Fandom: Teen Wolf
Ships: Sterek, NoahxMelissa
Plot: AU where the entire canon storyline is an elaborate reality created by a traumatized teenager and Derek and John [aka: Noah, because I refuse to change a name this far into a story] are struggling to bring said teenager back from the brink.

Chapter One; Lost
       “For while in grief, we are lost to the wishes of our hearts and minds.”

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Wednesdays are the hardest days of the month.

The drive is too quiet, with not enough noise but he has no will to turn on the radio. He sits still behind the wheel, watching the road around him as he heads to the building. It’s an hour from the station, but the man has done this enough in a year that he knows all the shortcuts and can get there in half an hour. Pulling in is always easy at first, and then he remembers why he’s here in the first place. Flashbacks run through his mind as he parks, and he has to sit and brace himself for the familiar scents that await him inside of the structure.

Wednesdays are difficult to stay calm and supportive after he clocks out.

Outside the massive building is trees. It’s chilly, but watching the leaves gives comfort as he looks up to the third floor and watches the fourth window from the left. He isn’t right there inside the room, but he knows what the sight will be. Whiskey colored hues will stare almost lifeless through the window, an aged and distant look in eyes once vibrant and full of life, promise and opportunity. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, the teen hardly ever moves anymore. The nurses have tried time and again to make him move, but eventually he just goes back to his bed to sit and stare out a window that had nothing but the preserve as scenery. He does still eat, but he has to be in his room. People being around him make the teen too anxious and panicky to eat properly. The thought makes the man’s heart drop every time as he gets out and closes the cruiser door, hitting the button that locks it.

Wednesdays are always hard for John Stilinski.

The state of the art hospital nestled just outside the small town of Beacon Hills is barely affordable on a sheriff’s salary, but John manages with the help of an unknown benefactor to his only child’s well-being. John doesn’t have to ask, because he knows who it is. If the circumstance were different, he would be yelling at the other male to leave them alone. But he doubted it would help keep the male away. John had accepted that and simply allows the help he had never asked for, but needs desperately. The generous but anonymous party and John left it at the fact that they never came at the same time and never spoke if need be. Walking into the building, he pauses at the front desk long enough to greet the woman behind the counter and get his visitor’s tag. Not that he needs it anymore. Every staff member in the building knows who John is by now, who he came to see and how long he stayed. They didn’t need the little blue and white tag with his name on it to say hello, or ask how he was holding up. Up the elevator and down the hall that has always seemed much longer than it actually is, he counts the steps to the destination. He pauses at the door, looking through the small window at the form of his seventeen year old son, Stiles, as the boy just sits on his bed and stares out the window as if he were alone. Just as he did almost twenty-four hours a day.

“Hello John, it’s good to see you again.” a familiar voice says, and the sheriff is pulled from his mind as he turns to see a dark haired woman with a sad smile. John manages a smile at her before he motions his head at the door.

“How’s he doing, Melissa?” he inquires.

Melissa sighs and shakes her head. “I’m not sure. He’s not letting anyone in. His psychiatrist is having trouble getting in, but he’s making slow progress.”

“Doctor Le Salle said it would take time.” The sheriff briefly stops as a look crosses the nurse’s face and he frowns. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Melissa, what’s wrong?” John insists, not dropping the moment. He can read just about every nurse in the hospital at this point, so why the woman tries to hide it is a bit disconcerting for the officer.

“Doctor Le Salle is leaving, and he’s the only one willing to take Stiles.” Melissa explains softly, a heavy sigh escaping her as she looks down, almost defeated. “I’ve been trying to find someone to take him when the doctor leaves, John, I swear. Stiles is like a second son to me.” The pain in her eyes is a blow John still finds painful every time they talk.

“I know he is. It just…” the man paused and looked through the window. “It hurts seeing him in so much pain.”

Melissa nodded, looking towards the door. There’s a brief moment of anger that John will always feel guilty for, before it’s replaced with a guilty kind of sympathy from the woman. John makes no mention of it because the subject he knows crosses Melissa’s mind is one neither of them have coped with yet. “He should let you in. He lets people he knows in the room.” the nurse says calmly.

“Knows?” John asks, looking back at the woman. When Melissa nods, he wants to ask more, inquire what it is she means, but knows he shouldn’t; that the answer would hurt more than wondering ever could. As the woman walks away, John watches her, murmuring an apology that gets a simple ‘I know’ as she goes to finish her rounds. Taking a slow, deep breath, he moves to knock on the door, opening it slowly as he steps inside. “Stiles?” he asks in a soft tone.

At first, there’s nothing. John begins to wonder if his son is lost forever in whatever reality is in his mind when the boy moves and his head is turning towards him. A smile lights up his face when he sees who stands at the door. “Dad!” the teen says happily, moving out of his chair and going to sit on the full-sized bed provided by the hospital. John can remember when the doctors told him that Stiles moved so much in his sleep the boy needed the larger bed. When the teen goes to pat on the bed, John pulls up the second chair and sits down in it, watching as Stiles leans over to the desk and pulls out a chess board. The wood is old, worn and a few scratches carve the surface of it, but the marble of the board itself is still pristine. Stiles slides open the top and pulls out the pieces, setting them up. “I’ve been practicing. I’m getting better.” he promised, not looking up. “How long are you here?”

“Two hours, unless something urgent happens and they need me.” John answered, smiling as he leans in to move his pawn. Time goes in a haze for John. He doesn’t get much time at all with Stiles these days, just two hours a week because of his career and Stiles’ having to stay in the hospital to be watched. They play four or five games, Stiles winning a few, when John checks the time. Just fifteen minutes left and he’ll be leaving. The thought makes his chest hurt, but he has to be back in time to eat and get some sleep before his shift starts at four the next morning. He’s moving to play his rook when Stiles asks the question.

“When is Scott coming to visit?”

John looks up, fighting the tears threatening his control. “Maybe next time, Stiles. Things are rough, he’s been working a lot.” It’s a lie, but John has learned that the truth makes his son fly into a panicked rage and the teen has to be sedated before the two hours are up. So the man plays along, unable to ruin what little time he has left with his son.

“I hope he comes soon. We’re supposed to watch Star Wars. He promised.” Stiles says, his tone almost thoughtfully absent from the real world, and John knows his time window is closing before Stiles is once more at the window staring out at the rarely changing woods. Honey eyes look up at the sheriff and the teen gives a smile. “You’ll bring my copies, right, Dad? So we don’t have to rent them?”

John nods, forcing a smile at how happy Stiles seems to be, but knowing the trauma that causes this event to occur isn’t likely to go away. “Yeah, I’ll bring them. Would you like me to bring your laptop?” his voice is having trouble staying even as he asks, but he manages to keep it steady through the words.

“Nurses won’t let me have it. They say the cord is a health risk. Which is kind of stupid, because there’s no reason for a cord to be dangerous unless you try to cut through it with all metal scissors or something.” Stiles moves his king and John glances down, thirty seconds. Reaching out, the sheriff plays to check-mate and sighs.

“It’s time for me to go, Stiles.” he announces, moving to stand.

“I wish you could stay, Dad.” Stiles murmurs, sighing sadly, the tone growing more distant. He moves to crawl off the bed, getting up to hug his dad tight. “You just don’t die on me, too, okay? I can’t lose anyone else.”

John has to close his eyes as he clings to his son for the remaining fifteen seconds of their time together, nodding. The words are the closest to reality that John ever seems t receive from Stiles anymore, and it hurts to think that he has really lost his only child to trauma. “I won’t, son. I’ll be back.” he promises, and he knows the one thing keeping him alive at work when things get messy is the fact that he has a son to take care of. As he releases the teen and heads for the door, Stiles is putting up the game. The man pauses as he shuts the door behind him, watching as Stiles sets the wooden box down and slowly, as if too preoccupied to finish putting up the game to sit in the chair and tuck his legs up under him. John goes back in, finishes putting up the game as quietly as possible, and is placing the king in the wood when he notices a name etched into the bottom of the inside compartment. John feels a brief moment of release from the heart-wrenching pain of seeing his son fade out again and finishes putting the game on the desk, leaving the room and going to the family waiting area, where he sits.

For ten minutes, he sits with his head in his hands, wondering how he had messed up so much that he had lost his son. But at last, the memory of the etched name comes to him and he rights himself. Reaching into his shirt, he pulls out his phone and unlocks the screen, scrolling through contacts until he finds what it is he’s looking for. He calls it, knowing this is so far from the norm. But he has to try this, for his son’s sanity, in the most literal of senses. A few rings later and a voice comes on the other side of the line. As soon as John hears it, he can’t repress the slight, hopeful curve of his lips. “Derek. We need to talk.”