This is just an idea that popped into my head when I woke up one morning, and I wanted to run with it. Isaac wishes he had a father like Stiles' father. When that wish comes true, the dark secrets of the Lahey house are revealed, Isaac enjoys parental affection, and Stiles faces danger at the hands of a man who calls himself "father."

Warnings: this fic contains child abuse (which may be upsetting to some readers) and coarse/offensive language - both of which are courtesy of Mr. Lahey.

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Save a Wish For Me

Chapter One: Wish

Isaac had his doubts.

They shouldn't have been in the woods so late. The sun was setting over the horizon; the tall trees cast long eerie shadows that blotted out the last golden light of day, smothering the sun's luminescence with their sinister limbs. It would be dark soon. His father would begin wondering where he was, pondering a million delinquent scenarios as to his whereabouts – none of which dimly reflected the truth or Isaac's character. He could not be late.

Isaac voiced his concerns to the other boys. A twig snapped under his sneaker, and he ducked under a low branch. They walked single-file down an obscure path Isaac suspected wasn't actually a path at all. Stiles was leading, forcing his way through central California foliage. This had been his ridiculous scheme after all. He was guiding them on another one of his 'treasure hunts.' Sometimes he would get on these obsessive kicks, fueled by his ADHD and hyperactive imagination, after he had learned about such and such a mystery or urban legend – either online or through local oral Beacon Hills folklore. He'd organize elaborate, but often impractical, searches and investigations, and drag his friends along with him.

Isaac never should have allowed Scott to talk him into coming. "What are we looking for again? I really can't be late tonight."

Scott, who was just ahead of him, tossed Isaac a sympathetic smile over his right shoulder. He held back a branch so Isaac could advance safely. Stiles didn't glance back. He continued to forge ahead, his lambent umber eyes alert, scouting the area and following some visceral sense of direction. He swiftly rolled his eyes and held in a frustrated groan. "You said that five minutes ago, and five minutes before that. We get it: you don't want to be late. We'll get you home on time, don't worry. Stop being such a wet blanket. We're looking for an old abandoned mine that's supposed to be cursed. This is an exciting adventure – so stop ruining it."

Stiles' voice was sharp and cutting, his last remark biting. Isaac shrank back. His mouth slammed closed with a click, and he shut up. Far worse insults and threats had been hurled at Isaac in his short life – by voices much angrier, frightening, and dangerous than Stiles' – but he had never gotten used to the sting of words. The verbal anger that ripped through him, cleaving flesh from bone, leaving him exposed, vulnerable, and alone. Why did Stiles always speak to him so abruptly and sarcastically? He never spoke that way to Scott or Lydia. He never even used that tone with Jackson Whittemore. Isaac thought they were supposed to be friends.

The path widened and opened into a small clearing. Scott fell back to walk beside Isaac. That small, supportive smile was on his lips again. His eyes were warm and affectionate, two pools of melted chocolate. Scott often looked at Isaac like that, apologetic and compassionate, like Isaac was a battered puppy he had discovered on the street. Funny, Isaac thought, that he's the one with the puppy-dog eyes.

When Scott looked at him like that, Isaac always felt naked. Like Scott had managed to penetrate the mask and peer into his soul, read the terrible secrets he kept hidden inside. And for a moment he would feel both terrified and relieved. For just a moment he believed Scott knew.

But, of course, Scott didn't know. How could he? Isaac covered up the signs, crafted false explanations, poured forth lies easier than the truth. Hiding had become second nature. Yet, he chided himself, he needed to be more careful. He felt too relaxed around Scott, too comfortable. At times he even fooled himself into believing he could tell Scott anything. He needed to keep his guard up. He couldn't slip up. Even if Scott didn't know the truth, he suspected something. Could sense the darkness buried within. A strong scent or aura wafting off Isaac like the weak and sickly gazelle in the herd. An instinct: "This one is broken."

"My mom will kill me if I'm out past curfew," Scott empathized. "She's really strict when it comes to school nights."

"Yeah. My dad is too." Isaac didn't challenge Scott's word choice, though he doubted his friend had ever been afraid that his parent actually could kill him over a minor indiscretion, like breaking curfew.

Ahead of them, Stiles disappeared into a line of trees. He whooped loudly. "There it is!" The mine shaft was located several yards from a still-flowing brook, gurgling softly in the quiet air. The opening was small and black, supported by cracked wooden beams that were so old they could have been a part of Noah's ark.

Stiles ducked inside. He emitted a low, appreciative whistle that echoed off the claustrophobic walls. "This is awesome!" he declared. Isaac and Scott paused at the entrance. They inspected the opening and shared a disapproving look. Scott's eyebrow was cocked so high on his forehead it almost reached his hairline. Isaac could see his own uncertainty mirrored on Scott's face. He glanced up at the sky. The light was steadily diminishing and stars dotted the first navy swatches of night. Around them the woods quieted, daytime receding into hidden knolls and safe havens, and slowly came alive to its second self. Nocturnal voices and whispers: the song of crickets, the hooting of an owl, the throaty croak of a self-important toad announcing his presence.

Isaac peered into the cave again. In the shadows he could just make out the contrast of Stiles' fair skin, eerily pale in the dark pit, like a phantom haunting the abyss. A ghost searching for other ghosts who had come before him. Goosepimples prickled Isaac's arms. Beneath his cotton sweater he felt suddenly cold. What if there's something in there? he thought nervously. The logical part of his brain told him it was highly unlikely, considering the amount of noise Stiles was making. If anything was living in the cave – a bear or a coyote – it would have revealed itself before now. Another, louder voice in his mind, drenched in primal superstitions and childish fears, awakened in the absence of light and civilization, dreaded unexplained phenomena – restless spirits and malignant demons, monsters without faces or names.

Isaac wanted to leave. He wanted Stiles to smarten up and come out of there. It wasn't safe; it was getting late; they shouldn't be in the woods at night. He wanted to say as much, but he kept his mouth shut. Stiles had made his stance on Isaac's opinions perfectly clear.

Thankfully Scott, whose best friend status granted him immunity and an all-access pass to freely speak his mind, insisted: "Stiles, this isn't a good idea. That shaft looks ancient. It's definitely not safe. Come on. It's getting dark. Let's go home."

Stiles had underestimated the time it would take them to reach the mine, drawing as he was from old country maps from the library, which made the entire area seem smaller. He hadn't expected to lose the light of the sun, and now he found himself grossly unprepared. He had been so excited at the prospect of a haunted mine, he hadn't even thought to bring a flashlight – or anything. Idiot. The first stirrings of apprehension fluttered uneasily in his stomach. This had been a bad idea, he realized, but he didn't want to lose face. He had to keep going.

Stiles placed his palm flat against the rugged wall and fumbled ahead. He took another step forward cautiously, using his right foot to test for dips or holes. He could see a dim, blue light in the distance, as though at the end of a long tunnel. "I want to have a look around. Just come in. It's fine. I-AH!"

Stiles screamed.

Any concerns Isaac and Scott had for their own safety were superseded by their concern for Stiles. The boys rushed into the mine. Scott fetched his cellphone from his jeans' pocket and used the screen to see by. Stiles was sitting on the floor on his butt, his shoulders slouched forward. His eyes were wide with shock. He clutched at his head. He had knocked his face on a low-hanging beam he hadn't noticed. The blow had both frightened and injured him. Blood, warm and sticky, oozed from a cut on his forehead. The red rivulets matted in his eyebrow and trickled into his eye. The air in the mine was close and stale, smelling thickly of dust and copper.

Stiles was a gruesome sight. Scott handed his cell to Isaac, and commanded him to keep the light trained on Stiles. He removed his hoodie and then his t-shirt. He balled up the cloth and pressed it to Stiles' injury. "Ow," the boy whimpered.

"Stay still and hold that against your cut," Scott ordered. He crouched down so they were eye-level. He stared into Stiles' pupils, testing his vision with his finger.

"Dude, this would be so less awkward if you weren't half naked."

Scott rolled his eyes. "I don't think you have a concussion." He stood and pulled his sweater over his head, covering his bare torso. "We need to get you out of here. Careful now. Steady." Stiles attempted to climb to his feet on his own, but careened heavily. Isaac reached out, but Scott was the one to catch him. He wrapped Stiles' arm around his neck and started toward the exit.

The light from Scott's cell phone glinted off an object on the ground. Isaac stooped to pick it up. It was a penny – smooth and cool in his hand. A small circle nestled against his lifeline. He flipped it over, checking for a date. It was branded 1926. "Isaac, help me!" Scott directed. He had taken charge, slipping seamlessly into an authoritative role. Isaac thought he was a good person to have around in an emergency.

"Right!" Isaac pocketed the penny, and rushed forward to help. He put Stiles' other arm around his shoulders, and between the two of them, they carried Stiles' weight and helped him stagger out into the fresh air.

Stiles' eyes focused blearily on the surrounding woods. In the dark, and from this position, the area looked unfamiliar and alien, as if they had left one forest when they entered the cave and emerged into a different world altogether. "Alright, Stiles, which way?"

His head was pounding. Stiles freed his left arm from around Isaac's neck and pressed a fist to his aching temple. The chilly air rushed him all at once, and briefly arrested his lungs. Scott's brow furrowed. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Stiles took a deep breath. "But we, uh, have a problem."

At first Isaac didn't catch his meaning, but Scott understood immediately. He sighed and asked for his cellphone back. Isaac handed it to him. Scott lead Stiles farther from the mine, and settled him onto the smooth grass. "You realize I have to call your dad, right?"

Stiles groaned. He laid back on the grass, staring up at the night sky, and sighed dramatically. "That cave is cursed," he complained. Isaac realized then that they were lost. Scott gestured for him to sit down. He stepped to his left then swivelled to his right, pointing his phone first east, then west. Mercifully he had a few bars. "Might as well get comfy. We're going to be here a while."

Sheriff Stilinski reached them forty minutes later. He used an old service road he knew, which led to an old quarry not far from the mine. He was dressed in his full uniform and gripped a heavy-duty flashlight in his left hand. In his right, he held a hunting rifle. Two deputies flanked his sides, both carrying flashlights; one with a rifle, the other with a first-aid kit.

The boys were huddled under a tree, attempting to stay warm. Stiles had stopped bleeding, but his face was ashen, bleached by the blood loss and stark glare of the flashlights. As pallid as the crescent moon peeking through the trees. They stood when the officers approached – Stiles needing help up. He smiled sheepishly at his father. "Hi, Dad."

Sheriff Stilinski strode to his son. His boots were bulky and heavy. He stared at Stiles for a moment, his face portraying nothing of his thoughts. Then he grasped the boy's chin in his fingers and turned his head so he could inspect the injury. Stiles accepted this in calm silence. The sheriff released Stiles' face and stepped back. He quickly scanned the other two boys. His expression was stern. Isaac cringed back, waiting for the shouting he knew would come, the discipline. Punishment for their foolishness. Skin slapped red to match the blood clotted on Stiles' head.

Instead Sheriff Stilinski's face softened. He sighed and shook his head. "Not exactly where I expect to find three teenage boys on a Monday night. This is more of a Friday night activity," he joked. He shrugged off his heavy sheriff's jacket and draped it around his son's shoulders. The hand that had held Stiles' chin gently cupped the boy's cheek, then moved up to ruffle his tangled hair. "What am I going to do with you?" he admonished, but his voice was infused with affection.

"Let me off with a warning?" Stiles suggested hopefully.

"Fat chance, kiddo. You're grounded – for starters. But for right now, let's get you home." Sheriff Stilinski placed his hand protectively on Stiles' back and led him towards the car. Isaac noticed how Stiles' shoulders visibly relaxed at his father's touch, and the color began to creep back into his face. "Come on boys," the sheriff called. "We'll get some hot chocolate into you, and then I'll give you a ride home."

Isaac stepped into the Lahey house an hour and a half past curfew. He was late and – to make matters worse – he had been dropped off by a police vehicle. When the car parked out front, he caught a brief glimpse of a man's silhouette peering through the window before it disappeared. Sheriff Stilinski honked the horn as he pulled away from the curb; Isaac made an effort to smile and wave back cheerily. Nope, nothing wrong here.

His father was waiting for him at the front door. "What time do you call this?" the man barked. His words slurred. Isaac could smell the alcohol on his father's breath. A foul-smelling aftershave he drenched himself in almost nightly. Isaac choked on the stench. Empty bottles littered the small side table by the La-Z-Boy. The television was turned to a rerun of the previous night's ballgame. How long had his father been at it?

"I know it's late. I'm sorry, Dad. I-"

The first hit connected with his cheek. Isaac felt the curves of his father's knuckles jarring against bone. He stumbled backward. "When I set rules, I damn well expect them to be obeyed."

"I know. D-dad, I-"

"After all I do for you, goddamn ungrateful bastard. Either you drag your lazy ass home on time, or I'll fix it so your ass can't go anywhere. Showing up late and in a goddamn police car. You bring the fucking pigs to my door? What have you been saying?" Mr. Lahey advanced menacingly. Isaac stepped back instinctively, backing into the wall and nearly knocking over a lamp.

"Nothing. I wo-"

"You're a goddamn punk. Thank God your mother's in her grave, so she can't see what a goddamn prick her son turned out to be. Goddamn roughneck out there with those delinquent deadbeats you call friends. Causing trouble. Think you're tough, huh?! You and those goddamn fags!" Spittle sprayed Isaac's face as his father's ranting turned into shouting.

His father grabbed his arm. Calloused fingers dug sharply into the boy's skin. Isaac wondered vaguely if his father purposefully didn't cut his nails. "No, w-we d-didn't...I-" Isaac tried to explain, but the words wouldn't come. Fear stole his voice. His father would never have listened to an explanation anyway.

Mr. Lahey struck Isaac's face again. He knew tonight's beating was going to be bad. The abuse was always worse if his father had been drinking. The alcohol may have impaired his faculties, but it did nothing to lessen the strength of his blows. Tonight he was so mad he wasn't careful about hitting only the areas Isaac could hide. Tomorrow there would be bruises he couldn't explain, and he'd be forced to stay home from school.

Isaac cowered futilely against the barrage of punches and kicks. How intimately familiar were the shape of his father's hands, the curve of his knee, the power of his feet. Isaac knew every contour of his father's body in a way other kids never would. It was useless to deflect the blows, so he curled in on himself, trying to divert the damage from his vital organs. He tried to tune out the profanities spewing fusillade from his father's mouth. He tried to block out the names his father called him, tried not to let them affect him; he tried his best to focus on something else, anything else, to turn off his mind altogether, but the pain won out.

After Mr. Lahey had exhausted himself, he made one final comment that maybe next time his son would listen and get home on goddamn time. He tottered over to his chair, opened a fresh bottle of beer, and reclined back. He would spend all night there, vegging in front of the TV. Cheers erupted from the speakers as a Red Sox player rounded home plate.

Isaac was sprawled on the floor, assessing the damage done to his body. He ran through his mental checklist, moving his extremities by degrees and scanning for broken bones. His ribs were definitely bruised, if not cracked. He decided he should try to make it up to his room. He didn't want to spend the night on the living room floor, listening to his father slurping and belching, the oblivious crowds on TV delighting in trivial games while a boy fed on his own blood in his mouth.

Isaac dragged himself up soundlessly, so as not to disturb his father. Mr. Lahey was indifferent to his son's existence. Isaac crawled up the stairs, then limped painfully to the bathroom. He avoided his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror and tried to wash up as best he could. He shoved his hand into his pants' pocket. His fingers brushed thin metal. He extracted the coin and laughed bitterly. "Right, my lucky penny."

Isaac unbuttoned his jeans and dropped them to his ankles. He stepped out of them, urinated, and shuffled to his room. He was in too much pain to undress further. He carefully lowered himself onto his bed, feeling every agonizing inch of his six feet one inch. He rested on top of his blankets, knowing even the soft touch of his sheets would be too much for his sore body.

Isaac turned the coin in his long fingers. He held it close to the window, examining it by the light of the moon shining through his open curtains. The stars winked at him conspiratorially. The penny gleamed brightly, as though it was freshly minted and not nearly a century old. Isaac tested its weight in his palm. It was a wheat penny, made mostly of copper, heavier than the zinc pennies created in his lifetime. Instead of the Lincoln Memorial or the Union Shield, the back of the coin featured only the words "ONE CENT United States of America." The font reminded Isaac of the words he used to write in the mud with a stick when he was a child. On the front, there was good old Honest Abe, with his regal forehead and noble chin. But, wait, something was off. The portrait on the coin was backwards: Abraham Lincoln always faced right, but on this penny he faced left.

"Weird. This penny must have been printed incorrectly." Did that make it lucky or unlucky? His mother had told him you could wish on pennies.

Isaac reflected on the day's events. He tried to suppress the memories of tonight's abuse, still too vivid and fresh, repeating in his mind like a sports replay stuck on loop. He thought of the billions of people in the world, of the trillion desires they each had. He thought of the endlessness of the universe and the finite realm that was Beacon Hills. He thought of his own insignificant life swirling among the cosmos and his own feeble prayers.

He thought of Stiles and Sheriff Stilinski. He thought of the man's kind eyes, the color of sea spray as ocean waves crashed against the shore. He thought of the way those eyes looked at his son. He thought of the powerful yet tender quality of his voice, of his hands strong yet gentle, of his high forehead wrinkled with concern and his strong jaw wrinkled with a mixture of laugh and frown lines. He imagined the sheriff rushing to his son's aid, stepping through the tree-line: the tall, dark silhouette bringing light and safety, like a mythical hero.

Isaac curled his fingers over the penny and closed his eyes. "I wish I had a father like Sheriff Stilinski," he whispered, with only the stars and the tiny, copper portrait of Abraham Lincoln to hear him.