Chapter Text
Willow's never liked police stations.
Last time she was in a police station, it was loud, with cops talking a mile a minute about whatever case they were working on with other cops while a man in the corner of the room yelled for a sandwich, that he'd been there for hours and was sick and tired of waiting. She'd sat there, waiting with a female cop beside her, chatting with another cop and completely ignoring Willow. The woman hadn't even noticed her playing with a nail from the floor until she'd cut herself on it and started crying for her daddy to fix it.
This police station, on the other hand, is fairly quiet as she waits, watching the police officer that brought her in talking to an older man with thinning hair. The officer manning the front desk types away on the computer, occasionally glancing up to check that Willow hasn't moved.
Willow chews on her cheek, staring at the glass that separates her from the officers talking. The red haired officer - the one that brought her in - gestures animatedly, pointing at Willow and drawing the man's gaze to her. Willow's eyes snap down, staring at the ink on her finger until she's certain they can't still be looking at her. The entire situation makes her nauseous- actually facing the officer would just make her cry. Man, she did not think this through.
A loud creak echoes through the room as a door opens. She glances up as the older man enters the room, the redhead gone. Probably flitting off to arrest another unsuspecting citizen, the -
"Willow Lahey?"
Willow stiffens as the older man speaks, having stopped in front of her. She slowly looks up, meeting his eyes. "Yes?" Her voice comes out small, an awkward squeak. Man, way to show how uncomfortable you are, dumbass.
"I'm Sheriff Skilinski. How about we go back to my office?" He nods toward the door he just walked through before smiling gently at her. Willow's stomach sinks at the idea - that means she's somehow completely fucked up. How she managed that just by setting foot on her uncle's porch, who knows, but she must have.
She swallows and gets to her feet, smoothing down her skirt and making sure it hasn't caught before following him through the door and down an undecorated hallway into a nice looking office. She scans the room, eyes settling on a picture of the sheriff, arm thrown around a boy with a buzzcut around her age. Okay, so maybe he’ll go easier on her, probably having a kid around her age. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking? Yeah, that’s definitely just wishful thinking.
Willow sits carefully, watching the sheriff as he sits on the other side of the desk. He pulls a pad of paper and pen closer to himself before looking up at her curiously. "So, Willow Lahey," he begins, lingering on her last name, "Want to tell me what you were doing at the Lahey house at almost 11 at night?"
Okay, so he's starting out easy. She can work with that. "I came to visit my uncle and cousin."
His eyebrow raises just slightly enough for her to notice, her stomach sinking. “I didn’t know Lahey had a niece.” Yeah, okay, maybe that should have been expected.
“Um… he does,” she says slowly, chewing her lip. “You can ask him. He’ll confirm it.” Hopefully.
Stilinski pauses, pen hovering over the pad of paper before continuing. “Right. I guess the real question is why you decided to show up now?”
“Because the bus dropped me off at 10:30 and I had to walk there.” Pausing, she takes in how weird these questions are. Part of her itches to ask where John is, why he hasn’t been contacted about the girl who appeared on his porch claiming to be his niece or why he hasn’t arrived to check her out. Instead, she answers his question. “I just discovered I’m his niece a few days ago. It took me this long to get out here.”
That seems to catch his attention. He cocks his head slightly, eyebrows furrowing. “You didn’t know he was your uncle?”
“No.”
He’s quiet a moment, watching as she fidgets with the hem of her dress, nerves lighting her veins on fire. The longer the silence sinks in, the more she can feel her cheeks beginning to burn, heat flooding her system. “I - um - I’ve been in the foster care system since I was four,” she blurts out, eager to break the silence. “I looked in Ms. Anderson’s - uh, my social worker’s - file on me and saw it.” Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shi-
Stilinski jots something down. Part of her is tempted to just grab it from him, scan it quickly before he grabs it back, but she stays seated. He sets down the pen and looks at her, squinting slightly. “Willow, does Ms. Anderson know you’re here?”
And there it is, the question she literally set herself up for and has been hoping would never leave his lips.
She doesn’t say anything, just tries to ignore the warm, metallic taste against her tongue as she finally breaks through the skin of her cheek. He sighs quietly, leaning back in his chair. “Give me her name and number.”
I can’t go back, I can’t. Willow looks at the floor, carefully avoiding his eyes as she runs her fingers over her necklace, tracing the symbol as she shakes her head slightly. Never say a word to the police, Willie. She should have listened to Jayda.
“I already have people figuring out where you’re from, Willow,” Stilinski says, frowning. Panic bubbles in her system, heat moving from her cheeks down her neck. This wasn’t supposed to happen, goddammit! “I’ll get the information either way, but if you cooperate, maybe-”
“I want to talk to my uncle,” she blurts out, the words falling off her lips like a prayer. “I - I have to talk to him, it's important. I won’t say anything else until I can talk to him.” She holds her necklace tightly, the spirals digging into her palm.
Stilinski closes his eyes, takes a deep breath before opening them again. “Willow, I’m sorry. But John Lahey was murdered yesterday.”
Time stops.
Willow's heart skips a beat before launching into a marathon. No… no, no, no, this can't be happening. He can't be- Her breath hitches as the realization dawns on her. I don’t have a chance anymore. He’s going to send me back.
Stilinski says something, but it sounds far away, far from where she’s drowning. She can already picture Ms. Anderson’s face, red with barely concealed rage, hissing, “ It’s time to go back home.” She can’t, she can’t go back to the Robinson’s, not with him there.
A warm touch on her shoulder pulls her from the depths as Stilinski’s face appears in front of her, just inches away. She barely keeps herself from jumping back, instead freezing in place. He quickly pulls his hand away from her, leaving her shoulder cold. For just a moment she wishes she hadn’t spazzed - no one’s touched her so easily like that since Jayda - no, not now. Not when you’re already losing it.
“Willow, are you okay?” He asks quietly from where he squats in front of her, concern etched on his face.
She opens her mouth - to say what, she doesn’t know - but instead a choked sob escapes her lips. She clasps her hands to her mouth, trying to hide it, but it’s way too late for that now. “Oh god,” she forces out, closing her eyes to keep tears from spilling over. “I’m a fucking mess.” The ridiculousness of the situation hits hard - here she is, losing her shit in front of a stranger that’s just going to send her right back - and she sighs, shaking her head. “No, I’m not okay.”
His hand twitches, almost like he wants to comfort her but chooses not to. Instead, he sits next to her on the couch, careful not to touch her as he says, “You can talk to me, Willow.”
“I can’t go back,” she whispers, almost too quiet to be heard. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
Please don’t make me.
“Why?”
She can feel her body beginning to shake the way it does when she gets too overwhelmed and closes her eyes, squeezes her necklace until the pain radiates through her palm. Can feel her breathing picking up against her will as she wipes away tears with her wrist, thoughts surging through her mind. Don’t tell him.
But what if he believes me?
But what if he doesn’t? Just like Ms. Anderson, just like the Robinsons-
Jayda’s voice rings through her head. Take a deep breath, Willie. Just breathe.
She takes a deep breath, focuses on the air entering and exiting her lungs.
Now, think rationally. Don’t let your fear control you.
Willow looks at Stilinski, blinking back tears as he watches her, eyebrows knitted. Ms. Anderson hasn’t looked at her that way in a long time, with so much concern and worry.
“You can trust me, Willow,” he says gently.
Never trust the cops, Willie. But if she doesn’t trust this one, she’ll be sent back to the group home - or worse. Jayda had never been in a situation like this, and she’d always been an excellent liar. Willow? Half the time she can’t even lie about not doing her homework, nonetheless something like this. And the idea of living with this any longer is exhausting, makes her whole body feel heavy with the weight of it.
If she doesn’t tell him, the outcome remains the same, branching off in two ways she doesn’t want. If she tells him, maybe a third path will open up.
Willow takes one last deep breath. And then she starts talking.