Noah Stilinski had become a cop to help people. It might be cliché, but it was the truth. The world was full of hurting people, and if he could do something about it, he wanted to. But today, the hurting people were him and his son, and the hurt wasn't something a cop could fix. So today, he wasn't a cop, he was a father and husband. Stiles was tucked into his side, with Scott clutching his hand on the other side. Noah focused on that.

But as the dirt covered the coffin wrapped around Claudia's body, Noah found someone else, someone unexpected, hurting. Some people attending the funeral weren't grieving so much as they were supporting their sheriff and friend. Many had known Claudia though, before her mind had been lost to the dementia, and mourned her loss alongside him. But then the mourners slowly filtered away from Claudia's fresh grave, revealing the figure a boy small and uncertain on the fringes of the crowd.

He wasn't dressed for a funeral. His jeans were dirty and scuffed, and his red hoodie was torn and slashed in the front. Noah thought he saw blood stains, but it was hard to tell with the color. What he could see of the boy's face was covered in purple bruises and angry scuffs and smudges of dirt. Noah couldn't imagine why the boy was in a cemetery, or what had happened that would lead him there, but the kid looked devastated. As the last few people drifted back to their cars, Noah turned to Melissa. Dear, strong Melissa who'd been such good friends with Claudia.

"Hey," Noah said quietly. Melissa's red rimmed eyes met Noah's, and he jerked his head toward the boy. "Can you take the boys? I'll catch up in a minute."

Melissa followed the motion until she saw what Noah had seen. She glanced between Noah and the stranger for a moment before she nodded ushered the boys toward the car.

Noah watched them go a minute before returning his attention to the boy. He'd like nothing better than to go home and find something to make him forget, just for a little while. But he felt… somehow he felt he owed it to Claudia's memory, and her kindness, to do this. And maybe he was a little curious as well. Slipping his hands in his pockets and adopting an air of casualness, he headed over to the boy. He looked like he'd been through the wringer. Maybe a victim of abuse? Maybe he'd known Claudia? Maybe she'd helped him? Noah could absolutely believe that Claudia would have the heart to do that, but she hadn't really been in the position to do so for quite a while. He was also fairly certain she would have told him about it.

As Noah approached he took in more concerning details. Watery brown eyes stared at the grave and pale hands trembled at his side. His left eye was swollen and black, the right bruised from lack of sleep. His face was dirty and tired. Long cuts like a strike from a clawed animal scabbed over across his jaw and his neck.

Experience told Noah that directly confronting the problem would only close the boy off, so he gently asked instead, "Did you know her?"

The boy turned to him, looking up through his lashes. His eyes were heavy, haunted with grief. He looked more like someone grieving the loss of his whole family, or his entire world, not one woman he didn't know very well. "Yeah," he replied, his voice hoarse and low. "A long time ago. Hadn't seen her in... nine or ten years, I guess."

As he spoke, Noah realized his assessment of his age was off. He was probably more of a young man than a boy. Still young, but maybe more like 20 than 15. His loose clothing and battered body had fooled Noah into thinking him younger. If it had been a decade since the boy had seen Claudia, then it definitely would have been before her dementia. He probably would've been closer to 10.

The kid looked back at the grave. "She was... she was kind to me."

"That sounds like Claudia," Noah said. With the heavy weight of grief hovering in the air, Noah almost felt obligated to tell this young man that he was sorry for his loss, instead of accepting the platitude himself.

He glanced back at Noah and started, "Was she... Did she ever..." Grunting softly to himself, the kid scrubbed his face with his hands. "Never mind."

"What is it?" Noah pressed, tone gentle.

The kid shook his head. "It seems silly to ask now."

How to respond to that? Noah wasn't sure. He followed the kid's gaze toward Claudia's grave and released a long slow breath. He turned back towards the young man beside him. If Claudia had made such an impact on the young man, Noah felt he owed it to her memory to at least try to help him. "Is there something wrong, son?"

The young man scoffed a little at the question. "It'd be easier to ask if there was anything right."

Noah frowned at the bitterness and sadness in his voice. "Alright. Is anything right?"

The kid gaze flickered over to him, and Noah could tell he'd surprised him. "No... well, one thing. I've got a chance to... to do better. I just, I just don't know where to start. It seems impossible. Huge. I don't know if I can do it."

Well now he was completely sure that the kid was mixed up in something he shouldn't be—drugs, alcohol, gangs, the list possibilities was long. Noah would be willing to bet that Claudia's death wasn't the main tragedy weighing the young man down. "Tell you what, son. I'm the sheriff of this town. Why don't come to the station in a few days and talk to me?" he suggested.

The young man glanced at him but didn't respond.

"Maybe I can help you find out where to start," Noah went on. "Or maybe you can just ask me those questions that seem too silly to ask right now. How does that sound?"

The kid chewed on his lip for a moment. He cleared his throat and said, "Yeah, that... that sounds, uh, good. I'll..." He sighed and shut his eyes. "Yeah, that's good. I'll see you in a few days, Sheriff."

Looking at the lines of exhaustion digging into his face and weighing down his shoulders, Noah didn't really want to leave this strange, broken young man beside him. But Stiles was waiting for him, and he needed his dad a lot more than this stranger needed the Sheriff right now. This was the best he could do for the moment.

Noah clasped the young man's shoulder gently. "Don't skip town on me," he said lightly. "I want to help."

His comment earned him a wobbly smile. Noah returned it, wobbliness and all, then turned and headed for the cars and his son.

Noah was struggling—grieving and struggling and drinking. He'd gone back to work earlier than he should have, but he needed it. He couldn't cope with staying at home. Claudia's ghost seemed to haunt the place, especially after he'd downed a few. Stiles spent a lot of time with the McCalls. Noah had honestly expected Stiles to slow down, or retreat in on himself, but he didn't. His motor mouth just got worse. He filled up every moment of potential silence with chatter and ramblings. He ran everywhere. The speed at which he lived life just got faster, like he was running as fast as he could away from the tragedy he'd experienced. Like he was trying to fill up the silences and gaps his mother left with as much sound as he could cram into them.

Noah didn't know what to do. Just thinking about how he was supposed to help his son deal with his grief was enough to make him want to reach for the bottle. The first time he came back in for a shift, Noah mentioned to his deputies that if a dark-haired young man came in to see him to let him through. Then he buried himself under his work and tried to help people. That was the best he could do right now.

After a few days, the young man from Claudia's funeral finally showed himself. Noah offered him a chair when he came in, but the young man didn't take it. Noah contemplated standing up in response, but he didn't. The kid was shifting from left to right, wringing his hands together. He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the floor. The tense line of his shoulders and nervous energy made it look like he was ready to bolt. Noah waited a moment for him to speak, and just observed. He was wearing the same clothes Noah had seen him in at the funeral, jeans and a red hoodie both scuffed and ragged, but he'd cleaned up a little. His clothes were no longer dirty, and neither was he. His injuries were healing, but the cuts still looked stark against his pale skin and his bruises were a sickly yellow-purple that indicated their age. It was hard to tell when he was hunched over, but Noah thought the swelling around his black eye was almost gone.

"I wasn't going to come," the kid blurted, head still down. His shaggy dark hair fell around his face, making it harder to see his expression.

Noah didn't need an expression to tell him what the young man was feeling. Finally standing, Noah came around his desk and approached him. "Hey, I'm glad you did come."

The kid still wasn't looking at him, so Noah slowly reached out to grasp his shoulders. "Why don't you tell me your name, son?"

He drew in a sharp breath, the exhaled slowly and shakily.

"Hey," Noah said softly, hoping to get the young man to look at him.

After a moment, he flicked his eyes upward. Then he lifted his head, trepidation written in the press of his lips and the furrow of his eyebrows.

Noah almost choked on air because now, with the swelling gone down and the dirt cleaned off and the bruises fading and Noah un-distracted by the burying of his wife, this young man looked exactly like Stiles and so like Claudia. He had Claudia's nose, Claudia's hair, Claudia's eyes, Claudia's coloring, her moles, her lips, her cheekbones, and her father's crazy eyebrows.

Noah's brain kick-started and then went into overdrive. Had Claudia had another child? Had she had an affair? No, no, no, no, definitely not. Noah would've noticed her pregnant with another child. Besides, if this kid was 20 or thereabouts, then that would've been before he and Claudia married, probably before they dated too. And maybe he was older than he looked. Maybe she'd had him before she'd ever even met Noah. That meant there had been lies, but no affair. But, dear God above, Noah was absolutely and 100% sure that this was Claudia's son standing in front of him and it hurt. Somehow, it hurt even more than looking at Stiles did these days, because with the long hair and the look in his eyes he reminded Noah so much of Claudia in the hospital, suffering from dementia, trying to hold on but slowly losing her mind.

"It's not what you think!" Claudia's son blurted again, after the extended moment of silence. "She didn't, she would never have, I mean, you aren't thin—oh God, I shouldn't have come. I, I'm sorry, I—"

Noah tightened his hold as the kid started to pull back. "No," he tried to say, voice cracking.

Claudia's son stilled, and Noah cleared his throat. "No," he said, his voice stronger. "Stay. You... uh, you're too old for it to have been a, uh, an affair. If you're... how old are you?"

The young man stared at him uncertainly with Claudia's eyes. "Twenty-one," he answered after a moment.

Noah nodded, letting go of him. "We've only been... we were only married 16 years. Dated for 3."

Long, pale fingers tangled in Claudia's hair and ran through it, tugging on the thick locks. "Yeah, yeah I... I know."

Noah felt himself at a loss for what to say next and found himself staring as those fingers rubbed Claudia's nose then scrubbed across a Claudia's cheekbones.

"It's still not exactly what you think," Claudia's son said with a sigh.

"Why don't we sit, and you can tell me exactly what it is," Noah said, motioning to the couch. He grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the couch. No way in hell was he having this conversation with a desk between them.

After a moment, Claudia's son sank down onto the couch. He sat on the edge, and his finger immediately began drumming against his knee.

It was likely just nervous energy, completely understandable, but something made Noah wonder if the fidgeting was more. "ADHD?" he asked, trying to make his voice casual and not shaky.

The kid froze, then nodded and resumed the drumming.

"My son, Stiles, has the same thing," Noah offered. He had hoped a bit of conversation might help the younger man relax, but if anything, it seemed to key him up even more.

"I'm just gonna try to ease into this," Claudia's son said, brushing aside the attempt at conversation. "God, I hope you believe this."

"I'm listening," Noah assured him, sitting back in his chair and keeping his posture open. He was about ready to believe anything this young man told him.

"I'm not just her son," he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He met Noah's eyes, gaze pleading and almost desperate. "I'm yours too."

Noah stared at him for a second, feeling his brain short-circuit for a second before he wondered what the boy was playing at. "Except, as we've already established, I hadn't even met Claudia when you would've been born," Noah countered, keeping his voice level and reasonable. Why would the kid feel he needed to convince Noah he was his son as well as Claudia's? If he was going to make up a story, this was one of the least believable routes he could've chose. "She wasn't even in the country around the time you would've been conceived. She spent a few years in Poland with her parents."

Claudia's son nodded. "Because her dad was sick, and her mom had an old injury. She came back to the States when they died."

"Right," Noah confirmed. He wondered how he knew this. Even if Claudia had begun to raise him, the baby was out of the picture by the time Noah met her. But he'd mentioned that he'd last seen her when he was... 11, if Noah remembered correctly. Regardless, if he knew all this, why was he claiming to be Noah's son as well as hers?

"Thing is..." the kid began, taking a deep breath. "I wasn't born two years before you met her. I was born April 8, 1995."

It took Noah a long moment for Noah to comprehend what the kid meant by that, but it must've shown on his face when it clicked because the kid started wringing his hands and rambling.

"I'm Stiles. I mean, I was. I guess I still am. It's confusing, but I was born Stiles in 1995 and I grew up and I lived all the way to 2016, but now it's 2006, and I didn't really mean for this to happen, but it did. And now I'm here and I should do something with it, because I don't really want to go back to 2016 because it really, really sucked and I don't know if I can really change anything, but I've got to try. I have no idea where to start, plus there's the fact that I don't even exist. I mean, I do, but not as a 21-year-old college dropout that I was. Am. Whatever. And all of this isn't really relevant because I haven't even convinced you I am who I say I am, which, really, is the point of me coming here. Except I don't really know how to convince you because last time it took a really long time and it was hard and you didn't believe me then, plus I had werewolf and banshee friends to help convince you it was real. But all the werewolves I knew don't know me now so—"

"Are you trying to tell me that you're my 11-year-old son and you time traveled to 2006?" Noah said incredulously, bringing the rant to a screeching halt. That was even more unbelievable than Noah getting drunk and having a one-night stand he didn't remember, or something along those lines.

The kid flushed a little. "I was trying to avoid the words 'time traveled.' In 2013 you said you drew the line at time travel."

"I can't imagine why," Noah grumbled. He wanted a drink. This is not what he'd thought he'd be dealing with and he definitely didn't want to be dealing with it now. Was this kid out of his mind?

"I kinda only came back with what I had on me at the time, so I really don't know how to convince you. I mean," he gave a short, mildly hysterical laugh. "I've got my moles, all in the same place as 11-year-old me, but..."

Noah's eyes were reflexively drawn to the kid's face where, indeed, where all the same moles in all the same spots. "Forgive me if I'm not willing to stake my belief in time travel and the supernatural on the formation of your moles."

The kid snorted and leaned back a little. Then he froze. "Oh, I am so stupid," he groaned. He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out his phone. The casing was battered, and it was clearly well used, but Noah had never seen a cellphone like it before. It didn't have a keyboard or an antenna. It was just a big rectangular screen. Standing, the kid snagged the other chair and dragged over next to Noah as he turned it on and found what he was looking for. He handed to phone to Noah and plopped down next to him.

Noah stared at the picture, brain trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

"Me and Scott," came the helpful voice next to him.

It was definitely Scott and Stiles. Scott had the same floppy hair and adorable smile. His uneven jawline was more pronounced than before. Now. Whichever. In the picture Stiles had his arm thrown around Scott's shoulder. His hair was buzzed, but his grin was the same as now. Noah glanced from the picture, to the young man beside him, and back to the picture. He could see how this would be the halfway point between his Stiles and this one. Noah's mind scrambled for some sort of explanation for what he was seeing, but he had nothing.

"Sophomore year," the kid—Stiles—damn, was he really listening to this?—explained. "Just before everything went to hell. We were gonna make first line."

"Did you?" Noah asked, eyes roving over the two boys' lacrosse uniforms.

"Later I did. But Scott made it that year because he was a werewolf," was the answer.

"Scott's a werewolf?!" Noah jerked around to stare at the kid. "But he's asthmatic!"

"Not yet!" the kid corrected hastily. "He got bitten a few days after this picture. Asthma mostly went away and then he was suddenly an athlete. Got pretty good. We both did."

Noah could feel his skeptical disbelief warring with his instincts, which were telling him this young man was telling the absolute truth. Or at least, what he believed was the absolute truth. Still. Time travel.

"Here," Stiles—not Stiles?—leaned over and dragged is finger across the screen. The picture followed his finger, then disappeared, replaced by the next picture.

They went through all the pictures Stiles-not-Stiles had. Noah listened as the young man explained each one, how werewolves' eyes flared in a camera lens, then how many werewolves he actually knew, and how he knew more than werewolves—banshees, kitsune, werecoyotes, chimeras, more. He showed him all his friends—Lydia, Allison, Malia, Liam, Derek, Cora, Mason, Cory, Kira. He explained how he'd become friends, then more, with Lydia. How Scott had become an alpha werewolf and gotten a hot girlfriend who kicked ass, then another hot girlfriend who kicked ass, and one last hot girlfriend that kicked ass. How Derek Hale had come back to Beacon Hills to look for his sister and found her dead. Eventually the explanations died down, and Stiles-not-Stiles quieted, waiting for him to say something.

"Are you sure you time traveled?" Noah asked. "Because I'm thinking alternate reality where you have friends and your girlfriend is Lydia Martin."

Stiles-not-Stiles snorted. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad."

Noah stilled, but the young man didn't appear to notice that he just called a man who wasn't sure he was his son 'Dad.'

"Not all of it was good though," he went on. "A lot of it was really really bad. It was especially bad before I ended up here."

Noah didn't know what to say to that, so he went back to staring at the phone and the last picture that it had—it was Scott, Lydia, Stiles, and a girl named Malia.

"Do, uh, do you believe me?"

Noah sighed and stared a moment longer at the picture that had no explanation beyond freak coincidence or the supernatural. He hated that the latter was technically the more likely explanation. The only other idea he could come up with some sort of sci-fi conspiracy theory that was just as likely as magic, because this technology didn't exist as he knew it. "It's a lot to wrap my head around, but, probably."

"What are you gonna do about it?"

'Nothing' was on the tip of his tongue, but then Noah stopped and looked at the young man, at Stiles. "Do you need my help?"

"I—" he began, only to pause. "Well, my two immediate problems are the fact that I don't exist as I am and figuring out what to do next. The first problem I should probably figure out myself since the law doesn't really allow for time traveling, but maybe you could help me figure out what to do next?"

Noah handed this older Stiles back his phone and shook his head. "Honestly, I have no idea how to help you figure things out. I'll listen, but I doubt I'll be able to offer much. Getting through the government to help you exist though, I can do." He could hardly believe he'd just said that, but if what he was saying was really true... well, then, exceptions had to be made.

"But wouldn't that involve going against the law? Bending the rules? Lying?" Stiles asked, incredulity coloring his tone.

"This is clearly a special case," Noah responded. "But I doubt we'll have to lie much. We'll just tell the truth for the most part and then adjust some things so that you can legally exist."

The surprise didn't leave the older Stiles' face.

"Don't think you got your clever mind and tendency to bend the rules from your mother, young man," Noah said, mockingly scolding him. It was amazing how easily Noah felt comfortable with him.

The surprise melted into amusement. "I did get my tendency to bend the rules from my mother."

"I'm still the clever one," Noah teased. He rose from his chair and headed for his desk, pulling out a pen and paper. "Now, we'll say that Claudia and I had a one-night stand when we were younger, before we met again later and started dating."

"But you said yourself, she would've been in Poland," Stiles said, following Noah to his desk and then hopping up to sit on it. The movements were easy and confident, like he was used to doing this all the time.

"I'll check to see if she made any trips back to the US before she came back for good," Noah said. "If she didn't, then we'll just pass you off as a year or two younger. Claudia got pregnant with you from our scandalous one night of passion."

Stiles snorted.

"Then, when we met again, we decided to start dating," Noah went on. "It fits, and doesn't sound too coincidental."

"Okay, then, to play devil's advocate, why didn't she tell you about me?" Stiles asked. "And who raised me?"

"Claudia would've found you a family if she, hypothetically, felt she couldn't take care of you on her own," Noah admitted, frowning down at his paper.

"So that means we could convince two people to pretend they fostered or adopted me, we make up some people, or we find some people who died recently," Stiles said.

"Or," Noah tapped his pen against the pad, leaving little dots of ink. "Something terrible happened to you and Claudia thought you had died. It hurt too much to talk about, and she thought she'd save me the pain of gaining a child and then losing him again."

"Plausible." Stiles nodded. "So, what terrible thing happened to my toddler self? Kidnapped? Accident that left us separated?"

"We should probably say criminals," Noah reasoned. "That way we won't have to fake legal documents or incident reports."

"Alright, kidnapped by..." Stiles trailed off with a thoughtful glint in his eye.

Noah let him think, turning the pen over in his fingers.

"How about a cult?" Stiles suggested. "I mean, I have a lot of arcane knowledge what with the whole supernatural stuff for 6 years. It could work. They kidnapped me or took me in. I don't know which because they would obviously say they took me in, but I would be suspicious that they kidnapped me."

"Good," Noah said. "Then let's say you wanted to leave the cult, which of course didn't go over well." Here Noah motioned to the cuts and bruises. "But you got out and gave them the slip."

"From there I went looking for my mother," Stiles continued, without missing a beat. "I knew her name from the cult. I tracked her down with my limited knowledge, hitchhiking until I made it to Beacon Hills, only to arrive at her funeral."

"Tragic is good. Most people will believe in coincidence if it doesn't work in your favor," Noah said. "From the funeral to now can be the truth."

Stiles chewed his lip. "You noticed I looked a lot like Claudia, and a lot like your son, Stiles—truth—so you decide to get a paternity test done."

"The results come back, you are my son," Noah said. Privately he added that if the results came back positive, it would be greater proof of Stiles' story. He was quite sure he'd only ever had one son, so if the paternity test came back positive, then he'd know for sure. "We get the paperwork done, wade through the legal stuff, and you'll officially exist in this time."

Some of the tension and stress seemed to ease out of Stiles shoulders. "That doesn't sound too bad."

"No," Noah said with a small smile. "Now we just need to figure out what to call you. You couldn't have picked up the name Stiles while you were in the cult. You didn't know my name."

"I've, uh, I've been going by Mitch," Stiles said, hands twisting, "when people ask."

Noah paused for a moment. "Mitch like short for Mieczysław?"

"It's close," Stiles said with a shrug. "And it was kind of nice to have something that, uh, you know, connected. Kept me grounded."

"Claudia probably would've named you Mieczysław," Noah mused. "If this whole hypothetical situation were real."

"But that's your Stiles' name," Stiles protested.

"Well, you're my Stiles now too," Noah said seriously. "Besides, I doubt he'll ever use Mieczysław. Not if he can help it."

Stiles stared at him for a moment. "So, what, she named us both Mieczysław?"

"Well, she did think you were dead," Noah pointed out.

"But isn't that, like, a callous way to treat my memory, or something?" Stiles frowned.

"Maybe, but she obviously wouldn't think of it that way," Noah said. "Maybe she just wanted one living Mieczysław. Maybe she thought it would honor both your memory and her father's to name you after both of them. Maybe she thought her first dead son could live on, spiritually, through you."

Stiles looked at him like that was the weirdest thing that had been spoken aloud since he got there, which Noah thought was a little unfair. "On the other hand, Mom's gone, so she doesn't have to explain herself to anyone."

"That too," Noah conceded, ignoring the pang in his chest at the reminder of his loss. "So, legally, you'll be Mieczysław Stilinski the first, but you'll go by Mitch. You'll be my son again, no finding a new identity somewhere else, and then, whatever happens next, we'll figure it out together."

The smile Stiles—soon to be Mitch—gave him was the most genuine Noah had seen since they'd met.

When they went to the hospital to get the paternity test done, they ran into Melissa, of course. Scott and little Stiles were in school, so both their single parents were working. Noah had explained to Melissa their cover story—just the truth of what had happened so far. He skipped, obviously, the discussion of time travel and all that followed and didn't bother with the whole back story yet. As far as anyone else was concerned, Noah and Mitch were just now figuring everything out. They decided it was best to keep the time traveling aspect to themselves, even from close friends like the McCalls. It was a lot to chew on, and they really didn't need their lives flipped over when it wouldn't even affect them. Plus, Mitch didn't really want to explain it again—not now, not yet.

The paternity test was taken as soon as Melissa could swing it. Noah and Mitch found themselves in a little room as Melissa expedited the process. Mitch sat on the hospital gurney, swinging his legs, while Noah slouched on a hard plastic-topped stool. Noah wasn't sure what his son was thinking. He could admit to feeling a little apprehensive, a part of him wondering if the test would come back negative and he'd have to face the fact that this young man had lied to him for some reason. He didn't think that would happen though. Mitch didn't seem nervous at all, confident in what the results would be.

They sat in silence for a little while until Mitch spoke, his voice quiet and slow. "I don't want anyone to know."

Noah jerked his head up to look at him. "What?"

Mitch stared at his hands for another minute before meeting Noah's eyes. "I don't want anyone to know."

Noah swallowed. He had a feeling they weren't talking about the method of Mitch's arrival, and it wasn't a good feeling. "We already agreed that—"

"I'm not talking about the time travel part," Mitch interrupted.

Noah's stomach dropped. "Look, son," he said, standing up from his uncomfortable seat. "I know this is difficult for you. These are the people you knew but not as you've known them and all that, but running away isn't the answer. I don't want you to be alone out there."

Eyes still fixed on his hands, Mitch chewed his lip and shifted his seat. "That's not it."

Noah waited for him to continue, but when Mitch's frown deepened without a response, he prompted, "Then what is it, son?"

"I mean... that's probably part of it, if you want to go all psychologist on me," Mitch said, offering him a half smile. "But since you've solved my existence problem, I've been thinking a lot about what I'm gonna do next."

"And you don't want to stay here?" Noah asked. He felt his heart drop into his chest at the idea, and he marveled at how quickly he'd accepted this young man into his family—and how much the idea of losing him so soon after Claudia hurt.

"It isn't that I don't want to stay here," Mitch said, shifting back and forth again. "It's just that... a lot of bad shit happened to me and to Beacon Hills, and if I can, I want to fix that. I've got the advantage of foreknowledge here, but if I stay here, I risk losing it. Everything I do here risks changing what I remember happening and makes it harder for me to change the future, if that's even possible for me to do."

Noah hated how logical that sounded. "How, uh," he scrubbed his hands over his face. "How long would you have to stay away?"

"At least 5 years," Mitch said, chewing on his lip. "If no one knows about me or what I managed to do, then everything will stay the same up to sophomore year, right before Scott got bitten. I'll come back to save Laura Hale from being murdered by her uncle, then stop her uncle from murdering a bunch of other people."

Noah's eyebrows shot up. "Laura Hale's comatose uncle?"

"That's the one," Mitch said with a sigh. "He's a real douche bag."

"And then?" Noah asked. "Will you stay?"

Mitch paused a moment. "I'm not sure. At that point, a lot of things will have changed, so I don't know if it'll be worth it to protect what little foreknowledge I have. It would really depend on how much changed and how people reacted to what I did."

Noah frowned, pressing his lips together. The words he wanted to say laid heavy on his chest, and it took a minute to force them out. "I want you to stay, son."

He received a genuine but tired smile in response. "It'd be easier to stay," Mitch said. "But this is the right thing to do. It's the best thing to do."

"But where will you go?" Noah asked. "What will you do? That's 5 whole years of living doing something else, somewhere else, before you can come back here and do what you need to do."

"I've got a lot to learn, Dad." Mitch slid off the bed to stand up, coming up to Noah. "I can study druid magic. I already started learning, back in my time. I've gotten pretty good with using it, but if I studied it, I could help more, help better. I'd know enough to be able to handle all these threats better."

"So, what, you're going to leave and find someone to teach you magic?" Noah asked.

"Maybe," Mitch said. "I've always been a kinda learn-on-my-own, learn-by-doing kinda guy, but I'll definitely need people to help me out. I thought I'd travel, meet people, make connections, whatever I can do to be better."

"And you don't want me to tell anyone that you exist." Noah didn't like that. He didn't like that at all. He didn't want to lose this boy after he'd just gained him. It felt like losing another piece of Claudia.

"Right." Mitch nodded, firmly, once. "It's for the best."

"You'd have no one," Noah reached out to grip Mitch by the shoulders. "Mitch, you'd be all alone out there. And you've basically just lost everything you've ever known. Your family, your friends, your girlfriend. You'll never have it the same way again, and you may be hiding it, but I know you're grieving."

Mitch eyes widened for a moment, before his expression blanked and he took a deep breath. "Yeah, but it can't be helped. I have to do this. I have to go. And... and you can't stop me, Dad."

Noah's grip tightened at those words, and Mitch's eyes dropped to the floor, head ducking.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Noah's eyes pricked, and he blinked to dispel the tears. "Alright." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Alright, but you have to promise me something."

Mitch looked up at him through his eyelashes.

"You have to keep in touch with me," Noah said. Mitch opened his mouth to reply, but Noah didn't let him speak. "And when I say keep in touch, I mean weekly phone calls, daily emails. And you have to come see me in person at least once a year, preferably more than that."

"I don't—" Mitch tried.

"I don't care what it'll change about me and how I deal with my wife's death," Noah told him. "You're just going to have to accept that one. I'll cover my tracks when it comes to keeping you from Stiles. Whatever precautions you need to take to hide yourself from younger you, you can take them, but you will keep in contact with me, you hear me?"

Mitch stared silently at him for a long moment.

"You still got me, okay?" Noah said softly.

Mitch's eyes shined, and his mouth moved like he wanted to smile but not start sobbing at the same time. "Okay," he agreed.

"Okay," Noah echoed. He pulled his boy in for a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around his shoulders and doing his damnedest not to start weeping. Mitch hugged him just as tightly back. He didn't know how long they stayed like that, but eventually they broke apart to the polite clearing of a throat.

Melissa was giving them a soft smile, holding a clipboard. "The results came back positive," she told them.

Noah looked back at Mitch as the young man sniffed and wiped quickly at his eyes. With a watery smile he said, "I've gotta go."

"We still have a few things that have to be—" Noah started, but Mitch waved him off.

"I'm not skipping town yet, Sheriff," Mitch assured him with a wan but teasing smile.

"Where are you staying?" Noah asked. "I have a spare room you could use."

Mitch shook his head. "I'll manage. I'll come around the station tomorrow, okay?" He gave Melissa a small smile as he slipped past her and out of the hospital.

Melissa returned the smile, then turned to Noah, eyebrows raised in question.

Noah answered her with a heavy sigh, retaking his stool and scrubbing his hands over his face again.

After a moment, Melissa asked, "He's not staying here?"

Noah shook his head. "And he doesn't want anyone to know about him."

Melissa frowned. "Not even Stiles?"

"Especially not Stiles," Noah said. "I barely convinced him to stay in touch with me, I don't want to jeopardize any of that."

"But he just found his family," Melissa protested. "A family that could use him just about now."

Noah shook his head and considered how to phrase his response in a way that was truthful but kept Mitch's secret—and didn't make him seem like a selfish bastard to Melissa. "No, he, uh, he found his answers, which is what he was looking for. Now, I think, he's going to find himself. Kid's been through a lot, and if he's willing to keep talking to me, then that's all I ask. Would you keep this to yourself, Melissa?"

Melissa frowned. "I don't like it. Stiles deserves to know he's got an older brother."

"Yeah," Noah agreed. "And he will know. But I won't tell him yet. It'd be... it'd be cruel to tell him when that older brother isn't willing to talk to him at all. Let me work on Mitch first."

"Okay," Melissa agreed, pursing her lips a little in disapproval.

Noah smiled gratefully. Melissa was a good friend. He had a feeling both he and Stiles would be needing her a lot in the coming months.

Melissa patted his shoulder. "If you need anything..."

"Thank you."