"So, he's really alright, right?"
Scott's voice startles John, his head snapping up to look at the boy standing just inside the door to the hospital room. Scott looks worried, so worried, and John follows Scott's gaze back to his sleeping son. Sleeping or sedated, you know, same thing, essentially.
"Yeah," John says, not quite believing it himself. "Yeah."
"Are you sure?" Scott asks, turning to look at John.
"I'll call you if anything happens," John tells him instead.
He isn't going to lie to Scott. Not about Stiles. And John knows Stiles isn't okay, not really.
Scott stares at him for a moment before looking back at Stiles and John thinks Scott is watching him breathe, making sure Stiles hasn't somehow slipped away without them noticing. John understands that, he keeps checking himself. The difference is that John doesn't experience the same relief at seeing Stiles's chest rise up and down because he knows. He knows Stiles isn't okay.
Scott takes a step towards the hospital bed, hesitates, takes a deep breath, and walks up to the bed to stand over Stiles. He takes off his jacket and lays it over Stiles, hand lingering longer than necessary on Stiles's forearm. John sees Scott's veins turn black but he doesn't comment. Scott turns back to him, shrugs his shoulders and says, "In case he gets cold." They both know it's a ridiculous sentiment, honestly. Even though Stiles was nearly hypothermic when Scott's parents had brought him in, he's fine now and he's covered in heated blankets anyway. Scott's jacket wouldn't be much help even if Stiles was cold, but John understands needing to do something. He understands needing to feel useful.
"You should get home, kiddo," John tells him softly.
Scott nods, stares at Stiles for another minute, turns and walks toward the door.
" 'Night, Sheriff," he calls over his shoulder before closing the door.
John isn't surprised that Scott didn't go home when Melissa had told him to. Hell, when Melissa had called him saying they'd found Stiles and that he was okay, John had still broken every traffic law in his haste to reach the hospital. John understands that some things you just need to see for yourself. He understands that some things just aren't safe to take anyone else's word for. His son is one of those things, for him and for Scott.
Not for the first time, John can't help but be thankful his son has someone like Scott. His mind returns to a thought he's had several times over the years, a thought he always seems to circle back to. He knows the way Scott looks at Stiles. He knows the way a spark seems to ignite in Scott's deep brown eyes each time Stiles laughs. He knows the way Scott can't help but smile when Stiles does something particularly Stiles-ish. He knows the way Scott is always reaching out a hand – a hand to steady Stiles, a hand to hold Stiles's, a hand to help Stiles back up. It's how he was with Claudia.
Claudia.
John hates this. He hated watching his wife lose control, lose everything, before eventually losing her life. It had happened slowly at first and then so fast he didn't even feel like he had time to catch his breath.
And now he can't breathe again. And it's even harder this time around. Because this is his son. This is his baby boy. He doesn't want to watch Stiles waste away. He doesn't want to lose him too.
But he's been here before. John isn't a stupid man, you don't get elected sheriff for being a moron. He prides himself on his ability to recognize patterns, his skill in making connections. But this is one time he wishes he was wrong.
He wishes he was wrong about Stiles waking up in the middle of the night screaming, clawing at John's forearm when John has to wrap strong arms around Stiles's chest and hold him tight so he can't hurt himself. He remembers having to pin his wife's wrists to get her to stop lashing out when she'd awaken before the sun had a chance to come up.
He wishes he was wrong about the way Stiles seems to stare at walls and zone out like he is seeing something no one else can. Something that isn't there. He remembers that look though, that far away stare that had taken over his wife's bright eyes, dulling them with fear.
He wishes he was wrong about the way Stiles can't seem to keep details straight anymore, but he remembers this, too. He remembers when his wife forgot their son's birthday. He remembers taking Stiles out to see a movie that ran past his bedtime. He remembers turning on the lights and sirens to get Stiles to crack a smile on the drive home. He remembers how he hadn't noticed Stiles was crying at first when they got home and he was giving his son a bath. He remembers Stiles's pathetic whimpering noise that cued him in on the tears. He had taken stiles out of the tub, wrapped him in a large towel, and walked the hall with Stiles in his arms until the sobs had ended and Stiles was out cold, face pressed into John's neck. His arms had been sore when he laid his son down in his bed, Stiles was getting bigger fast. John had stayed with him that night, pulled a chair up to his bed and held his little hand.
And here John was, nearly a decade later, in the same position. But this time he isn't comforting Stiles because they were losing his mother. No, this time he was losing Stiles and there was no one who would be left to do the comforting. Stiles's hand is much larger now, closer to a man's hand than a child's but it fits between John's perfectly still. For now.