"Can I talk to you?"
John lifts his head from his hands and looks up at Stiles hovering uncertainly just inside the living room. He takes a deep breath, hopes it'll be a calming one, and asks what he knows he is supposed to, what a good father would ask.
"Everything okay?" The words don't come easily, not like John knows they should, but he's tired, so goddamn tired.
"Can I ask you something?"
John hates those words. He found them endearing at one point, he's sure, back when his son's apparent goal wasn't to make his life a living hell. He remembers when those five words would be followed up by some ridiculous, childish question that always brought a smile to John's face. But Stiles is no longer a child. Now the subsequent questions were equal parts ridiculous and infuriating.
He takes another deep breath and feels the slightest twinge of guilt when Stiles looks down and bites at his bottom lip. It fades quickly though, frustration taking its place.
"Shoot," John tells him. He wants to take it back the second it's out of his mouth, wants to postpone this conversation until he actually feels like he can handle talking to his son. He doesn't want to be angry, he doesn't want to fight with his child, but Stiles just makes everything so damn hard that sometimes John can't help it. He tries, he does, but he's been pushed to the brink and he knows damn well that it's going to take every ounce of self-control he can muster not to snap at Stiles.
Stiles mumbles something under his breath and John pinches the bridge of his nose, counts down from three, and asks Stiles to repeat himself.
"Do you think it's my fault?" Stiles says and it's still a whisper, still half-mumbled, but John hears him.
"Look, Stiles, I can't even begin to imagine what might've possessed you and Scott to steal a police transportation van and kidnap one of your classmates, but-"
"Not that."
John looks back at his son, quirks an eyebrow. "Then what?"
"Mom."
"Stiles, I don't know what you're-"
"Do you think I killed her? Do you think that's my fault?"
Stiles is a little louder now and John can pinpoint the waver in his voice, can hear the break in his words. John thinks, if he listens closely, he can actually hear his world grind to a halt on its axis.
"What?" he asks, trying to make sense of the situation, trying to keep his world from stopping. "No. No, of course not. What the hell brought this up?"
"I just – I just need to know if you blame me for that," Stiles tells him assertively, nodding his head emphatically. John can still hear the unsteadiness to his words though, sees the tears glistening in his son's eyes as he nods.
"Stiles, no. No. I don't blame you for that. God, I…" John trails off, shaking his head uncomprehendingly.
"…did – did you used to?" Stiles asks, voice anything but assertive.
John doesn't understand. He doesn't understand why his son is bringing this up now, tonight, but he needs to make sure Stiles knows he doesn't blame him. He never did.
"Stiles, why would you even think that?"
Stiles looks away again, shrugging his shoulders and John can see the tension in his son's muscles in the utter lack of fluidity that goes with the motion. He stands up and takes a step towards his son but stops when Stiles takes a step back. John doesn't understand.
"What's going on, kid?"
"Nothing," Stiles responds automatically.
"Stiles, she was sick," John says carefully. "That was nothing to do with you."
"I didn't stop her," Stiles says, shaking his head vigorously. "I should have stopped her."
The sudden onslaught of painful memories makes John wish he was still sitting down. He remembers the figure lying in his wife's hospital bed, remembers thinking it was nothing but a cruel shadow of the beautiful woman she had once been. He remembers how she could no longer tell when she was awake, remembers her screaming at monsters that weren't there, monsters John couldn't fight against. He remembers how afraid Stiles was of her. He remembers the doctor telling him that the dementia had made her weak, susceptible to infection, remembers the doctor saying she would be dead within days and to stay with her, be with her. He remembers the phone call that had taken him away from that hospital room, from the sleeping shadow, from his sad little boy. He remembers Stiles begging him to stay, remembers refusing because there was a pile up and this was his job. He remembers Stiles trying to climb up into his arms, begging to come along, and John had refused again. He remembers handing a squirming Stiles to nurse McCall, remembers how Stiles had started crying, pleading for John not to leave. John can still hear his son saying, "Dad, don't leave me! Please! Please I want to go with you, daddy! Don't go!" But the shadow had been at rest and John thought it would be okay. So he left.
He remembers when he got back to the hospital and saw Stiles sitting in the waiting room with his face buried in his tiny hands. He remembers being confused until Melissa materialized seemingly out of nowhere and approached him, grabbing his arm and pulling him a few feet away. He remembers Melissa telling him, "She's gone, John," remembers how the words sounded so simple but meant something so unbelievably complex. He remembers asking if it was the infection, remembers Melissa hesitating before shaking her head. He remembers his confusion and the way he couldn't comprehend when Melissa tells him she was awake and there was a window and she jumped. She jumped. Stiles was there and she jumped. He remembers picking a silent Stiles up and taking him home. Those pleads Stiles had screamed, begging John to stay, ended up being the last words his son spoke to him in nearly a year.
They've come so far since then. John won't lose him again. He won't.
"Stiles, you were eight."
"But I -"
John cuts him off, not willing to let Stiles blame himself. "I should have been there," John says and Stiles stares up at him questioningly. "At the hospital."
"Dad, it's okay."
"Damn it, Stiles, it isn't okay!" he shouts, unable to control his anger at himself because Stiles should not be the one offering comfort since he's the parent.
He's the parent.
John watches a tear roll down his son's cheek, sees his son's bottom lip quiver before her bites it hard enough to make it bleed, hears his son sniffle and try to hold it all in. But he's been holding it all in for eight years and John won't let him do it alone any longer. He takes another step closer to Stiles and stops, not wanting to watch his son back away from him again. He stares at Stiles helplessly, watching as Stiles valiantly attempts to pull himself together. John stays where he is, but opens his arms in invitation, hoping with everything he has that his son will accept. Stiles stares at him with tears shining in his eyes before rushing forward and barreling into his father's chest, gripping fistfuls of John's shirt tightly. John catches him easily, returning Stiles's tight grip tenfold.
"I'm sorry," he says, words muffled from where his mouth is pressed against the top of his son's head. "I am so sorry, Stiles." And he isn't sure what part he's apologizing for, he's made so many wrong decisions. "I should have been there," he repeats because it feels important, like he'll never be able to assert that fact enough. He feels Stiles struggle to shake his head in disagreement from where it's pressed against his father's chest.
"I didn't even try to stop her," Stiles whispers. "Why didn't I try to stop her?"
John feels his heart break when Stiles's words break off into a sob.
"You were scared," John answers gently. Stiles only sobs harder. "It's okay, Stiles, it's okay. I should have known better than to leave you there alone" He knows the second the words leave his mouth that they come out wrong, that it sounds like John does blame him, and Stiles is pushing away, trying to shove John off him, but he won't let go. Not right now, not ever. "Stiles, no. You couldn't have done anything," John tells Stiles firmly, his hands locked tightly onto Stiles's biceps. "I didn't mean it that way, I just meant you shouldn't have had to be there alone." Stiles looks at him skeptically but he is no longer trying to pull away so John continues, figuring he's on the right track. "I should have been with you, Stiles."
Stiles doesn't agree or disagree, tears still falling freely down his face, and John tugs him back into a hug that's considerably tighter and more desperate than the first.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he tells Stiles again and again as his son's tears soak through his shirt. John knows what he's apologizing for this time: for eight years of shitty parenting. For eight years of letting his child believe he could have been the reason for his mother's death. For eight years of letting his baby believe his own father blamed him for something that was never even in his control. "I should have been there. You were just a child. It wasn't fair to put that on you. I should have been the one to shoulder that burden, not you. I'm sorry, Stiles." He feels the slight nod of his son's head as he continues to rub a hand along Stiles's spine. "I wasn't there for you after, I know that," John says, hating himself for falling into the bottle and stranding his son. He presses a kiss to the crown of Stiles's head, words mumbling against his son's buzzed hair. "But I'm here for you now. I'm here."