John Stilinski knows his son. Knows his bullshit face, his blustering and filibustering, and the little giveaway tics: the palm to the back of his head, the lip licking, the too-innocent expression, too-wide eyes and shrug. And the worst one, the one that has John's blood pressure rocketing: "I'm fine."
He doesn't even try that, that last one, eyes downcast like he can't even afford the energy it takes to fake it right now, but he tries its placebo: "It's okay. Dad? It's okay-" he says, but John knows his kid, and he's shaking, cheek tender and blue-purple and lip split, and he's holding himself wrong. He sounds desperate to convince John, maybe even himself, that it's fine; John doesn't need to be a sheriff to see that, and he doesn't need to be a father to know he's not about to let his kid decide that something like this is okay.
John grabs Stiles' jaw, turns his head slightly so the kid's scraped cheek meets the light, the dried blood on his lip thrown into sharp relief. "Who did it?" John grits out, taking his hand off his son and stepping back to take him in, to fully document the crime. There's acid in his gut and blood in his mouth, he's seeing red and purple and black and blue and Stiles.
"It's okay, it was just a couple kids from the other team." He shakes his head, and John is tired of this, of the lying, he wants the truth, he wants to know what his kid is mixed up in, why he's hurt, wants to yell, Cut the crap and tell me! But he lets Stiles lie, he stands there and lets Stiles lie, for now at least, he humors him. "Y'know, they were pissed about losing, I was- I was mouthin' off, you know? Next thing I know-"
And then there's fury-laced adrenaline shooting through John and he needs answers, he needs a culprit, he needs someone to pay.
"Who was it."
"Dad, I don't know. I didn't even see them, really."
"I want descriptions."
"Dad, come on. It's not even that bad!" Compared to what? He's shaking, he's holding himself wrong, if that's not that bad John wants to know what's going on that's worse-
"I'm calling that school," he rages. "I am calling them and I will personally go down there, and I'm gonna pistol-whip these little bastards!"
"Dad! I just-" He doesn't want his old man poking around, finding out he's lying again. "I said it was okay!" The kid's eyes are darting back and forth, pleading, Drop it, just drop it!
John just looks at him, looks at his kid refusing to let his father fix this.
Julie would know what to do here. Julie would- She'd drop it and just comfort him, whatever he needs, and she'd deal with the rest later.
So he forgoes the interrogation, he leaves the rest of the questions behind his teeth, and he grabs his son to him- careful, of course- and bites down on the angry hiss threatening to escape when his kid, his fucking enigma kid who won't open up about what he ate for breakfast, his kid wound tighter than a spring for months, his kid who insists he's fine, he's finer than fine, he's supafine, starts crying silently against his shoulder. It takes everything John has to just hold him, not to grab his gun and find someone responsible and make them pay. But he rocks Stiles slightly, and traps the fury behind his teeth, and closes his eyes.
He'll figure this out. He'll rain hell down on anyone who even thinks about- But not right now. Not right now.
When Stiles steps away, John spots the edge of a wide dark evil-looking bruise peeking out from under his jersey, and every instinct he has goes bloodthirsty. But he's not a teenager anymore, not the guy who goes after his girlfriend's asshole ex with a bat and a couple of friends, so he stays put, stays calm, stays away from the drink and the salt and the fat and the carbs, waits for Stiles to go upstairs and lie down, and makes a couple of calls.
Deb's oldest goes to Bayside High. Josh. He's a good kid, but John's seen him hauled in for a couple of DUIs, one bust for possession, a little plastic baggie of pot in the glove box of his dad's old Ranger. John can't picture him getting into anything with anybody, and what little he knows of the team seems to match that, but he'll cross out Stiles' story just in case he's is actually telling him the truth for once before he marks it as bullshit and goes looking for another answer.
It's a short conversation. The Bayside Beavers had dinner and watched The Dark Knight at her place. Only Kal Evans ducked out- said he had to babysit his little sister while his parents went to a wedding out of town. A quick call to Jenny Evans confirms it. Whoever hurt Stiles, it wasn't the other team.
So Stiles lied.
John sighs, rubs his eyes with his palm, and puts down the phone. Why would he lie? A couple of reasons come to mind immediately. He got hurt doing something he doesn't want his old man to know about, he promised someone he wouldn't tell, or he's afraid of someone and doesn't want his old man sticking his head in, making it worse. Chances are this has something to do with the Whittemore stunt. Which means Scott is involved.
Jackson Whittemore died tonight, right out there on the field. That can't be a coincidence. But what's the connection? What do they all have in common?
Lacrosse, John realizes. They're all really, really good at lacrosse. Whittemore's been MVP for years. Scott- Well, Scott hasn't been this good for long. Asthma and a general lack of coordination kept him on the bench with Stiles up until a couple of months ago. But suddenly he's co-captain, and tonight, even Stiles found his groove and destroyed the other team.
How?
Play it back, play it back.
Okay, Stiles is on the bench with Scott. The Lahey kid is just throwing himself at his own teammates, if John remembers right,. What's that about? The lineup dwindles. Stiles is on the field. Oh, it's bad at first. But then he gets the ball. And it is amazing. John isn't one of those helicopter parents who needs his kid to be everything he never was, but he's damn proud anyway. Up until Stiles disappeared from the field, only to show up hours later covered in bruises and barely keeping a brave face. Somethings been building for a long time, John thinks, and it came to a head at that game.
Where was Whittemore? Did Whittemore score at all? John hadn't had a reason to look for him specifically, but he kept an eye on the whole team, and he can't remember Jackson's performance at all. For an MVP and co-captain, that's gotta mean something.
The game ends 10-9. Stiles won, and John's got enough pride to fill the entire stadium. Everyone's cheering, Melissa is beaming, hell, even Lydia Martin is excited. But then the lights go out. And then they're back on, and there's Whittemore lying spread eagle on the field, and no one's cheering anymore.
Melissa goes from mom to medic, Lydia goes from Stiles' cheerleader to Whittemore's girl, and John straddles the roles of father and sheriff simultaneously as he tries to make sense of it all and locate his son in the commotion.
Where the hell did he go?
The way John sees it, there are only two possibilities.
1) Stiles saw Whittemore go down and went somewhere, fast enough for everyone to miss him, or
2) Someone took him.
Let's say it was the first one, and he took off when Whittemore hit the ground. Where would he go? It had to be somewhere close; he left his Jeep in the parking lot. Somewhere in town, then, near the high school. Those bruises took some time to bloom so dark, the blood on his lip is already dry and it's barely morning, so that beating must have happened almost immediately after the game. So where was he? And with who?
Or say it was the second: Someone took him. It had to be someone who was at the game. Great, John thinks, that narrows it down to about half of Beacon Hills. Well, he can pretty certainly rule out Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin, Melissa, and himself. That's a start, at least. He's pretty certain the Bayside Beavers have nothing to do with this, but Deb's kid Josh is first line, so she must have been there too, paying attention to her kid and his team. She'd know where they went after the loss, after Jackson went down. Unless she and Jenny are in cahoots. Do people still say in cahoots? It sounds like gibberish, now that John's thinking about it.
When John brings him a sandwich and a drink, Stiles is in his room, trying to find a comfortable angle to sleep on. He missed dinner, which would have been something full of carbs and red meat and sodium, maybe with a side of curly fries. To celebrate, you know. And they can still do that. There's no reason they can't do that. But right now John isn't leaving until he's figured this out, which means he has to make do with the contents of the fridge and freezer. He makes waffle grilled cheese; Stiles used to love it, and it's about time John stopped avoiding everything that reminds him of Julie. It's about time he actually fixed the growing divide between him and his kid instead of burying his head in the sand.
Last night was a major wake-up call, and John isn't about to forget that.
Did Stiles sleep in his Jeep? No, John guesses he didn't sleep at all, by the looks of the dark shadows under his eyes, (neither did his father, but that doesn't matter right now. If Stiles was actually "okay" he'd be nagging his dad to eat something -and not something John would ever reach for on his own, either, but something high in fiber and low in fat, salt, and, nine time out of ten, flavor- and sleep at least a couple of hours, but Stiles isn't okay, so food, drink and sleep are off the table until John has something more to go on. He's the sheriff; he knows evidence doesn't stick around in mint condition, waiting to be collected at your leisure) and as far as John can tell, Stiles' Jeep is still in the high school parking lot. Which means Stiles walked home alone at roughly midnight to one in the morning from wherever the hell his attacker left him. Unless, of course, they were kind enough to give him a ride home. Or did they just beat him behind the school and leave him lying on the pavement all night? No, John did a full sweep of the high school and the surrounding grounds, even exploring the woods with flashlights and dogs and a team from the next county over. The station has been unusually short-staffed since the massacre last week, so Sheriff Kent has been lending out some of his own until John can find replacements. It still seems impossible that one disturbed kid could do that much damage, but John has long come to accept that strange animal-like attacks are part and parcel of the crime in this county. Still, there's something about the way it keeps cropping up these days in criminal cases, starting with Laura Hale and ending with the mass murder of some of the best men and women he's known. And John knows there haven't been wolves in California for at least fifty years, but the calls about howling in the night come in almost daily now, and it's not just the same four pranksters, either. If there are wolves in Beacon County, John thinks, it's not just one. It's an infestation.
It's when Lydia Martin comes to visit Stiles later that day that the pieces start falling into place, and John's craziest theory grows legs.
Later, John appears in Stiles' doorway as the kid puts his phone down on the desk. Is he ignoring Scott now? John can't think of anyone else offhand who Stiles texts; he's not even sure Derek Hale has a phone.
"She left, huh?"
Stiles shrugs. "Yeah." He looks down again. John nods a couple times before taking a stab in the dark. "So, is there…" Stiles swivels his head to look at him. "Uh… anything there?"
"No. No, she's in love with someone else." He sucks on his bruised lower lip as John nods again. "Ah." He leaves the doorway, takes a seat by Stiles' side. Stiles cradles his arms around himself, and John half-hates noticing that. (Damn body language expert at the station had insisted he'd thank her later when his new keen observational skills cracked a case. Same body language expert went and had a kid who lies like it's an Olympic sport and he's going for gold. Same body language expert got to watch them both watch her die of brain cancer, and no doubt knew he was lying every damn time he said, "You're gonna be okay. This'll work, I know it will.") The other half of him knows little things like that might be the only honesty he'll get out of his kid these days.
There's a lot swirling around John's brain, so there's a couple of false starts before he says, "Listen. I know getting beaten up, and with what happened to Jackson, has got you pretty shaken up. But be happy about one thing."
Stiles lifts his head, looks up at his dad. John's got Stiles' full attention. This is the time to say it. To say, I've cracked it. I know what you've been hiding from me, and I'm gonna take care of it. I'm gonna take care of you, be the father I should've been after your mom died. And the first step is a long, no-bullshit talk with Derek Hale.
But he can't say that. Not yet. Not until he's seen the proof with his own two eyes. If he doesn't have the facts in front of him, Stiles will probably laugh in his face. He's had reasons for lying to his father until now, and John doubts he'll be honest unless he doesn't have a choice.
So he doesn't start the talk he knows he desperately needs to have with his kid, and he doesn't talk about Derek Hale, or Jackson Whittemore, or Gerard Argent. He dodges.
"The game," John says. He nods again, again, convincing himself. "You were amazing."
Stiles rolls his eyes, huffs out a breath and a sarcastic grin, and turns away. Crap. John's lost him. Even as Stiles looks back at him- "Thanks, Dad"- John knows he's writing his old man off.
"No, I mean it," he says. He does. He's got bigger things on his mind than a lacrosse game but that doesn't mean he isn't proud, because he is. He's damn proud. And maybe Stiles needs this, needs to hear what his father can't say directly however John can say it. "Okay, it- It was pretty much over. And then you got the ball. And you started running. You scored… and the tide just turned. And you scored again…" He smiles. "And again. You weren't just the MVP of the game." And here he pauses, because he has to get this right. He has to make Stiles see what he sees. More than the game, more than the bruises, more than some sore losers snapping at a smart-ass. He knows the reason his kid's been lying to him for months, and as crazy as it sounds, it fits too perfectly for John to look the other way. So he means it when he says, "You were a hero."
But Stiles shakes his head, loses even the sarcastic smile. "I'm not a hero, Dad." And John wants to groan out loud, because being subtle was never his strong suit, and he'd like nothing more than to just come out and say it. Of course Stiles doesn't see it how his dad sees it. All he sees is how he got beaten down. How he couldn't save Jackson, or fix any of it. But John knows what Stiles has been through, what he's still going through, and he kept going. And that's the most anyone can ask from a hero.
"You were last night," John says, and he pats Stiles on the back and leaves that to sink in.
If Stiles is a message in technicolor bruises, who is he a message for? Not the sheriff; that would take extreme balls or extreme stupidity, and while Derek Hale has both in spades, John doubts that was his goal. And what is the message? From Stiles' downcast eyes and the panic John's caught in flashes when Stiles thought he wasn't paying attention, he has a few ideas.
But the way he sees it, the message is twofold, with two intended recipients. The first is Stiles himself: Don't try to fight me. You'll lose. and Keep your mouth shut.
But the second message is for someone else, too.
Lydia Martin.
Lydia Martin, who Stiles has been not-so-subtly crushing on for years. Lydia Martin, who has never had a reason to look twice at Stiles until last night, when she became his personal cheerleader. Last night, when her boyfriend Jackson Whittemore collapsed on the field.
It can't be easy being Lydia Martin's girlfriend. She goes after the best, and when the best isn't her boyfriend, her loyalty switches in an instant. John's heard a little bit from his kid about how she kissed Scott after he got off the bench and started scoring like an MVP. Which is a two-for-one deal in implausible, except John has seen it with his own two eyes. Weedy, rail-thin, asthmatic Scott McCall is star player of the damn team these days, and he's making Coach proud. Hell, he got Whittemore demoted from captain to co-captain. If John's estimations are right, he's guessing that's about the time Whittemore started looking for the source of Scott's new talent. Short of wishing on a genie, there really aren't a lot of plausible explanations.
So Whittemore hunts down the source of Scott's newfound strength, and Derek gets a new customer. Must be some time around here that Stiles figures out what Scott's on. Well he's not gonna narc on his best friend since kindergarten, so the lies start. The shiftiness. But then Scott's grades start slipping, and he's ditching Stiles for new friends (John's seen them around town, miniature Hales in leather jackets and a swagger like they've got the whole county's number), and now Stiles has a secret and no one to talk to.
The sonofabitch knew just who to prey on. Isaac Lahey. Abusive dad, there's someone who could use some strength for once. And his father's mysterious death doesn't look that mysterious anymore. Suddenly Isaac is Hale's right-hand man, and- come to think of it- Scott's new BFF. There are others, too, who John doesn't know as well. All teenagers Stiles' age or younger. And right under the nose of the county sheriff.
So how did Stiles get hurt? The way John sees it, Jackson's death was the tipping point for his kid. The danger finally got real. He wanted out, and he wanted Scott out with him. Well, Hale couldn't have that, could he. He's got to make Stiles a walking, talking example of what happens when you don't fall in line. And just in case Whittemore's death has shaken his girl into talking, there's a message in black and blue to keep her quiet. And that's not a lesson you soon forget.
So Stiles comes home with some bullcrap story about the other team, but he's scared. He wants to tell. He wants his dad to take care of it. But he can't be the one to tell him.
John has to figure it out all by himself.
Hale's a pro at this, John realizes. In only a few months, he's set up his own little teenage crime ring. If John presses him, he'll destroy every ounce of evidence and get out of town for another six years at least. Besides, he's too young to be top rung. Even if he got into this as a kid, he had to be someone's protegé. Can't be family; the last of his was halved and buried months ago. Has to be someone with connections, someone who can pull strings if things get messy. Someone who hasn't been in this county- hell, this state- for decades, but suddenly shows up for-
For his daughter's funeral.
And with that, the last piece falls into place.
Well, no. What John has is a very sensational piece of fiction and not a bit of proof to back it up.
But he's got a couple of ideas about how to find some.
John's stomach rumbles. He eyes the clock, regretting skipping breakfast.
"I'm not sure I see grounds," Judge Harper says as John shoulder-ears the phone and digs through his desk drawers for the snack bar he's almost certain he left there that one time. He stops fussing and eyes today's findings.
"I've got three seperate eyewitnesses saying he took a group of teenagers to a rave, Your Honor," John says. "Ever since Derek Hale turned up in town, two of those same teenagers have dropped out of school, and are in fact now missing. Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd III, neither a day above sixteen, and no one I've spoken to has seen them since the game. And I can't find a single person in town who has an answer for how an unemployed orphan in his twenties can afford a 2010 Camaro and a two-floor bachelor pad."
"I'll consider it, Sheriff," Judge Harper says, but John holds back his gratitude when she adds, "But the Hales were an old, respected family in this town, and the Argents still are, despite recent developments. I'd tread carefully if I were you."
"I appreciate it," he says, and waits till the judge has hung up before sitting back in his chair and letting out a long breath.
Derek Hale is gonna go away for a long, long time, and Gerard Argent along with him. John's gonna make damn sure of it.
Nobody uses his kid as a goddamn message.