Chapter Text
A cold north breeze chilled the evening air as the sun completed its journey and settled behind the horizon. It all began here with Stiles walking into his favorite coffee shop after an exhausting court session. It was challenging and nerve-wracking, the other lawyer was also great, but Stiles was more intelligent and skilled than him in the courtroom. There is no one here better than him. He wasn’t being narcissistic, it was just the truth; and Stiles liked to be honest, even with himself.
But he didn't know what was waiting for him today. Stiles thought it would be like every other visit; He would order his large caramel macchiato and claim his favorite table, the one in the corner far from the door, and he would think. Perhaps about the case, he'd just won, or another that was upcoming, or maybe Stiles would just sit there and let the warm foam carry him away.
But today was different, in many ways. Stiles would never figure them all out, but he knew it was a weird and interesting story. A day he would never forget because it was the beginning of something that would come to mean everything to him.
As Stiles walked into the coffee shop today, he told himself I am going to drink coffee, stare blindly at people’s faces, and then go home and sleep. But fate had different plans for him, and his reality would be nothing like he planned. The moment he sat down, someone slipped into the chair across from him.
To the man, he never expected to see outside of Beacon Hills.
“You don't understand. I can't take an extra case, especially this month,” Stiles mutters, rubbing his temples in exhaustion. “Malcolm's case isn't over yet. And man,” he pauses to sigh, hand dropping down to the table. “It's taking more time than it should.” Stiles fixes his brown eyes at the person opposite him; he was someone Stiles had never expected to see in California. Deaton was the Beacon Hills veterinarian and Stiles’ best friend’s boss; the man always wore his white lab coat and never seemed to leave the four walls of his clinic. Yet here he was, sitting across from a very tired Stiles with a manila folder held tight in his dark hand.
“Believe me, Stiles. I understand, but all I'm asking of you now is to take a look at these files. Just read them and then tell me your decision.”
“You know, Deaton, there are a lot of good lawyers in town, and they could help you without a doubt,” Stiles says, sighing heavily. After such a stressful day, he wants to spend two hours drinking coffee and eating whatever he can find. But no, Deaton had to suddenly appear at his favorite coffee shop and ask him to take a case he knows nothing about.
“They're good; you are right. But I've seen the cases you've taken. You're not just a good lawyer. You're a great lawyer.”
Deaton’s eyes never shift from Stiles, and the directness of the vet takes him off guard. Deaton had never been so straightforward, usually choosing to talk in riddles. If he was speaking plainly now, then this was obviously important.
“You're the man I can safely give these files to because I know you'll understand what happened, and I know you can get Derek Hale out from behind the walls faster than one might expect.”
Stiles’ eyes widened and turned to Deaton’s calm face.
Derek Hale.
Derek Hale, the man who burned his family down in their house several years ago. Who was, and still is, an unforgettable criminal from his small-town Beacon Hills.
“You're kidding me, right?” Stiles' voice weakens for a moment. He stares at the other man, who exhales heavily. His eyes stare at the files with vague annoyance.
“No, I'm not.” Deaton's voice sounds calm, but his facial features are not. “You have to take this case, Stiles, and you have to win it.”
This was... the first time Stiles had seen this man's face contorted with such discomfort, uneasiness, and exhaustion. As if he had waited too long to find the right person for Hale's case.
“How long has this case been closed?” Stiles asks, not knowing why he’s worried about Deaton's answer. Was it a long time ago? And what is the reason?
“A decade ago. The attorney the government hired when he was a minor didn't work out his case. I tried to open the case again when he was eighteen. But, they refused because of my personal involvement with the family.”
“Huh. 10 years, and you're still trying to get Derek out. I never saw you with the Hales when I was little; I didn't know you were in contact with them.”
“Yes. My Relationship with Hales was private, and Talia Hale, Derek's mother, was the only one I was in touch with.”
Stiles realizes Deaton avoided answering his question. Why was he still trying to get Derek out of prison? Everyone in Beacon Hills knew Hale was a criminal, a bad criminal. He killed his fucking family: no joke.
“Even if you're… I don't know, friends with Talia. Derek burnt his family, burnt your friend.”
Deaton closes his eyes for a second as if trying to control himself.
Stiles still didn't understand why Deaton was trying to get Derek out of prison after all this time. He’s a criminal.
He needed to have a long chat with Scott about his boss; this did not bode well.
“Stiles, look. I understand your confusion. But, Derek didn't do this to his family... he's not a criminal. Someone set him up.”
Stiles leans back into the chair, mouth half-open, looking at Deaton, who looks back hard. He obviously didn't want to tell him that, but now that statement changed everything.
“Take the files with you. Read them. My number is written inside; text me when you want us to meet again.” Deaton says as he brings the files closer to Stiles, who looks at them silently.
Stiles doesn’t know what to do with the files. If he reads them, and if they prove what Deaton said, if they prove that Derek was set up… well, what then? Derek was a kid when his family died, barely fifteen! For someone to do that to a child… why? Who would kill the Hales and then frame their child? What motive was strong enough for such an evil act? And what would happen to Stiles if he tried to expose them?
Stiles sighs heavily and finds himself touching the files. His fingers trace the cover while his mind is overwhelmed by thoughts. When he raises his eyes to speak to Deaton, there is no one in front of him. Deaton is gone and left him the files to read.
Stiles feels conflicted; because the vet insisted Stiles was not a good lawyer but a great one, he wants to help. Yet he isn’t sure he wants to take the case.
℣
Malcolm's voice was loud beside him, but at the same time, it seemed as if he was far away.
Stiles' mind wasn't with him. He had just won a case that had taken him two months - instead of the projected two sessions. He should be celebrating, but all his mind would focus on was his talk with Deaton, which was a few days ago.
Stiles hadn't read the files yet; he didn't have the time nor the nerve to find out about Derek, to know the whole truth, the truth that was buried in the land of Beacon Hills. If Deaton was correct, something Stiles wasn't sold on yet, and Derek was innocent, then how the hell had he remained locked up for 20 years?
Stiles sighed heavily, a fake smile on his face. Of course, he was happy for Malcolm, but his mind was stuck on Derek’s files.
“Stilinsk! Let's celebrate at the bar, my friends are already there, and I want to introduce them to my superhero.” Malcolm cheerfully beamed at his side, placing a hand on his shoulder to draw Stiles' attention to him.
“Um... I don't think I can come with you. You know, I have files to review before tomorrow's case. But listen, I'm glad you're cleared, and we will definitely do dinner, eventually. I'll call you, okay?” Stiles spoke in haste, his eyes looking toward his car.
He was used to having his clients ask him to party with them because he was the reason they didn't go to jail. But this time, he really can't.
“Nah, man. Don't worry about it. I forgot you have other cases. It was great to have a lawyer like you. When my uncle told me about you, he said you wouldn't let me down, which is true as hell.” The man continued. Stiles didn’t know how he managed to escape, but eventually, he found himself driving away from the courthouse.
His mind wandered as the evening around him faded. It'd been a long time since he'd been back to Beacon Hills. Maybe he should go and see his father, and Scott, too, of course.
Stiles entered his building's elevator, his eyes staring at the numbers that flashed on the screen until they stopped on his floor. The doors opened on the fifth floor, and he walked down the hall with slow, weary steps. Stiles approached his apartment, his briefcase dangling in one hand while the other pulled keys out of his pocket. The tired layer opened the door and entered quietly to not disturb his neighbors. He put his bag on the table, walked four steps to the couch, and threw himself on it; limbs sprawled everywhere as he lay randomly across its cushioned surface.
He closed his eyes for a moment, took a long deep breath, then opened them. Under the coffee table, he noticed the brown files of Derek’s case. Stiles didn’t know why he put them there, perhaps to avoid them or maybe, so that he could see them when he lay down.
“Damn.” He muttered to himself before jumping to his feet, taking a seat on the floor, and taking out the two files from under the table.
The first one has “Case Solved” printed on its cover in red.
Stiles opened it, his eyes falling on the first page: on top, it said: “The Accused” and below it an old photo of Derek Hale as a teenager. Under the photo, his full personal details sat in a bold, black print: his full name, age, number of family members, home address, school, and the date of the offense.
His heart skipped a beat when he opened the second page.
The page talked about the crime in detail: its location, time, and everything that happened that day.
Stiles found himself a little intimidated when he realized that he remembered that day. His father had been a deputy at the time. He hadn't come home to his son even though the morning shift was over, but Stiles had known where his father was. By then, black smoke had reached the edges of all the neighborhoods, and half of the police station was present at the Hale house. His father had seen everything. He had seen the house burning with all the people in it and had seen Derek trying to get into his destroyed house to save his family. But no one survived.
Stiles reached for his phone, taking it out of his pocket. The screen blinked to life, its soft iridescent glow the only light in the apartment. He clicked on contacts and looked up his father's number. Is it okay to call him? But tell him what?
“Oh. Hi Dad! I know you're asleep now, but I need to ask; do you remember the Hale fire a few years ago? Yeah? Well, I think the Hale kid was set up, and I need you to tell me everything you remember.”
Yeah… he'd definitely kill him. The fire happened when Stiles was eight and was a sensitive topic for Beacon Hills. Stiles felt he shouldn't ask his father about it. Not that he would stop his son from taking the case, especially if what Deaton told him was true, but still, Stiles couldn't bring up those memories for his father.
Stiles rubbed his forehead, locked his phone, and turned his attention back to the file, specifically to the next page: the crime page.
January 14th, 2002, 1 a.m.
The suspect was out of the house downtown, walking back to his home, about 2 miles away from his current location. He smelt fire, the suspect realized that the smell of ash was coming from his house, and ran 2 miles in 8 minutes. The sports specialist Jack. M confirmed that the time spent for this distance is 16-22 minutes for an experienced runner. For a person without experience, the time would be 25-30 minutes.
Due to the speed of his arrival at the crime scene, his alibi is invalid.
The police found six gallons of flammable liquid that led to the fire, far from the crime scene. After examination and analysis, it was found that all of them bear the suspect's fingerprints.
Eleven people died in the fire, and the accused could not distinguish some of the bodies because of the severity of their deformity.
Stills noticed how Derek's name had changed from suspect to accused. He took a breath and turned the page to continue reading.
Derek Hale was well behaved. He chose silence and a court-appointed lawyer for the interrogation and trial.
After three sessions, the verdict was issued.
With evidence and an inadmissible alibi, a judge and jury came to a verdict that Derek Hale committed the murder of his family in a mass fire.
Given his status as a minor, the judge decreed he would remain in a juvenile detention center until he turned 18, at which time, he would be transferred to San Quentin State Prison.
Stiles sighed, thinking about Derek’s alibi; it was weird and irrational. How could he go such a distance in 8 minutes? The teen must have been near or present when the fire happened, but if Derek was already there, he would have prevented this crime from occurring and saved his family! But no, somehow he couldn’t or wouldn’t. Maybe Derek really wanted to burn his family down? His fingerprints were all over the gallons. Or perhaps the man was mentally ill? He was a teenager at the time, and mental illness is not a strange thing; almost every teenager has one, whether he knows it or not.
Stiles flipped the pages until he stopped at the page he was looking for. Derek’s psychological and mental disclosure when he was in the juvenile house.
“Wow,” Stiles whispered, resting his back on the sofa, looking at the page with a curiosity he hadn’t expected.
Derek's sanity was perfect, he didn't miss any test, his answers were natural and logical, his mental scores were very similar to any teenager his age.
Stiles furrowed his brows as his eyes landed on Derek's psychological part, opening his mouth, reading the words carefully and with concentration.
Signs of emotional and psychological trauma: Confusion, difficulty concentrating, anger, irritability, mood swings, anxiety, insomnia, fatigue.
The boy is introverted, does not speak much or at all, forgets to do his work, his nutritional health is not improving.
“Of course, he is.” Rubbing his face exhaustedly, Stiles lifted his head off the file and stared at the ceiling, his thoughts eating away at his brain cells with a vengeance that he didn’t like. Stiles didn’t know what to do, didn’t know if Derek was really innocent, didn’t even know if Derek was a criminal and deserved all the years he rotted in prison. But there was something wrong, vague, something he couldn’t point with his finger, but it was under every word in this file.
Stiles returned his head to the files, closing the one in his hand and opening the one with no print on it. He found several blank sheets of nothing when he opened it, except for numbers written in a straight line next to Deaton’s name.
The moment he closed the file, he felt a heavy movement on the left side. There was a small pocket on the inside of the file cover, so small that you hardly noticed. Stiles flicked his fingertips into it, feeling something small and solid, and when he pulled it out, it was a flash memory. The lawyer raised his eyebrows in astonishment, staring at the small device in surprise. Is this from Deaton? Did it have government files? Speaking of files... How did Deaton get these folders? He’s just a vet!
“Argh, stop overthinking, put it aside for later,” Stiles muttered, standing up from the floor. He padded to his bedroom, grabbed the slim gray computer off the bedside table, then returned to his small living room. He sat the laptop on the coffee table and shifted it closer to the sofa before settling into the cushions waiting for the device to boot up.
He flexed his arms back, pushing out the kinks from sitting on the floor, and realized he was still in his suit. Damn, all this time, how had he not noticed?! The lawyer pulled at his neck tie loosening the offending object, then pushed the jacket off his back and moved to undo the buttons of his dress shirt. As his slender fingers worked the clasps, the flash drive caught his attention again.
He picked up the mysterious object and turned to his computer - the screen showed a picture of him with his parents - the photo taken before his mother's passing when he was still a child. Stiles inserted the device into his slot, his honey eyes looking at the screen in anticipation... what could be inside? Picture? Video? Audio Recording?
A medium-sized black page appeared in the middle of the screen, with a play button in the middle. Stiles took a deep breath, ignoring the quickening of his heart, and clicked the little play arrow. Stiles' eyes froze to the screen, as a voice pierced the silence of his apartment and the picture appeared before him.
Stiles brought his face close to his computer. The video was of an interrogation room. The camera was sitting in a tall corner of the room, looking down at the occupants. A detective sat at a table; across from him was a teenage boy with his head low and hands in his lap.
“Can you repeat what you said a moment ago, Derek?” The man's voice was clear, but Stiles could only see the back of him; unlike Derek who was right in the middle of the picture.
Stiles watched Derek's face as he raised his head, it was bad, really bad. His eyes were red as blood, his face was pale, his cheekbones protruding sharply, Derek opened his mouth and then closed it again, his eyes turning toward his hands and taking a deep breath.
“I didn’t do any of this. I didn’t kill my family.” Derek’s voice was trembling so bad Stiles could hardly understand what he was saying.
“If you didn’t kill them, how did you get home so quickly? Have you been lying about your location before? Were you close to your house, perhaps at the edge of the forest?” The detective’s broad voice roared in Stiles’ apartment as he looked at Derek, who had moved unnecessarily in his seat.
“I-I didn't lie. I was really back from downtown, I just ran until I got to them as I told you before.”
“But you arrived before everyone else, before the police and the ambulance. Tell me, Derek, where have you been in the last five hours before the fire?”
Stiles noticed Derek's chest hurriedly rising and falling, looking at his hands on his lap.
“Have you been buying gallons of flammable liquid? Thinking about how to burn every member of your family?”
“Shit.” Stiles cursed, noticing how Derek’s expression changed, how he clenched his hands and his jaw stiffened. He was furious; he closed his eyes with his head down.
“Do you regret it now? I mean, eleven people, you must have been mad at them for making fun of you on dinner nights.”
“Fuck you. I didn't kill them!” Derek's scream startled Stiles, his voice was hoarse as if he was talking behind his teeth, his face getting closer to his chest, breathing with haste and heaviness.
“Look at me,” The detective ordered aloud. Derek didn't react.
“Look at me, Derek. And tell me you didn't kill your family, come on, let me see the young man you really are.”
Derek shook his head violently, his shoulders trembling, and Stiles realized that Derek was crying, his whine was painful to hear. Stiles furrowed his eyebrows, feeling his chest tightening. Derek's crying was strange and tragic at the same time. Despite his crying, it was as if he was pressing something, pressing himself not to release it. Was there something Derek wanted to say but couldn't?
“You did. Isn't it? That's why you're breaking down and crying because you realized you killed them, you killed your parents, siblings, grandparents, uncles, and cousins. You did all this, right, Derek, answer me.”
Stiles licked his lips, annoyance appearing on his face. This detective's style was dickish, pressuring Derek to get the worst out of him, causing him to collapse in his feelings. Derek's sobbing increased, he threw his head on the edge of the table with his hands above his head, every part of his body was shaking, crying with him.
“I-I think I d-did.” Derek's crying voice came out vaguely between his sobs.
The investigator approached the table, "What did you do?"
“I killed my f-family. I killed them... I did it.”
The screen went black and a repeat button appeared in the middle of it.
Stiles' eyes don't move from the screen, all he sees is Derek covering his head, all he hears is his crying, wounded voice, all he feels is... wrong. Derek's face wasn't well from the start, so Stiles is sure this wasn't the first session, the detective had pressured Derek before, hurled harsh words at him, and told him he was a murderer. A detective tells a kid in a bad psychological state that he was a murderer after all his family members died. Any fifteen-year-old boy under the same circumstances would have believed anything anyone told him.
He would believe anything. Anything.
℣
Stiles was lying, he had no cases to work on, or rather refused to take on a new one.
When Stiles walked into his office, he told his manager he wouldn’t take any cases. The look on the man’s face would never leave Stiles’ memory. It made him realize that he’s never taken time off before, other than public holidays. Stiles hasn’t taken any personal, sick, or necessary leave. He knows he’s excellent at his job and that working case after case is better for him because he doesn’t like having free time. Or, as his father tells him when he sees him on public holidays, “you are a workaholic, and this is as bad for you as any other addiction.”
He really is, and he knows, but he can’t help it. That’s all he does. Sometimes it’s best to keep yourself busy, so your thoughts can’t sneak up on you. Stiles knows how loud his thoughts can sometimes be, as sharp as a knife, and the more he tries to distract himself from them, the more they’ll scratch him.
“Hey, dad it's me. I wanted to tell you I'm coming home today, I have a little business there, when I'm done I'll come over to you and we’ll have dinner together. See you tonight. Love you.” Stiles told his dad’s voicemail. It was early so he wasn't expecting him to answer his phone.
He was in his car, hot coffee in the cup holder, old music from the radio filling the vehicle. Yawning, Stiles rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept well last night, Derek’s case and the interrogation endlessly swirling through his mind.
He’d woken up and decided he was going to Beacon Hills. He'd already put Deaton's number in his phone, and after he finished what he planned, he might call him.
It was only a two-and-a-half-hour drive; San Francisco wasn’t too far from Beacon Hills. This often pissed off his father and his friends. Stiles was close but always acted as if he was ten hours away from them. He didn’t mean to do this; it just happened. When he’d finished college with a law degree, life took off. A professor had given Stiles a card for a famous law firm, saying that their manager was a friend and that they were waiting for a call from Stiles. And indeed, when Stiles called them and set a time for an interview, everything was fast and positive. They approved of Stiles and hired him for the company. In the following years, he proved himself by taking important cases and winning every one.
Stiles’ mind was unique; everyone in the building knew he had become one of the best lawyers in the firm, faster than anyone else. Working a lot was like therapy for the lawyer. His thoughts weren’t always appropriate, so he avoided them with work.
The sound of his car’s wheels rubbing against the street below grew louder, his eyes scanned the space around him. The sun was still setting in the sky, but the tall, giant trees made their strong light fade.
It was 11 a.m; the cold air hit his exposed skin as he got out of his car, slung his bag over his shoulder, and shut the door behind him. Stiles looked around; there was no sound or movement from the forest in front of him; it was quiet and a little scary, but the morning light made it easier to handle.
Stiles had decided to go into the forest to find a burnt old house. He had no idea if it still existed, whether it had been demolished or had faded over the years.
It’s funny and sad that he knew where the Hale family home was. Stiles and Scott used to spend a lot of time in the woods. Mostly it was Stiles who used to spend a lot of time in the woods. Scott would only come when he didn’t have lacrosse training. As if sitting on the bench was such a grueling effort, but eventually, Scott made it to the first line. Stiles remembered his pride when Scott became captain while he remained on the bench. Stiles didn’t care; he just wanted to be with Scott.
Stiles took long strides, hearing the sound of twigs and leaves smashing under his feet; every five minutes, he checked his front pocket to make sure he had his phone with him. The sound of the wind moving through the trees was his background music as his eyes looked ahead, and his feet led him to the old Hale Road. He couldn’t remember exactly where it was, but at the moment, Stiles trusted his legs to take him there, so he kept walking.
Stiles held his breath as his eyes landed on the black structure hiding among the trees. His feet propelled him toward the house, and with each step, the smell of ash and fire grew stronger. Once in front of the ruined porch, he stopped. Stiles knew he had to come here, see the house for himself, but now that the lawyer was here, he had no idea why he had come.
The huge house was wrecked and blackened, left deserted for twenty years. But something in his gut told him to take a look; maybe he’d understand something about Derek, perhaps he’d uncover something about the fire. So, the lawyer took a deep breath and encouraged himself to step forward, put his hand on the door, and gently push it open. Stiles stepped into the house further, leaving the door half-open behind him as his eyes scanned the place around him. It was dark and cold; shaded from the sun’s rays, it felt as if night had fallen. He took in the charred walls, the water-stained floors, and guessed that he was standing in the front hall. Stiles took several steps forward till he came into the living room before moving onto what appeared to be a kitchen. Stiles turned his back on the decaying appliances and slipped to the next room; it didn’t have a door or, if it had, the door might have been destroyed; the room was small, possibly a potato cellar or large pantry.
He continued to discover the first floor, finding nothing suspicious, so he headed for the stairs. The weathered remains of the staircase groaned under his weight. Stiles didn’t know if he had a death wish; the fact he was trusting these stairs certainly argued for the affirmative.
He exhaled sharply, realizing that he had been holding his breath while ascending the decrepit stairway. Stiles’ brows rose as he noticed that the stairs were bracketed by long hallways; each walkway was lined with doorways.
This family was immense.
Stiles turned down the right-hand hall, finding five fire-licked doors. He pushed his way into the first room but paused at the threshold. The room was... well… an actual room; as if the fire hadn’t reached it, the destruction held at bay by the cheap plywood door.
Stiles wiped his mouth, thinking. Is what he’s doing illegal? Entering the house of a dead family, looking at their rooms full of dust and dirt, each a shire left untouched after its owner perished.
Why was everything left behind? Had Derek not asked to take or move his family’s things? Was he even able to ask for something like that before they booked him for murder?
“Oh my God!” Stiles shrieked, pulling his hand off the doorknob in panic; the bug that had walked over his hand fell to the ground.
“Fuck, you scared the shit out of me,” Stiles muttered, his heart still beating fast in his chest.
Ignoring the bug as it slinked away from the door, Stiles’ attention returned to the room, noticing that the floor had large black shadows on it; they were nothing but arms of a fire from an ancient time.
The walls were dark as if they were once violet, he wasn’t sure, but he thought this was a girl’s room. Not because of the wall color, colors have no gender, but the picture at the top of the deserted desk says a lot.
It was a picture of a black-haired girl; a person was embracing her shoulder on each side of her. Stiles bent his back, looking closely at the photo, with his finger caressing its surface, brushing off the layers of dust. The girl was graceful, wearing a gown and graduation cap, her face buried in the shoulder of the woman beside her so that only her big smile was visible. The woman and the man were looking and laughing at her. Stiles assumed they were her parents, although their faces didn’t look at the camera; the photo screamed ‘family.’
Looking around for the rest of the room, he found nothing suspicious. Stiles pulled the bag strap from his shoulder, opened it, and took out the file. At the end of the file was a sheet containing the names and details of the victims. He looked through the photos, eyes falling on a spectacled girl who roughly matched the one from the picture frame.
Her name was Laura Hale, 18 years old, Derek Hale’s older sister.
Stiles raised his head toward the photo, his hand brushing through his messy hair. Laura was here on the night of the fire, perhaps asleep, confident that none of her family would ever harm her.
Yet Derek did; he hurt his sister.
Derek is the arsonist; isn’t that how it has always been… why can’t he quite believe that as he had before? He couldn’t since he saw him in that damn video, and it pissed him off that it might be true.
Because of this fire, they took him from his family, took away his freedom and rights, took his innocence, and executed it. As long as he was breathing, they were taking his life.
Stiles knew that if he could find solid proof that Derek was never a criminal, he would be his attorney and stand up for him in court, and he would swear that the session would only end with Derek’s acquittal.
But he had to look further to convince himself before he could convince others that Derek was innocent, that someone else – someone free – killed the Hale family.
He put the bag back on his shoulder, the file in his hand open to the victim’s page. Before leaving the room, he went towards the picture and took it, hoping inwardly that Laura would forgive him.
Stiles walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him, his feet taking him to the next door. He rushed to open the door, quickly pulling his hand away from the knob before another bug could fall on him. But he halted quickly; what his eyes landed on distracted him from everything else.
This was Derek’s room: teenager Derek’s room.
What had caught his eye was the large picture placed on the front wall of the door. As dusty as it was, you could spot several boys in the same short-sleeved shirts and helmets scattered on a field, trying to throw Derek into the sky in celebration, a joy Stiles remembers well when Scott won a lacrosse match. Like his sister Laura, only a big smile was visible on his face.
Stiles gulped, taking slow footsteps into the room.
The walls were light, perhaps brown as the color of dust covering them, or white. Stiles’ eyes wandered every corner of the space. Posters hung on the walls, guitar and lacrosse stick on the floor by the bed. A small dresser rested at the bed’s end, below the window stood a study desk, and the door shared a wall with the closet. There was nothing to tell him about Derek, only the teenage he had once been; his room was very ordinary and very much like Stiles’ when he was his age except for that dust covering every surface. Stiles exhaled heavily and walked out of Derek’s room.
Stiles continued down the hall, cross-referencing what he found with the victim list: Derek’s parents, two sisters, brother, twin sisters, and grandparents. Each new discovery added a new layer to the sadness that echoed through the decaying home. Finally, having thoroughly explored the upstairs, Stiles descended the staircase, Laura’s graduation picture weighing down his bag. He scanned the first floor with his eyes then walked out the front door.
Closing the door behind him, Stiles looked up at the sky above him, faint and far away… betting that Derek’s memories of his family felt like this; the harder he tried to make them shine, the darker they became. The more he wanted to get close to them, the farther they would get away from him, like Stiles’ memories of his mother.
When Stiles got home, the sun was setting; his dad’s car was parked outside, so he parked next to the cruiser. Leaving his bag in the car, he got out and closed the door behind him.
Stiles raised his head to the sound of the door opening, seeing his father standing on the porch, dressed casually, a genuine smile on his lips. Seeing his father’s face after a long time made his chest ache. He didn’t realize how much he missed him until he saw him.
“Hey, dad,” Stiles uttered as he stepped toward the porch; his father’s eyes shone as his son approached him, getting close to him and taking Stiles in his arms.
“You finally came to see me, you little bastard.” He tucked face into his son’s shoulder, hugging him tightly, and then he released him, one hand touching the back of his neck, the other on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, you know, I’m the best at my company, if I stopped working that place would fall apart. Chaos would rain down on the courts of California. It would be mayhem Dad.” A small smile appeared on Stiles’ face, his eyes looking into his father’s blue eyes. He was looking at him deeply as if searching for something in Stiles’ features.
As if he came out of his wanderings, John shoved his son into the house by the neck as he had done to him in his teens, saying, “Come in. Dinner’s ready.”
Stiles put his hand on his father's back and walked into the house with him.
His childhood home was still the same as the day he’d left it. It was the place they had lived since he was born; Stiles had spent most of his life in it, he had his best days there... and his worst days too. He loved it more than anything else in his life; however, it was the same house he’d also been unconsciously trying to escape.
If he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that the old walls felt like a jail cell, trapping him with its memories and pressing on him the expectations of a proper son – expectations he had never been able to live up to. But Stiles never looked at himself that closely, he’d learned young not to open doors if you didn’t want to know what was on the other side. So, instead of looking around at the home that raised him, he focused on the man next to him – the father he missed – and he looked forward to the dinner and laughs they’d have together.
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