"Mommy! Mommy! Look at me!" The little boy yelled. He slid slowly and clumsily down the side of the hill, his father's hand clasped firmly around the boy's. He squeaked as he stumbled, trying to keep his balance on the tiny skis attached to his feet.

"Woah, there son," His father chuckled. The two slowly but surely came down to their back porch. A woman with the same eyes as her little boy waited for them with a tray of hot cocoa. She picked the boy up in her arms.

"I am so proud of you, moja mała śnieżka!" She cooed at the three-year-old. He smiled. "One day, Mieczyslaw, you will be amazing, but now it's time for some hot chocolate."

"Cocoa!" He squealed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pop, pop,pop. Pellets smacked into the targets over 150 yards away. "Good job, kid," The man standing next to him said. It was his neighbor, Mr. Gerard. His son Red and Mieczyslaw, now called Stiles, had become fast friends over the 7 years they had known each other. Stiles scoffed at the remark.

"I missed most of them," The 8 year old said. It was true, most of the targets had splatters in the outer rings, two didn't have any at all, and one had a lucky shot right next to the bull's eye.

"You hit most of them. That's good for a new shooter. Don't doubt yourself."

"Yessir."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stiles and his father sat in his now dead mother's baby blue Jeep. Tears welled in his father's eyes as his head rested against the seat. "It's okay, Dad. We're okay. Well, maybe not now but we'll be okay eventually," Stiles said, rubbing the older man's forearm, "If this is what you think we need to do to move on, I'm with you. I trust you, Dad. You can always take me to the Sierra Nevadas over the weekend. I've done my research, there's a ski club there that does junior biathlon. I miss Mom just as much as you do, but she would want us to be strong." His dad pulled him into a hug across the console.

"When did you get so wise, kid?" Stiles rolled his eyes.

"Wise? I'm not so sure about that. Just smart." The Stilinski men returned to their seats. His father turned the ignition. "To Beacon Hills!" The 11 year old cried.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stiles shook the box curiously. "What is it?" he asked his father, now the Sheriff of Beacon County. He smiled.

"Well, you wanted to compete in biathlon, right?" The boy nodded. "You need something to do it with, don't you." The 12 year old's face lit up and he scrambled to unwrap it. Inside the book laid a bright blue biathlon rifle. The boy launched himself into his father's arms. The man chuckled. "The closest competition is in 3 weeks, are you going to tell Scott?" Stiles hummed.

"No, I just want to be better before I try to show off. Also, it might make him jealous. He's asthmatic,"He commented. Little did either know, things would change in the next five years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stiles, now 17, stumbled into his room tiredly, face planting onto his bed. "Welcome home," His dad said from the doorway. The boy grunted. "How was it?" Stiles fumbled around in the bag discarded beside the bed, throwing a gold medal at him.

"I'm in second for the Cup, now," He muttered. Stiles could sense his father's smile through his back. "Now let me sleep off the jet lag. I everyone's having a get together tomorrow and I'll probably be interrogated. Love you." The Sheriff smiled and turned to leave.

"I have to get going, son. I'm so proud of you." Stiles smiled into his pillow.

"Thanks, dad." Stiles then drifted off into sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, Stiles shuffled into Derek's loft and flopped onto the new couch, head-first. "Stilinski's back!" Isaac drawled from the kitchen.

"'Sup," The tired teen grunted from his position. Erica then came in, a whirlwind of blonde hair and leather, and tackled the boy on the couch.

"Where have you been?!" She screeched. Stiles groaned under her weight.

"That's my question," Derek said as he came down the spiral staircase. Stiles rolled his eyes.

"You may not be able to tell, but I'm tired and sore as hell and really only want to tell this only once. Just wait until everyone gets here and I'll tell you, okay." The two 'wolves reluctantly agreed, not that the resident human had left any room for debate.

20 minutes later, the whole pack- minus Allison, who was in France- sat together in the living room. "So where have you been, Stilinski?" Jackson drawled.

"That is an insanely long story that requires time and good story telling skills, both of which I have. So pop a squat, this is going to be a while"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stiles looked up from his homework when someone knocked on his door. "Hi Dad," He said simply. The door opened and the elder Stilinski stepped through.

"Hey, son," The Sheriff drawled awkwardly. He sat down next to the boy on his bed. Stiles shut his laptop and looked at the man.

"What's up?" He asked nervously, leaning his head on his father's shoulder. The elder hummed, curiosity prevalent in his tone.

"Mostly I'm just wondering why I'm getting eMails from Team USA." Stiles paled slightly at the comment, then sighed in defeat.

"They want me to compete in the Olympics next year. I won the cup, I'm currently the best junior biathlete in the world. They've been pestering me too. But I don't know if I want to do it or not. If I decided to do it I was going to try to convince you but leave it alone until then." Stiles admitted with a blush. His father threw his arm around his shoulders.

"I would be okay with it, son. You know that I'll support you wherever you go with your biathlon dreams. Even if that means you go back to Colorado." He said. Stiles laughed nervously.

"That's the thing." He said, "They said since I'm 17, I don't have to move to the training center, that they'd send someone out here instead. Of course, I'd be the fourth guy for biathlon on Team USA so I'd have to meet the other's so we can prep for relay but that would be on, like, winter break or something. Even with that they still want me to live there for maybe a month before the games. Nothing I've read from them is unreasonable. What do you think?" The boy's father considered this.

"What do you think your chances of medaling are?" The Sheriff asked simply.

"Small, minuscule even. I'd go up against the best in the world, Dad. I'm not sure I can do it," The younger admitted, shame evident in hi posture

"You're Stiles Stilinski, when have you ever let self consciousness ever get to you?" His father chuckled. Said boy rolled his eyes. "And if you wanted to train in Colorado, I would let you."

"I know, Pops. I'd rather be here, with my family," He said simply. Pride radiated from his father's smile. Tomorrow, he would have to tell the pack, but for now, he would sit with his father, content.