Title: No Such Thing
Rating: G
Summary: Stiles is a terrible liar. WC: 564
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf
"- So basically, your best friend Scott, Derek Hale – who you accused of murder, by the way –, and a whole bunch of other ragtag teenagers are werewolves? And Peter Hale killed Laura Hale who was the Alpha, so then he was the Alpha, but then Derek Hale killed him. And now he's the Alpha?"
Stiles nodded expectantly at his dad from across the kitchen table.
"And Jackson was some were-lizard – "
"Kanima," Stiles corrected.
"- Then the Argents were involved -"
"Actually, it was more Gerard than Chris, but -"
"- And can't you think of a better lie than that?" Stiles' mouth drops into an 'o', like he can't possibly believe that his dad, the Sheriff, didn't believe in his story. Whatever lie that John Stilinski thought Stiles would spout out this time, was not about werewolves of all things. The Sheriff leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes at his son speculatively. "Why don't you tell the truth this time, and I won't ground you for good."
Stiles seems to finally shake himself from the shock before throwing himself from the table, mumbling a hurried, "Wait, wait, gotta show you, then..." He sprints to the stairs, and the Sheriff can hear him stomping around and muttering soft curses, as he rummages through his room.
"Aha!" Then Stiles is running back down the stairs carrying an armful of papers. "Here, here, see? Research! You know I do research well! Whenever some supernatural-y stuff happens, I usually Google for some information, since, you know – or you don't know? - Supernatural isn't really a reliable source for research, even if Castiel is pretty awesome -"
"Stiles, stop." And Stiles just... stops.
John sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. "This? This is your excuse for all the lies? For all those times I've seen you injured for some – some bullshit reason? For all the times I worry when I'm out late and I can't help but think, 'What trouble is my son getting into this time?' When I desperately hope that tonight won't be the night that my son will turn up dead? Please, Stiles. Tell the truth. I don't -" I don't want to lose you, like I lost your mother, goes unsaid.
Stiles stares at his hands, and John sees clearly when he swallows to speak, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He opens it then closes it, before clearing his throat and trying again.
"I-it's the truth," His voice cracks slightly in the middle, but he keeps on going. "When I first found out that Scott was – was a werewolf, I thought it was great, that it was the next great adventure. But then people started dying. A lot of people. And I was swept away... you know?" He looks up at him, eyes shimmering.
"No, Stiles, I don't know," John can't help the tiredness leech through his voice, disappointment lacing his tone. "Because as far as I'm concerned, there are no such thing as werewolves."
Stiles closes his eyes and takes a shuddering, deep breath.
"Go to your room, Stiles." And when he does, John pretends not to notice that his son doesn't even try to stop his hand from reaching towards the whiskey and pouring himself a large glass.
He'll be up late, he knows.