested this." She whispers in his ears.
Before Scott can do anything, before he can think, protest, or something, Stiles is being shoved from the room, the henchmen of the Calaveras exiting with them.
"Wait!" Stiles cries, the fear finally reaching his voice as he casts a terrified look over his shoulders. "Let me please say goodbye! I need to say goodbye!"
He struggles a little bit, but there's not much he can do with his wrists shackled. One of the hunters grab him and shove him forward, just as he screams, "Scotty! Scotty!"
Scott finds his voice and tugs against the electric collars on his wrists. "Stiles!" He gasps, trying to focus every ounce of strength within him in breaking free.
"Scotty! Don't let my dad—"
The door slams behind them, leaving the teens by themselves.
There's no more noise.
Present Day
Now all Scott has are the nightmares of that moment. All the Sheriff has is a photo. A photo on his desk of the family he once had. It's his favorite photo of the two of them. It was years ago – before Claudia ever was diagnosed or before the supernatural was anything more than a show on the CW. Claudia had Stiles wrapped in a hug and of course, being Stiles and his endless fit of movement, he was desperately trying to escape. But it's a beautiful candid shot of his wife looking down at him and Stiles smiling because, well, it was his mom and Stiles was always fiercely loyal to those he loved. The sun peeked over their shoulders and the Sheriff can remember thinking he never saw a picture so beautiful in his life.
And now he's the only one left.
He scrubs his hands down his unshaven face – he hates to admit that he let himself go the past year, but not to the extent he could've. Every time he reaches for the bottle of Jack, he sees Stiles' disapproving face staring at him. It always causes him to close the liquor cabinet.
This day started like any other day. With him dragging his ass out of bed, thinking longingly of retirement and a world where werewolves weren't a thing. He arrived five minutes early – enough time to get a cup of coffee and stare wistfully at the donuts on the counter. He fills out a few reports before driving around Beacon Hills simply for the hell of it because, in the grand scheme of things, people going seven miles over the speed limit isn't all that critical anymore.
He's back at his desk for lunch, just unwrapping his sandwich when he hears a commotion outside his office doors. He peers questioningly at the closed door before him, debating whether he wants to get involved. A part of him wants to remain on this side of the door where things are calm and quiet.
It doesn't seem like he's allowed to because within a few minutes, Deputy Parrish is barging into his office, his eyes wide. The Sheriff sets down his sandwich. "Oh crap," he breathes with a huff. "What now?"
"Okay, Sheriff?" Parrish says softly. "You need to remain calm."
It never occurred to the Sheriff that he shouldn't be calm in the first place, which makes him all the more weary. This probably meant he should be freaking out about something. "What happened?" He asks again, but Parrish doesn't get any more comfortable. It's odd to see him so out of sorts – Parrish always maintained a level head in even the most terrifying of situations.
"Sir, I need you to understand that he isn't himself. You need to stay calm and professional, even though I know you're going to be wanting to do other things—"
"What in God's name are you talking about, Parrish? Just spit it out!" The Sheriff snaps, not panicked but more annoyed.
Then he hears it and stills.
"I swear to God, she's registered!"
He knows that voice.
"She's registered, I don't have my paperwork with me, but can't you tell by the vest? I mean, it's not like you can easily get one of these!"
The Sheriff's eyes widen. "No," he breathes, Parrish nothing but a blurred form in front of him, blocking his path. "No."
The Sheriff roughly shoves past him, sprinting out of his office. "Sheriff!" is the half-hearted plea behind him, but the Sheriff pays Parrish no mind anymore. He has to see it. He has to.
And then he does.
It feels like the entire world stops.
He's there. His boy is there. Stiles is standing against the counter of the police station, pinching the bridge of his nose like the cops that are gaping at him are offending him in some way. Everyone is just staring and clearly Stiles is taking that for something else because he's snapping, "Please, I just need directions and I'll be out of your hair! I promise!"
"Stiles!" The Sheriff cries, sprinting over to where his son is – standing tall and in one piece and alive – and brings him into a bone-crushing hug.
Parrish runs into the room. "Sheriff…" he warns again, but he can't imagine why.
"You're crushing me," Stiles huffs underneath the Sheriffs arms, prodding the man's shoulders. "Please get off."
The Sheriff manages to untangle himself from the teenager, his eyes wide. "Stiles?" He breathes, his brain spinning out of control so that he can't entirely process what is going on. His son should be hugging him back. He should be crying. Hell, the Sheriff has already started. Something isn't making sense. "Stiles?" he tries again.
The teen doesn't acknowledge the name, peering around. He must feel the Sheriff's eyes on him and then he coughs awkwardly. "Oh sorry – gesundheit." The kid remarks, turning his attention back to the cop behind the desk. "I just need directions." He states again.
The Sheriff's chest crumbles in a way he's not sure if he'll be able to survive from. The cop doesn't respond, so Stiles gives an exasperated sigh. "Okay, can someone please tell me what's going on? Because I really need to get to Beacon Hills High School before they close. I start on Monday and I have to sign a shit ton of paperwork and I'm gonna be late. Is it because of her? Because she has her service vest on and she's on duty so it should be fine, right? Plus, you have police dogs that are working here, so it's not much different."
The Sheriff blinks, the kid a flurry of words and movement, talking so fast. God, he'd missed that. He couldn't believe how much he missed barely understanding what Stiles was talking about.
But he hadn't even noticed the dog at his side. A beautiful German Shepard remains at the teen's feet, a bright blue vest on his chest. In stitched letters are the words, "Please don't pet me, I'm working!" If the Sheriff didn't think this moment could get any worse…
He appraises the kid, desperately trying to figure out what's happening. That is his son. There's no doubt about that. That is Stiles. He dreamed about this moment. He counted endless days for this moment. He prepared in all sorts of ways for this. He prepared for if he was found alive or if he was found dead. He prepared for hostage situations, for comas, for PTSD.
But what he didn't prepare for was his kid returning and having no recollection of him. That was a pain he couldn't explain. It took his breath away with the thought of not being able to hold his son, take him home, never let go. But there was more at play here.
And he had a service dog.
That was a Pandora's box the Sheriff wasn't sure he was in the mental capacity of tackling at the moment.
Instead, he calls upon ever ounce of strength he possesses and straightens up. He can tell everyone's waiting – waiting for his lead, for his reaction, for his action. "Sorry about that," he states gruffly, blinking away the tears in his eyes. "How can I help you?"
Stiles finally turns to him, relief washing over his face when it appears someone will help him. "Oh, thank you! And man, you guys must be a super friendly police department because I swear, that was like, my third hug since I got through the door. Or is it another form of torture? Who knows? I mean—" Stiles cuts himself off, shaking his head and blinking furiously. "Sorry, I took a lot of Adderall today because I was a little nervous about going to the school."
The Sheriff can actually feel everyone take in a breath.
It takes all his resolve to maintain an air of professionalism. "No worries, someone close to me used to take it. I understand."
Stiles breaks into a grin. "Can't really understand it until you experience it, sort of thing, you know?" He laughs. "Anyways, I just need directions to the high school. My first day is Monday and I want to make sure everything's in order."
"No problem," the Sheriff states, proud his voice is only wavering a little. "It's about four blocks away. Take a left of Cherry and a right on Maple."
"Got a thing for trees, do we?" Stiles laughs, absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck. The action is so familiar that the Sheriff has to look away. "Thanks. I'll be out of your hair."
"What's her name?" The Sheriff asks before he can stop himself.
Stiles hesitates, peering down at the dog. "Claudia," he says and in that moment, the world shatters.
The Sheriff needs to get out. The air is too thick and he doesn't know what to do. He knows grabbing Stiles and taking him home or to the hospital or to Deaton would be a horrible idea, but it's the only one he can currently think of. "W-What made you choose that?" He manages to get out.
Stiles shrugs. "I've always liked the name. Feels like home."
Home.
It's a dangerous thing to think about when all the Sheriff wants to do is grab his son's arms so he's finally home once again.
"It's a nice name," the Sheriff chokes. "Do you mind me asking what she's for?"
Stiles finally gets uncomfortable. Wincing, he mumbles, "Sorry, that's kinda personal."
The Sheriff puts his hands up, trying to shove down the intense curiosity and desire to protect the teen in front of him. "I'm sorry if I overstepped. So you're new to Beacon Hills?"
The uncomfortable look fades away and Stiles grins. "Yeah, starting somewhere new, which I think is good? I dunno. I suppose we'll find out!"
The Sheriff frowns, feigning concern for him being by himself. "Where are your parents? Shouldn't they be there at the school with you?"
Stiles shrugs. "Don't have any. I've been in and out of foster homes for like, the past seven months. Couldn't handle all of this awesomeness." He says gesturing to himself. "Well, more like, couldn't handle the undiagnosed ADHD teen."
The Sheriff wants to shoot something.
"Don't worry – I got diagnosed and calmed down! Er… a bit. Anyway, I applied for one of those federal programs where you can live underaged somewhere if you fill out a billion forms and promise not to turn the apartment into a harem or meth house or something like that. So I'm doing my civic duty and going through all the responsible steps for school. I just needed to get somewhere new and I picked up a map of California and closed my eyes. My finger landed at Beacon Hills."
Stiles finishes with a smile, but it falters when he sees everyone either staring at him or the Sheriff. He laughs uncomfortably. "Oh, sorry. I mean, 'I don't have parents Random Stranger.' Sorry about the verbal vomit. I have this tendency to keep on talking unless someone stops me. Partly the reason why I got kicked out of so many foster homes." He says with a chuckle, and then his eyes widen when he realizes what he said. "Oh God – someone just stop me! Sorry! I-I'm gonna get out of your hair before you decide that arresting me will be easier."
"We would never arrest someone innocent." Parrish's voice comes from behind him and the Sheriff realizes he's staring at Stiles like a man mesmerized.
Which is totally true, but probably not the best expression for someone who doesn't recognize him.
"Good to know." Stiles smiles. "Thanks for the help…"
"Stilinski," the Sheriff practically shouts. "John Stilinski."
"I should probably call you Sheriff," Stiles laughs, taking his hand.
I would prefer you call me 'Dad.'
But then, Stiles drops his hand as soon as he takes it, like it's burned him in some way. He frowns, blinking. "You name sounds familiar," he says softly. "Although, you'd think I'd remember something like 'Stilinski,' right? Polish?"
The Sheriff tries not to grimace, but he isn't sure how successful he is. "Yeah."
"Well then," Stiles says with his hands in his pockets. "This has been sufficiently weird for one day. I'm just gonna head out. Thank you for the help."
Stiles opens the door, hesitating only to wave.
"Wait!" the Sheriff calls, but he isn't sure what he wants to ask. There are too many questions rolling around in his head. Somehow, he settles on, "You didn't tell me your name."
Stiles beams. "The name on my fake ID is Miguel." He chuckles and then coughs when he looks around. "Right, totally not the right audience for that joke. I'm totally kidding, I don't have a fake ID."
The Sheriff doesn't believe him for a second.
"My name is Stuart." He says with a genuine smile. "So I'll see you around?"
"Sure."
"Hopefully not due to my miscreant behavior."
The Sheriff can't help but snort at that.
But then the door shuts and he's gone, leaving the Sheriff with a gaping hole in his chest that he didn't realize would form at the sight of seeing his son. Once he's lumbered down the road, the Sheriff takes a breath and looks at the penetrating gazes of those in his precinct.
"I have a phone call to make." He says, slamming the door to his office behind him.
A/N: So here we are! Yes – it's a memory!Loss fic. Which means I get to do a combination of silly!Stiles and angsty!Stiles, which I love. Lots of questions for the prologue, I suppose! Why he has a service dog, what happened in the five months he wasn't in foster care, why he doesn't remember, etc. I'm going to keep naming him 'Stiles,' even though he thinks his name is 'Stuart,' simply for understanding purposes.
Please leave a note if you have the time!