All That Is Left, a teen wolf fanfic

Basically a character study. Because.

It's something that happens, Scott's noticed, happens when Stiles is so out of his mind with worry that he cycles back to anger.

Not the sort of anger where you end up kicking something and end up just making the frustration worse with a throbbing toe, but the sort of anger that achieves things.

It depends on the person, really, what sort of things this type of anger releases. Some people curl into themselves, try to shut out the world. Others rage at anyone in their way, blame falling left right and centre. (Scott would like to say he hasn't seen much of the second option but that would be a lie and in his life that usually ends up with someone dead.) More rarely, however, is when someone bypasses anger and goes into a cold type of rage. A clinical, scarily intense anger that narrows the focus to a set point.

This is the sort of anger Stiles falls into when he's been pushed past his limit several times and then kicked in the feels. A train wreck of emotions, his mother once said. Of course, this was years ago, when Stiles was ten and just after his mother had died. Trouble is, that time Stiles couldn't have done anything to get her back, he couldn't revive the dead.

This time, well, this time there's still a chance that they might all survive.

So Scott can see the void in those usually mischievous dark eyes. And what he sees there? Well, it scares him far more than Peter Hale, than Gerard Argent or anyone Scott has ever encountered.

Because there, in the chasm? He sees the world burning; he sees what Stiles would do to keep the select few close to his heart safe.

It should warm him, to know that he's on the list of people Stiles will do nearly anything for. And it goes vice versa. Except it doesn't.

Scott loves Stiles, Stiles is his best friend, like a brother. He will always be. But. Scott won't destroy the world for any single person, he just wouldn't. And it scares him that Stiles would.

(That Stiles could even though he doesn't have half the strength of the weakest werewolf, always trips over his own feet and runs his mouth at the worst – best – of times.)

A breeze ruffles Scott's hair and he shudders, the feel of ghostly tendrils running over his shoulders.

Across from him, tied from head to toe, Stiles clenches his jaw.

"Seriously, pizza?"

"We've had some crazy days. I'd say that calls for pizza."

Stiles opens his mouth to argue then shuts it and just nods. John frowns. Stiles willingly giving up on an argument? An opportunity to nag at him to eat healthier foods?

Well, even if John had been absent from the last few days events he would have immediately cottoned onto the fact that something was wrong. Very wrong.

He sighs and picks up his mobile.

"I'll call. What topping?"

"Vegetarian." Stiles answers, watching his fingertips dart this way and that on the table top.

John blinks.

"What? No meat?" Where's the kid that ate like a voracious carnivore? The kid that said it wasn't a meal unless there was half a dead cow on the plate?

"...I don't feel like meat."

It doesn't take a genius to know Stiles is hiding something. He's always hiding something nowadays. John wishes Stiles at least sounded a little chirpier about it, the same fire that he used to lie with, all wide eyes and a grin that hid nothing.

"You don't feel like meat." The sentence is heavy in his mouth. Deliberately so. And since when? Surely John would notice such an abrupt change in his son?

(And maybe it's a minor thing, what Stiles likes to eat, but it's something he, as a parent, should know, right? It feels like he knows so little about his son, so little about everything in Stiles' life that he should at least know the small things. Jesus. Does Stiles still even like batman?)

"That's right." Stiles smiles too wide, eyes too bright.

"Are you sure?" John pushes, because he's a cop, because he knows when someone is concealing information and because he's let the little lies (and not so little lies) build up and up.

"Yeah. Can't stand the smell." Stiles clamps his jaw shut as if he's said too much.

John nods, faux casually and orders the pizzas.

There's a wait before the pizza's come and he takes that time to run the conversation through his mind.

He chucks an empty orange juice container into the trash.

"Why's there a pack of bacon in the bin?" He asks, because he brought that bacon, he knows its due date is not until tomorrow. He'd been looking forward to it. Stiles only lets him have bacon every now and then.

"That? Oh, it looked off." Stiles lies, carefully not looking up. He's still sitting at the table, far too still. Only his fingers tapping.

'Can't stand the smell.'

What does that mean?

Everyone likes the smell of bacon cooking. It's like a staple. In fact John distinctly recalls Stiles going on a long rambling rant about it when he was eight, switching topics halfway through to describe in pictographic detail the gory specifics of the bubonic plague.

(Stiles had had a unique gift at using words to utterly horrify people. He exercised it on his parents. John loves his kid, he really does, but Stiles is weird.)

His son can't stand the smell of cooking meat. Huh. He switches on the kettle and carefully measures off a teaspoon of instant coffee.

He grimaces as the soft flesh of his hand meets the hot outer shell of the kettle as he pours in the hot water.

'Can't stand the smell.'

Cooking meat.

Burning flesh.

His hand throbs with reminder of the small burn.

"Dad? You alright?"

John blinks, hastily putting down the kettle when he notices his cup is overflowing and the coffee tinted water is just spreading across the counter.

Stiles mops it up, sending him worried glances. John simply runs that utterly disturbing thought through his mind.

The thing is, he doesn't have any proof that that is the reason Stiles is forgoing meat; in fact it's a pretty big leap. However, he also has no reason why it can't be true. Not now that he knows his son has been in perilous situations for a while.

The thought circles like a particularly annoying mosquito.

(He has to listen to his instincts when dealing with Stiles, it's the only way he can understand him sometimes.)

He glances at the shadows under Stiles' eyes, at the way he's quieter now, subdued. There were times in the past that John wished for Stiles to grow up a bit, to quiet down but now...he wants teasing quips, easy grins and flailing gestures.

His son looks scared. Scared all the time.

Something in John's gut clenches. It's his job as the Sheriff to keep people safe. What type of Sheriff is he that he can't even protect his own son? What type of father?

"Are you alright?" Stiles repeats, chucking the cloth into the sink. Well, attempting to. The cloth falls short and hits the sink cupboard leaving a coffee stain on the wood.

"Come here." John orders hoarsely, opening his arms.

It hurts to seen Stiles hesitate, as though assessing potential danger, before stepping closer.

And this, this is familiar. His son in his arms, warm, solid, alive. These facts haven't changed for over fifteen years, ever since he could crawl and ended up crashing into everything. Times when he wanted his mother or father to kiss away the hurt when he fell over or scraped his knees.

"What's wrong?" Stiles asks when the hug ends.

John knows that the hug had no real protection at all but he still aches to clasp Stiles close to him, to keep him from getting hurt.

"I think," John begins, searching his sons face. He's thinner, worn down. "That we need to talk about the last year and a bit."

Stiles winces and looks away. John knew he'd been avoiding the conversation ever since that crazy locked him, Melissa and Chris up, intending to use them as a sacrifice.

Since John has finally become aware of the supernatural that seems to flood Beacon Hills. The supernatural he had been wilfully blind to.

"Not much to say really." Stiles shrugs.

John doesn't even try to his scepticism.

"Alright, well maybe a couple of things happened." Stiles shrugs again, eyes darting to the door, squirming in his seat. "I think I heard the pizza delivery, you want me to go get that? I'll just get the door-"

John snags his sons arm before he can escape and deposits him in a chair.

"I spoke to Scott, I've seen the shadows under your eyes...just, please, no more lies, son." John doesn't care that he's practically begging. Not if it results in his son talking to him, telling him what he has missed.

Stiles stares at him with an intensity that would be frightening if he didn't know his son. Eventually he sighs, his shoulders slumping.

"I-fine. Okay. What-what do you want to know?" Stiles braces himself as though expecting a blow.

John squeezes Stiles' shoulder and decides to take pity.

"Right now? I'd like to know if you finally cleared all that crap off of your bedroom floor."

Stiles blinks. It's pleasing to know he can throw Stiles off guard, considering the fact Stiles throws everyone off guard every five minutes.

"It wasn't crap! That was vital research for the-um, the-"

"For the essay on the 'witch hunts'?" John interjects dryly.

"Yes! Um, no. Uh, the truth is actually, uh, well, I was researching witches, researching is sorta my gig, you know as the token puny human."

Christ. Witches.

"Right." Yep, now John is almost glad he's decided to delay the inevitable conversation of the events of the last nearly two years. "So...you tidied it up?"

Stiles' mouth works.

"Um...not really." He says with a flippant hand gesture meant to encompass the massive amounts of carefully typed up and printed out information.

Seriously, huge amounts of paper. John had wondered if leaving the window open to blow the bits of paper everywhere might encourage Stiles to tidy it up. He hadn't in the end because despite being in a complete mess Stiles had some order to it, enough that he could navigate it anyway.

And it was better than him printing out porn or stuff like that. Probably.

(Even if it wasn't his homework.)

"Go. Clean up until the pizza comes." John orders. Once Stiles is out of the room he pulls a beer from the fridge and furtively unscrews the cap. The beer makes a quiet hissing sound and John waits, just in case Stiles heard it and comes thumping down the stairs to lecture him on eating healthily and provoking a heart attack.

He grins when nothing happens and takes a swig.

He's lucky Stiles hadn't just binned the beer when John brought it into the house. When Stiles finds out though (and he will because his son is...Stiles) he'll be on a diet of cottage cheese and celery for at least a week.

Stiles is a cruel, cruel enforcer of healthy eating.

So John stealthily enjoys his forbidden beverage while listening to the thumps upstairs that don't sound like tidying up.

Eh, he picks and chooses his battles.

At least Stiles hasn't brought any girls into his bedroom.

He'll drag the truth about the last year or so out of Stiles when he's less...jumpy.

(Plus he needs a little time to reconcile the fact his son has been in danger and he didn't even know.)

There is one thing about this whole situation that really annoys Stiles.

Well, the whole situation aggravates him. Getting kidnapped is never high on his list of priorities. But there is one thing that really gets his goat.

It isn't the musty smell of the small closet room he's tossed in. It isn't the zip ties digging into his flesh (and his nose itches). It isn't the stale tasting water he was given only a few hours into the kidnap.

The thing that he finds irritating to an insane degree is the fact his kidnappers are competent.

He didn't get a single glance of their faces when he was abducted at the gas station. He didn't get a whiff of a particular odour. No distinctive voice. Nothing.

(Okay, he can admit to himself that maybe, maybe, he's a little scared by that. Scared that he has no clue.)

He was just...taken.

Slipped a drug (a tiny pinprick at his neck) that sent him into Morpheus' arms and let him wake a while later in the closet room with a pounding headache and a dry mouth to rival a hangover.

His kidnappers haven't spoken to him yet. Just given him the odd bottle of water and maybe a piece of stale bread along with some intermittent toilet breaks.

(Toilet breaks where he's blindfolded and taken different routes each time just to confuse him. He knows how this shindig works.)

No demands. No taunting.

Stiles closes his eyes and lets his head thunk gently against the solid wall behind him, close to the door frame.

A small scale of paint flakes off the wood of the frame. He picks at the paint. He needs to do something, he's going out of his mind in boredom and his restlessness is just heightened by the fact he knows he's missed, like, at least three doses of Adderall.

He clenches his toes and watches them wiggle. His shoes were taken when he was drugged out and the small packet of mountain ash and other assorted herbs are missing but otherwise he has the same clothes he was kidnapped in.

(And gross because he hasn't been offered a shower or any deodorant and he has a fully functioning nose. Seriously, he's going to write a note of complaint about the shoddy service, there isn't even a Jacuzzi.)

His nose itches and his hands are tied behind him.

He groans and knocks his head against the wall again. Another scale of paint falls to the rough carpeted floor.

He's at the stage where he's resorted to rubbing his nose against his shoulder to get rid of the insufferable itch when the door opens and a slumped figure is tossed inside, narrowly missing Stiles' legs and hitting the ground with a thump.

And, ouch, Stiles could totally feel that fall.

The figure groans and the door slams shut.

Stiles peers closer, inspecting the dark hair matted with what looks like blood.

Is that-

Crap.

John takes in group scattered about in the leafy clearing.

It's an eclectic mix of teenagers that are milling around.

He settles on the ground with his beer bottle and breathes. He looks at the teenagers, normal kids gathered with their friends.

He snorts.

Normal kids.

Werewolves.

The guy who is grinning as he talks about a night at the club (John ignores the fact he definitely isn't 21 and so really shouldn't be drinking), retelling the story with honest mirth, the guy who is laughing, he's a werewolf.

Grows claws, fangs, weird sideburns.

But they look like any other group of teenagers.

Except...

There are divisions.

Scott is definitely staying apart from Allison, the girl he was besotted with (and still seems to adore) and vice versa. And everyone else seems aware of the line drawn between the two and skirt it with the ease of familiarity.

He takes a swig of his beer and simply watches and breathes. He's been Sheriff long enough to know when to take the back seat with his preconceived thoughts and just simply be.

There's a tenseness to the air, a fragility. For all that this isn't the first meeting of its kind it is still a pretty new thing.

"Avoiding the kiddie table?" A sly voice enquires.

John glances to the side. Peter Hale. Not a man he is particularly enamoured by. Peter's serene smile is belied by the amused slant to his eyes. Peter stands still, not looking at him but the gaggle of teenagers.

He is the only other one holding a beer bottle. Peter doesn't sit. John doesn't bother getting to his feet; he's used to posturing, to the subtleties of intimidation. And there is something about Peter that tells John he is intimidating, that he's standing back and laughing at them all.

"Just taking in the air." John says blandly, truthfully but vaguely.

"Hmmm." Peter's eyes glance over him with interest.

John takes a swig of his beer and breathes evenly. He refuses to give Peter the satisfaction of showing his unease. Something about Peter just rubs him wrong.

Stiles wanders into view, tripping over thin air and glancing around.

Stiles meets Scott's eyes and tilts his head in the direction he came from. Scott grins and lopes off.

John isn't surprised. He's known those two were able to non-verbally communicate since their first sleepover and he woke them up after a night of not sleeping and neither was alert enough to converse yet still managed to get each other ready for the trip out.

(It was sort of hilarious to watch Scott dump Stiles' shoes on top of Stiles' head while Stiles fumbled for Scott's inhaler before lobbing it in Scott's general direction and getting him smack in the chest.)

He is surprised when Stiles repeats the gesture and Derek follows after Scott with a scowl.

John blinks and then takes another swig of his beer.

"Now, that is interesting." Peter breaths, gaze flickering from John and his son. John squares his shoulders, he may tolerate Peter's...creepiness but he isn't going to let that man near his son. Not with the way he sometimes looks at him, hungry, like he wants to take Stiles apart to see how he ticks.

Stiles' gaze drifts over and John knows the moment he spots him. Stiles' face darkens and he immediately walks over, fingers tapping at his sides.

"Yes, I can see the resemblance now," Peter says with undue smugness, "like father like son, how...apt." Peter tilts his head and smirks at Stiles.

Stiles grits his jaw. By the time he reaches John, Peter has gone, disappeared somewhere.

John clutches his beer closer to him.

"Don't start." He pre-empts Stiles. "It's only one beer, I am driving back."

Stiles blinks at him, eyes drifting down and landing on the offensive bottle. Stiles' eyes widen and he shoots John a look that is part betrayal part long suffering exasperation.

Stiles is seventeen. He should not be able to level a look of exasperation that long suffering.

"Dad, you really shouldn't-" John raises an eyebrow, "fine, yeah, I'll leave it this time." Stiles sighs and runs a hand through his hair, glaring into the trees.

"What did Peter say?" Stiles asks, changing the subject entirely.

"Not much." John says, taking another sip of beer just in case Stiles attempts to 'liberate' it.

Stiles bites his lip, fingers tugging at his shirt distractedly.

"Be careful." He blurts out.

John raises an eyebrow, because he isn't the one who chose to run around with werewolves.

"I mean," Stiles runs a hand through his hair, "of Peter. He's a-well, he's kind of-he's Peter." Stiles says, like that should mean something.

"Don't worry; he's not someone I'm eager to hang around with." John says dryly. Stiles doesn't look appeased.

"He's dangerous." Stiles says. John raises an eyebrow and pointedly glances around. Twice. "Yeah, but not that kind of dangerous. Peter's dangerous dangerous."

"Is this like the difference between like and like? Because this conversation is sounding remarkably similar to the one we had when you were eleven." John asks. He had come from that conversation confused. So had Stiles. And he felt like he'd used up his quota for the word 'like' for fifty lifetimes.

"How flattering." Peter drawls having popped up out of nowhere. And is that a werewolf thing or a Peter thing?

John jumps. It would be kind of him to say Stiles jumps too but John feels like he should take amusement where he can.

Stiles flails sending his soda everywhere (mostly down his batman t-shirt) and he practically falls backwards onto the ground cushioned considerately by the fallen leaves.

"Dude. Not cool." Stiles grouses, glaring up at Peter.

"I don't know...there is a certain chill to the air." Peter shrugs, gaze distant.

"You are not funny." Stiles says with a touch of petulance. Peter grins. With teeth.

There's something cagey about the way Stiles carefully keeps his eyes on Peter, as though he thinks turning his back will result in Peter going for the jugular.

John doesn't like it.

As a father he doesn't like the idea of anyone scaring his kid.

And contrary to popular opinion Stiles scares pretty easily. He was the kid who always leapt onto his bed at night so the monsters underneath couldn't grab his ankles. He was the kid who couldn't stand the dark. The kid who hated raised voices. The kid who jumped at the slightest surprise.

But Stiles was also the kid who grabbed a torch and armed himself with a stick before checking his closet was free of monsters. The kid who stuck glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling to give him enough light to spot anyone or anything moving in his room when it was dark.

He's the kid who pushes when people yell, who doesn't back down, despite the fear, because he still has something to say.

This trait of Stiles, this ability to push past the fear, to swallow it down and do what needs to be done...well, John wasn't lying when he called his son a hero.

That sort of tenacity scares John (the amount of trouble it could, and does, get Stiles in...) but he is proud of his son. Achingly proud.

Stiles opens his mouth, possibly to goad Peter further but thankfully is interrupted before he can begin as Derek and Scott appear lugging a huge pot of chilli and another massive pot of rice into the clearing.

John's stomach growls as he (and the rest of them in the clearing) take an appreciative sniff.

"Your mother's recipe?" John asks quietly. Stiles blinks a bit, the way he always does when his mother comes up in conversation. Neither of them are very good at talking about her.

"Yeah." Stiles sighs softly. John feels a sad smile tug up his lips and as he gets to his feet he slings an arm around his son's shoulders.

"Better grab some before it all disappears then." He suggests lightly not removing his arm.

Derek wakes up slowly and this is different enough from the norm to send his rearing up, blinking at the sudden movement and fighting the urge to vomit.

Wolfsbane.

Of course.

Well, it is one of the few things that can affect a werewolf enough to drug them.

He really shouldn't have gone off tearing after the first lead he found. He should have planned instead of rushing after the first scent of Stiles. He didn't think, didn't even stop to consider. Just let instinct take over. It's just-he can't, couldn't think past the fact that Stiles was kidnapped, that he was in danger.

He growls instinctively at the shift of movement beside him and finally works past the pounding at his temples to make sense of the sounds reaching his ears.

"...and that's just the start! I mean, even if it was possible you are talking about mega levels of power, we don't have that kind of energy source! Not without like nuclear power or something but that shit is bad. Like, so bad. If Dr. Strange could do it then I suppose it could be-"

"What are you talking about?" Derek groans, of course he is stuck in this mess with Stiles. Of course. At least they are both alive.

"Derek! You're awake and comprehensible. I was worried for a moment, before I got sidetracked by parallel universes and the possibility of building a-wait, how many fingers am I holding up? I feel there could be a concussion, you might be showing concussion like symptoms, you haven't threatened to rip out my throat yet so-"

"Stiles." Derek sighs. What has happened? Stiles chatters normally but this is jumping from one topic to another and is too frenetic. Something is wrong.

"Right. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Derek sits up and just blinks at him.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"You do have a concussion! That would be the lamest joke in existence. Well, apart from why did the chicken cross the road ones because let me tell you Scott went through a stage once of every other sentence being the lamest chicken road joke ever. It was terrible, terrible like days old canteen food. What do they even put in that? I swear it takes years to decompose and once I thought the pizza was going to eat me. That would be some sort of karmic justice if food decided one day that nope, not prey, and rose up to eat all the nasty humans who fed off of them. Sheep are scary, man, forget werewolves, being cornered by sheep is the scariest shit ever. I suppose-"

"Stiles. I don't have a concussion, you weren't holding up any fingers." Derek explains, looking over Stiles in turn to check whether he doesn't have a concussion.

"Really? Are you sure? But even then there is still an answer, if there are no fingers then the answer is zero-"

"Are you alright?" Derek asks, growing steadily more and more alarmed by the unfocussed look in Stiles' eyes. Stiles is also shaking, one foot jangling restlessly while his torso shudders.

"What? I'm fine. Really, they've been quite nice for kidnappers. I mean service could be better, I am bored out of my skull and I miss my laptop like crazy. Crazier. More crazy. Whatever. You know the Latin derivatives are completely-"

"What is wrong?" There's something off with Stiles' scent. A slick tinge of the scent of sickness and sour sweat that wouldn't come from a normal healthy teenager even if it had been days since their last wash.

"Nothing apart from the manhandling but I'm sort of used to that. Conditioning probably-"

"Stiles." Derek presses, his temper cresting.

"Dude! Take a chill pill-"

Derek growls.

"Okay. Whatever. I'm pretty sure I'm in one of the stages of withdrawal. I've missed so much Adderall dude. It sucks, I mean taking the stuff isn't all sunshine and roses but..."

Derek tunes him out. There is nothing Derek can do except from make sure Stiles keeps hydrated. And as annoying as it might be, having him continue talking is probably a good thing, even if his voice is hoarse and scratched up worryingly.

He's pretty sure he will manage to get them free sometime soon and if not, Scott and the rest will be looking for them. Stiles is the most tenacious person Derek has ever met, he'll be fine.

You can tell a lot about someone by the way they react to anger. Stiles uses it as a weapon.

The Sheriff shares more than a few characteristics with his son even if most people couldn't imagine two people more different. Which is why Scott really shouldn't be surprised when John cycles through all three types of anger before sticking with cold rage.

He pulls a gun (wolfsbane loaded) on Peter three times, coolly demands Chris Argent to donate some weaponry and sets off after his son with single minded purpose.

After outlining a plan that combines police efficiency and insane, sheer Stiles, imagination.

Sheep are terrifying. Just saying.