Act Two: Invaders

Stiles hung up on Scott, trusting his friend would make the right decision and call his father. The voices were getting louder – climbing the stairs to the upper level; they were on the landing now – and he needed to think fast. He closed his computer screen, plunging his room into complete darkness, expect for the little blinking light on his laptop – tiny and bright white – and the red glow of his alarm clock. It was already after eleven. Surely his father would be home soon. He hoped.

Stiles' bedroom door was open. There was no reason to close it when he was home alone. It made him feel claustrophobic when it was closed, cut off from the rest of the house. It gave him comfort to be able to hear his father coming home and moving around in the kitchen (though he would never admit that to the sheriff). Stiles crept forward soundlessly, on the front pads of his feet, avoiding the board near the light switch he knew creaked. He peered into the dark hallway, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. There were two of them – men, judging by the size of them. One was about the height of Stiles, but bulkier, the other tall and board-shoulder; seeing him only from the back, Stiles' first thought was footballer player. His shoulders were straight and wide, giving him the appearance of perpetually wearing shoulder pads. If necessary, Stiles might have been able to take on the shorter one, but he was no match for the bigger guy, and especially not the two of them together. Stiles would have to rely on his wits – as he usually did – and hope his opponents weren't as intelligent as he was.

The two intruders were dressed in black (assumedly; it was difficult to differentiate between shades in the dark), and in their leather-gloved hands they wielded flashlights. The bright beams sliced through the dark, revealing household items in circles of light. Pinpointed pieces of a larger puzzle, an illegal treasure hunt. They were taking their time, strolling down the hallway and peeking their heads into rooms. Looking everything over before the real work began.

Clearly they weren't worried about time or finding anyone at home.

One of the men, the big guy, picked up a vase that had always reminded Stiles of the marbles he had kept in a mesh bag as a child: white, with streaks of orange and blue. "Hey, do you think this is worth anything?" His voice was low and deep and slow. The other man glanced briefly over his shoulder. "No. It looks like something someone picked up at a yard sale." The vase, now deemed worthless, was carelessly replaced. It teetered on the edge of the table, and Stiles' breath caught in his throat. His mother had purchased that vase. Maybe it wasn't monetarily valuable, but to him and his father, it was priceless. It hadn't come from a yard sale, but from a charity auction for underprivileged children. Every time Stiles looked at that vase he was reminded of Claudia – her beautiful smile, the hazel of her eyes, the depth of her empathy and compassionate heart. His mother had loved and cared for people, even complete strangers, more deeply and profoundly than anyone he had ever met. The vase was a small proof of that.

The vase wobbled unsteadily and then righted itself. Stiles released an inward sigh of relief, but the intruders had already moved on. They were down the hall in his father's room; he could hear them in there, rummaging around, opening drawers and the closet door. Stiles walked softly, carefully distributing his weight so he was light on his feet. As children, he and Scott had practiced their stealth. Pretending to be ninjas, they would sneak around the McCall residence with the lights off and try to scare each other. Stiles glided out of his room like a ghost. Silent. Breathless. He just needed to reach the front door, run to the nearest neighbour and call 911. Hopefully his father was already on his way now, with a dozen squad cars for backup.

"Hey! What's that? I thought you said no one was home!" Stiles froze. He waited for the blinding glare of the flashlight to fall upon him, but it did not. It was trained in the other direction, illuminating the long, lumpy shape under the covers of the sheriff's bed.

"Chill out, Clive," the other man commanded, ripping back the sheets to reveal an inflatable gorilla. He barked a laugh. "Better keep your voice down, or it might jump up and attack you."

"What the hell?"

The other man laughed again. "You gotta hand it to the kid: he's funny."

Stiles didn't stay to listen to more. They continued ransacking his father's room, invading the sheriff's personal space, but what could he do? He crept noiselessly down the stairs. One of the steps creaked under his weight and he paused, listening, but the men had not heard. He reached the bottom – the front door was in sight; the phone in his hand buzzed again and again, but he didn't dare answer, not while he was still in the house. He glanced down briefly at the screen; his father was calling him.

The robbers had finished in his father's room, and emerged into the hallway. Stiles was at the foot of the stairs, and he bolted for the door. He threw it open and ran into the cool night. He raced through the yard, the damp grass clinging to his bare feet, and hurtled over a hedge. He did not look back. A burgundy car was parked across the street, a 1996 Toyota Sedan, positioned just outside the radius of the street lamp's light. A woman, thick-haired and beautiful, was sitting behind the wheel. The radio played softly – a popular pop song the local radio station played every fifteen minutes. She brought a lit cigarette to her lips, inhaled, and slowly exhaled a puff of smoke that circled around her head. The circle of burning ash was a red firefly in the dark. She allowed the arm holding the cigarette to dangle out her window, her hand limply motioning to the repetitive techno beat. She didn't notice Stiles until he was almost on top of her car. He barreled at her vehicle, nearly tripping as he skidded to a stop outside her window and smacked against her side mirror.

"Jesus Christ!" the woman swore, dropping her cigarette. "What's wrong with you, kid?"

Stiles bent at the waist and grabbed his knees. He huffed and panted. "Call." Huff. "The." Puff. "Police."

The woman's eyebrows furrowed at the center. She had high arching eyebrows that looked unnatural. They were too thin and symmetrical in shape. "What's happening?" she asked, glancing up and down the street, as though the source of his distress would suddenly appear to her, manifesting before her eyes. She needed to see the disaster, another disciple of the false belief that emergencies are loud and chaotic, and do not happen behind closed doors in safe, sleepy neighborhoods.

"Two guys…breaking in…to my…house!"

"Okay, sweetie. Just slow down. Breathe." The woman opened the car door and climbed out. She was tall, very tall – much taller than Stiles expected. Stiles was of average height – standing 5 feet 10 inches, but this woman was easily an inch taller than him. He glanced surreptitiously at her feet – she wasn't wearing heels. Her feet were encased in black combat boots that were simultaneously sexy and dangerous. "You're bleeding."

"Huh?" The woman's hand ghosted across his forearm, and Stiles glanced down at his exposed flesh. There was a thin, shallow gash. Blood was slowly seeping out. He must have cut himself on a branch or a hedge thorn. His adrenaline had prevented him from noticing. It didn't even hurt. "It's fine. My house…those guys – they're breaking into my house!"

"Which one is it? Which house?"

"That one." Stiles pointed to his shadowed house, appearing falsely empty from the outside, except for the door standing wide open. "Number 45. We need to call the police!"

"You mean you haven't called them yet?"

"No." Stiles shook his head. "I needed to get out first."

The woman smiled. "Smart boy." There was a purse at her side, dangling from a thin strap on her shoulder. She began rummaging inside, and Stiles hoped she had something in there that would help him: a cell phone or an FBI badge, maybe a couple Prozac or a dose of Ativan.

His own phone vibrated, and the buzzing seemed to tingle up his entire arm and into his chest. Stiles had forgotten he was holding it. "I'm shaking," he realized. He checked the screen. It was his father calling him again. Scott must have phoned him. Thank you, Scott! "It's my dad. I should-" Stiles looked up and stared into the barrel of a handgun.

He considered trying to make a run for it. The woman smiled and clucked her tongue. "I wouldn't try it. Come on, cutie. Let's get you back home." She held out her free hand. "And I'll take that phone from you. Hurry up."

Stiles handed her his phone, but his fingers refused to unclench. She took it from him, turned it off, and slipped it into her purse. Stiles wished he would have answered his father's call when he had the chance. His first concern had been getting out of his house and to safety, like he had been taught; how was he supposed to know that the first person he'd meet would be in on the crime?

"Okay, let's go." The woman slipped her arm through Stiles' and began leading him back toward his house. To the average observer, perhaps they would have looked like a couple returning from a date out-on-the-town. The Friday night shenanigans of young lovers. Had those observers bothered to look closer, however, they might have noticed the incongruities: the young man's pyjamas versus the woman's casual, dark attire; the stiff way he walked, his eyes focused straight ahead; her hand placed at an odd angle at his side; the complete lack of expression on either face; the boy's bare feet. Any of the residents on the street would have recognized Stiles instantly – "Hal, that's the sheriff's boy, isn't it?" – even in the dark, and they would know the scene was strange and out-of-place. They neighbours were always being nosy: peeking out their windows like creepers, gossiping about the single sheriff (widower) and his only son, just waiting for the next minor catastrophe so they could call up their friends and swap stories about Beacon Hills' finest. "That poor man, raising that boy by himself. Do you know what the kid did this time?" "The sheriff is such a nice-looking man. Why doesn't he remarry?"

Normally Stiles resented them and their prying, the meddling hold the neighbours had on their lives, but now he silently begged them, any of them, one of them, to peek out from behind their curtains. Leave their televisions and cups of tea long enough to take out the trash. To be possessed by the curiosity that always led them to snooping; all the times the neighbours had spied on the Stilinskis, why couldn't they look out the window now, when he needed them, and see what was happening on the street?

No one looked. No one stirred. Stiles was on his own.

The woman steered Stiles to the back door. In the light offered by the silver crescent moon, he could see the scratches and marks around the lock. Idiot. If he had set the alarm, like his father had said, it would have screeched when they touched the door. Stiles could hear two voices whispering loudly from inside, and he might have laughed at how sloppily they operated, if he wasn't in the situation he was. Sloppy criminals were the worst kind. They were dangerous. Unpredictable. Desperate.

The conversation stopped when the woman opened the door and pushed Stiles inside. "Honey, I'm home," she called sarcastically. Stiles normally appreciated sarcasm, especially in women, but not when they were robbing his house.

"Marlena?" A square head appeared from the dining room. It was the football player. The one called Clive. He seemed to loom in the archway between the rooms, his hair almost brushing the top. He was taller than Stiles had first anticipated. "What are you doing here?"

The other man stepped from around him and into the kitchen. "You scared the shit outta me. Why aren't you in the car?" His eyes fell on Stiles and narrowed into slits. "Who's the kid?"

"He lives here! I told you to make sure the house was empty, dumbass."

"We thought it was," Clive volunteered.

"Clearly you thought wrong." Marlena motioned with a sweep of her arm towards the wall. "Did you not notice the Jeep parked in the driveway? Morons. Ten houses! We've hit ten houses, and this is the first time we've had this problem! I knew I should have taken the lead on this one."

"You were the one who complained about having to do everything yourself," the other man argued, while Clive nodded, his head springing up and down like a bobble-head. "You're the one who wanted to wait in the car this time and let me take lead."

"No wonder I have to do everything myself. You two imbeciles can't do anything without me."

While the burglars argued, Stiles slowly inched down the length of the counter. Marlena was blocking the back door, but her attention was entirely fixed on her partner. Clive stared blankly between the two of them, his hand swinging back and forth following their volleyed words, like a child watching his parents fight. There was a half-full pot of coffee near the sink. Stiles wrapped his fingers around the handle. The coffee inside was cold, but the pot itself would function as a decent weapon.

As the arguing escalated into yelling, Stiles saw his chance. He darted around the kitchen island, heading for the dining room. There was a moment of surprise as the yelling stopped, and then the man lunched for Stiles. He grabbed the boy's arm. Stiles whipped around with the coffee pot and smashed it hard against the man's face. The glass shattered against his skin, and the coffee splashed into his eyes and hair. He released Stiles and put his hands to his face. "Fuck!"

Clive's reaction time was slower. He ducked around his partner and made to tackle Stiles, but Stiles dodged him. He ducked under the man's arms and bee-lined for the front door, which was standing partially open. (These guys really were stupid. How could they have missed that?) He was so close. He was going to make it!

"Don't move, kid!" Stiles didn't need to look behind him to know that Marlena had run from the back door, and now stood with her gun trained on his back. The snap of the hammer as she cocked the gun seemed to be the loudest sound he had ever heard. Maybe he could still make it. He was only two feet away. He could bolt now, right now: reach out, grab the door knob, and slam it shut behind him. However, no matter how poor of a shot she was, Marlena would be able to hit him at such close range, even if he was a moving target. The door would stop the bullet, or at least slow it down, if he could make it outside fast enough. His only hope was to act quickly. Or, failing that, hope someone would hear the explosion of the gunshot and call 911 before the burglars escaped or he bled to death on the floor.

It was a risk he was willing to take – this could be his only chance – but he hesitated. And in that split second of hesitation, Clive reached him. His beefy arms wrapped around Stiles' waist and pulled him back into the house. Stiles fought against him, but it was pointless. This guy easily had a solid fifty pounds on him. Marlena stomped to the front door, slammed it shut, and bolted it from the inside. Her luscious lips were barred in a scowl. "You're really starting to piss me off, kid."

Clive pushed Stiles back towards the kitchen. He stumbled over the uneven flooring. The other burglar, Marlena had called him Bob – a completely boring, mundane, ubiquitous name – was slouched over the kitchen sink. He pressed a damp dishcloth to his cut face to soak up the blood. Ew, Stiles thought, we wash our dishes with that. I'm definitely going to have to throw it out. Blood dripped from Bob's nose onto the counter, and he tilted his head back to slow the flow, simultaneously transitioning the cloth from cheek to snout. "Can you not stand there?" Stiles was unable to keep himself from asking repulsively. "I don't want your blood making us sick. For all I know you have AIDS or something."

"Aren't you a fucking smartass?"

Marlena grinned with the right side of her mouth. "He's got a lot of spunk. I'll give him that."

But spunk did nothing to protect Stiles.

"We'll see how funny he is with my foot up his ass."

Shut up! Stiles' brain commanded, but his lips ignored the message. He raised one eyebrow and snarkily retorted: "I'd like to see you try." Dumb! You dumb idiot!

The corners of Bob's lips twitched slightly, as if he were tempted to smile. Instead, he hauled back his right arm, and smashed his fist into the side of Stiles' mouth. Without even dropping the dishcloth. Stiles fell to the floor. He rubbed the back of his hand across his lips. He could tell the bottom one had split open before he saw the blood smeared on his skin. He could taste rust and copper pennies. He needed to spit, but didn't want to do so on their kitchen floor.

"Why don't we get out of here?" Clive suggested, shifting nervously on his feet, looking lost and confused

"No way. We're finishing this job."

"Fine." Marlena grabbed Stiles' upper arm and yanked him up. "I'll take care of the kid and then we'll finish what we came to do."

"And then after?"

"We'll decide what to do with him then."

In the black night, Sheriff Stilinski dialed his son's cell number again. The first time Stiles didn't pick up, he could understand. Maybe the boy was in the shower or watching television with the volume jacked up too loud. Maybe he was in the kitchen making himself a snack or he'd already passed out for the night. The second time he started to become frustrated, wondering if maybe this was a trick designed to make a fool out of him. Maybe Scott and Stiles were pranking him, trying to catch him twice in the same day. If so, Stiles had seriously crossed the line this time, and the sheriff was going to have to take action: revoke his Internet privileges, or something equally devastating to a modern teenager.

Post-it notes he could live with, but Stiles should have known better than to pull something like this: under no circumstances was it ever acceptable for him to make a joke out of his personal safety. God, didn't the kid know how much his father worried about him?

When his third and fourth calls also went unanswered, frustration gave way to fear and mounting paranoia. Even if this was a joke, would Stiles continue it this far? Would he really wait until his father had arrived all the way home to spring the punchline? When he tried a fifth time, and his call went directly to voicemail, Sheriff Stilinski floored the gas pedal. He disconnected his call without leaving a message and dialed the station. "This is Sheriff Stilinski. Send a couple squad cars to my house pronto. I may need back up." This wasn't a joke, he knew. Stiles might prolong the joke by not answering, but he certainly wouldn't turn his phone off.

His son was in trouble. He prayed he would make it there in time.