Chapter Four
May 30, 2025 at 11:03 AM
The trip for gifts is much longer than Stiles and Claudia expected, but not so long as to take up their whole light-day. They go around the closest places to find something worthy and buy something eatable for the table for Christmas, and finally the both of them have gifts for his dad and Mrs. McCall. They also buy a kit of the young lacrosse player for Scott because he’s so into this game. The boy has no idea how much the kit cost or how much his mother paid for all the things; he hasn’t asked, and maybe he doesn’t care. He just wants to see what reaction would show through Scott’s face, to see what it would be. Not that Stiles has never made any presents for his friend, he just gets excited every time like this and can overestimate some moments, so the little boy will only be able to think about it for the next few hours.
It's a very good thing that his mom has her own car — a nice, blue Jeep — because they wouldn’t be able to carry all this stuff plus food and a couple of bottles of champagne from the mall to their house. And he eagerly puts all the packs in the back, places the package with the glass bottles on the back seat, and then climbs onto a passenger one, ready to go home. His mother already closes the door and starts the engine as the boy buckles his seat belt and looks out the front window, actively waggling his legs.
"Where are we going now?" Stiles wonders as the jeep pulls out of the mall parking lot.
"Why? You want to go somewhere?" His mom smirks at his question, glancing at the boy fast enough to catch Stiles shaking his head. The second they reach the road, Claudia speaks up. "Well, then we’re going home. We have everything we need."
"Okay."
He watches how a lot of different cars and a lot of someone’s houses swim past them, involuntarily pushing the boy on thinking about their people’s lives. Do they do something like he and his family? Are they preparing to celebrate like his family? Do they think about the same things as he does? What are they doing at this very moment? Maybe they have a different reason for happiness or sadness; maybe they are celebrating something of their own. Do they hide something from the eyes and ears and minds of others like him?
He has always been curious if there are at least two people who are so similar to each other as well as their habits, and, if it is real, would their two lives be interesting? The little boy guesses that it wouldn’t be as much fun as it might look like — to do the same things as the second person, to walk and think just like him or her, to sleep and eat identically, to watch the same movies and listen to the same music as you normally do... it’s absolutely creepy.
Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t like to have a twin. What if they were exactly what he draws it in his mind? Stiles definitely wouldn’t enjoy it, even though he totally understands that it wouldn’t necessarily mean that his twin would be exactly like him, do what he does, or act the way he does. Besides, he likes to be one of a kind. Despite what his classmates may think of him.
The weather isn’t as sullen as it was just a few days ago, when cool rain fell down. Today there’s just the same hazy sky, and that’s it, so he can easily see a lone bird above them, flying serenely through fluffy clouds and disappearing somewhere too high. He can only turn his head, lift his eyes up, and curve his neck so hard until it seems to break at the angle it has taken to follow the bird’s path. And then, all of a sudden, Stiles thinks that birds’ lives are pretty simple, that they can do whatever they want. If they ever had one, if they could do something by their will. Maybe it’s just an illusion of a free and good life, since they have to survive in this wild world, looking for food and finding a place to build their kind of home. Yep, it’s not so good or nice. And! And on top of that, they all have a pretty similar lifestyle — it more than sucks. The only thing that he likes about birds is the possibility to fly; the rest can be pushed away.
Minutes later the brown-eyed boy tries to figure out why he thinks about it; his life is the best, he has everything he could have and more. And yet there’s something that aches deep inside the boy that he still can’t find or trace where it’s coming from, or when exactly it started, or what stirred it in him. This something is itching somewhere next to his heart, at least that’s how he feels it, yearning to get what it wants so much, ever since it was born. Every once in a while, this something rears its ugly head higher than usual, and just then there are feelings that don’t have a common name Stiles used to call them. Honestly, the little boy doesn’t really want to know what it in fact is; he has an inexplicable gut sense for it. He’s only sure of one thing, though — this whole thing started not so long ago. It's quite possible that he connects it with Void, actually.
Whatever it is, every time Stiles tries to tie the events of the summer and before, everything for some mysterious reason leads back to this invisible being, but all the trails of crumbs that could help him to find the whole pie always break off, as if on purpose. And when he wants to turn around to have a look at the finished path, the boy sees nothing behind him, only the vague, strange silhouette of his someone, only his own shadow. And then an already welcome idea appears in the very brown-eyed boy’s core, that it has been this forever; he just has never noticed it before. At least, that’s what Stiles thinks lately.
"Here we go, we’re finally home, honey." His mom’s gentle voice snaps him back to the reality of the present time, causing the little boy to whip his head in her direction at first and then to their home.
Realizing that he missed the whole back way to the home, the brown-haired boy blinks, unbuckles his seat belt, and reaches to open the door, jumping out of the jeep. Once his feet hit against the ground, he immediately slams the door as his mother goes around to stand in front of the back, while Stiles works on the back door, carefully picking up a pack with the bottles. When he approaches his mom, she hands him two packages of gifts, lands two more bigger ones onto the concrete, and locks the jeep up. They have enough products to make a large dinner for Christmas, two cartons of juice for him and maybe Scott. By the way, speaking about Scott...
"Mom," he speaks up suddenly.
"Yeah?"
"Have you called Melissa yet?" he asks, standing next to the door of the house as his mother tries to open it with heavy packs in her one hand. He's about to help her somehow when there’s a click sound in the air, and they walk into the warmth of the house.
"I was going to call after a little lunch," she mocks, coming into the kitchen.
The little boy follows her right away, bringing his three packets with him and placing them on a chair. Interweaving his hands in one fist over his stomach, Stiles sways back and forth on his heels slightly.
"Well, lunch is a good idea. I’m hungry."
His mom smiles at him, and they both take care of sorting out the packs and changing their clothes into something cozier and more comfortable to make a small snack. There's a silence between the boy and Claudia, only a quiet mood in the air, small Christmas decorations on the walls, and a blue garland on the window with tiny lights, the glowing of which is fading and turning on again.
As soon as lunch is done and the plates and cups are cleaned away, the boy settles on his chair, barely resisting the urge to hurry his mom up and, finally, get Mrs. McCall’s number. He bites down on his tongue to keep another question from escaping when Stiles catches how his mom rolls her eyes so that it gets so clear that she sees right through him. So, she just goes away somewhere and comes back with her phone. The boy can hear soft beeping sounds with each tap of his mom’s finger. He perks up even more promptly as short signals are coming from the phone as his mother gets closer and lands on a chair next to his own.
"Hey, Claudia," is what carries from the dynamics. "What’s up?" the ringing voice continues.
"Ask her," Stiles says to his mom with just his lips, not saying it out loud; she only nods, making his patience seem to crack.
"Yeah, hey, Mel," she starts to speak, waving him off, at which the boy pouts, "Stiles told me about some offer from him and Scott here, and I have a suspicion that you might even know what I’m talking about."
She outright grins, while Stiles’ eyes go wide and perfectly round; he thought she would ask somehow more... from a distance.
After her words, a hissing laugh hits against his and Claudia’s ears.
"Yes, Scott has already talked my ear off. Yours too?"
"Absolutely, that’s why I’m calling, by the way. What do you think about getting together over us for Christmas? Or do you have any other plan?"
Mrs. McCall doesn’t respond right away, as if she’s weighing her options before giving a definite answer, all while Stiles grows more and more impatient to hear what it will be. When it comes, the little boy is ready to just shout his happy cry to let the whole house know of this coming momentous event, but all he does is jump up and throw his arms over his head.
"I guess we can come to you," Scott’s mom muses, slowly and drawn out, and his mother expresses her joy, after which they sink into a conversation, both of them usually talking about something only between them, girls, so to speak. So, Stiles leaves them alone and goes upstairs to his bedroom, probably to take care of Scott’s future gift, well, to put the kit carefully into a more presentable bag, and he needs to find one like this. Or he could do some of his homework given on holiday period, just to kill some time before Christmas comes, to keep his brain busy with something. Anyway, to do some distracting things.
Standing in the middle of his room, he remembers the plan; the little boy decides to look in his closet for clothes for a little trip to the preserve. There would be so many bushes and roots and trees, naturally, and probably damp ground, so he would need something warm and worn, something that he wouldn’t regret staining or, for example, ripping up with a protruding branch of a treacherous bush. In general, he needs to be fully prepared for that place.
The two friends haven’t decided yet if they should tell their parents about where they’re going to go — they both suppose they should, but they’re not sure if they want to put their little secret under the threat of being revealed, so bored and then being forced by his father to throw the idea out of their skulls for some ‘dangerous’ reason — he just makes a decision to do it quietly, without letting his mother hear any rustling noises.
He finds his old jacket that they bought about two years ago, but it was too big for him back then, and later it turned out to be a bit dirtier than before when he first started wearing it. The boy notices his boots sitting peacefully on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe, orange with black rubber soles; the pair will be good enough for him. It takes him more time to choose a pair of suitable pants because all of them are too good to be the ones he would use for their wild search for the damn tree. He has to make a very hard decision about which one is going to be a hero for him. But then he thinks, like, it can wait; the brown-eyed boy still has plenty of time to consider.
After several seemingly long minutes of thinking, Stiles sits down on his desk chair, rubbing his face roughly with his hands and yawning. The most important matter is already done and dusted, which can’t help but fill the boy with a mixture of relief and joy. But at the same time, it means that he should do something until his mind gets so sick and tired of anticipation that Stiles would dive into the thought and come to it over and over again.
Harshly breathing out, the boy looks up at the white ceiling; well, doing the homework will bring to him enough distraction and, beyond it, an opening to spend his time usefully. With another long-suffering sigh, he turns around in his chair to face his desk, where the books are resting already and waiting to be opened. There's nothing else left to do but that; he has to do it anyway, so why not? After all, it’s only two days until the party is thrown out. That’s not so much.
Maybe it’s the first time he’s doing his homework with such eagerness, even though the boy knows it’s only because he doesn’t know what else he could do. Otherwise, Stiles wouldn’t even remember anything about school until the last day of the holidays. However, Stiles just sits there and tries to work on a small essay.
Time flows quickly, as if something would definitely happen if it didn’t hurry up, so, when it gets a little darker to see clearly what lines his hand is drawing on a page, he realizes another evening has come. He pushes himself out of the chair and puts everything aside with more than a gladness, lifting his arms and stretching his spine. While he was here with his essay and other tasks, it seems that his mom has made dinner, and from what Stiles remembers, his dad must be home soon. The clock on the table tells him the same. He thinks to go downstairs and join his mother. And so he does, leaving his bedroom and jumping over every one step of the stairs. Apparently, he’s made enough loud noises, because the second he shows up at the kitchen’s cusp, his mom, who’s frozen in front of the stove with a spoon in her hand, stares at him.
The brown-haired boy chuckles shortly when he notices her wide-open eyes looking back at him.
"I thought dad would be home soon, so I came early to meet him," the boy explains as his mom curves her brows up, then nods and returns to her frying pan. Stepping closer to the table, Stiles decides to steal a tangerine from a bowl full of them, along with apples and oranges. The smell is always nice and fresh, but the weeks before Christmas make it even more magical than it is at usual. He suspects that there’s some kind of magic vibe about Christmas, as well as about the New Year. The boy wonders if it’s like that for all people in the world.
"What were you doing?" his mother’s voice carries over the sizzle of the frying pan as she flips over vegetables in it. Stiles has to wait for her to stop in order to hear and talk normally. After she finishes and puts the lid on it, the boy replies.
"My homework, or rather essay." His mom turns to him with a curious glint in her eyes.
"Yeah? What is it about?"
He shrugs with one shoulder.
"Something like, what would be the first thing that you would do if you were the person you want to be right now?" He rolls his eyes with slight exasperation within him. His mom only smiles, and he can see what the next question will slip out of her mouth because...
"And what have you written there, hm?"
...it’s too obvious that it doesn’t take anything else than just looking at her look. It makes him sigh heavily, because he doesn’t really want to talk about it for some reason that the boy could call personal. He doesn’t care that his teacher will see it anyway. And yet his mother is standing there, staring at him with the same smile, so all he can do for now is just to talk.
"It’s just a draft yet," he says reluctantly, dropping his eyes from where he looks at his mom. "I was thinking of a police officer. You know, like dad."
Stiles hears a faint humming from his mother as he fiddles with the peel of a tangerine, which leaves a delicious scent on his palms. He meets her eyes with his confused, narrowed ones.
"Why?" the little boy draws doubtfully.
"It’s nothing, honey," she assures him at first, then rests her free hand on the table behind her. “So, what would the thing be?”
And the boy exhales harshly again.
"Well..."
And here they both register a clicking sound from the hallway that means only one thing: Deputy is home. Stiles leaves his tangerine and escapes from his ‘mom’s area’ to meet his father, happily running away from the subject at hand. His face is likely to crack as a broad grin stretches his lips. Frankly, he’s not sure about who he wants to be, and who else does at his age, huh?
His dad takes a step before Stiles dashes out of the corner and runs right into him to get tight hugs. Noah has to catch him quickly so he doesn’t fall on his back with the boy on top of him in addition.
"Hey, kiddo," his dad greets when Stiles is in his arms, murmuring his own "hi" in a crook between his dad’s neck and shoulder.
And like this, they go to find Claudia, and only after they manage this task does Stiles peel his head off from his dad, turning his torso toward her and holding onto Noah’s shoulder with one hand. His mother finishes setting plates and cups on the table as the man and the boy stand in the entrance of the kitchen; two pairs of eyes, gray and like high black tea, are looking at her. His parents greet each other, smiling as they peck each other on the lips, then laugh when Stiles grimaces and pretends it’s disgusting.
His father sets him down on the floor and strokes his head, making his hair get even messier than it already was, causing the boy to push his hand away.
"Alright, lady and lil’ gentleman," he says, forcing two brows on two faces to curve, "stay right here, I’ll be right back. I don’t say bye."
And then he just salutes them and walks out, while Stiles and his mom exchange unimpressed glances among themselves.
While his father is missing upstairs, he and his mother dish up the food on the plates and chat shortly about little things, sitting down on their chairs and waiting for the kettle to boil. And when everyone is gathered and tea is poured into every cup, warm steam of which is trickling out of it, the Stilinski family goes to eat. The feast is full of smiles, jokes, and stories, and the tea just fits right in with this comfortable and cozy mood, hot and spreading warmth inside all of them. It's peaceful, calm, domestic, just like Stiles loves, greedily drinking in these happy moments.
His mother tells his father that she talked to Melissa about Scott and Stiles’ offer, and Mrs. McCall said that she didn’t mind getting together for Christmas. Noah expresses his joy only in a few words and then shifts to talking about a case to do with a crazy accident where a wild animal has torn up several small rodents in the preserve. With particular violence. In the end he warns that it’s dangerous in the forest, that if someone suddenly wants to go and entertain their souls with so much adrenaline, then they should go there to get it, and what about other normal people — they should be careful in the forest and better stay away from that place.
"Our animal trappers are trying to find this unknown animal," his dad says when the main part is done, and his mom frowns a bit, looking slightly thoughtful.
"So, it’s happened near the Hales, hasn’t it?" she asks suddenly, raising her eyebrow.
For all the boy knows, this family is very rich, owning almost the whole town, from what he has heard in school, and living in the preserve itself on their personal territory in the big, luxurious mansion. And they have a large family. Literally. Stiles even remembers meeting one of them a few times in the school halls, a girl maybe his own age. For some reason, he didn’t dare to talk to her (maybe because she just looked so serious and grim). So, the boy can’t understand why his mother is asking about them at all and how it’s connected to the current point. Still, his dad nods to her question, humming a little.
"Maybe they have a big dog, you know, they’re so Hales." Claudia rolls her eyes after her emphasis, but, somehow, it doesn’t seem mean, as if she’s just uttering a simple fact, as if she...
Stiles narrows his eyes until they’re nothing but thin slits, and at the same second a suspicion surges up within him, strong and weighty enough to believe in it. His mother knows the Hales. And a following shrug from his father’s side makes the little boy stumble over an idea that he could’ve shared with her about them before, so it makes sense now. Or, maybe, his mother really does know them, even without all the rumors and stories. Well, personally.
"I guess I should go visit them," his father concludes after a minute of silence. "Check out the environment and all that."
Then a quietness falls around the three of them, light and typical for them, as each of them mulls something over in their heads, maintaining this casual, wordless atmosphere. His dad’s words repeat themselves in Stiles’ mind. If there’s some threatening, toothy animal in the preserve, then their plan will be put at risk of being eaten up by it. This doesn’t seem as presentable as the death could be, however it sounds, and he should share this information with Scott to rethink their old plan, but... what if Stiles can go with his dad tomorrow, or when he’s going to, just to hear what they’re going to talk about, to get wind of everything by himself?
Stiles gathers his resolve and speaks up, turning his head to Noah.
"Dad, may I, uh—" he starts and stops right there as both his parents snap their eyes at him. He keeps on unwaveringly, though. "When you drive to those Hales of yours, can I go with you?"
His father rounds his eyes at the boy’s question, all but chokes on his tea, barely managing to remove the cup from his lips, and his mother is already ready to tap him on his back. A moment later, he can breathe easily again. All the while, Stiles tries to be nonchalant; his dad is always so impressionable.
"Why would you need to go with me, son?" his dad asks carefully as soon as he’s able to.
"It’s interesting to see that giant house, c’mon," the brown-eyed boy explains himself emotionally, raising his arms, and when he sees an almost unimpressed expression on his father’s face, he unexpectedly remembers that he will be alone tomorrow. He could spend his time more usefully. "Besides, mom won’t be home tomorrow, and I don’t want to hang out here all alone. It’ll be boring!"
And it doesn’t matter that he would necessarily do something with his mother if she wasn’t going anywhere. He just needs an excuse, and that’s the first one that comes to mind.
His parents exchange looks full of suspicion, but they don’t say anything, only look at the little boy. Who, in turn, just drags his gaze between them both, hoping that his dad will give him his permission. Still, it takes a couple of minutes for his father, who seems to finish with some thinking of his, before he shrugs and finally speaks up.
"Alright, I’ll see what will be going on and then call you if you need to gather yourself up. I don’t think they would mind."
Stiles nods so eagerly, already getting very impatient for the next day to come.
"Deal," the boy says as a slight smirk plays on his lips.
Good. Now, if his idea doesn’t stop at his father’s call with a negative answer for Stiles, he can think about how to be as close to his dad as possible in order to listen and keep information in mind. It can’t help but send the boy into such a spiral of excitement. He's saved from himself by his mom when she asks his dad about his shifts at the station. It hits him a second later: his father must have told them if he will be home for Christmas.
"You said that you were working extra hours, right?" Claudia clarifies as she stands up and starts to collect all the dishes on the table. Stiles rushes to help her, as he almost always does.
"Oh, yeah, right. I’m taking a break, but in that case, I’ll be working a shift on New Year’s," his dad says, and his mom gives him a sympathetic look, to which Noah hums and shrugs as if to say, ‘Happens’. The boy decides to express his sympathy as well.
"It sucks!" And his father chuckles quietly.
"Can’t deny it, but it’s just my job, son," he jokes a little right away. "Otherwise, who else would be out there helping poor stray asses?"
The boy hums slightly, lifting his shoulder in a kind of agreement.
"Fair enough," is the only thing he can deduce.
And all together they start to clean up; his dad washes every dish that was used tonight, while Stiles and his mother dry them with ease and speed, so the three of them are quickly done with it. In the midst of all this, Noah tells the brown-haired boy that he’ll call him in the afternoon or around this time to give his final word, so to speak, so Stiles should be ready anyway. To meet his dad on the driveway and go immediately to those Hales, without wasting precious time, because his father will have more work. Taking Stiles back home is concluded. His mother is going to go around to her lady-things. It will take so much time. Besides, she seemed to want to go to some stores, so it’s one hundred percent that he’ll be alone for a good half of the day.
A short time later, the Stilinski family wanders off into their rooms to rest well before the next day will peek out from under the horizon. Lying in the bed and looking at the fateful corner, Stiles blinks slowly as he tries to suppress the suffocating feeling that is doing its best to burst out and drown him in desperate hope. Hope that would leave another scar on his heart because he’s so used to hearing someone else in his bedroom and feeling so lightheaded at the mere thought of someone needing him, or at least close to the needing him. There has been an ever-present want in the boy to be accepted by someone that probably appeared at a moment he couldn’t register. Maybe when he went to school? There are many boys and girls in his group, and the teachers’ attention sputters on each child, but not the fact that at least the smallest droplet of it will necessarily land on each of them. Usually, they only like their favorites, the ones they circle around them the most, even though there are kids who need their attention or help more.
No, not everyone is like that; for example, his phys ed teacher, Mr. Nilsen, gives every student a cold shoulder. He just does his job. Stiles even respects him for that because Mr. Nilsen is a good PE teacher who’s focused on what he’s studying.
Maybe that’s why the brown-eyed boy has such a distinct feeling of being ignored and neglected a bit. Not that his parents don’t give him support and attention — they do — but it will never compare with the feeling of being accepted and appreciated by another person. Like Scott, perhaps; his friend has accepted him, as the boy has accepted him. And that feels very nice and more, but it’s not even close to the moments with Void, not even the tiniest bit. Hence, after some time, Stiles found himself cherishing every short second with this invisible being, holding these moments close to his violently pounding heart, keeping them there safe and with all of his care and caution.
The boy doesn’t want to shatter any of those memories with these magical nights, and even despite the coolness from the outside, each of them has been warmed by Void and his tales. The boy is afraid to split them into small, small pieces and to hurt himself with one of the sharpest ones. Afraid of hurting that someone with his unconscious action. With a sharp edge of it.
Isn't it an irrational idea? God, he’s just an eight-year-old boy; how can he think of such craziness? Where did this come from? When?
Should he even have such thoughts? He can’t even ask anyone about it for perfectly understandable reasons.
And there it is again; Stiles mulls it over yet again. Huffing out his frustration, the boy trains his eyes, similar to the warm tea, on the wall on an opposite side from him. It's silent, though; he can appreciate the thin blue laying of the night light that covers it, forming a beautiful blanket that hides behind itself everything and anything he doesn’t want to think about right now, letting the brown-eyed boy heave a breath of relief at its unlikeness to the quiet black abyss of the darkness.
As black as under his eyelids when he closes his eyes.
As quiet as his dream when he falls asleep.
As abyssal as the whole space around him.
***
The morning starts much later, but Stiles doesn’t complain. He stretches out; his watch tells him it’s midday already, which means his mother may still be home but will be leaving soon. He blinks slowly. And that means that his dad— oh! His dad must be calling soon. The boy crawls out of the bed so fast that the blanket mingles with his legs, so he has to slow down so as not to injure himself so stupidly and survive before his father can even reach for his phone. Once he’s free to move, Stiles takes his clothes and goes straight to the bathroom, well, to wash. Then goes downstairs. He walks around the house and finds out that his mom has already left. He nods to himself and goes into the hallway to make sure his keys are untouched on the drawer, and then Stiles travels into the kitchen, looking over at the table and noticing there’s a towel on something. Pulling it by the edge, he sees a plate of eggs and remembers there’s some fresh orange juice in the fridge, so he instantly pours it into a glass. The boy eats it all up quickly to be ready for his dad’s arrival and to choose some clothes for the visit, something not dirty and fresh. As soon as he finishes his small breakfast, Stiles hears the long-awaited ring of the phone as his leg hangs over the step; his entire body is frozen in surprise for a moment. It takes another second for the awareness to reach his ears, for him to unfreeze and run to his room. Thankfully, the brown-haired boy picks up the call just in time before the last notes of the melody can trail off, and his dad’s voice sounds on the other end. "Hey, son, I already thought you weren’t going to answer the phone." Stiles tries to guess if it didn’t annoy him, but he leaves this wondering for himself. "Hey, yeah, I was just downstairs, sorry," he excuses first. "So..." "So," his father mocks a little but keeps on anyway, "I’ll be there in about seven minutes, and you better stand right there and get into my cop car, buddy." "Yes, sir! It’ll be done." "All right, see you soon." And he cuts the line off, and Stiles rushes to get ready, making a small mess in his wardrobe while he digs in for his hoodie with a symbol of Superman. Looking it over, Stiles soothes it with all his love. The letter "S" flaunts proudly on the front side. After a few lingering minutes, the boy follows into the hallway, grabs his keys to open the door, and locks it up, standing under the roof of the small patio and waiting. His dad wasn’t lying about seven minutes, because the cruiser arrives exactly seven minutes later. It stops right in front of the curb, the passenger door opens, and the boy thinks that his dad had to stretch over the seat to reach a handle. Now, however, he’s sitting straightened, waving a hand to the boy to come in. So the brown-eyed boy does. The moment he settles comfortably and safely in his place, with the bent across his body, the cop car starts up and drives off to its final goal — the preserve. The engine rumbles steadily through their quiet way as the two of them talk about everything and nothing at the same time. Soon they pass the sign that says, “You’re entering the Preserve,” while many different trees crawl past them slowly enough to see their magnificent crowns, and small birds fly through the highest branches. The road has turned into a ground path even before the sign itself, but at this point it feels softer and more uneven. Stiles' body swings slightly as both front and rear wheels on his side come across this and that bump, causing the car to jump a little. It doesn’t make the driving uncomfortable, though; instead, it’s lulling him, gently rocking him back and forth from time to time, especially with the engine still rumbling. A white noise together with the landscape of the forest. A little later, Stiles and his dad pass another green sign but this time it says, "Private Area," and the boy guesses it’s Hales’ territory. "Dad." He turns to his father, and Noah glances at him quickly. "How much land do the Hales own?" "It’s a pretty big part. They own most of the preserve." "What the hell do they have so much of it?!" Stiles can’t help himself. His dad gives him a look that means a kind of like watch-your-tongue-son look before saying anything. “I dunno, son. When we see them, you can ask them,” he says jokingly, shrugging and grinning at the boy, who just stares with a blank gaze, mouth slightly open. Stiles is just about to say something sarcastic when his father turns the wheel to the left, and a large mansion appears in his sight, beautiful and yellowish and very large. He finds himself unable to rip his eyes off the building. The brown-haired boy can only run with his gaze over the whole thing, trying to notice every tiny detail. He sees many windows, some of them hidden by curtains from the inside, and for some reason, he thinks they are parts of rooms where people are rare visitors, but some of them are opened for his vision as Noah approaches the mansion. Through the windows, the boy can see what members of this family are doing, well, when they stand close by a window frame. He catches several boys about his age watching. They seem to be sitting on a windowsill, peeking down at the ground, observing what’s going on. Stiles even manages to see two adults, men, on the second floor. The mansion itself has two floors in total, not including a basement or attic, which the boy isn’t sure is there. Once the car stops and his dad gestures for him to jump out, Stiles spots a woman coming from the house and walking toward them while the other men wait a bit behind her on a large and wide terrace. One of them looks like he’s bored to death to be here, and when the brown-eyed boy stands next to his father, he realizes that man has icy eyes. They're light and seemingly as clear as real ice, but they’re chilly and carry in themselves nothing but a certain indifference to everyone here, even though they seem to be laser-focused on everything that’s coming. The boy doesn’t like the moment when those two pieces of ice slide over him, seeming to leave feather-light stripes on their way, cool and unpleasant. Stiles doesn’t allow any reaction to show through him. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hale. I hope you don’t mind that my son is with me," his dad greets the dark-eyed and black-haired woman in front of them as Stiles quietly says hello to her. She smiles brightly at the boy then. "Good afternoon, deputy. No, I don’t mind. Did something happen that led you to us?" She comes straight to the point, sure and calm. "Actually yes, something did happen," he confirms. "Yesterday, our deputy found two torn small animals. We can’t figure out what kind of predator could do that, and since your family lives here, in the woods, we decided to ask you about anything wild or stray around the preserve. Maybe you saw something like this yesterday or before?" Two men exchange glances between themselves, and the nonchalant man rolls his eyes (which is surprising enough and even weird), while Mrs. Hale takes on a thoughtful look, as if trying to remember the events of the last twenty-four hours. His dad waits patiently as the boy surreptitiously watches the three men. It takes several more seconds before she shakes her head and speaks up again. "No, deputy, we didn’t see anything out of this place. Besides, our younger children weren’t at home those two days, the older ones would’ve definitely said something about it if they saw something, and the adults don’t know about it either. Just like me. You can ask us if you need some words from others. Well, those who are here right now." She looks calm and sure as she takes a step to the side, gesturing to the three men still standing on the terrace behind her and to the mansion as well. The second of them grins at his father, for which the blue-eyed man punches him in the arm, dampening his enthusiasm. He’s odd. The boy notices that the first of them, who looks a little older than the blue-eyed man, remains unperturbed. Still, Noah nods, not paying attention to this behavior, and slowly begins to move. "Okay, I’ll ask, but I have to wonder: do you have any dogs? Or any other pets?" he wonders, stepping around the mansion and waving his hand for Stiles to follow. The woman goes after Noah. "No, not a single dog," Mrs. Hale answers simply. "We don’t even have hamsters." She smiles. Stiles takes a look around, highlighting new details about the house or some of the buildings on the property — something that would catch an eye at once. But, unfortunately for him, there is nothing but a small wooden arbor not far from the mansion itself; it has a round shape with the same round roof, with a round table in the middle. Walking a little further, the brown-haired boy sees a small lodge standing apart from the villa, looking a bit seedy and very old, but saved enough to still make a good sight. He tries to guess what it is for, maybe for the hunters’ business, some of their things like knives for butchering the carcasses of dead animals, weapons maybe, and whatever else they might have. Isn't hunting illegal here? As the boy and the two adults keep on rounding the perimeter of the house, Stiles manages to see a few small windows without glass and a door at the back of the lodge that looks solid enough at first glance. But there’s a steel lock on it, massive and a little rusty. There must be some reasons for that, the boy thinks, some normal and ordinary reasons, not some scary and dangerous ones, which are worthy of horror movies. For example, in order for bad guys not to steal anything, not deadly cleavers to kill someone or some poor animal. He tears his eyes away from the small building at the same moment his father turns his head toward Mrs. Hale. "By the way, how’s your family?" he begins a nice and short topic as they continue walking. The brown-eyed boy travels his gaze at the woman. “How will you all celebrate Christmas?” "We’re doing well, thank you. And we’re going to stay here, in this nice house," she says simply. "We have a lot of people here, so it will be more convenient to get together here." "Well, it’s pretty big for all of you.' His father smirks at her then, and she gives an amused huff. "I noticed a small lodge earlier." This could be counted as a red-screaming hint that the boy was thinking for the first time. Stiles all but perks his ears like a cat or dog. "Oh, you’re talking about that small building?" The woman raises her brows, gesturing at the lodge behind her, and Noah nods, stepping further. "It’s our kind of shack; we keep firewood there, some tools for fixing something, garden tools... There are also some old things we don’t use. Nothing illegal, deputy." She smiles softly. They both continue to speak about something the boy can’t really understand with his still child-brain, so he gives his preference to looking around at the trees, the mansion, some kind of playground, and some path leading somewhere in the depth of the forest. "All right, Mrs. Hale," the deputy says as they approach the terrace again, "I think that I can believe you. Now, I wouldn’t mind asking your family members. To hear everything personally, you know. Can you call them, please?" She utters a low ‘Okay, deputy,’ and all at once fades away into her belongings, leaving him and his father standing alone in the same place they were before. Noah puts his hands on his waist, sighing sharply, and Stiles looks up at him, reaching out to tug at the sleeve of his dad’s uniform to get his attention. The second he draws his eyes to his son, the boy lowers his voice to just above a whisper. "What are you gonna ask them about? About the suspected animal?" He gets a nod in response, but that’s not enough for him. "But... what exactly?" he doesn’t calm down. "It’s nothing out of the ordinary, son." His dad rolls his eyes, but there’s a small, affectionate smile on his lips that shows he’s not as annoyed by his insistence as the gesture seemed. "You’ll hear everything anyway." Stiles can’t argue with that, because that’s why he convinced his dad to bring him on this trip. He just needs to wait a little bit longer until whoever is inside comes out, and the brown-haired boy finally hears some information about safety in the middle of the forest. He wishes their plan didn’t stop here. A few minutes later, the same three men and a woman who looks a little younger than Mrs. Hale come out of the mansion. The same cold ice seems to look through the father and the boy. The woman seems nice, though. "Talia said you wanted to ask us about something," the blue-eyed man comments, drawling words so lazily that it seems to Stiles that this dude doesn’t really care about the current situation. He just raises his brow, which only emphasizes the uncaring expression on his face. "Right. First, have you seen some animal looking like a big dog in the preserve? Yesterday, two dead little rodents were found here, you know, pools of blood and torn trunks." Two of the Hales, the woman and the man, who were grinning a little earlier, get still for a quick moment as the quiet man and that dude shoot brief glimpses at each other, and then they all shake their heads. Stiles narrows his eyes. Noah sighs slowly before nodding shortly. "Okay, and the second one: do you know anyone who has a dog and walks it somewhere in the preserve?" "Trust me, deputy, nobody we know has the dog you’re looking for," the woman says, her voice so rough the boy would never think it belonged to such a sweet, little woman. "I only know one guy who has an adult Rottweiler. But his boy is the very embodiment of a good doggy. Greg is a good owner. Leo can confirm it." "Oh, yeah," the guy, who grinned at them, speaks up suddenly, drawing attention to himself, "he takes care of his dog, and he’s disciplined him very well. I don’t think there is anyone else with dogs near the forest; Greg would know that. He loves them," he says it as if he’s sharing a secret with everyone, smirking. The boy lets out a short chuckle. Noah just hums. "So," the man with the icy eyes interferes in the conversation, just as disinterested as earlier, and it seems as if there’s an irritation in his voice, "when we all know that none of us has any dog, haven’t seen anything animalistic, and that no one around this place has a dog except for one guy, can we finally say that animal in the preserve was something stray?" The calm, still silent man gives him a strange look, a mixture of something between annoyance and some kind of warning (maybe he means that it’s a deputy that stands before him, so he needs to be more respectable). The woman looks at Noah with a silent apology in her eyes, shrugging as though to say that is his usual behavior, as though that dude has always been like this. The deputy just nods yet again, but this time only at her, and puts his right hand on Stiles’ shoulder, not saying anything for a few seconds. The brown-eyed boy watches them closely, staying as still as he can only be while the rude man rolls his eyes. Again. "Okay, thanks for the information," his father says, looking over at them. "Then we can be done with it. Be careful and tell the rest of your family to be careful too. The station hasn’t informed us about the animal yet, so it could be somewhere not too far away." "Good, deputy. We’ll make sure that all of our people know about this whole situation," the woman with the unusual voice responds. "Thank you for the warning. Have a good day, and Merry Christmas to you and your family." She gives the boy and his dad her sunny smile. Stiles curves his lips in a sheepish one as he and Noah say their thanks, and as soon as he mumbles it, the blue eyes focus on him for the umpteenth time on this visit. The boy tries as best he can to avoid the clinging gaze. "Yeah, thank you, Mary, and the same to all of you," Noah says, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder. "Well, we should go already. If you see anything, call the station. Goodbye." Both Stiles and his dad turn around and make their way to the cruiser when the small bunch of Hales answers him. When they reach the car, something tugs at him, and he can’t help himself; Stiles looks back over his shoulder to see those clear pieces of ice still boring into him, too sharp and far more focused than the boy saw this day. It raises eerie goosebumps all over his body, sliding down and up the back of his neck, and when he gets into the cop car and looks up at the windows of the mansion, Stiles sees the same kids, but now they’re talking about something between themselves. Or rather, a girl about his age is saying something to others and pointing at his father’s car, then her finger shifts to the blue-eyed man and back to the car. The boy wonders what she’s saying. He has a huge suspicion, though. He can see a boy mouthing something, and the girl starts waving enthusiastically with her one hand, extending her other hand in the direction of the car once again, while two other girls stand there without moving. Stiles thinks it’s a little bit weird. But not as much as the burning chill sensation of the blue eyes at the back of his head, watching him the whole time as his father drives out of the Hale mansion. It seems more than creepy to him. "Didn’t they seem weird to you?" Stiles' voice echoes through the salon after the “You’re leaving The Preserve” sign. His dad’s reaction is just a curved brow. "What do you mean, son?" "Weeell," the boy considers how to express his thoughts about his impression of the conversation with the Hales. He takes a deep breath and lets his mouth do its work. "Look, that woman, Talia Hale, right?" he clarifies uncertainly, and the second his father tips his head down, he resumes his musing trace. "She answered so accurately and clearly, and her words about the most part of her family not being home these days, I couldn’t help but think, like... isn’t it so suitable that there was no one around to notice a wild dog? And those three men, the one who didn’t utter a single word for the whole time, and the other one with blue eyes, who talked cattily, and the third one who grinned. And why was he grinning, huh? When you asked them about a dog in the forest, those two exchanged glances, and only after that they all said wordlessly, "No." It looked exactly like they were hiding something. Just like in the movies! Y’know, when someone keeps a secret from others, and they’re asked what they know—" "Oh, Stiles, fine, slow down," Noah stops him with a harsh sigh as Stiles begins to raise his tone higher and higher up on the wave of excitement. The boy closes his mouth with a soft clack of his teeth against teeth and glances at his dad to find a calm expression on his face, only a slight curve of his lips betraying his true mood. "Why? Didn’t that seem suspicious to you, huh?" Stiles tries again. Turning the wheel to the right and going out onto the hard and level road, Noah picks up the speed slightly and then makes an indeterminate hum at the back of his throat. The brown-eyed boy keeps an eye on the view of the outside for a long moment while his father keeps a silence; the picture of the town flashes before them in half-clear smudges: the pale green of the grass, the gray of the sky and of everything around the car, and the rare dirty white and dusty beige of houses or just buildings. But the pause flies away into nothingness as soon as his dad breaks down the still air. "Son, I’ll tell you this. When something happens and you think it’s like something you know, that doesn’t mean that it’s actually like that, in fact." He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, speaking in such a low and level manner that the boy has to drop his full attention to what he’s saying. "Sometimes we can be too judgmental of people or some situations, our minds can be clouded by our own emotions or feelings or our ‘omniscience.’" His father smiles after he trails off, and the brown-haired boy furrows his eyebrows at his words. "And we have to size this or that point with impartiality, without your personal inner emotions. Like... why do you think those three men are hiding something? And what do you think about the second woman?" he asks the boy curiously. Stiles is a little confused by the question, trying to find a thread to this discussion, and it takes a few seconds before it finally hits him and sinks in. The moment he gives his answer, his father passes another turn. "Well, that woman seemed to me a normal human, and she acted calmly and nicely. About those men... Because one of them said nothing during the whole conversation, he was so quiet. And the other one was just standing there and saying what the others said. The third man was very strange; he seemed like he really didn’t care about anything around him, as if he found everything very boring. And. And he was staring at me like I was some rare thing in the entire world that he had to have for himself. This dude literally burned through me with his gaze. It’s so creepy!" Noah laughs then, making Stiles shiver a little, and the brown-eyed boy whips his head in his dad’s direction with a big surprise on his face. As his father begins to calm down from his bout of laughter, the boy crosses his arms over his chest and all of a sudden swings to the window of the car door when his dad turns the wheel, driving down the road that leads to their home. He wonders if his mother is back yet, or if he might be like the main character in "Home Alone" for a while. "See, that’s what I’m talking about," his father goes ahead with his sermon, looking too amused. "You judge by your first impression of them. If that guy didn’t say any word, it didn’t mean he wanted to hide something away from us. Maybe he has always been like that; we can’t know for sure. Or, maybe, something had happened to him that affected him in this way." His dad sounds reasonable enough, as do his thoughts, and the only thing missing here is the phrase "don’t judge a book by its cover" for good measure, for complete completeness. Stiles can admit that he might’ve thought some things, thanks to his rich imagination that doesn’t emerge on a surface at times when the boy needs it like nothing else. But always in those moments when he needs to use his mind, it’s as if those two things can never coexist and work together in tandem with him. It doesn’t take away the fact, though, that the second man was staring at him during the questioning, as though Stiles was more interesting than anything else. And he might like attention from people, but that one wasn’t something joyful or nice; those crystal-clear blue eyes seemed to reach down, down to his very soul, sending chills through all his senses. They melted away each and every one of his pieces to know everything as much as it’s even possible, covering all of the boy’s being with their ice-cold burning prints on their way. Stiles has a thought: there’s no excuse for this man. "Alright, I can agree with you on that one, but what would you say about the dude who was staring at me like a total maniac? What reason could he have?" He can’t help but ask. From everything the brown-eyed boy sees through the front window, they should get home very soon, because the similar places have begun to flicker before his eyes. His father doesn’t speak up for a couple of flashing streets before they stop at another traffic light. Then he leans back against the seat, his hands still on the wheel. "Why didn’t I notice it? I certainly would have seen it. Maybe you’re making it up, son?" It almost hurts the boy. His dad doesn’t believe him? Though it’s only confirming his own inner thoughts, it still jabs at something inside of him. Even though Stiles knows his dad is in no way trying to hurt him, he’s just trying to figure things out. Still, the boy can’t keep it inside, so the moment the car moves again, driving slowly and fluidly, he exclaims: "I’m not making it up; I’m just telling you what was there!" He turns his head away from his father, watching the way their house is crawling closer and closer to them. Good, he feels like he wants to get home so much. The road continues for a few more minutes, full of plots with houses on each of them that have an endless number of Christmas decorations on both the inside and out. Bright and dark green wreaths hang on the porches, making the doors look better than they do on a normal day without them. Christmas trees preen in the rooms of the houses, proudly showing their needles with colorful baubles on the branches and a star or some other shape on the top. The little lights, which have green, yellow, red, blue, and white shimmering glows, are tied around the trees and swing from above the windows instead of blinds or curtains. It's beautiful and has some charm of its own, the boy thinks. After that wordless pause, the cruiser stops in front of their own house, where no light gives to know about itself, but Noah doesn’t move in his seat. And when it lingers further, that makes Stiles look up at his dad. He is sitting still, and his head is tipped down; one hand still grips at the wheel, and the other lies on the gearshift. He seems very thoughtful. "Dad?" he calls, his voice almost failing to a whisper — that’s how tense the atmosphere is here. His father keeps the silence for a few seconds before he pulls both his hands away from where they were lying and turns to the brown-eyed boy, who is only now frowning. "Listen, son," Noah says softly, and the boy furrows his brows even more, "I wasn’t trying to say I don’t believe you," he confesses, looking right into Stiles’ eyes. Apparently seeing something he wants to find, his dad speaks up again, gentler now. "I was trying to say that sometimes you can see some things in your own way, and then you are sent into the spiral of it more and more, but, in fact, it was completely different. Do you get me?" Stiles can’t help but nod because he’s right, and this has already happened probably a few times before, so the boy can certainly agree with him. But the current moment isn’t one of those ones since Stiles knows exactly what he saw and what he felt back then. And nothing will change his mind, not even a memory. And yet, he waits for the next explanation. "Good. You should know that I didn’t want to offend you, and you probably wouldn’t see this man again either way. So, my advice to you is not to focus on it; the town folk can be a bit..." "Crazy" Stiles casually offers his help. His father chuckles briefly. "Only at certain moments. Or rather, weird, so it’s better not to pay your attention to anything others do or say, as long as they’re not trying to do something bad." He looks at the boy seriously, and the urge to just trust him and forget about this strange dude almost collapses on Stiles with its big wave. But an obvious question is already on its way out. "What kind of?.." His father just shakes his head, looking at the watch on his left wrist, which means he’s a little out of time. "Later, kiddo, I gotta go. See you soon." The brown-haired boy unbuckles his seat belt and gets out of the car, feeling the hardness of the road under his feet. He's just about to close the door when his dad adds, "Be a good boy. I’ll check on you tonight," smirking with one corner of his lips. With a convincing expression on his face, Stiles just folds his fingers in a gesture ‘okay,’ then he closes the cruiser and steps away from the cop car. They wave their hands at each other for a few quick seconds before his father goes away to get back to his own business, and Stiles finally walks into the house. After his recent coming back, he sits on the floor of his bedroom with his legs crossed, replaying everything in his head. As it turns out, no single soul knows what a freaking animal was in the preserve yesterday. Every deputy thinks it was an absolutely wild dog (to his question if it was a wolf, his dad says there are no wolves here, in California), and the only thing the boy can be sure of is the fact it’s not safe there, in the preserve. But, he promptly sets against all of it, he doesn’t get any worthy answers to his most important question: if he and Scott can come into the forest and wander around there for a while. Stiles decides that if there was some threat hovering over them, then that animal would definitely do something more or would eat some of its little prey that those patrols would surely find. Eventually, the boy comes to the decision to bail on the whole situation; he’s more than sure that they wouldn’t meet anyone or anything terrible there. Besides, they’ll head out in maybe a few days after the Christmas party, when everyone will come down and return to their normal day-to-day routines. When his dad will be on the shifts at the sheriff’s station, Scott’s mom will be on her own at the hospital. So Stiles will be able to tell his mom that he’ll be playing video games with Scott at his house. And neither of his parents will be able to figure out that this is a big lie. Oh God, he’s going to hell, he swears. But it’s the best case for both of them, and he can’t be bothered about it. After the phase of ‘accepting’ that he might not be as good or as honest a son as his parents might think, Stiles leans back until the back of his head thuds against the soft blue carpet. The ceiling stares back at him with its unchanging blank stare whenever the boy looks up, just a typical view, and that, somehow, comforts him in a way the brown-haired boy is used to thinking of as another way to concentrate and gather himself. And... maybe he likes an all-encompassing and peaceful and somewhat precious silence all around him, like a soft embrace of something indescribable and... nice. In moments when he can feel every part and piece of himself, when his mind shuts down and gets fogged up with a haze of steely calmness flowing through his very veins. The boy can feel... nothing, and it's almost an astonishingly beautiful feeling, one that doesn’t put him in a state of any worry or excitement, just blissful emptiness without any tiresome thoughts about everything and anything possible and impossible. So, he’s grateful for the ceiling above him, for the soft carpet underneath him, and for the hidden reason that lets him forget himself in its waters that ebb him from all sides. Devouring him with its intangible waves, while the brown-haired boy keeps to the surface even without a little trouble, soaking everything he can until Stiles feels he’s so light he could be blown by the slightest zephyr. It's a similar feeling when he’s lying on his bed, wanting to sleep so badly, and that’s when this feeling catches him up as the boy is between a dream and reality. He associates that with it, and only then does that feeling of lightness take him comprehensively. But moments like this happen very rarely, without any system, any periodicity (the boy has tried to track it, but to no avail), and every one of their coming hits Stiles with the intensity. It seems like every time it gets even stronger and harder for the brown-eyed boy to take it and, most importantly, to come back from this sort of high. It's easier when he falls asleep at these points, because a little later Stiles wakes up and lives on; that’s one thing. The other thing is when he has to get up and go somewhere. The wild laziness collapses on his shoulders, making everything too much to handle. Not that the boy can’t control it; in truth, he can, but most of the time he doesn’t want to leave that space, and that’s the thing. It does seem like he is avoiding reality, Stiles reluctantly admits to himself all the time. As if it’s missing something, isn’t enough, as if there’s some part of it that just can’t find its place to fall right here and now. And yet, the brown-haired boy could be stuck on thinking like that forever, and it still wouldn’t change anything at all, so he has to push it all away as much as he can, being in the ripple of his own inexplicable and temporarily potent happiness. Fortunately, his help suddenly reaches out and tries to reach his mind as well, or maybe the left parts of his mind that are more or less awake enough to register some noises from downstairs. Mom is home. Slowly shaking off the water that never existed and that feeling that is not a real one, Stiles unhurriedly opens his eyes, blinking away the last cloud of the haze and trying to become aware of everything in the world around him. The second thing that comes over his senses, after the sounds in the hallway, is touching perception. His back rests on the hard floor, the hardness of which the boy feels with every cell of his body, and the air seems to press against him from above slightly, but it’s not uncomfortable; it is a rather nice sensation. Like a big, wide, invisible blanket, but very heavy and weightless at the same time, while his heart pounds behind the ribs and the jugular vein pulses under the skin in time with it. The next thing is smell. The familiar and already thin scent of the wool that Stiles is all dropped on, the scent of the flower powder that comes from his clothes, not strong or annoying, just a light flavor of lavender. This is the favorite scent of his mom, so he is not allowed to complain. The last thing that covers him is actually vision. But there are no surprises for him — just the old, friendly ceiling, but only a little brighter because of the way his eyes have been closed for a while, weaned from the light. With the same gaze staring at him. The old, friendly walls and the desk with the chair, and his bed, and the same door. As soon as the brown-haired boy has at least partially regained strength, he lifts himself up on his elbows and then pushes himself off the floor, standing up and managing to stagger to the door. Stiles remembers that his mother must’ve prepared some food for tomorrow’s party, and the boy wanted to help her because it would be so unfair if she had to cook everything alone. And Stiles is a good son, except for the lie he’s going to give to his mother and father, so he goes down to fulfill his own unspoken promise. It turns out that while he was lying on the carpet, trying to hold on to his slipping will, his mom already looked like she had come home a long time ago. She even took care of washing and chopping some vegetables. And by now she stands motionless in the middle of the kitchen while the boy takes a look around, startling his mother when he breaks the silence. "Hi, Mom. How can I help you?" he asks with absolutely keen enthusiasm. His mom shrieks, turning her head around so fast the boy is almost scared she has broken her neck; her eyes are round like two perfect plates. She makes sure it’s just her son looking at her sheepishly, realizing he has served as the cause of such a reaction, and just reaches up to put her palm flat on her chest. "You should’ve warned me somehow that you were standing behind me," she says with a drawn-out sigh. "Sorry, I didn’t think," Stiles excuses quietly, stepping closer to her and fiddling with his fingers. "So... how about my help?" the boy repeats his question, and his mother makes a humming, thoughtful sound, tapping her fingers over her chest. "I’m almost done with most of it, but..." she drowns, just like he does when he has to come up with something quickly, when he’s forced to answer this or that question. It always takes a couple of seconds for an idea to visit him, and it seems to be the same with her, because she finally speaks. "We can cut some salad. Come on, grab those knives and the board from the table. Well, and I’ll pick some nice vegetables for us." And so — while he chops several onions, which bring a few tears to his eyes because of their particular smell, and his mom washes random lettuce leaves — the two of them work together until it seems to her that it’s time to take the knives away. The boy is happy to do so, as he feels his wrists aching from being too active for so long, and he feels like he really needs a good long rest. Cleansing his palm of food remnants, Stiles puts everything in the fridge as his mother washes the boards and the knives and something else. And the mere thought of why he was here and for what he was helping her with flares anticipation up in his core. Tomorrow is Christmas! Tomorrow is a day when his family will celebrate this holiday with Scott and his mother! They decide to watch a movie, and his mom chooses Harry Potter and stands on her own when he starts to discourage her. So, the brown-haired boy rejects his offer to watch Spider-Man for just the millionth time this month. Yeah, so they watch Harry Potter, and yes, he likes that movie too. The first part of the series is so Christmassy that Stiles can feel the vibe from the TV screen itself, and at some point, he asks his mom what faculty she would like to be in. There is a minute of silence before she says that she likes Ravenclaw more than the others, adding that she thinks Gryffindor would suit him. The brown-eyed boy replies that he would agree with her, but he would also prefer Slytherin because it would be interesting to know what it feels like — to be on the side of the bad guys. To be on a dark side, even if the very dark freaks him totally out. His mother just laughs at his thoughts, saying that heroes can be boring and predictable and their morals of the view can be very typical. That's why villains are often fascinating characters with their own ideology that makes a person think about it and consider a little bit more than it happens with just heroes. "But Batman is super cool — there’s no way to say something else," Stiles says proudly. There’s no choice for his mom but just to agree with him. By the final titles, they both consider an idea to eat something for dinner. But since neither of them wants to eat, and since his dad will be home much later tonight, the boy and his mother are having just tea. So, they sit on the couch in the living room with two big cups in their palms and talk about little things before wandering off to their own rooms. To sleep and gather strength for the next day. Just to rest. By the time the boy truly falls into a pale, like watercolor paints, dream, his dad returns, quietly walking around the houses. By the time the deputy gets into his and his wife’s bed, the brown-eyed boy is already flooded by a surge of lulling spells, seeing, once again, nothing but the familiar silhouette, vague and intertwined with eight or nine or even more swaying shadows from behind it. They never stop their movement even as the silhouette slowly circles Stiles, seeming to examine him or just look at him, right before standing directly in front of him. It shrinks in its height and size after a pitiful second through which the boy blinks his eyes, turning into a small thing that painfully reminds him of a fox. The number nine takes on a new meaning and look; the nine of something writhing becomes the tails of the animal, which the boy stares at with a confused look. The creature curls into itself right at his feet, wrapping its cool shadows of the tails around him, and seems to look into Stiles’ eyes with its hidden ones, though he can’t see them among the dark patch before him. After a minute of hesitation, a minute of inner uncertainty, the boy allows himself to get down on the ground, or on what should be the ground, crosses his leg, and, with a little doubt, lets his hand reach out to brush the indistinct fur on the side of the creature. Shaking from the sensation of such softness, Stiles buries his palm completely in it until his fingers are completely drowned in that soft and fluffy fur, until his hand is full of it. It’s something wonderful, and it’s even more fairy-like when the fox suddenly rests its smudged head on his knee, pressing its pointed ears down to the top of its head. These tails never stop moving — slow and fluid now, where they curl around the boy’s legs, brushing his lower back with their swaying tips — even when time passes and they still stay like that: curled up in themselves; the brown-eyed boy above the animal that has two dark blurry dots instead of clear, sharp eyes. Eventually, Stiles snuggles up beside the fox, resting his head on its fluffy side without asking, and the creature responds willingly, fiddling with its front paws to lay its own head on them and twining its long, furry tails all over the boy. The fox gives him a peculiar warmth, even though the brown-haired boy isn’t sure he does really feel it, and a smile appears on Stiles’ baby lips. Light, but the most genuine. The boy pulls his knees closer to his chest, letting the fur slide back and forth over his skin every time its owner decides to move them, creating a downright living blanket, and it almost feels like he’s not sleeping at all. With all these feelings and sensations coming from every direction, it surely feels like this is a reality, even though the chilling darkness and vacuum voidness around it would make it feel that way. That doesn’t matter at all at the moment, because a low and light purr sounds right under the drifting-away boy’s ear, forcing all of his senses to trail off and give in to this seductive vibration. Surprisingly (not really), it’s also easy to just close the eyes in this space, to sink into the blissful nothingness. Into the blissful nothingness, but it’s full of a painful emptiness that only highlights that nothingness. Into the blissful nothingness, but it’s full of a twisted, hollow calm that only points to this wrongness. Into the blissful nothingness, but it’s full of a lack of something (someone) Stiles would like to see with all his soul. Into the blissful nothingness, but it’s full of soul-wrenching nothingness.
