A/N: I really want to know what the Sheriff's name is. I know the general consensus of the fandom is John, and I like John, because he looks like a John/Jonathan and it's a good name for a cop and a father… but it seems almost too typical (and when things seem too appropriate I get the heebie-jeebies. Jack, Joe, John… it is cliché with a big C).
I somewhat think he looks a bit like a Nate or Nathan…. What if his name is something totally unfitting like Tyson or Lucien…Cosmo or Spencer… …weird. Well, they're not weird names but they would sound weird on the Sheriff.
I think I strayed, please feel free to ignore my pointless ramblings.
OXXXO
Quote of the fic:
"Through the dark I roar my plight:
'Go away, just leave my sight
And take with you thy endless night.'
The bloody midnight roses bloom
Under whereas you bright full moon
Cast your ghastly shadow upon an empty tomb."
- A poem I wrote in 5th grade, it seemed strangely fitting…
OXXXO
He's trembling.
He's trembling so hard he thinks every single fraction of his body is quivering from the inside out. It is like a violent vibrating sensation, as if his body is attempting to shake his freezing skin from the bones while the muscles fight to keep him together.
He feels cold but on the other hand dying and spending 16 hours in an ice-bath would do that to you. So, yeah, he's cold, he's trembling, he's blinking blood out of his eyes… and his fuzzy mind is racing. It's seems a contradicting feeling, like there are a thousand thoughts whirling around in his head but none of them make sense. They all go by too quick for him to catch and hold on to. The normal constant rain of post-it notes has turned into a downpour, everything blurs into the same.
The world is strangely silent and blurry, like he's watching it from a spinning merry-go-round in an old silent-film except… it's not spinning; he knows that because there's no wind whipping around his ears. It is all out of shape and foggy, nothing about it seems concrete. It's just a dark mass of indistinguishable shapes and forms. He manages to make out the outline of a tree and then, as he moves his eyes, another one but they disappear before his brain can fully register them.
He voluntarily lets the world slip away into the shadowy haze because it takes all he has left simply to focus on the ground, on his feet. Giving walking his full attention –or at least all the attention he's capable of mustering right now-. He looks deep within himself and gathers the final few disarrayed straws of concentration and puts them to work on setting one tired foot in front of the other. His vision tunnels as he takes one shaky step at the time away from the hole; trying to get as far away from it as possible without stumbling and falling to his knees.
He makes it no more than a few unsteady feet away and ends up just standing there on the forest floor, holding himself, feeling scatterbrained while trying to take in the indistinctive surroundings. It's like standing still in the middle of whirling dance floor and trying to lay eyes on something that keeps escaping the periphery of your vision. Vigilance of the traumatized. And somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders why reality seems to have gone oddly septic and vague around the edges. He's exhausted, probably in shock and completely at loss— and all he wants to do is keel over and just sleep for a week curled up on ground. He doesn't care that the earth is cold and moist because that carpet of wet leaves seem kinda fluffy and welcoming right now.
But the dull pain tethers him to reality.
His head throbs and there's a buzzing feeling radiating from it, like a toneless ringing that seems to aid in further numbing his senses. But other than the occasional throb his head doesn't really hurt as much as one would think, considering the painfully obvious gash decorating his temple. Most of his pain is spreading from his chest, making it hard to breathe properly.
He hears distant voices but can't make out who they belong to or what they are saying. One is dark and grave while the other is high-pitched and stiff. He thinks it's Allison and her father.
Father.
He wants his father. Has to protect him and make sure he's safe.
Where's his dad? Is he out of the hole yet?
And just like that the reality of the situation comes crashing down, like an electric flair that shoots up his spine to clear his head. It all floods back and for a second it threatens to overwhelm him and he begins to sway where he stands. And the gasp catching in his throat is somewhat painful as it tightens thickly in his chest.
Suddenly the clearing is bathed in moonlight and he can process external impressions again. He sees Allison and Chris and Isaac all covered in sweat, dirt, soot and soil. They're a mess with hair sticking out in odd angles and clothes filthy and ripped. They're wide-eyed, pale and shaking and holding themselves wrong. And Stiles knows he probably looks the same, or even worse because on top of all else he can feel sticky warm blood running down his face, clinging to his skin.
The nervous fluid of life; like tacky red glue. It's almost coagulated now, dried and cracking around the edges, but he can taste it as it slides into his mouth while making its slow way down his cheek like a tendril of syrup. It's in his eye and his clothes are discoloured by small specks of it. To get rid of the blood shrouding his vision he rubs his eye with the back of his hand while watching Isaac turn to help Scott pull Mrs. McCall from the hole; not that the help is needed but it is probably an appreciated gesture.
Allison and Chris are standing close together, supporting each other and fiddling with a cell-phone, the dim light from the display illuminating their stricken faces. He rubs his eyes again, because the blood that's still there itches and stings a little, and keeps looking around for his dad but can't seem to find him anywhere.
He doesn't miss the sudden heaviness of a hand on his shoulder, grabbing and tugging at his shirt and swiftly pulling him around.
"Stiles?"
His dad's worried eyes greet him as he is turned around. He looks pale and tatty under the streaks of dirt that lines his face. It seems like he's aged ten years in the last couple of days and Stiles feels a pang of guilt for what he's put his only father through. It twists itself into place in his gut like huge heavy rock, right next to the humongous brick of anxiety that has already made a seemingly permanent home for itself. He feels a wave of nausea sweep through him but swallows it back before it has time to expel whatever content it can find in his stomach, which shouldn't be much considering he can't remember the last time he ate.
His dad gingerly cups the side of his face in his cold hand and tilts it up "Stiles? Are you alright? Can you hear me?"
Yes. He can hear his dad but it's like some part of him is preventing him from answering coherently, like a huge lump is blocking his throat. It's seriously annoying Stiles and definitely alarming his father.
There were few times in his life the Sheriff had been more concerned than he was at this very moment. Sure a few days ago he was kidnapped by a… something (he wasn't exactly sure what that woman was) and that entire experience had been –still was- extremely unsettling. He still had so many questions -even though Melissa and Chris had filled him in on some things- and he was going to get answers to all the questions swirling around in his head but it could wait for later, everything could wait for later, right now Stiles was the most important on his agenda.
The Sheriff knows his son and that lost look in Stiles' eyes bothers him greatly and he feels an overwhelming sense of worry boil up at the sight of it. He grabs Stiles by the shoulders seeking eye contact and his gaze falls on the bloody gash and the worry twists his gut around in a hard knot.
"Melissa!" He calls frantically breaking up the reunion between mother and son. "A little help here." And she's at their side within seconds, concern written on her face.
The Sheriff grabs Stiles' right arm and Melissa his left as they walk him a few more feet away from the hole before helping him sit down on a rock. And he's pliant, allows them to guide him, even though a part of him wants to object.
"Does your neck hurt?" Melissa kneels in front of him looking him over as if searching for obvious injuries, ghosting her hands over his arms and knees. Stiles manages to shake his head. His dad is behind him, encircling his shoulders in a comforting half hug obviously being careful not to hug Stiles too tight, in case he's hurt and holding on too hard might cause him pain. Scott's right there beside them as well, with a supportive hand on Stiles shoulder, his Alpha is showing, eyes glowing red in concern.
"Stiles, sweetie, can you tell me what day it is?" Melissa asks as soon as her eyes settle on the head wound.
Stiles licks his lips, because he doesn't think he can talk otherwise and the move provides him a second or two to try recall the answer. "I don't know—" he chokes out. "I didn't check, I've been preoccupied." His hoarse voice breaks from exhaustion and Melissa smiles reassuringly at him, brushing his hair out of the way to get a better look at the wound adorning his forehead. "That's alright." She tells him "Can you tell me your name?"
It's Stiles' turn to smile, it's strained and compulsory. It's not big, it's simply an involuntary twitch in side of his mouth, and he doesn't know why he does it but he does. "Yeah.., but I don't want to."
"Stiles." It's Scott who reprimands him, his eyes flashing brilliantly red, and something inside Stiles just wants to obey the Alpha. He figures it's because he's a member of the pack and thus has some supernatural inherent desire to do as told by the Alpha. They are tied together by stranger things than can be explained in words.
"It's alright Scott" Melissa says. "I've already got my answer."
For the next few minutes she gives Stiles as thorough of a onceover as she can in the dim darkness, her every move followed by the watchful eyes of the Sheriff and Scott. As if they're watching out for the smallest hiccup of her movements, the smallest indication that something might be wrong with Stiles.
As soon as she's done the Sheriff asks "How is he?" and tightens his arms around his son like he's clinging to him in desperation.
"He's showing very minor signs of decline in the cognitive functions, nothing to be concerned about, it's all consistent with head trauma and extreme stress. I would say mild shock and probably a concussion. I'll do a more thorough exam once we get back to civilization." She explains calmly and gets up from the ground, needlessly brushing moist dirt from her already muddy pants. "I need to go check on Allison and Chris and then I want to take a quick look at that shoulder of yours, Sheriff." She says firmly. "Scott, stay with Stiles."
"Of course!" Scott's response is immediate and unwavering, his face set like stone. And Stiles smiles tiredly to himself, he always knew Scott had what it took to be a leader and now he's Alpha and it's painfully obvious.
As few moments pass, or maybe it's hours, no one's really sure nor can anyone be bothered to care.
The Sheriff hugs Stiles to his chest and gently rests his chin on top of his head, being careful not to cause any pain, and resists the urge to rock him back and forth like a small child. They're on the ground, not caring that the moist soil is uncomfortably seeping in to their clothes leaving them wet and cold because they find solace and warmth in each other. It's not so much physical warmth as it's psychological and emotional; it mends something deep inside them, reconnects a bond. They've been reunited, they're alive and no permanent damage has been done and that's enough to satisfy them both at the moment. The Sheriff wants nothing more than to get Stiles back home, into dry clothes, band-aided up and in bed, preferably his bed –so he can stoke his fingers through his son's hair and watch him while he sleeps- knowing he's safe and sound and…-'oh crap'- he's rocking him slightly. But Stiles doesn't seem to care, quite frankly the small swaying motions seem to sooth him. Stimming –even though this is a mere imitation- always had a beneficial effect on Stiles; it's calming and healing in a sense.
They're not alone in finally having reality catching up; Isaac is shaking and hurling what seems to be a week's worth of food behind a tree, Melissa rubbing his back with gentle circles as he does so. Allison appears to be crying softly wrapped up in her father's arms, she chokes back on hitched gasps every once in a while and buries her head deeper into Chris' shoulder. Chris himself is shaking; it's visible as a tremor that shoots through his body every other second as he shifts between whispering soothing words to his daughter and viewing the world around them with eyes full of hyper vigilance.
"So…I guess—" The Sheriff begins but doesn't know exactly how to phrase himself. "-the reason you haven't told me anything about this entire mess is because this isn't the kind of thing you call the police to fix?" That's not what he wanted to say but he can't find the words to describe everything he actually wants conveyed in a coherent sentence, so it will have to do for now.
Stiles smiles again, a little wider this time much to the Sheriff's relief, and rests his head against the uninjured shoulder. "No, you call the Ghostbusters." He cracks tiredly. "I've been wondering when we're gonna start strapping vacuum-cleaners to our backs."
Neither the Sheriff nor Scott smiles at the joke but both of them are relieved at hearing Stiles' wisecracking; it means he's feeling better.
"I know this isn't the time or the place for this conversation but I have one question: when did you kids become the Beacon Hills Paranormal research society?"
Stiles closes his eyes and hums softly before slouching deeper into his dad's embrace and leaning his head against the warm, supporting chest. "We're more like the Beacon Hills Supernatural clean-up crew, actually." Scott snorts a low laugh at those words and then seems irritated with himself for doing so. Stiles, noticing his best friend's reaction, cannot let it go. "And it seems like we're always on public bathroom duty." He fills in with a giddy tired glint.
Scott pouts and Stiles flashes an even wider smile at him "Aaaaw" he draws "Who died and made you sourwolf? You should be careful; I think Derek might hold a patent on that signature?" He slurs the words a little as he speaks and he's not quite sure which words make it past his lips and which gets lost on the way but he is too exhausted to care.
Hours later Stiles has been ordered to stay put in his dad's bed so there he sits, cross-legged, dressed in a clean fresh pyjamas that smell strongly of fabric softener and nurses a hot cup of tea. His head is still a little woolly and there's a warm pressure radiating from behind his eyes but that's probably a symptom of exhaustion.
Mrs. McCall had bandaged him up the moment they reached civilisation but Stiles can't say he's particularly thrilled with her job. The gauze she'd wrapped around his head with numb fingers makes his hair stand out in crazy angles; Stiles thinks he looks like Albert Einstein after a shaky encounter with a trimmer.
Not that Stiles is especially concerned with his looks right now but it feels uncomfortable and heavy carrying the layers of gauze and compress; kinda like one of those wobbly head dolls. He had had one of those when he was like four or five, a pink cat with large eyes, he had gotten it with a Happy Meal and accidentally broken it during recess. The memory still bothered him, he had been inconsolable, cried for hours 'til his mom came and took him home. He didn't know why but that pink plastic cat had been special; it wasn't unusual for him to form unhealthy relationships with inanimate objects but he had grieved the loss of that toy.
His dad finally steps back into the room, pyjamas pants on, shoulder nicely wrapped up and carrying his own cup of tea in his favourite mug as he closes the bedroom door behind him before setting the steaming cup down on the nightstand.
He walks around the bed and sinks down next to Stiles, his weight dents the edge of the mattress and the movement causes Stiles' tea to shake and ripple in the cup. The Sheriff pats Stiles' knee to gain his attention –and because he needed some form of contact to assure himself the kid was still there-.
"Stiles."
"Stiles."
It takes another three attempts before Stiles finally looks up to meet his father's warm, concerned gaze. "The purpose of that tea wasn't to warm your hands."
It clicks.
It's like he is seeing his teacup for the first time. He'd been sitting there staring at it for the past 15 minutes without it really registering that he'd been holding a cup of tea. It's a funny feeling but he's not unfamiliar with it; Stiles had spent half his childhood looking for stuff he'd been holding in his hands.
He blinks down at it until his brain decides it time to resume staring at it as if hypnotised by the tea slouching pleasantly in the cup –leaving the briefest ribbons on the sides- as he rolls it between his palms.
He hears his dad's deep sigh just before the cup is plucked from his hands and placed out of reach on the nightstand. Stiles follows it, almost flailing out of bed to chase his tea down but his dad keeps him from falling by holding him back with a steady arm.
Stiles falls back against the pillows with huff and starts picking at the bedding instead. He wants to sleep but at the same time he wants to have the unavoidable talk over with, just so he can sleep without having that cloud hanging ominously in the near future but he knows they're both too tired for that conversation to yield anything productive. His brain is all too fuzzy to deal with it right now; it can't even form a coherent thought so expecting it to follow through with the talk is asking too much. His fingers find a thread in the bedding that happens to be just a little bit too loose and within seconds he has unravelled it, the resulting hole is most definitely a manufacturing flaw, if they hadn't made the loose thread he wouldn't have been able to disentangle it…
The Sheriff is sitting so close that Stiles' knee is touching his dad's thigh, but the truth and the story that needs to be told hangs heavy in the air between them. Stiles wants to spit it out but the words aren't coming. His brain is like a lump of porridge that has gotten lost in a fog. He rubs his eyes –this time because he's sleepy and thankfully not to get rid of blood- he hopes that rubbing will wipe away the drowsiness that weighs his lids down.
But no such luck. He even manages to punctuate the already childish act with a not even close to stifled yawn.
The Sheriff reaches out and grabs Stiles' chin gently, tilting his head up 'til their eyes meet again, for a second or so he seems to study Stiles' face. "…Get some sleep, kid. It looks like you've earned yourself a nice concussion."
"I've been taking care of a pack of far too fond of violence werewolves for the past several months." Stiles shrugs tiredly, a mere minute movement in his shoulders "Werewolves aren't known for their great capacity for anger management—"
"A werewolf didn't do this." His father motions toward the wound hidden under layers of gauze.
"No. A steering wheel did. Admittedly they aren't exactly known for their sense of anger management either. Funny how they coincide like that, werewolves and steering… wheels—" Stiles trails of at the sight of his father's stern face and averts his eyes back to the bedding "—sorry" he whispers and tries, and fails, to suppress yet another yawn.
They sit there in premature silence for a few more minutes until his dad gets up with a decisive shift, grabs the cover and holds it up motioning for Stiles to crawl underneath. "Time to get in, kiddo."
Stiles blinks a few times in quick succession "I am in?"
"No. You're on."
"Who's literal now" Stiles mumbles as he untangles his legs and wriggle himself down, allowing his father to wrap the comforter around him like a cocoon. It's warm and fluffy, safe and secure and only suffices to lull him closer and closer to la-la land.
The Sheriff takes a few sips from his mug of now lukewarm tea before climbing into bed on his own side and settling down. He turns off the light and twists around several times, trying to find a comfortable sleeping position that won't upset his injured shoulder and ends up facing Stiles who is already fast asleep. The Sheriff takes a moment to appreciate the peaceful sight of his sleeping child before reaching out to affectionately stroke Stiles' hair –mindful of the gash- and whisper "…Good night, kid. Sleep well. Tomorrow you're going to tell me every single detail of what you've been up to and then I'll decide what your punishment will be. …I love you."
THE END
A/N: The ending didn't turn out quite as I had intended but it could be worse. This fic is part of my December 2014 post-one-fic-a-week-'til-New-Years challenge and because I was supposed to post this on the 16th I had to wrap it up quickly because I ran out of time.
Next week's fic will be posted on the 23ed and is a Scott/Stiles so if limes ain't part of your basket of fruits you're gonna have to wait 'til the 30th for the last one.
Next week's fic is good, though. It's one of the few products of my brain I can actually say I'm truly proud of.