The night his son disappeared the Sheriff was at work, just like he always was. When he got home, the air felt thick and the lack of sound made itself prominently clear. Ignoring this the Sheriff went to his bedroom and passed out, tired from a hard day of work. Not even two hours later he woke up to the shrill sound of his phone. Not even glancing at it he answered, yawning slightly.
"Who is this?" he asked, sitting up from his bed.
"Where's Stiles?" a panicked voice replied.
"What are you talking about, Scott?"
"Stiles is missing."
The Sheriff got out of bed, any trace of sleep cleared away. Panic vibrated in his veins and he felt numb. He knew Scott was saying something, probably something important, but only one thought ran threw his head:
Where's my son? Where's my son? Where's my son?
He ran to his son's room, terrified to even think of the possibility. He swung the door open and cried out.
The room was a mess. His desk laid on its side, one of the legs broken in half. His bed covers littered the floor in ripped shreds. The sight made the Sheriff wake up, finally hearing Scott's voice again.
"I'm coming over."
Barely registering the sound of being hung up on, the elder Stilinski screamed, knocking books down from the bookshelf. God, what had he done? Millions of possibilities ran through his head. Did somebody kidnap him? Or maybe he ran away. But if he ran away, why was his room such a mess? Was it to convince them that he had been kidnapped? Maybe a werewolf got him. Maybe his little baby boy was dead…
Screaming in agony, the Sheriff broke down for the second time in his life. He couldn't lose Stiles, anybody but Stiles. The Stilinski barely registered the sound of a door slamming, and the thud of footsteps.
"Sheriff? Oh my god," Scott paused, seeing the state of Stiles's room. But he quickly focused back on the elder when he noticed the man's lack of air. Scott's eyes widened and he knelt beside the old man. He seemed to be thinking at light speed.
"I need you to count with me, okay? Come on, one, two, three, four, five. You can do it, come on."
The panic attack passed away and Scott led the Stilinski to the living room. The Alpha quickly made the Sheriff sit down and then proceeded to call the cops.
After being questioned for hours and still no closer to finding Stiles, the Sheriff sat on his couch and stared at the wall. This was all his fault. He let Stiles down, didn't convince him that Donavon and Allison wasn't it fault. Instead he had used his job to forget. This was karma's doing. God, he was such a shitty person. Claudia didn't want to stay with him and now Stiles left too. He didn't deserve happiness.
His head swarm with thoughts as if they were bees, buzzing around and stinging him. Noah didn't even remember opening his cabinet and reaching for the bottle he had bought earlier. All he remembered was the first sip, then the second, and then the third, until finally the whole bottle was empty and he was working on the second. The Stilinski felt blissful and free. The agony he had felt only hours ago slowly flickered away into peace.
A year later and still no sign of Stiles. The Sheriff was no longer the Sheriff, now alone at home jobless. He had a rhythm down when the pain got too much. One bottle, then two, and then three, until finally he forgets his anguish and remembers his hope. He researches when he's drunk, searching for any possible lead. At first the pack used to visit him, until one day they stopped. Noah didn't know why and didn't care. Since Stiles was gone, they no longer had to pretend to care about him. It was fine. He understood why they'd leave him.
But he certainly didn't expect Melissa to appear on his doorstep. She came in like a hurricane, swiping up bottles so fast that all he saw was a blur. He lay on the couch and watched her. Noah didn't understand why she was here and why she was cleaning up after him like she cared. She obviously never cared about him.
"Oh, Noah," Melissa sighed, throwing another bottle in the trash bag.
"Come on, Melissa. Don't pretend like you care," Noah snorted, downing another gulp before Melissa took it too. "It's been what, a year? Never visited before, so what's changed now?"
"I have visited!" Melissa says, her chocolate brown eyes swimming with tears. "I stand on that porch and knock. I even yell for you to open the door, but you never do. We have tried to help you Noah. But you keep pushing us out." She stands in front of him and holds his hand like she cares about his wellbeing. "Stiles wouldn't have wanted this."
"Don't you dare tell me what he would've wanted! He's gone Melissa! My son's gone!" Noah sobbed in Melissa's arms.
She stroked his hair and hummed a lullaby. "I know Noah. But he wouldn't have wanted you drinking yourself into a stupor every single night trying to forget him. You're supposed to remember your loved ones, Noah. Never forget that."
"I'm such a shitty father," he whispered.
"No, you're a great father. Without you, Stiles wouldn't have that desire to save people like he does. He gets that from you, you know. That desire to save his friends, no matter the cost."
"And maybe that killed him."
A year later, Noah's better. He's not alright, but better than he was a year ago. The Stilinski's in the kitchen whipping himself up a grilled cheese, when his doorbell rings. Melissa said she was coming over and bringing her famous casserole with her, so he opened the door.
"About time you showed up—Stiles?"
"Hey Dad. It's been awhile."