It takes a while before Stiles can really talk to his father again. It's only to be expected. Or at least that's what he keeps telling himself every time he makes an excuse to hide in his room, to leave the table, to get out of the house. And it is only to be expected- he was a possessed evil spirit who tricked and destroyed so many people. No Stiles you weren't a possessed evil spirit, your body was taken over by one. That's what Lydia keeps saying to him, every time she finds him counting his fingers in the library, looking frantically at the nearest book to check it still makes sense. It's a little distinction, but an important one. Apparently. All it means to Stiles is that he wasn't strong enough to keep his own body under control. Go figure, when you only had to walk your fingers five steps across his body to find some form of scarring from some stupid accident he got himself into.

But after a while of silence and escaping and pretending to be completely fine, it becomes too much for Stiles. He has his friends and they are brilliant, fantastic, understanding and all the other words he keeps murmuring to them every time they bring him out of a panic attack. But they're not his father. Not the man who has been trained to hear Stiles' nightmares before his son is even awake, the man who spent all those hours telling Stiles what each code on the police radio meant just to make his son a little happier.

Stiles needs to talk to his father.

He drives to the police station (ten fingers on the wheel, check; nothing in the rear view mirror, check; signs readable, check). Tries not to look at the empty spaces cropping up all over his second home. We're going to kill them all, Stiles. Well, he did a pretty good job. Not you, Stiles- you did nothing. His conscience has taken on the voice of Lydia these past few weeks. It makes a nice change from the twisted growl of a nogitsune, but doesn't mean it always makes him feel better.

His father is sat at the Sheriff's desk, deeply engaged in his work. Stiles knows this because he has one hand pressed to the back of his head and one pen tapping against the side of the desk every few seconds. Whenever he is asked where he gets his pen-tapping habits from, Stiles always points to his father. In truth it probably comes from the maladjustments going on inside his head but he prefers to think of it as a family trait rather than a biological mess-up. He knocks gently against the door (the wood is worn away at different points up as his knocking knuckles have got higher, fact). The Sheriff takes a moment to look up which shows just how long it has been since Stiles has visited, because usually he would recognise that clumsy knock of his son instantly.

He looks up after a moment, though. "What is…?" he begins, but then trails away when he sees who it is. He puts his pen down, leaning back in his chair with eyebrows shooting upwards into his significantly more wrinkled forehead. "Stiles? You okay?"

There, again. The sign that times have changed. Stiles has been wandering into this office since he could walk (and before that, fingers clenched round his mother's steady hands, his father coaxing him onwards while various deputies cheered on their toddler mascot). Stiles has come to this office for no reason more times than he has because he needs something. But not anymore. Stiles is getting tired of people asking if he's okay and it makes him even more frustrated that he can't blame them for it.

"Yeah, Dad- I'm fine." The words slip out automatically. It's his standard response at the moment, even if he knows nobody believes him. He keeps shaking, keeps counting his fingers, keeps waking up in the middle of the night with the image of his friends' blood all over his hands- of course nobody bloody believes him.

He sits down in the chair opposite, trying to find solace in the fact that it stills seems to be moulded around his shape. And for a moment, he feels like he's sitting beside countless versions of himself. Five year old Stiles who sits on his knees, then sits on the top of the chair, then clambers on the desk, then tries to sit on his father's shoulders. Eight year old Stiles who can't stop throwing lacrosse balls up into the air and catching them again (half the time, as can be seen by the chipped edges to most of the Sheriff's photo frames that litter his desk). Twelve year old Stiles who takes on the habit of curling up his legs onto the cushion, as if he can escape the world by not touching the floor, who wears the empty space of his mother with care because he doesn't yet know what to do with it.

Stiles wonders what those versions of himself would think of the chipped and cracked person he is now. They would probably nudge Scott and whisper something snarky that would bring his friend to tears of laughter. Stiles hasn't made Scott cry with laughter for a long time now. He's made him cry, yes, but for entirely different reasons. It wasn't you that made him cry, you didn't kill Allison.

"Buddy, you still there?"

With a jolt, Stiles realises that he has sat down at the desk and not said anything. For how long, he's not sure. If he's honest, he keeps forgetting to keep track of time. His father is sat across from him, pen poised above whatever it he's doing. The question is asked with a light concern, but it has an edge to it. Like buddy, are you still there or has that sly old fox returned? Stiles knows that there is no demon left in his head, but that doesn't necessarily encourage him. If there's no demon, why does he still feel out of control? It's to be expected, Stiles- you saw your own hands take ahold of a blade and push it further into your best friend.

"Shut up, Lydia," Stiles whispers this under his breath, barely audible. But his father hears and lets out a gentle chuckle, rocking back in his chair.

"Your mum doesn't leave me alone either."

Stiles' eyes shoot up from where they've been determinedly fixed on the ground. On the faint scuff marks his trainers have been making since his legs were long enough to touch the floor. "I-" he begins, but his Dad raises his hand to bring him to a halt.

"Stiles, let's just agree that you hearing Lydia's voice occasionally is not the biggest of your problems. Now, are you here for a reason or did you just come to watch me file?"

This was perhaps the biggest difference between Stiles and his father. Stiles could walk miles around the point he was trying to make, but his father went as the crow flies. To be honest, it drives Stiles mad but only because he knows it gets results (and that he knows his father knows this too, the crafty bastard).

"I just, well…It's been a while since I came to the station…wanted to see how things were going…" It's a pathetic mumble and they both know it. His father watches him for a moment, that typical look of disbelief on his face. Like a disbelief that he's managed to have a son who is so off the edge.

"You don't know why you came, do you?"

"Nope."

"Not a damn clue."

"Not one." Stiles has to laugh after a second, shaking his head as his father watches him with that other typical look he sometimes receives. That look of utmost pride that makes Stiles feel like he isn't doing enough to deserve it.

"Kid, you're doing alright…You know that right?"

It's only taken a moment for things to shift, and suddenly Stiles is counting his fingers again. Ten, safe. Check the poster behind his dad, read each word. Safe. "Am I?" His eyes flicker back to his father now and there's a desperation there. Stiles remembers when he went onto medication for the first time, and his father found him trying to throw all the bottles away. He told him he was doing alright then too. And Stiles shouldn't need to be reminded of that because he knows deep down that he's right. His father is completely correct. He should be constantly bed-bound, unable to communicate with anyone, unable to sleep at all. But he's not. He's even gone to school for a few days. But it's not enough. He wants to feel safe, he wants to wake up in the morning with a worry that doesn't involve death or heartbreak or general destruction. He wants to stop seeing blood on his hands.

His father is silent for a moment and Stiles knows that this is him chewing through the problem. The case of the broken-down son, that's what it would say on his file. Probably. At least he doesn't start stringing up links on the board behind him. "Yes, you are…Stiles, you've been through more than most people go through in their entire lives. And you're still here, still fidgeting in the same chair your mother sat in when she went into labour." There's a crack in his voice there, a tiny fracture line. But they are both far too used to that to need to pause and comment upon it. The break just gets left behind in the dust of the conversation. "You need to give yourself a break- hey, you need to give yourself a medal."

"A medal? Dad- Allison is dead."

His father winces, then pulls himself up onto his feet. "Lydia isn't. Neither is Scott, or that new one, the one with the…y'know," he gestures a vague shape of a sword and Stiles sighs at his father.

"Kira?"

The Sheriff points a confirming finger in his direction, a proud smile on his face. Like 'hey son, I'm still keeping up with your crazy friends, aren't I impressive?'. When Stiles doesn't react to his attempt at humour, he is forced to try something else. He comes round the table to Stiles' side, and rests back against the wood with arms folded across his chest. "Remember that time you stole my keys?"

"Which time?" Stiles asks, and there's a whisper of a smile hiding in between the creases of his frown.

The Sheriff can't help but smile back, even though he has been trying to discourage such behaviour since his son knew how to unclip the keys from his belt buckle. "The time when you were twelve, with that girl who got robbed on the street round the corner from Scott's place."

Stiles bites his lip, and nods to show he remembers. But really, how could he forget? He hasn't actively thought about it in years, but the memory remains fresh like the daffodils growing atop Allison's grave. It was only a few months after his mother had died, the wound still red-raw, still tender to the touch. Still painful enough for his father to need to numb it away with a bottle of whisky. It was that period of the Sheriff's life which will make Agent McCall ask a hollow-eyed Stiles years later: Is your father drinking again?

That night, Stiles had been putting the latest empty bottle in the recycling, vaguely wondering why he took such care to drop it in carefully so as not to disturb his father, when his father's radio buzzed on the table. 211 on East Bridgeside, any available squad cars please assemble ASAP. Admittedly 12 year old Stiles thought a 211 was a lost child; his skills in decoding the police radio wasn't quite up to scratch yet. In fact he had confidently told Scott the day before that a 138 was a spotted UFO, when in actual fact it was drunk and disorderly (which is why a few months later Scott rushes out to the sky with his binoculars because his best friend tells him his father has gone to a 138).

Stiles had been fascinated in the job his father did since he had worked it out what 'police' meant. He had been in his father's car more times than not, even had his own little cubby hole in the station where the receptionist, Janet, let him store his homework. He knew exactly what he needed to do in that situation, from countless times of doing it in the past: ignore the radio because his father was in no fit state to help out and go to bed.

But he didn't. Of course he didn't. Stiles does what he thinks is best, like he always does. With deft fingers better suited to a thief (after all Stiles didn't learn purely from the good guys), he stole his father's car keys from his belt. And off he went to the garage. Of course he didn't get very far because he couldn't actually drive. The end of the road is how far he got, before the car skidded and hit another car parked. Fortunately he was barely at running speed, and nobody was hurt (except for Stiles' already battered pride). In fact, what hurt more was when he had to go home, wake his father and tell him where his squad car was, and face the look of utter despair, and hear the break in his voice: "Why the hell would you do that, Stiles?"

He remembers the incident, but he doesn't get why his father is bringing it up now. "I dented your car, you shouted at me when I told you…you sent me to Scott's for the weekend because you needed a break…What's your point?" He doesn't mean to sound so biting but he's tired and he wants his father to get to the part where he's meant to feel better.

The Sheriff nods his head towards the window of his office, where one can just make out the silhouette of that particular dented police car. "That dent is still there, and every time I look at it I can't help but smile. You know why? Because it reminds me that one night I was so out of it that my son decided he needed to do my job for me. It reminds me that my son has never once wanted to do anything but help." The Sheriff leans forward, places a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Stiles, you deserve a medal because that demon only found you because you sacrificed yourself for me, just like you dented my car when you tried to help someone you didn't even know. You might be feeling dented right now but so is my car, and that hasn't let me down in all these years…you get what I'm saying, kiddo?"

His father squeezes his shoulder and Stiles knows his words are true, know they should be warming that cold pit in his stomach. But all he can think is that if had left that car alone, his father wouldn't have had to explain at work how the dent got there, admit that he had been in an alcohol-fuelled sleep while his twelve-year old son stole his car. It had all added to the pile of reasons why his father was constantly fighting to prove himself in his job, right? He knows his father is trying to help but it just brings back that feeling of guilt, the panicky sensation in his throat like he's about to throw up. Even your father can't make this go away, Stiles. Little boy running to his daddy, pathetic. Lydia's voice has twisted itself into the voice the nogitsune twisted from his own vocal chords. Never trust a fox, Scott. His hands start shaking then, as if he's fighting back against the urge to thrust an Oni's blade into the stomach of his father, just like he did to his best friend.

Stiles jumps up rapidly, almost sending the chair flying back. "I…I have to go." He doesn't wait for his father to try and stop him; he just runs from the office, from the police station. He keeps running and at some point he realises he is in the woods but then he just panics even more because if he's forgetting how he got here then maybe he isn't really free. The leaves break his fall as he crumbles to the ground, hands going to his temples and squeezing tight because he wants to push the darkness out of his head once and for all.

All it does though is make his eyesight prickle into fuzziness and make his head pound. He gives up, presses his forehead into the crinkling of the leaves. What's happened to us Stiles? This time the voice is squeaky, full of optimism, full of up-and-downs because hyperactivity hasn't yet been stamped down by pill packets. And when Stiles looks up, he can see the five year old version of himself swinging a branch around his head. And Stiles realises that he hasn't run to a random point of the wood, but to the fallen tree that came down in a storm before he was even born. It's a spot that he came to with his parents when he was little. They would sit on the fallen tree and revel in their son finally having the space he needed to run. "Fly little bird", his mother would say, before ruffling his hair and sending him off into the wilderness. Years later, as Claudia lay in a hospital bed and showed Stiles the careful sewing she had been doing all day, he asked: "How did you just let me free in those woods? Weren't you scared of losing me?"

Claudia had placed a hand on his cheek, cupped his jawline and looked at him with an unusual amount of clarity for her condition then. "You always came back, Stiles. You just seemed to know where we were. You sniffed it out."

He's sniffed it out again, that's for sure. And that makes him feel a little better, makes him sit up from his crumpled position. He hasn't drifted to some random point to plot some horrible murder like his nogitsune shadow would have had him do. He has drifted to his mother, and that feels good.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, looks at the Caller ID. Scott. He accepts the call, places it against his ear. "Scott?"

His best friend's voice sounds fuzzy but he knows that it's just the poor signal. "Where are you, Stiles? Your dad just called, said you took off…You okay?"

Stiles looks around at the trees, feels the breeze rustling at the leaves. He feels his heart slowing down to a steady thud and feels his ten fingers completely under his control. And then he feels a gentle tugging of a smile as he realises that his father was right. He's dented, scratched. But he's still got fuel in the tank and he's not ready to stop just yet. "Yeah, just needed some space. I know that sounds like my usual crap but it's actually true this time." Scott laughs on the other end of the line, and the relief is so thick that Stiles is surprised it can fit through the tiny holes of his phone's speakers.

"Want me to come get you?"

"Nah, I'm good. I'll be over later, you need help with that History work."

"I've done it already, Stiles."

Stiles grins, feeling himself returning in the form of his oh-so-mighty sarcasm muscle. "Yeah, and I turn into a mermaid every Monday."

"Nice image."

"I know. Don't lie to me again or I'll come round your house dressed as a mermaid, and climb into your bed while you're sleeping."

Scott groans, then hangs up, clearly satisfied that his friend is okay. He wouldn't be painting such strange scenarios in his mind otherwise. Indeed, Stiles gets to his feet with a steadiness that he hasn't felt in days. He knows this isn't a miracle moment of recovery for him, knows that tonight he will still be shivering under his covers. But it's a start.

And because it's a start and because he hasn't forgotten the way she gripped his shoulder tight, he doesn't go home just yet. He texts his father, apologises for running out and tells him not to worry. Then he walks across town, comes to her door, rings the bell. And perhaps Scott called her first, or perhaps Allison keeps an eye on them all and keeps them up to date, or perhaps she doesn't just sense the dead but the desperate. But when Lydia opens the door and sees him there, she doesn't look surprised at all. Not one bit.