AN: So, it´s been nearly a year and I´m really sorry for that (/.\) there were just so many other projects and plot bunnies I took fancy to. But I´m back again, even though I don´t know when the next chapter will come.

Much to Stiles' surprise, his father was already home when Stiles pulled up in front of their garage. Usually his dad was always working until late, the supernatural nature of Beacon Hills ensuring that there was always a weird case to solve or some creepy deaths to conceal from higher authorities. But when Stiles opened the door and entered the living area, his dad was already sitting at the table, newspaper spread in front of him while he held a beer in the other. He was wearing his reading glasses; Stiles couldn't remember the last time he used them. When he heard Stiles, he looked up and regarded his son over the rim of his glasses.

"Heyah, dad," Stiles greeted him, waving lazily. He pulled one chair out and sat down on it, continuing to nervously fidget with is fingers.

"How was your first magic lesson?" his father asked, newspaper now completely disregarded as all his attention was focused on Stiles. Stiles shrugged.

"Theoretical," he replied nonchalantly. "I wasn't allowed to do anything practical." From the expression that his father unsuccessfully tried to hide he apparently didn't think that Stiles not being allowed to do magic was a bad thing. On the contrary. Stiles narrowed his eyes at the Sheriff, but his father just shrugged at him. "I met a nymph."

"A nymph?" his father chorused.

"Yeah," Stiles spoke. "She was pretty chill and spoke some riddles, but otherwise, not much." He grabbed a granola bar from the bowl on the table and began to munch on it. "Tomorrow, we´ll continue."

"I hope your school work won´t suffer," his dad warned him.

"Dad," Stiles rolled his eyes. "Literally having an evil Druid and a Pack of megalomaniac Alpha werewolves didn't affect my GPA, so why should a few magic lessons in a serene clearing in the Preserve do it?" He arched his eyebrows at his father who just took a sip from his beer.

"Did you know?" Stiles finally spoke.

"Did I know what?" his father asked.

"About…mom," Stiles added, the words laying heavy on his tongue. "That she had magic. That she was the one who taught Mike." When he saw his father´s questioning stare, he added: "The mage teaching me."

His father sighed and rubbed his temple. Suddenly, he looked ten years older, as if just the mention of Stiles' mother had added another burden on his shoulder. Any mention of her did that, really, because neither of the Stilinski men was really good at dealing with emotions and repressing something only worked as long as no one mentioned it.

"I remember that Mike was at her funeral," Stiles continued. "With his grandmother. When I asked you about it, you told me that they were some people mom used to know." He stared at his father. "So you must have known; a little bit at least."

"I did," the Sheriff confessed. "When…when your mother and I were engaged, she showed me. I was shocked at first – who wouldn't be if he was shown that magic was real – but she was always uncomfortable around it; she didn't even want me to mention it. It was one of the few things she never explained to me." He paused for a moment and in his father´s gaze Stiles could see the same wistfulness that filled him, too, whenever he thought about his mother. "When you were born, I asked her about it again, but she just brushed me off. Told me that we´d cross that bridge when you showed some sign of actually having magic."

"So she never wanted me to have magic?" Stiles asked despondently. When he had learned that his mother, too, had possessed magic he had thought that magic would finally be something that he would have to feel nearer to his mother, to be able to connect to her. He had been thinking about what spells she had used, what things she had conjured and he had planned to do all of them, too, because it would be a small opportunity to connect with the woman that had left his life much too early and whom he still missed so much. But now, hearing that his mother had never intended for him to have this ability – that she even abhorred it – sowed doubts in Stiles mind and some twisted kind of shame. The only thing his mother had wanted was for him to be born without magic and not even that he had managed.

"I think she thought that your life would be easier if you didn't," his father replied. "I never asked, but I believe that with her magic came expectations from her family and society that she didn't want to fulfil. That she didn't want to fall on you, either." His expression softened. "But magic or no magic she would have always loved you the same, you know that."

"Yeah," Stiles replied. He couldn't say more, too afraid that he would break out in tears if he spent one more thought about how much his mother had loved him – and didn't anymore. "I´m gonna get to my room and read something." It was better that way. Every time they talked about his mother and got sentimental, they would need their own space to work through their emotions and Stiles could already see how much this talk had drained his father emotionally.

On the first step, he turned around one last time.

"Thanks dad," he spoke. "For telling me."

"You´re welcome, son."

Harvey and Donna were sitting in the lobby when Mike entered their hotel. Harvey was perusing the Wall Street Journal while Donna browsed through the newest National Geographic. Even though it was already evening, none of them had bothered to don something casual: Harvey was still wearing a suit – three-piece, charcoal, silver tie – while Donna was wearing a skin-tight black dress with dangerous high heels. Wearing just a blue shirt and some jeans, Mike definitely felt underdressed in the presence of his two friends.

"And the prodigal son returns," Donna remarked without looking up from her magazine. With a dramatic sigh, Mike slouched down in the third chair around their table, throwing his head back and just staring at the ceiling.

"Tired?" Harvey spoke up from behind his newspaper. "What did you do the whole day anyway?" Mike groaned in annoyance. Apparently, Harvey hadn't given up on getting any information about what he was doing in Beacon Hills out of him.

"I´m helping the son of a friend," he replied. He stared straight at Harvey who had lowered the newspaper on his lap. "He´s lost his mother and I knew her, so…" He shrugged, satisfied that Harvey wouldn't pursue the issue any further. Harvey didn't like to talk about dead parents and wouldn't even touch the topic with a ten-foot pole.

"How was your day?" Mike asked instead, trying to steer their talk away from any supernatural-related topic. "Did you make any headway?" Now it was Harvey and Donna´s turn to let out frustrated sighs.

"He was not very receptive," Harvey told Mike.

"He said – and I quote – that Jessica could fuck off and then threw us out of his loft," Donna added bluntly. Mike winced.

"So, how are you gonna convince him to work for Jessica?" he asked. Harvey´s expression turned into a mixture between anger and constipation. If Mike was honest – which he always was, thank you very much – then it looked quite funny.

"Tomorrow Donna and I´ll hit the library for some fact finding," Harvey explained. "Jessica threw us into cold water; we have nothing on Peter Hale but the fact that he went to Harvard with her. We need to find something to leverage against him." Donna rolled her eyes, but didn't add anything.

"See," Mike beamed at Harvey. "That´s the Harvey we all know and love."

Dinner at the Argent household wasn't a very joyous affair.

It had been once, before Allison had been made aware of the supernatural nature of the world around her and her family especially. Her mother would make dishes from all around the world because in her opinion, if you couldn't visit all those places then you could at least make them come to you via their food. Allison had been in France, Italy, Spain, Thailand, China and many more and every single of them had been a tasty adventure.

They would chat amicably during the whole dinner. Allison would tell her parents about school and her archery lessons and her parents would regard her with tales from their respective jobs. Allison never had that many friends and during that one hour with her parents that hadn't really mattered. In hindsight, Allison supposed, it had been all a big lie.

Ever since her mother had died – killed herself for something as arbitrary as becoming a werewolf – there was only silence at the Argent´s dining table. Allison still hadn't forgiven her mother for leaving her like this. There was this untameable anger within her, about her mother deciding that her stupid Hunter Code had been more important than her own daughter. Instead of facing her changed circumstances, instead of being there for Allison, her mother had taken the easy way out. Her prejudices and hate had been stronger than her love for Allison and every now and then when night fell and Allison laid in her bed, alone, she allowed herself to cry and asked herself why her mother hadn't loved her enough to live for her.

Her father approved of his mother´s choice and that was where most of their fights originated from. That and Allison´s continued relationship with Scott. Her father just couldn't understand that she didn't abandon her family and its legacy for a werewolf, couldn't see that it wasn't an either/or decision, but that she could be both an Argent hunter and Scott´s girlfriend without one of the two consuming the other. He may be civil to Scott and the rest of the Pack now, but deep down Allison knew that he was just waiting for them to step out of line and for that she resented him.

And that was why when they had dinner these days – either cheap take-out or a pathetic attempt at cooking by either Allison or her father – there was only awkward silence between them. Sometimes they tried to feign talking with each other, but Allison didn't care for her father´s job (hunting, it had always been hunting, had always been a lie) and her father didn't want to hear about what she did when it involved someone from the Pack.

They were so fucked up.

And yet they continued with this routine of torture. Maybe it was because both of them still clung to the spectre of Allison´s dead mother that hung over them like an oppressive cloud of thunder. Maybe because they both still hoped that by forcing themselves to go through the motions their broken family would become whole again. Allison didn't know and had often sworn that she would stop, but every day she found herself sitting opposite of her father again.

"How´s school?" her father asked and Allison had to supress the urge to just roll her eyes at him. He always started with that particular question, probably because it was the only safe choice amidst the minefield that was any other topic.

"Okay," Allison replied, like every time. "Maths is kicking my ass again, but Lydia´s agreed to tutor me, so that I´ll pass the class."

"That´s nice of her," her father commented.

"Well, she´s my friend, after all," Allison pointed out. Inwardly she steeled herself. "By the way, I was told by Deaton that I should give you notice about a paragraph 36 issue?" The last few words were spoken as a question. Her father´s eyebrows rose in surprise.

"A mage is here?" he asked worried.

"Yeah," Allison confirmed. "What does 'paragraph 36' mean?"

"What´s his name?" her father demanded to know, completely ignoring her own question. Allison knew that if she wanted to get any information out of her dad she needed to answer his questions first, so she said: "Mike Ross." The expression on her father´s face fell.

"You know him?"

"I know of him," he replied, rubbing his temples. "He once cursed a whole werewolf pack into extinction."