The Day The World Stood Still

September 11th 2001 is a Tuesday.

At fifteen minutes to six, Deputy John Stilinski rolls over in bed, turns off the alarm before it wakes his sleeping wife, and frees his left arm from beneath her body. He lumbers out of bed, yawns, scratches the exposed skin between his shirt and pajama bottoms, and goes to relieve himself. He showers quickly, shaves, and is dressed before 6:23am. The sun is just beginning to rise in California, dawning on a bright new day. The deputy switches on the percolator and brews a fresh pot of coffee; while he waits, listening to the hot water hiss, he grabs a clean mug from the cupboard and outlines his day. He breathes in the smell of strong black coffee, undiluted with milk or sugar, and it reminds him of crisp autumn days. It's his third favorite scent in the world, preceded only by the smell of his son after his nightly bath and Claudia's perfume.

Deputy Stilinski takes his steaming mug into the living room and searches for the television remote. Another element of his early morning ritual. He enacts the same performance each weekday morning: shower, shave, dress, coffee, TV, kiss his family, work. He will watch a rerun of some lame sitcom that aired the night before, waiting for the news to begin. He will drink his coffee standing up, as he believes this will help digestion and the caffeine flow faster through his veins.

At 6:30, he turns on the television and is surprised to find the news has already started. He flicks through several channels, and realizes they are all playing the same story. He sets his mug on the coffee-table without realizing what he is doing, and lowers himself into his favorite red easy-chair. His face is pale, and his sea foam eyes do not leave the screen.

In the forty-five minutes it has taken him to do his morning routine, American Airlines Flight 11 and Flight 175 have crashed into the North and South Towers of the World Trade Center.

Within another few minutes, Flight 77 will hit the western facade of the Pentagon. Another half an hour and Flight 93 will be crashed into a field in Pennsylvania, as the passengers attempt to retake the plane, on-route to San Francisco. Before noon, hundreds of people will be dead, on a clear Tuesday morning in September. The world will hold its breath.

Deputy Stilinski manages to pull himself away from the television and mutely walks upstairs. His socked feet are muffled on the carpet. He opens the door to their bedroom, and gently shakes Claudia awake with a trembling hand on her shoulder. Her hair is tousled and her lips are moist. She groans sleepily and complains, "Seven already?" She is not a morning person. Usually he wakes her with a tender kiss and an affectionate "good morning." Claudia turns over and tugs the covers tighter around herself.

"Claudia." His voice is soft, but there's something strange in his tone. She is wide awake. She sits up.

"John, what is it? What's wrong? Is it Stiles?"

He shakes his head, hands her her bath robe, and gestures for her to get up. "Come downstairs." She follows him numbly, confused and vaguely frightened. He holds her hand, and tells her the information he knows. Together they watch as the South Tower collapses at 6:59.

Stiles knows he has slept in late because Mr. Sun is higher in the sky than usual. Mommy always wakes him up when the big hand is on the 6 and the small hand nestles between 7 and 8. She gives him a smile and kiss, asks him how he slept, and takes him downstairs for breakfast. Sometimes Daddy is already gone, and Stiles hates that, because he hardly ever sees Daddy. Only in the evenings, but sometimes not even until bedtime or after. Stiles looks out the window, and he sees that Daddy's cruiser is still parked in the driveway. He hopes this means Daddy is staying for breakfast. Maybe Daddy will even drive him to school, and Stiles can tell him all about his first few days of Grade One. Stiles can already tell this year is going to be different from Kindergarten; he feels more grown up. He's no longer a baby, in the baby class. He already knows all his colors and the alphabet, and this year he'll learn cool things: like how to tell time and how to read books with more words.

Stiles pads quietly down the stairs, his teddy bear tucked under his left arm. He peeks into the kitchen, but it is empty. No Mommy, no Daddy, no plate of pancakes or bowl of cereal on the table. The counters are clean and quiet. The radio is turned off, but Stiles can hear a man's voice speaking.

Stiles checks the living room. Mommy and Daddy are watching the television, the sound down low. A man's voice uses words he doesn't understand, as they replay a video of an airplane flying and an explosion in a building. Two buildings, tall and straight like Lego towers. One crumbles and then the other, and Stiles isn't quite sure what he is seeing. He decides the buildings aren't made of grey Lego but of dirt and dust, like the sandcastles he builds at the beach. It's a weird time to be watching a movie – they never watch movies in the morning – and it's a weird movie anyway. It gives him a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he wishes they would turn it off. He doesn't like the way his parents are standing in front of the screen, Mommy's hand curled up and pressed to her lips, Daddy frozen like a statue. Whenever he watches a movie with them, they always make him sit on the couch, though he gets restless sitting in one place for too long. They don't even have any popcorn.

"Mommy?" he demands.

"Oh, Stiles." She is surprised to see him. She has forgotten him. She descends upon him and swoops him into her arms. Her face is wet, and he presses his hand to her cheek. Her eyes are leaking, like his do when he's sad. He doesn't want her to be sad. She's too nice and pretty to be sad.

"Did I do something bad?" he asks.

"No, baby, no." She holds him close against her, cuddling him into her soft flesh and cotton robe. It smells like yesterday's bacon grease and raspberry bubble bath. Stiles doesn't like it when she holds him so tightly, but he lets her, suppresses the urge to squirm, because mommies always feel better when you let them hug you, and Mommy really needs a hug.

The image on the screen changes, fires and smoke. People keep talking. Why is there always so much talking in grown up movies, and no singing? Then it changes again, becomes boring, a man's face. His lips are moving, but Stiles can't understand. He loses interest.

"Can we have breakfast now, Mommy?" Stiles hopes. His tummy is starting to grumble.

"Of course, baby."

"Then we'll get ready for school."

Claudia looks to John, eerily still and rigid. She imagines families in houses throughout Beacon Hills hearing the news. She doesn't know a teacher alive who will be able to focus on teaching. She can't blame them. Her entire world has shifted, fallen out from under her feet. The world she has always loved, the world she has tried to teach Stiles is full of beauty and wonder and laughter and light, is a dark and frightening place. A place she is suddenly afraid to raise her son in. "No school today."

"Why?"

Because she doesn't want him there, away from her; because the country is shocked and in chaos, and an elementary education has dropped down her list of priorities; because she is terrified. She falters, searching for an excuse to satisfactorily answer his question without alarming him.

"You're staying home with Mom today, Stiles. I have to go to work, and it's very important someone be home to take care of her. Can you do that for me, Buddy?" John turns around. He looks like Daddy and his voice sounds normal – stern and authoritative, yet simultaneously loving and kind – but his face is pale and strangely blank, his eyes drained and hollow. His appearance frightens Stiles.

"Yes, Daddy," he promises. "I'll take care of Mommy."

"Good boy." John softly kisses his son's forehead and then his wife's. So soft Stiles barely feels his lips. A ghost's touch.

"John." Claudia grabs his hand, holding him at her side. With her eyes, she begs him not to go. I have to, his eyes reply. Order needs to be maintained, a semblance of life enacted. Calls will be pouring into the station, people paranoid and frantic. He has a few calls of his own to make.

Claudia nods. He loves her more in that moment than he ever has. Loves how understanding she is, how patient and loyal, even when his job takes him away from her and Stiles – again. She releases his hand. The image of her holding Stiles, both of them in their night wear, staring after him, burns into his mind, overlaying the image of the towers falling. The day his world changed.

Stiles is bored. Mommy and he have breakfast, they get dressed and brush their teeth, and then he plays with his toys on the floor. She turns the television back on, and though he wants to watch Arthur and Sesame Street, the movie Mommy and Daddy had been watching earlier plays all-day. Mommy doesn't rush around the house, singing to herself and washing dishes at the sink, carrying loads of laundry under her arm and dancing to the radio. She sits on the couch, and answers the phone when it rings. Before its third Brrring, she hurriedly picks it up before Stiles has the chance, and her voice is thick when she speaks. The same conversation over and over. He hears her say the name "Melissa," and knows she is talking to Scott's mom, but when he asks if he can talk to Scott, she hushes him and sends him away to play.

Stiles lies on his stomach on the living room rug, glumly pushing a Hot Wheels police cruiser back and forth, the tire periodically catching on a loose thread. Daddy had asked him to take care of Mommy, and he really wants to make Daddy proud, but Stiles has no idea how to do that. All she does is sit there and stare. Sometimes tears slip out of her eyes, and she brushes them away quickly. He pretends not to notice, even though he does.

The next time the phone rings, Stiles can tell it's Daddy by the way Mommy talks. The tenderness in her voice. Usually when he calls during the afternoon, he says he won't make it home for supper. The way their day is going, Stiles doubts if he and Mommy will even eat supper. At noon, she had forgotten all about lunch, until Stiles reminded her.

She is crying again. Is she sad because Daddy isn't home? But that's nothing new. Daddy never makes Mommy cry. Stiles knows he must be saying something really bad to make Mommy look so upset. The hand that clutches the receiver is white; she coils her fingers around the cord distractedly. She hangs up before he can ask to speak to Daddy, and she sits down on the couch without a word. Stiles sits beside her and puts his right hand on her thigh, a car gripped in his left hand. He curls into her side.

She feels hot. Stiles can feel her tremble as she wraps her arms around him. She buries her face in his hair. Her warm tears dampen his skin, but he doesn't complain. He hugs her back. She cries and cries. When she is done, they watch the news together in silence. He tries his best to pay attention, and watches as policemen and firemen swarm around stone, flames, and rubble. Their red fire-engines and white cruisers, shiny red and blue lights flashing, are like the toy ones Daddy bought him for his birthday. Daddy's a policeman, just like the guys on TV.

They eat a late supper of Kraft Dinner. Mommy finally rouses herself from the couch and allows him to watch a Disney movie. She sends him to bed when the movie ends, but he protests. He wants to stay up and wait for Daddy. She refuses, because he has school in the morning, and she needs to be alone with her grief. She plugs in his nightlight and kisses him extra long goodnight. When she leaves the room, he stays in bed but he doesn't go to sleep.

Daddy comes home late. Stiles can hear Mommy and Daddy talking in the kitchen. She is sobbing again. He didn't know one person could hold so much sorrow. He hears her come upstairs and close their bedroom door. When Daddy doesn't follow her, Stiles opens his door a crack and sneaks downstairs. Deputy John Stilinski is in full-uniform, sitting in a wooden dining chair. The only light comes from the long bulb over the stove. His elbows are balanced on his knees, his face hidden in his hands. Strange noises, faint and choked, emerge from his throat.

Stiles tiptoes over. Cautious and uncertain. The kitchen tile is cold against his bare feet. "Daddy?"

John glances up at his son. His face looks odd: wet and red, twisted at funny angles. It takes a moment for Stiles to realize he is crying. Stiles has never seen his father cry before. He presses a palm to John's face, feeling the slick saltiness of his tears. "Daddy, please don't cry." Sheriff Stilinski opens his arms wide and Stiles climbs into them. Daddy holds him even tighter than Mommy. His embrace is strong and safe. He smells of coffee and sweat, aftershave and gasoline. The scent is familiar and comforting, especially after such a disconcerting day. Stiles knows his parents are scared and sad, though he isn't sure why. He thinks it is because of the terrior-ysts. He doesn't know who or what they are, or how they can frighten the two grown-ups Stiles believes are fearless, but he won't be scared too. He will be strong for Mommy.

Daddy doesn't need his strength. Daddy needs love. "I love you, Daddy," Stiles declares, falling into that familiar embrace. Stiles has insurmountable faith his father will keep him safe. Daddy may not be Batman or Superman, but Stiles knows he is a hero. He can sleep soundly in a world he does not understand, with his father to watch over him.

"I love you too, Buddy."

Fifteen Years Later

The house is too quiet. Sheriff Stilinski knows he will never get used to it. Even though Stiles graduated three years ago, and is now in his junior year of college, majoring in Criminal Justice and Criminology, he has yet to accustom himself to the absence of his son. Though Stiles is only in Irvine, he may as well be on a different planet.

On Sunday mornings, John goes to Meg's Diner for a hot breakfast and company. Meg smiles at him sweetly and brings him his usual. He sits in a back booth with a newspaper and coffee, when his cell phone rings. He checks the caller id, and answers, "Hey Sty, you're up early. How are things?" Stiles is notorious for sleeping in. In freshman year, he was always running late for his 8:30 classes. Trying to get him out of bed before eleven was a feat of Herculean proportions. Something serious must have him up this early.

"They're good. I just wanted to call to talk."

Uh oh. What sort of trouble could Stiles have gotten himself into this early in the semester?

"You better not be sitting in a jail cell," John warns.

Stiles laughs. "Don't worry. It's nothing like that."

Stiles was barely six years old at the time of 9/11. Time and childhood have dulled his memories of that day, of his own reaction and his parents'. In the following years and in class, he re-watched videos of the Twin Towers collapsing; learned more information about locations, times, and victims; experienced the war spawned from that one horrible day, plagued by the fear his father would leave to serve a tour, because John Stilinski was a veteran with a keen sense of duty.

His own memories of that day are faded, but he knows what happened, how mere minutes changed the face of American history. He knows the exact number of lives lost that day, how many of those lives were first responders, police officers and firefighters like his father who gave their lives to save others. Who risked their lives daily for duty and the greater good.

He knows that when the South Tower collapsed, John Stilinski's cousin had been among the firefighters inside who died. A brave young man of twenty-three Stiles had the opportunity to meet only once.

John's memories of that day are as vivid and real as if it had been yesterday. Technicolor images of ash and flame, his wife's wide eyes, the dreaded phone-call from his aunt in New York. The tears in his own eyes, for all the lives cut short and his brothers-in-arms. His own fear, even to this day, of boarding an airplane.

"I just wanted to call to say 'thank-you.'"

"For what?"

"For your service, all you do. I don't know if I've ever properly said it before, how much I admire the work you do, how proud of you I am, how grateful I am to be your son. Real heroes don't wear capes, and they don't have red eyes and fangs. Real heroes are men like you, humans who risk their lives daily to protect others. If you had been in New York fifteen years ago, I know you would have run into the World Trade Center without hesitation. I thank God you were on the other side of the country, but I also thank Him that you're the kind of man who cares that much about others. I want to thank you for bringing me up to be brave and hopeful, in a world so full of darkness. Even after we lost Mom, you always tried to teach me the world is a good place. You raised me to be a good man – like you. I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, Stiles." Sheriff Stilinski glances down at the glossy photos in his newspaper. A city rising up from the ashes. A country, built on the backs of men and women like Sheriff Stilinski, to be given in new hope and new life to children like Stiles. "I love you too."

END