Notes: I don't know what my problem is with finding fandoms when they're actually, you know, active, but here I am! I just finished binging the show, and now I'm going through withdraw from all the wonderful angsty love between Scott & Stiles and Stiles & his dad. So if anybody out there is still into Teen Wolf, here's my contribution to the fandom.
I originally based this story off of the Supernatural episode 'What Is and What Should Never Be,' but it kinda took a life of its own. But if the overall feel is familiar, that's why.
Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf or any of the characters depicted in the show. I'm just a fan hankering for more content.
This work is unbeta'd, and I apologize in advance for any mistakes. I will be going back and fixing them as I find them, so feel free to point them out.
One last thing, while I have a solid outline for this story, I'm throwing all caution to the wind and posting as I write. Which means it could be a while between updates. *My other WIPs side-eye me* I'm very sorry. I hate me, too.
Ten Years Gone
By: Minnicoops
The whine of an electric guitar penetrates Stiles' unconscious mind, interrupting the blissful ignorance of sleep. He groans, trying to grasp onto the last edges of the comfortable darkness, pull it back around him like a blanket, but the riff is getting louder, more insistent. He recognizes the song, but he can't place it right away. Not until the singer belts out the first line.
Zeppelin? He scowls, squinting at his alarm clock and noting that, yes, indeed, that's exactly what it is. Ugh. He hates Zeppelin, always has, despite his dad's enthusiasm for playing it (and singing along, loudly and off key) every time they get in the car. So why the heck is it playing now? Surely his dad wouldn't have smuggled it onto his iPod as some kind of sick prank to get him to "appreciate the classics."
Yeah, no. On second thought, that's totally something his dad would do.
Stiles grunts and smacks the snooze button. He can worry about revenge later. For now, all he wants is five more minutes of Z's...
"Stiles!" Footsteps thud up the stairs. "You better not still be in bed."
He jolts upright as someone crashes into his door, raising a hand to block out the beams of sunlight that attack his eyes from the window. The door swings open and a girl, who can't be more than twelve or thirteen, stumbles clumsily through, all arms and legs and stringy brown hair. She rolls her blue eyes as she spots him and she lets out a dramatic sigh. "Come on. We're going to be late. Again."
Who the hell…? He shakes his head, blinking a few times to clear the lingering fog of sleep. A cursory glance around confirms that, yes, he is in his room, even though it looks… Weird. The furniture is all the same, but the walls… They're empty. Tidy. There's a framed picture of a forest shrouded in mist over his desk, which, ok, he'll admit looks pretty sweet, but it sure as hell wasn't there before. Sure, he'd taken down the newspaper articles and crime scene photos and red string after the nogitsune because he really really didn't need any more reminders of that (he gets enough of that every time he closes his eyes), but he'd never been one to keep his walls clutter free. There are still posters and concert tickets and other random shit everywhere.
He scrubs his hands roughly through his hair and over his face, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees spots in the hopes that that will somehow clear things up. It doesn't. When he opens his eyes again, the girl is still there, crossing her arms and looking at him with the kind of indignant irritation that only a tween girl can pull off.
His tongue finally works itself loose, stuttering out the most obvious question. "Who are you?"
The girl rolls her eyes again. "Just hurry up, would you?" she says, as if she's very accustomed to him being an idiot. "Mom said she'll take away your car if I'm late to school again." With that, the girl twirls, flinging her hair over her shoulder as she stomps out of the room.
All the air leaves the room with her. Did she say... Mom?
Okay, yeah. That settles it. This has got to be a dream.
He's not even sure when he first figured out the counting fingers thing to tell when he's dreaming, but by now, it's become a familiar habit. Like cracking his knuckles. He doesn't even realize he's doing it most of the time.
This time he does it purposefully, being sure to pay attention so he doesn't miscount.
Nope, no extras.
Okay, fine. Just because he has ten fingers doesn't mean this isn't a dream. He knows better than to trust himself to determine dreams from reality these days, even if he hasn't had any incidents since then. Well, no incidents of him wandering into coyote dens or setting booby traps or trying to sabotage everyone he loves. The nightmares will probably never really go away.
The funny thing is, while he counts his fingers compulsively while he's awake, he doesn't usually remember to do it while he's dreaming. At least not right away. So the fact that it's his first instinct is almost like a confirmation that he's awake.
Okay… So maybe it's something else. He deals with the supernatural on a daily basis. Why couldn't there be some other explanation for the weird alternate reality he seems to have woken up in? A parallel universe, or a memory-changing gnome, or a flying spaghetti monster that sends unsuspecting teenagers through wormholes just to mess with them. Yeah, why not? He'd been living crazy for the last two years. This probably has an explanation that's just as logical as werewolves and kanimas and evil fox spirits.
"Stiles!" the girl yells from somewhere downstairs.
He's not going to figure it out sitting around in bed. Might as well go along with it for now; go to school, talk to Scott. Maybe his werewolf pal has been up to something that can explain this.
He means to hop up from bed with determination, but his legs are tangled in the sheets and he ends up crashing to the floor gracelessly. Well. Some things never change. Popping to his feet, he goes to his closet to grab some clothes.
"Give me a minute to get dressed, would you?" he shouts in the direction of the stairs.
Stumbling out of his pajama pants, he flings open the closet door. "Scotty, you better freaking know what's going on," he mutters as he paws through shirts. He furrows his brow, his mouth opening in outrage at the selection he finds—polo shirts, sweaters, button downs. "What is this? Jackson Whittemore's closet?" He pulls out a cardigan—an actual, honest to God cardigan—and tosses it aside with disgust. So much for parallel dimension; this is more like Opposite-Land. "Where the hell are my clothes?"
"Stiles!"
He spots something in the bottom corner of the closet, sticking out from under a pile of more of the hideous clothes. Grabbing it, he sighs in relief, pulling the flannel over his t-shirt. He finds a pair of jeans that doesn't smell too bad on the floor and rushes through the bathroom, splashing some water on his face and brushing his teeth just enough to get rid of the grimy morning taste in his mouth.
He's halfway down the stairs when he hears the other voice in the kitchen, and, yeah, he should have expected it, but it still punches him right in the gut. He'd thought after all these years that he'd forgotten her voice, but no. The way she sighs and mumbles to herself, that slightly exasperated tone that means she's frustrated. He knows immediately. It's her.
He forces himself to breathe, to move his feet forward around the corner and into the kitchen. And there she is. Dark hair pulled half back with a silver barrette, dark red sweater, that necklace that Stiles remembers her wearing, the one with the little bird charm. She'd always loved birds.
She doesn't look up when he enters the kitchen, is too busy digging through a briefcase of papers, half of which she's haphazardly stacked on the counter next to her. She's in the middle of a conversation with the girl, who is leaning on the counter nearby, but Stiles only half listens.
"Are you sure you gave it to me, Mikayla?" Claudia asks, frowning as she pulls out another folder and flips through the pages. She has a few more wrinkles than Stiles remembers, crinkles around her eyes and little lines on her forehead that don't disappear, but she's as beautiful as ever. "I don't remember seeing a permission slip."
"Yeah, Mom," the girl, Mikayla, insists, and her use of the word mom breaks the spell enough to make Stiles spare her a glance. "Last Friday. It's due today. If I don't turn it in, I won't get to do the science fair this year."
Claudia purses her lips, her brows drawing together in an expression that is so familiar to Stiles, it makes his chest ache. It's the look that she gave him whenever she realized she'd forgotten something important, that she'd let him down in some way.
"I'm sorry, sweetie," she says, throwing her hands up in defeat. "I'm sure you gave it to me, I just don't remember where I put it." She gives the girl a sad smile, reaching out to tuck a strand of that stringy hair behind her ear and touch her cheek. "I'll stop by the school office at lunch and fill out a new one, okay?"
Mikayla nods broodily, and Stiles decides that she is the worst human being he's ever met.
Glancing at the clock on the microwave, Claudia's eyes go wide and she lets out a little panicked yelp. "You kids better get moving. You're going to be late, and so am I."
Late? Who cares if he's late? Stiles feels like time has stopped altogether. She's here. She's alive and going about her day like nothing is wrong. Like they're a totally normal family on a totally normal morning.
He counts his fingers again, just to be sure.
Claudia is now moving around the kitchen, shoving things in her briefcase, searching for her keys, and she hasn't even looked at him yet. And even though he knows this can't be real, that there's some supernatural explanation for this and it will all probably go horribly, horribly wrong somehow because that's how life always goes for him, he doesn't care. Right now, caution and logic can suck it. Right now, he wants this to be real. More than anything, he wants this.
"M-mom?" he finally chokes out, as if he's never spoken before in his life.
She finally looks up at him, her clear hazel eyes meeting his. "Do you need something, honey?" she asks, frowning ever so slightly.
Reality be damned. Stiles is suddenly across the kitchen, pulling her into a hug he's daydreamed about for the last eight years. Claudia lets out a soft, "Oh!" in surprise, but wraps her arms around him easily. He closes his eyes, savoring the feel of her hair against his cheek, the soft smell of her perfume which he'd forgotten until this very second, the musical sound of her chuckle.
After a few seconds, it becomes clear he's not letting go, and her amusement at the unexpected hug shifts. She traces her fingertips up and down his back, right between his shoulder blades, just like she used to do when he was sad or scared or frustrated, which makes the tears in his eyes spill out over his cheeks. He doesn't care if this is a dream—if it is, it's the best dream he's had in a long, long time.
"Hey," Claudia says, eventually pulling back so she can see Stiles' face. Her brows are knit in concern. "You feeling okay?"
He sees Mikayla out of the corner of his eye, watching him with her mouth agape, and that breaks the moment enough for him to pull himself together.
"I'm fine," he assures his mom with a crooked smile, swiping away the tears. "Just…" He shrugs, flailing for words. "Happy to see you. That's all."
"That's all, huh?" Her expression morphs into suspicion, but the corners of her mouth give away her amusement. "This wouldn't be another attempt to get out of dinner tomorrow, would it?"
"Dinner?" he repeats stupidly.
"Mom's birthday dinner?" Mikayla supplies with an air of superiority, and Stiles has to resist the urge to punch her right in her stupid face. Seriously, why is she even here? "The one you've been trying to ditch for the last two weeks?"
Of course. Mom's birthday is on Sunday. "I wouldn't miss it," he promises, starting to wonder what kind of douchebag he is in this universe.
Claudia still seems uncertain about what he's trying to pull, but lets it go. "Good, because save a giant meteor destroying Beacon Hills, you are coming. I don't think it's too much to ask for our entire family to have dinner together one night a year."
Glancing back to the clock, her eyes go wide with panic. "And now we're all seriously late," she chides, shepherding Stiles and Mikayla out the door. "The last thing I need is another call from the school asking me why I can't get my kids there on time."
She's in her car before Stiles thinks to tell her he loves her, just in case this is a dream and he wakes up before he sees her again. He stands next to his Jeep as he watches her pull away, the memory of her hug still tingling warmly against his skin.
"You gonna get in the car, weirdo?"
Stiles turns his gaze back to Mikayla with a scowl, but opens his door and scoots in behind the wheel. "Okay, let's get something straight here," he tells her, revving up the engine. "Because I'm getting a little tired of all the sass. You're, what, twelve?"
"Thirteen," she defends.
"Whatever. I don't really care. My point is that I don't need any more of this attitude, okay? Because besides me being older than you, I'm also, like, twice your size. Pretty sure a strong wind could take you out. Imagine what would happen if it was my fist. So let's quit it with the smart remarks."
She opens her mouth to retort, but he reaches over and cranks up the radio to cut her off. "In fact," he adds over the music, "let's just not talk at all. Capiche?"
She slumps in her seat and huffs, but he catches the way her lips crook into a tiny smile.
Thank God the school doesn't seem to have changed much in this alternate reality (that's how he's decided to categorize it until he comes up with something better), because his mind is still trying to wrap around the fact that he just drove his freaking sister to the middle school. But pulling up to Beacon Hills High he can see that it's still the same concrete building, suspiciously reminiscent of the high security prison in the next town over. When he gets inside, the halls still smell like sweat and hormones thinly veiled under a cloud of Axe body spray. The kids still look like the same crowd of insecure teenagers pretending to be a lot more put-together than they actually are.
He spots Scott at his locker, and he looks normal, too. He's wearing his run-of-the-mill striped tee and jeans, backpack slung over one shoulder as he grabs his books for the next class. Seeing his best friend loosens the anxiety in his chest a little bit, and he hurries to catch him as Scott turns to head out.
"Scott," he breathes, catching himself on the row of lockers ungracefully just before he slams into them. "Please tell me I'm not the only one who woke up in the mirror universe from that one Star Trek episode."
Scott startles and closes his locker, dark brown eyes giving away his surprise as he gives Stiles his attention. Okay, that's fair. Stiles has been kind of a crap friend lately, avoiding him and wallowing in self-pity when he knows Scott is hurting too. And now here he is acting like everything is completely normal. Well, not normal, but like he hasn't been ducking Scott every morning since he returned to school and beelining for the door as soon as the bell rings at the end of the day. Like he hasn't been actively ignoring text messages and telling his dad to make excuses for him so he doesn't have to face Scott when he tries to come over.
Lingering trauma from the nogitsune aside, Stiles needs some answers right now. He plows forward, hoping that Scott will be more interested in solving this problem than mad at him for being an asshole the past few weeks.
"At first I thought it had to be a dream, but..." He wiggles his fingers for effect. "Ten. So now I'm thinking it has to be something else. Derek hasn't mentioned anything about other dimensions, has he? Because, seriously, other than suddenly acquiring an evil gotti, I'm pretty sure this isn't the Beacon Hills I went to sleep in last night." He knows he's rambling, but he can't stop himself. As much as seeing his mom alive and well this morning was a dream come true, it freaked him the heck out and he really needs his best friend to reassure him that he isn't losing his mind. Again.
"Uh," Scott says, eyes shifting around the hall. "Why are you talking to me?"
Okay, not the response he was expecting, but Scott can be pretty sensitive, and, as previously stated, Stiles has been an asshole lately. "Why am I…? Listen, I'm sorry I've been dodging you lately, but you're still my best friend."
Scott's forehead wrinkles, his expression hard to read. "Stiles…" He narrows his eyes, shaking his head. "We haven't been friends since elementary school."
It's at this same moment that Stiles notices Scott's arm, which is distinctly lacking that God-awful tattoo that he'd insisted on nearly killing himself to get. It's another punch to the gut. This isn't his Scott.
Okay, fine. It had been kind of a long shot anyway, given all the other changes. But alternate reality Scott not even being his friend? That's just not possible.
"B-but, no," he argues, because Stiles has always been a verbal processor and if he says enough words, reasons with enough logic, maybe Scott will realize that he's wrong. "I mean, sure, there's been times you've threatened to never speak to me again, like that time I broke your Gameboy. Or that time I wrecked your new bike. Or that time I let your hamster out and it ran away…"
Stiles frowns as a string of memories of all the times he'd broken or lost something that belonged to Scott flashes through his mind. "And, wow, yeah, I guess it's kind of surprising that you kept me around as long as you did, but that's not the point. Because we're Scott and Stiles. We're like two peas in a pod. Inseparable. Like, they tried separating us, remember? In third grade, they put us in different classes, and we would constantly get in trouble just so we could be in the indoor detention together during recess. They finally figured it out and switched us back to the same class…"
He trails off because Scott is looking at him like he belongs in Eichen House.
"Yeah," Scott says slowly, and the words are tinged with bitterness. "I remember. But that was third grade. A lot has changed since then."
A chuckle bubbles out, a little more hysterically than Stiles would like. "Well isn't that the understatement of the century?" Scott just stares at him some more, so he adds, "You know. Because of the…"
Stiles makes a vague claw impression with his hands and chomps his teeth dramatically, but Scott doesn't seem to get what he's going for. In fact, this just seems to reinforce the idea that Stiles has gone nutty.
Okay, so apparently Scott isn't a werewolf in this universe. That complicates things.
"Scott?" a voice interrupts. "You coming to chemistry? We're getting lab partners today, and Harris usually just assigns whoever's sitting next to each other, so I wanted to be sure..." None other than Kyle Greenburg appears next to them, eyes bugging out when he sees Stiles. Like he's the queen of England or something.
"Yeah," Scott says, stepping backwards, but keeping his gaze on Stiles for a moment longer, as if he's trying to figure him out. He shakes his head again, snagging Greenburg's sleeve and tugging on him to follow. "Let's go."
Stiles is left speechless in the middle of a thinning sea of students making their way to their first period classes.
"Greenburg? Really?!" he calls after them, though by the time he says it they're probably too far to hear him. This isn't just an alternate timeline, it's gotta be the darkest one if freaking Greenburg has replaced him.
All right, so scratch Plan A. If Scott isn't a werewolf here, isn't even his friend, then that means he can't count on any of the rest of the gang to be around. He's in this alone. No Derek, no Argent, no twins or Issac with his stupid scarves. No Deaton to give them obscure Yoda advice. No—
Before he can finish the thought, someone grabs his shirt and he's being spun around into a kiss. A very aggressive kiss. He makes a little noise of surprise, trying not to fall over as whoever is locking lips with him pushes him against the lockers so he can't escape. When they finally release him, he almost collapses from shock.
"Lydia?!" he squeaks.
She smiles at him, cherry red lips curling up and making her cheeks dimple in that way that melts him every time. It's a good thing she's still gripping his shirt, pinning him against the wall, because his legs suddenly have the structural integrity of jello.
"Hey, handsome," she purrs, tracing her finger along his jaw. "I missed you."
Stiles' eyes go wide, darting around to make sure she's actually addressing him, but the bell is ringing and nearly everyone has already gone to class except a few stragglers jogging by. "Uh…" he stutters, desperately searching for something to say. It's rare that he's shocked speechless, but being kissed by Lydia is enough to cause his brain to short circuit.
She studies him, her green eyes roaming over his body with a slight air of disapproval, and the smile tapers. "What are you wearing?" She tugs on the flannel shirt and releases him, making him stumble awkwardly as he finds his balance. "I thought we burned all of these."
"Uh," he says dumbly, still unable to form a coherent thought.
"That's okay," she continues, ignoring the fish out of water routine he's currently doing with his mouth. "I picked up a couple new shirts for you to try on for the party tomorrow. You can change after lacrosse practice."
Oh. Well, that explains his closet. Apparently in this reality he's Lydia Martin's own personal Ken doll. But he supposes if that's the price for dating her, he totally understands why alternate reality Stiles willing dresses like an Abercrombie model.
"Miss Martin, Mister Stilinski." Mister Harris struts by with a cup of coffee, eyeing Stiles with the same contempt he's always had. Nice to know some things haven't changed. "Are you planning on going to class today or are you too busy canoodling? Because I'd be happy to extend your school day to accommodate."
"My class is right there," Lydia argues, pointing at the closest room.
Mister Harris looks at his watch pointedly. "And the second bell rang forty-five seconds ago, which means you should have been in your seat forty-five seconds ago."
She rolls her eyes, but turns toward her class. "Meet me after school, okay?" She tells Stiles quietly before walking away, head held high.
"And you, Mister Stilinski?" Harris asks expectantly, crossing his arms over his chest.
It's at this moment that Stiles realizes his schedule might not be the same in this universe. Given all the other differences, it's actually unlikely that it is.
"Umm, yep. Off to class I go," Stiles says, deciding the main objective is to get away from Harris before he doles out a dollop of detention. Doesn't really matter where he goes, as long as it's not here.
He rounds the corner and heads straight for the door. Not like he really planned to stay at school anyway—he has more important things to do. Like figure out how to get back to his real life.