Nine year old Stiles Stilinski sat slouched in an uncomfortable hospital room chair, listening to nothing but the sounds of laboured breathing and a heart monitor.

The laboured breathing belonged to his mother, who he overheard the doctors tell his dad is close to death. They had done their best to take care of her at home, despite her escalating symptoms, but a few weeks ago her condition had deteriorated to the point that she had to be admitted to the hospital.

His dad had also made a valiant effort to shield Stiles from the worst of it but Stiles had spent every free period for the past several weeks in the library, researching his mother's condition; every night at home, on the internet when his father had thought he was in bed asleep. He knew what she had – Frontotemporal Dementia – and he knew before the doctors said anything what her symptoms meant… she was dying.

He used to hope that his mom would recover from her formerly mysterious condition. Now he knew better. There was no cure for this disease. According to his research, it made the victim's body and mind basically waste away until they died. And that's exactly how it seemed to be happening with his mother. Oddly, he also found accounts of people having hallucinations about werewolves killing loved ones. Most of those witnesses had been deemed mentally unsound and been committed to Eichen House. Some for 24 hour evaluation but others were forced to stay longer. Werewolves. Yeah. Right. Like those were real. He almost wished they were, though, because that would mean his mom might have a chance of surviving this disease. Just one bite. He'd almost even gone so far as to find the monster mentioned in the stories so that he or she could save his mom but soon saw that for the fantasy it was and returned his focus to the real and the logical. Unfortunately, that meant his mother's fate was sealed. She was going to die.

Stiles could still remember the twinkle in her eyes when she laughed, the soft touch of her hand on his cheek, the way she could tell him everything she was feeling without saying a single word. But, over the past several months, that had changed. Most of the time she had no idea who her son was. And, when she did recognize him, she'd been convinced he and his dad were trying to kill her. She would launch into a rant about various hallucinations she believed to be real. Then her speech left her and she could only get out a few words at best, and those were often generalized or used in the wrong context altogether. Eating and drinking each became an extremely difficult and painful task, as well.

Stiles shook himself back to the present, swiping at a stray tear in frustration. The time for tears was gone. Crying wouldn't do anything to help his mother. They'd only serve to make his dad feel worse. Speaking of – he checked his watch. His dad had told him he was just going into the office to finish up some paperwork and he'd be back in a couple hours. That was three hours ago. Where was he?

Movement on the bed caught his attention. He turned to see his mother watching him, her gaze more lucid than it had been in months. And there was something else there. Recognition. She actually knew who he was.

Stiles stood up so fast, he got dizzy and had to brace himself with the arm of the chair. Once he was steady again, he stepped cautiously over to the bed, unsure how long her lucidity would last, but unable to resist having another few moments with his mother, as opposed to the stranger that seemed to be occupying her body more and more over the past few years.

She was strapped down to the bed, more for her protection than anyone else's, the doctors claimed. Stiles saw her right hand twitch beneath the strap at her hips. He locked eyes with her and instantly understood what she wanted. Taking her hand in his without breaking eye contact, Stiles waited expectantly. Her speech had been impaired lately but she still managed a few words with difficulty.

"M-Mask…"

Stiles realized with startling clarity that she wanted him to remove her oxygen mask. "Mom, no. Dad says your lungs are bad. The doctors – the doctors said, you need the mask to help you breathe."

Her gaze was determined. "M-Mask…"

The nine year old glanced back at the door, then reluctantly removed the mask. His mom smiled her thanks, then swallowed with effort as she concentrated on her next words. "Love… y-you…"

Stiles smiled, tears filling his eyes. "I love you, too, mom."

"Take… care… your… dad…"

This confused him. Why would he need to take care of his dad? But he could tell she was getting

frustrated, thinking he hadn't understood, so, he said, "Sure, mom. I'll take care of him. I promise."

She offered up a shaky smile and then, just like that, everything changed. She started to gasp for air, her hands pulled clumps of the bed sheets into a white knuckled grip, her back arched as she began to convulse.

"Mom? Mom!"

Stiles ran to the door, the tears in his eyes spilling over onto his cheeks. "Help! My mom needs help!"

The doctors came rushing in with a cart filled with machinery Stiles didn't recognize. A pretty, dark haired nurse urged Stiles out the door and into the hallway. Before she closed the door, he overheard one of the less personable doctors mutter, "Stupid kid removed her oxygen mask!"

The nurse gave Stiles a look of sympathy, then turned a hard glare toward the doctor as she closed the door.

Stiles stared at the closing door in horror. He backed away until the backs of his knees hit a chair and he collapsed into it. Not noticing the dark haired boy sitting just two chairs over from him, he put his head in his hands and tried to control his breathing. He killed his mom. He killed his mom!

The other boy stared at Stiles for a long moment, then, almost on instinct, he vacated his seat and sat in the one directly next to the distraught boy. Not knowing what else to do, he awkwardly stretched one arm across Stiles' shoulders and pulled him sideways to lean against him, rubbing his hand up and down his upper arm in effort to console him.

Sheriff Stilinski stepped off the elevator and saw his son sitting in a chair, head in his hands, rocking back and forth. Another boy about Stiles' age was sitting in the chair next to him, one arm around his son's shoulders. The kid looked vaguely familiar but the Sheriff just couldn't place him right now, nor did he have the inclination to as his gaze moved from the two boys and settled on the closed door to Claudia's room. His heart stuttered. He moved slowly to the door and witnessed the doctors and nurses working on his wife, the long steady tone of the heart monitor audible through the door. She'd been right. The girl at the accident site. But how? How had she known?

A whimper from his son pulled the Sheriff back to the present. He rushed over and knelt in front of Stiles. He gave the other boy a tiny smile of gratitude before the kid got up and retreated down the hall.

"Stiles? Son, can you hear me?" He reached out and lifted his son's chin. Once eye contact was achieved, the Sheriff's breath caught in his throat. In his son's eyes was pure devastation. "Stiles? It's dad. I am so sorry, son. I never should've left you alone." No answer. Stiles didn't even seem to know he was there. Another whimper was followed by a tear streaming down the too-young cheek. Needing to do something, Sheriff Stilinski did what Stiles hadn't let him do too often lately. He scooped his boy up into his arms and sat down in the chair, cradling the nine year old on his lap and rocking him back and forth, smoothing his hair, placing kisses on his brow, anything he could think of to try to bring his son back to him. "Shhh, buddy, I gotcha. Daddy's gotcha." He continued to rock his son back and forth long after the doctors had left the room, one nurse stopping long enough to tell him gently that his wife had passed and there was nothing they could do. Stilinski barely heard her. He would mourn and grieve later. Right now, his son needed him and he knew in his heart that Claudia would have agreed.

Stiles must come first. Stiles would always come first.

Weeks after the death of Claudia Stilinski, the Sheriff had still been confused by his son's state of mind. The funeral had been understandably difficult for both of them but the Sheriff hadn't been able shake the feeling that there was more to it for Stiles. It'd almost seemed like guilt but what could a nine year old boy possibly feel guilty about in the death of his mother. Stiles hadn't been willing to talk to him about what happened, which finally brought Stilinski back to the hospital where his wife had died.

Most of the staff on duty that night were strangely unwilling to shed any light on the situation for the Sheriff. He'd been trying to get in touch with the nurse who had actually taken the time to stop and fill him in on his wife's passing but she seemed to be avoiding him. To be fair, though, he had to admit that she might not even be getting the messages – some left with her husband who always seemed to be either drunk or hung over when he called, others taken by an overworked nurse at the hospital. After a while, he gave up and concentrated his efforts on the doctor who'd been on duty when Claudia had passed.

Cornering that particular doctor in the parking lot one night when the man was on his way home after a long shift was not one of Sheriff Stilinski's finest moments. But this doctor actually had the gall to tell him that he'd been too busy concentrating on trying to save Claudia to worry about a bothersome child.

Needless to say, the doctor didn't have a chance to elaboraate on that before the grieving husband and father's well-placed fist thrust forward and broke his nose.

Then he said something, hands covering his nose protectively, voice nasally and strained, that the Sheriff would never forget. "You really want to know the truth about how your wife died? Ask your son. When we went into the room, your wife's oxygen mask had been removed. Whoever removed that mask is the reason for your wife's death."

Sheriff Stilinski's jaw dropped. Claudia had been murdered? And Stiles had witnessed it? Did his nine year old son feel guilty for not being able to stop it?

Without so much as a second glance at the insensitive doctor, the Sheriff turned on his heel and headed home to wait for Stiles to return from school. He was going to get his son to open up to him whether the kid wanted to or not. The staff, he would deal with later with charges of obstruction of justice and whatever else he could think to throw at them. Right now, his son needed him.

Stilinski hoped and prayed that Stiles would tell him he'd been asleep, that he hadn't seen anything. But as much as the Sheriff didn't want to admit it, all of this explained why his usually affable son was picking fights at school, neglecting to do his homework, falling asleep in class. The grades had been expected to fall for a little while but Stilinski thought they would have been going back up by now or, at the very least, staying steady. Even the guidance counsellor had expressed concern. Now the Sheriff knew why his son had been acting so strangely. All he had to do now was fix it. Fix his son's brokenness. If only he knew how.

He heard the front door open. Time to get his boy to tell him exactly what happened in his mother's room that night. Stiles came into the living room, backpack slung over one shoulder, and was startled to find his father sitting there waiting for him.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"Have a seat, son. We need to talk."

Stiles reluctantly lowered his backpack to the floor and sat down on the sofa, preparing himself for yet another attempt at a heart to heart from his father. Part of Stiles wanted to tell him the truth. But a much larger part was terrified that his father would hate him forever. And Stiles couldn't blame him. Heck, he even hated himself. His mom's death was his fault, the doctor had said as much. So, maybe he deserved all the pain the world wanted to dish out at hm. Just like picking fights at school knowing full well that he would lose, wanting to get hurt. Because, to put it simply, physical pain was far easier to handle than emotional. He'd never made this analogy, of course. As a nine year old boy, he just knew that he preferred the pain of bruises and split lips, and possibly the occasional fractured bone, to what he felt when he thought about his mother's death.

The Sheriff kept his voice gentle as he relayed what the doctor had told him – minus what was said to earn the broken nose, of course – and told Stiles that it was important that he tell him anything he could remember from that night. The boy's eyes filled with tears. Stilinski knelt down in front of him, placing his hands on the small bony knees.

"Stiles, please, talk to me. I know, it's been eating you up inside. Talking about it will help, I promise."

Stiles shook his head, shaking some tears free in the process and barely noticing as they tracked down his cheeks. He just stared at his father, horrified as another thought penetrated his young mind – if his father found out the truth, would he throw Stiles in jail? Or juvie, or whatever? Stiles had already lost his mom, he had no friends at school, except Heather whose family had recently purchased a new home, forcing her to switch to a new school in a different district. Besides, being around her just made Stiles miss his mom even more. His dad was all he had left. He couldn't tell him the truth. He couldn't risk losing him, too.

"Please, son, I need to know," the Sheriff continued, cupping his son's face in his hands and using his thumbs to wipe away the stray tears. "Whoever it was will go to jail for a very long time, Stiles." Stiles jolted in his grip, eyes widening with fear. "I won't let anyone hurt you, son. You know that. But I need you to be brave, okay? Just tell me who it was." Feeling that this wasn't working, Stilinski tried a different tack. If Stiles wouldn't open up for himself, maybe he'd open up for his dad's sake. "The not knowing is the worst part for me, kiddo. Please, tell me who it was."

"It was me," Stiles blurted on a sob. "She woke up and asked me to take off her mask because she wanted to talk to me. I'm sorry, dad. I'm sorry!"

The words left the Sheriff in shock. Before he could find his voice again to respond, Stiles leapt off the sofa and bolted for the door. Stilinski's legs were longer and faster though. He chased after his son, reaching out just as a sobbing Stiles was fumbling for the doorknob.

Wrapping one arm around Stiles' waist, he lifted up and back until Stiles' back was pressed against his chest. The boy kicked and screamed to get free, pleading with his father not to send him to jail. With everything he'd said over the past few minutes racing through his mind, Stilinski sighed in frustration. He'd handled this in the worst way possible. The thought had never even occurred to him that Stiles would have removed the mask himself! Ah, crap!

"Of course, I'm not going to send you to jail, buddy," he said mournfully, turning Stiles in his arms so that they were now chest to chest and enveloping the small form in his embrace. The boy continued to struggle but only half-heartedly, the tiny voice begging for forgiveness. Stilinski pulled back a bit to catch his son's eyes and said firmly, tears falling down his own face now. "There is nothing to forgive, Stiles. You did absolutely nothing wrong. Do you hear me? Nothing. Tell me you understand, kiddo." The nine year old nodded but Stilinski could tell that he didn't quite believe him yet. He pulled him forward again, holding him even tighter and cupping the back of Stiles' head in one large palm to quell the boy's residual struggles. "There's nothing to forgive, son. There's nothing to forgive."

Stiles continued to sob against his father's shoulder but not from relief. His father's tears broke him even further. He'd promised his mother that he would take care of his dad and had failed miserably from day one.

The boy knew his dad wanted to forgive him but how could he. Knowing that it was Stiles and not some stranger didn't change the undeniable fact that removing the oxygen mask is what killed her. Deep down his father blamed him, even at the tender age of nine, Stiles knew that had to be true and that knowledge broke his heart. But he also knew that his dad loved him too much to hate him for it.

Stiles would take what he could get. Still sobbing, he wrapped his arms around his father's neck and silently decided that, from now on, he would keep that final promise he made to his mom. No matter what, he would take care of his dad!

Two weeks later, Stiles was sitting at a corner table near the back wall of the lunch room, the one place he could call his own. The fact that it was his own because nobody wanted to sit with him was neither here nor there. It was still his. A place where he could eat in peace. A place where he didn't have to endure the surreptitious glances, the not-so-hushed whispers of cruel words he could hear all too well. Nobody bothered him here. And, if he sat close enough to the back corner of the table, encased in shadow, he could almost believe that he had achieved the one superpower he wished for more than any other… invisibility. Although, super strength and super speed would be pretty cool, too. Then again, all the bullies at this school had given him quite a bit of practice in the latter category – these days, he could outrun nearly anyone on the school track team. Amazing what a little motivation could do… run or suffer enormous amounts of pain. No debating that one.

Admittedly, he'd sought out that pain not too long ago. But, on a normal day, Stiles hated pain almost as much as he hated needles. That was not to say he couldn't endure it. He never let them see him cry. Not once. Partially because of well-honed Stilinski pride. But also because he instinctively knew the tears would only act as encouragement for the more sadistic bullies. And since he had no way of knowing just yet which bullies fell into that category – although he was currently creating a database to help him figure it out – he felt it best to just assume they all were for the time being.

So, yeah, no tears.

As he was taking another bite of his PB&J, his peripheral vision caught some kid sitting down at the opposite end of his table. He growled deep in his throat, a pitiful sound even to his own ears, and said "That seat's taken. This whole table is taken." The figure froze, butt almost touching the seat. After a brief hesitation hinged on a sigh of resignation, the kid stood again and started to step away from the table. As light fell on the perpetrator's face, Stiles recognized him and wracked his brain for a name… Scott, he was pretty sure. Yeah, Scott. He was in Stiles' homeroom class this year. And, from what Stiles could tell, this kid was as much of a loner as he was.

He tried to stop himself, he really did. Because what good was the reputation of an honest-to-goodness loner if he started making friends? Still, against his better judgement, he spoke up again. "Wait." Scott turned around, eyes expectant, even hopeful. Stiles groaned inwardly, he needed to teach this kid to stop wearing his heart on his sleeve. Hide your true feelings with humour, that was Stiles' motto and it seemed to work quite well for him – the last month or so since his mother's death notwithstanding. "Go ahead and sit," he added.

Stiles made eye contact with Scott, a rare occurrence for each of them, and some kind of connection instantly snapped into place. It was like they'd known each other all their lives. Stiles was surprised by the feeling and it was obvious Scott was, too, as he moved to the other end of the table and sat directly across from Stiles, eyes remaining locked with Stiles' the entire time.

Both boys. Immersed in shadow. Becoming partners in crime before saying a single word.

For the first time, Stiles saw the bump and bruise on Scott's forehead. "What happened?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

Scott seemed to know right away what his new friend was referring to. If the sudden aversion of their new found eye contact was any indication, Scott flushed with embarrassment. His hand went up to touch the injury but Stiles reached out and gripped Scott's wrist gently but firmly. He waited for eye contact again, then gave a slight shake of his head. "Don't touch it. It'll just hurt all over again. Trust me." Scott nodded and lowered his hand back to the table. "So, what happened," Stiles queried again.

Scott began eating his own sandwich, also PB&J, which made Stiles smile – already something else in common. "I fell down the stairs."

Stiles could tell there was more to that story but left it for another time. With their sudden connection, it might not be baby steps in this friendship, but Stiles still felt the need to respect Scott's need for time. It wasn't like Stiles wanted to just blurt out the story about his mom, either. I mean, what kid does that, right?

"My mom died," he suddenly blurted out, shocking himself but, surprisingly, not Scott.

"I know. I saw you and your dad at the hospital that night." Stiles' jaw stilled mid-chew. "My mom is a nurse there," Scott added quickly when he saw the shock and mortification in the other boy's eyes. Clearly, Stiles remembered the state he was in when his father had arrived, though it was likely a vague recollection rather than intricate details. Either way, nothing to be embarrassed about as far as Scott was concerned. But, even in the shadow surrounding them, he could see the tinge of pink on his new friend's face. In an effort to make him feel better, he confessed, "My dad got drunk and threw me down the stairs."

Stiles locked eyes with him again and right in that moment, their friendship solidified into something much stronger. Something that would last a lifetime. That night would prove to be a true test of that friendship.