A/N: Spanish Talker, this is for you. A more polished version of chapter 1 is on my new AO3 account, I'm under the same name, as is this story.

Disclaimer: For the previous chapter and all future chapters: I. DO. NOT. OWN. TEEN WOLF. There would be many differences from canon if I did.

Chapter 2

Stiles didn't fully acknowledge his temporal shift – he was exhausted and up recognizing that he had arrived at the correct time and place, he slipped into an exhausted sleep.


Around him, nurses rushed about, trying to resuscitate his mother while the doctors gave commands and convened at her bedside. The men and women whispered harshly at the others, trying to determine what could be done for the poor woman. The nurses weren't nearly as concerned with possibilities – they were more interested in practically applying their training to the problem at hand and hoping to keep the woman alive long enough for her husband to say goodbye.

John Stilinski, who had only left to buy some food from the cafeteria, had apparently sensed something amiss and charged down the long tiled hallways to his wife's room. Despite his best efforts in hastily reaching the room, the voices of the nurses and an obnoxious steady beep alerted him to the fact that he had missed saying a final goodbye to his wife while she was still alive.

"…she's still flatline…"

"—ready … pads again!"



"…ok, that's enough…"

"…someone…kid… husband…know…."


Melissa McCall's face entered John's vision from where he was standing numbly n the general direction of his wife's room.

The nurse walked up to him. She took in his slackened, disbelieving face, the defeated curve of his shoulders, slumped posture, and lost air. Her eyes softened and she said, gently, "Come on, John. Let's get you and Stiles home. Come on."

She lightly grabbed his arm and tugged slightly on his shirt to prompt him to move. Like a marionette, he moved and followed her away from the room that had held his wife.

Melissa led him along the hallways that seemed too long and too short, past a chair where his child sat, gently dragging the child with her. They passed through the entrance of the hospital, among the cars in the parking lot, outside where the sun was shining and wasn't that unfair? His wonderful wife was gone and it was sunny? Was he not allowed to grieve? Is that what the world was telling him? But he remembered that his wife had loved being out in the sun… Perhaps, then, it was a fine day for her… for her…

He was in the car, hands gripping the steering wheel, Claudia's and his child in the backseat, oddly subdued, but what did it matter? Maybe he had finally realized the severity of the situation? Well, that was unfair to his son… But how could a child comprehend what had occurred? What could he do when the only one who understood the child was gone? What could the child understand? Understand that the other half of his father had just disappeared without a farewell because of something as simple as a hunger? If he had just waited another few minutes…

They're in the driveway, he hears Stiles unbuckle the seatbelt and clamber out of the car and he has to close his eyes for a moment. He can do this. He can do this. Just a few hours of pretend.

John Stilinski follows his son up to the porch and unlocks the door. He pushes the door in, letting his son and Melissa, who must have followed him home from the hospital, before closing and locking the door.

They go through their normal routines, Stiles and he, while Melissa clatters about in the kitchen making pasta, based on the amount of water she needs. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine that it's not Melissa, but Claudia…until the lack of humming and the awkward banging disrupt the image.

Stiles, who must have noticed the time, is washing up before banging his way down the stairs to join the adults in the kitchen.

The meal is simple, just pasta and sauce like John had thought. He's not sure what, exactly, Stiles and Melissa talk about, if anything at all. It's a bit foggy in his brain. Maybe it will clear by morning…

Melissa leaves at about seven, going back to her house to deal with her son and leaving John and Stiles on their own.

It's not the first time in the past few months that something like this has happened and it's hard to fight the memories and the echo of hope that had sustained him through those times. In its place a small, painful hole seems to have taken up a place in his chest.

The sky darkened, throwing the living room, where Stiles and he are sitting, into shadows that fight with the lights from the TV. Eventually, it registers that it is far past Stiles' bedtime and he prods his son awake from his stupor and herds him up the stairs.

Stiles takes a shower, brushes his teeth, climbs into bed and John wonders where all the time went…when he and Claudia had to do all of those things for their child…

His child looks up at him with Claudia's eyes, full of emotions that John can't – won't – place.

"Hey, Dad…?"

"Yeah, Stiles?"

"…We're gonna be ok, right?"

"…Yeah," he hugs Claudia's and his son, "yeah, we'll be ok…someday…."

"…Ok…G'night, Dad."

"'Night, Stiles."

It doesn't register with John at that moment, or any moment in the near future, that Stiles saw his mother die that day, heard the heart monitor begin to slow into one continuous beep that will haunt his nightmares for years. It doesn't register that Stiles might need someone that night or tomorrow to replace the person who understood him so well – better than Scott and who could help him with life because she was an adult. It doesn't really register that Stiles lost a person who was almost more important than the one John lost.

Instead, John goes down the stairs to the kitchen and stares at all the pots and pans and pieces of the life Claudia and he had. He stares for half an hour before slowly making his way to the liquor cabinet and tries to fill the hole and sterilize the hole in his heart with alcohol.


The night is quiet, nature's sounds are muffled by the walls of the house and the humans are not out and about anyways, tethered to their jobs or content with staying indoors. The supernatural creatures, too, are quiet this night. It is not a full moon, it is not an eclipse of any kind, it is not the new moon, or the Harvest moon. It is, for all intents and purposes, a quiet, regular night.

In the Stilinski house, in the child's room, a slight glow seems to engulf the small figure on the bed. It starts out as white, before shifting to pink, to scarlet, to crimson, to a deep ruby that slowly fades to a near black. The child is not still during this time, he begins to twist and turn, face scrunched in a frown, as if trying to escape the warm confines of his blanket cocoon.

As the glow darkens, the boy's movements became more frenzied. By the time the aura becomes a dark ruby color, the boy is thrashing. Yet no noise disturbs the night, the aura becoming a cocoon itself and stifles all the noises the boys could possibly be making.

Time ticks on, until the now black glow begins to dissipate into the shadows from which it was barely distinguishable at the end of the Witching Hour.

The magic is settled.


Neither Stilinski male moves further than the kitchen the next day.

John is still trying to come to terms with his wife's death and Stiles is exhausted, not waking until passed three in the afternoon due to the ritual. Fortunately (or unfortunately), his father does not come to wake him up.

Amber eyes slowly peek from behind dark eyelashes and heavy eyelids. It takes more than a few tries for the lids to part completely and allow Stiles to observe a room that he hadn't seen in…damn he can't even remember how long…he just sort of moved out and on into his research and from there to that last house that was never a home.

He spends nearly an hour coming to terms with what happened.

It wasn't everyday someone goes back in time to rewrite history and, well, he never figured that it would work like this – him back in a younger body and with all his memories intact. The ritual hadn't actually stated what would happen once it was completed beyond the whole "you can rewrite history" bit.

So where to go from here?

Well, an official date might be nice.

Stiles slowly, slowly begins to move, knowing from experience that his body is going to hurt like hell after a ritual that power intensive when he was already almost drained.

It still doesn't prepare him for the feeling that every nerve was taken, scrubbed raw, had salt poured on it with lime juice, and then burned. He, just barely, manages not to start screaming. As it is, he grunts heavily, the noise coming out much higher than he'd heard in a long time, enforcing his slightly odd predicament. Ok, very odd. …Ok, very, very odd and he was stupid for not having actually read more about that ritual or others like it.

Mentally shaking his head, Stiles retries his attempt to leave the bed, one inch at a time. If anyone sees him now, he's going to die of embarrassment because he's seriously doing the worm to leave his bed…or that's what it looks like.

During the hour and a half it takes him to actually make it near his desk and thus able to see his computer (and calendar) to figure out the specific date, Stiles comes to the conclusion that he isn't freaking out enough about the ritual actually working.

Of course, he wants to jump up and down and start hollering. Of course, he'd be in seriously intense pain and therefore just start moaning, grunting, or screaming.

And then there's the point when he realizes what day it is, November 9th, and he really doesn't feel like doing anything except crawling back to bed and staying there forever and ever.

Because his mom just died, yesterday.

And he had done a ritual requiring sacrifices that had a lot of magical output.

And he might have accidently just killed his mom and ohmyGod this is so much worse than the first time because he could eventually kinda accept that it wasn't his fault at all and it just happened but no, not this time. No. He came back on the wrong day and now there isn't anything left to do but live with it (because he needed a day that he knew insideout and backwardssideways and it was this day and he knew it would happen but the consequences were just registering and he could not afford to have a panic attack) and – God – he wanted a drink. Or freak out.

He settles himself on the floor, where he had kinda folded when everything came crashing down on him.

Stiles sits there and breathes, trying to regulate it and stave off the even before it happens. He focuses on the small things, the details in his room and cataloguing the things that had changed since he'd been here last.

More time passes, but this time he doesn't bother trying to guess how long has passed, just lays there as a pile of skin and flesh and bone and humanity…

And that makes him want to rush out and cuddle all of his Pack in his closet (never mind that they won't fit, Isaac would kill him, Peter would kill him very dead, and Derek would just growl and totally actually rip out his throat while Lydia ponders what to write as his obituary to make it as humiliating as possible…and that's not even touching on what the rest of them would do).

He wants to laugh now, so he does, muffling the chuckles in the bit of blanket he manages to grab before he gets too loud. It hides the edge of hysteria in his laughter…or so he tries to convince himself.

Eventually the laughter subsides and he forces himself to actually think about what he should do. He's got another chance…how can he change it all?

And plans start to sketch themselves across his vision, different scenarios flickering as images through his mind, some more drastic than the others. The gamut is run, between killing Kate Argent the minute she gets into town (and he would do that with the amount of remorse he spares killing a zombie in one of his games…but, like, a million times the glee). On the other hand, he could go and talk to Deaton…get in contact with Derek's mom and see where that got him…

He's got time he knows that. It's not forever, but a little bit of time.

And he's going to save everyone.

Lydia's voice scoffs at him, saying "you can't save everyone."

And he responds, "I can save everyone who matters." As if she didn't know that.

And there's his resolve and there's his goal.

Stupidly simple to say. He's just not sure how to start the doing.


So the day passes for the Stilinski men. They avoid each other, for slightly different reasons, but it definitely there and Stiles kinda resolves himself to the next few months. Because honestly? He's got enough on his plate, trying to save the people he actually cares about and, yeah, he cares for his dad, but…but…it's not the same. It probably never will be, their relationship. The whole, "yes, werewolves are real, no I am not one, but pretty much all my friends are and the crazy murders have been because of various supernatural baddies" had gone over…ok, in his time. He's never going to tell his father that he willingly killed 27 kids and possibly an entire Earth just to save his Pack.

He can't do that to his father.

So, he'll allow them to drift apart.


Stiles wakes up the next day feeling disoriented. He's not quite sure when he got home from the hospital or anything like that, but he's feeling kinda muzzy. A few little things are out of place, maybe, but he ignores them and goes down to eat breakfast.

He can see his dad's car in the driveway, so he's careful to be quiet when he makes himself breakfast. It's still weird to think about his mom being in a hospital, but enough time has gone by that he's used to caring for himself, just a bit. Stiles is convinced that he's a big boy – he can do it, will do it, because it means less work for his dad and less worry for his mom.

And for some reason, that causes him to turn and look at the calendar. And look, and look, and look.

Because, last he check, it wasn't November 11.

Yeah, it will all become clear in the next chapter. Yes, I'm evil. I'm even more evil because I'm not entirely sure when I can get the next chapter uploaded...

Reviews welcome.