Father || Teen Wolf

07 - Invisible Monsters

Sleep came much easier to a lot of people now that Lydia had been found. Lydia herself was the first on that list, her exhaustion sending her into a deep, dreamless slumber. Resting was an easier task in the comfort of her own home rather than in the darkness of the forest where the air was cold and uninviting, and she fell asleep feeling safe.

It was a peculiar thing to feel, and it had left her last thoughts before drifting off feel bitter-sweet. She was on a couch with multiple pillows sprawled around her, arms wrapped around her and her back to a chest that was gently rising and falling, warm. She had nothing to fear. Nothing could happen. 

She was safe, but she had felt the need to check. To look out the window just one last time, to press her back just a little further against Jamie's chest, to hold her pillow just a little tighter. It was the first time something like that happened to her, it was the first time she hadn't taken feeling safe for granted, and it left her shivering despite the warmth.

Against her on the large couch, Jamie had fallen asleep almost immediately after he closed his eyes, arms wrapped around the girl he had no intention of letting slip away again. His grip wasn't particularly strong, in fact it was more like a gentle pressure, just a way to make sure Lydia was really there and remained so throughout the night.

Lydia's mother had warned the two against getting to bed too late, as Jamie was supposed to go back home to his father that evening, and so when she failed to see Lydia going back to her room or Jamie waving goodbye to her from the hallway, she rose from her seat, ready to scold the pair. Entering the living room, she hadn't expected to find them curled up on the couch, both looking peacefully asleep.

Her grip on the door handle relaxed as did her shoulders, and a soft sigh escaped her lips. She didn't have the heart to wake them up. She thought they looked so young yet so tired, worn out by things they shouldn't have to experience at such a young age. The least she could do was let them rest, but not before she did something to calm the man who, she could guess, was growing restless as more time passed.

Tip-toeing outside the room and closing the door slowly behind her, careful not to make a sound, Natalie Martin took out her phone and typed a short text to let Henry Tate know that his son was safe and sound. It was the least she could do. Putting the phone back onto the coffee table, the woman made her way upstairs, suppressing a yawn as her own tiredness caught up with her. Getting in between the sheets, she could hear the wind rattle the tall trees just outside her window. The nights had grown even colder these last few days and she was once more immensely relieved that Lydia had been found. 

That was the last thing on Natalie's mind before she drifted off to sleep. The same could be said for Stiles, and for Scott, and for the police officers who had looked for the lost girl the previous nights. It was almost as if Beacon Hills had grown more peaceful, now that one of its brightest children was back where she belonged. 

Almost.

Only a few streets away, light still escaped the closed windows of a small house. There was nothing remarkable about that house, it was rare for anyone to stop and take a closer look and the very same could be said about its occupants. A father and his son, ordinary neighbors in an ordinary neighborhood, who waved hello at the postman when he passed and never failed to be polite. Nondescript, almost invisible. 

Nothing there made anyone look twice and there laid the tragedy. Everyone heard the yells, the slamming doors, the sounds of glass shattering, the screams some nights, but no one thought much of it. No one paid attention enough to notice the pale bruises hidden behind long sleeves, or the miserable look on Isaac Lahey's face when he came home. They were so easy to ignore, why bother pay them any mind?