Stiles Stilinski stared out onto the waters of the Columbia River while driving south on Interstate 5. He was only about two hours in to his almost twenty-two hour trek back to Beacon Hills, California, and he was already bored out of his mind.
Though if he were to be honest, there really was no perfect company or playlist that could have made this particular trip bearable. Or any trip to Beacon Hills.
Stiles let loose a deep sigh before picking up his mobile phone and quickly tapping on the favorites list, selecting his contact.
"You've reached the voicemail of John Stilinski. Leave a message," the recorded voice of his father said.
"Hey, dad," Stiles said, after waiting what felt like a lifetime for the beep, "It's Stiles. I'm just calling to let you know that I'm on my way. I didn't really figure you'd answer, I think we both said enough over the phone last night… Anyway, I should get there late tonight. Don't bother waiting up for me. I'll… I guess I'll try calling again when I get closer."
Pulling back the phone, Stiles hit the end call button and let the device flop into the passenger seat. For a brief moment, he considered what it might be like to drive his car over the bridge and into the water.
Halfway through Oregon, Stiles was pulled out of his own rendition of Kelly Clarkson's "Heartbeat Song" by the notification of an incoming call from his mobile phone. Both his heart and sweat glands went into overdrive as the fear that his father had actually decided to return his call overcame him. However, the feeling was quickly replaced with one of relief once he looked at the screen. A small smile formed on his face as he slid to answer the call.
"Hey, Isaac," Stiles said.
"Hey," Isaac said, voice muffled, "Where rrrgh uhhh?"
"God damn it, Isaac," Stiles said, "I told you to stay out of those fucking cookies. You know those were my attempt to bribe Greenberg out of charging us interest on our late rent last month."
"I only did it because you told me not to," Isaac said, voice becoming more discernible, "That's like a life rule, Stiles. Besides, we both know Greenberg's looking for a different kind of favor."
"Yeah, well," Stiles said, shaking his head, "Unless you're willing to take one for the team, we're paying interest."
"You mean I'm paying interest," Isaac said sourly.
"We don't know that yet, man," Stiles said, "It could all be–"
"Stiles, we already talked about this, and it's okay," Isaac said, voice suddenly becoming serious, "I'm just messing with you, don't worry about the rent. I'm already looking for a new roommate. Seriously, Greenberg is the last thing that should be on your mind right now. You need anything, just call, okay?"
Stiles sighed into the receiver.
"Hey, man," Isaac said, "I know this isn't easy, but you're doing the right thing. And if you see that piece of shit ex-boyfriend of yours, you take him out. I'll fly down for a day just to help you hide the body."
"Isaac, he's a werewolf," Stiles said, shaking his head, "I'm pretty sure my puny human genes prevent me from winning a physical fight there."
"Fine," Isaac said, huffing, "Call me, and I'll fuck him up. Anything for you, babe."
"Thanks, bro," Stiles said, rolling his eyes, "I appreciate that and all, but I think I'm just going to will the universe to prevent me from crossing paths with Ethan Carver ever again."
"Well, when that plan fails," Isaac said, "Call me. I'm sure there are others in town that would help me bash his face in. What about Jackson, he was dating Ethan around the same time you were, right?"
"Uh… Yeah, right before I think," Stiles said, "And your plan to distract me from the reason I'm headed home isn't working, though you are reminding me how much more miserable it could be."
"Hey, do we have any milk right now?" Isaac asked, followed by a chewing sound.
Stiles slammed on his brakes and laid on the horn as a silver Chevrolet Camaro cut him off. He lifted his middle finger for extra emphasis.
"Jesus," Stiles said, picking his mobile phone up again and pressing on his contacts list.
"You've reached the voicemail of John Stilinski. Leave a message," the recorded voice of his father said.
"Hey, dad," Stiles said, "It's me again. I just made it through Carlsbad. Making good time, but still going to get in pretty late. Don't wait up."
"You've reached the voicemail of John Stilinski. Leave a message," the familiar recorded voice message said.
"Hey, dad," Stiles said, staring at the long stretch of road in front of him, "Just calling to let you know I made it through San Diego, but traffic was worse than expected. Make that really, really late coming in. You're probably already asleep anyways. See you at the breakfast table I guess."
As he ended the call, Stiles glanced through the rearview mirror at the two travel bags in the backseat. He resisted the urge to contemplate how others might be bothered that their entire lives could be packed up so easily. So minimally.
Half an hour past twenty-one hours of driving, Stiles pulled onto the long drive leading up to the Stilinski ranch. Ranch was perhaps a more loose interpretation of the house, since it mostly stood now as several acres of garden space – something his late mother had loved.
As he got closer to the house, Stiles noticed that a black Camaro stood between him and the part of the drive reserved for parking.
"Must be Dr. Deaton. Who knew he had wheels," Stiles thought, letting loose a whistle of appreciation for the car.
Stiles pulled off to the side of the drive, trying to get as close to the house as possible without ruining the green space.
He took a moment to just stare up at his large childhood home. He hadn't been back in nearly ten years, when he first left for college. It looked a little older, the exterior showing minor wear from weather, but the lawn looked well kept, and the windows appeared clean. That was probably something Stiles owed to the people of Beacon Hills – mostly Melissa McCall no doubt. Neither were going to simply stand by and watch as the town's former Sheriff collapsed.
Stiles shook his head and released a snort as he briefly entertained thoughts of his former best friend, Scott McCall. Like Ethan, that was another road better left untraveled.
Stiles twisted in his seat to reach for the two bags, awkwardly pulling them into the front of the car before opening the driver's side door.
Immediately, Stiles's first foot out of the car was met with about two inches of wet ground, a squelching sound confirming to him that he was stepping into a soggy mud pile.
"I take back that whistle of appreciation," Stiles said, feeling irritated, "Fucking Camaros."
Stepping over the mud as carefully as possible, Stiles slung his two bags over his shoulder and angled toward the front porch.
Stopping at the welcome mat, Stiles wiped his muddy shoe and reached up for the doorknob, grabbing the latch and pushing.
"Christ," Stiles whispered, realizing the front door was locked.
Stiles pulled out his car keys seeking the key to the door, but found it missing. Slowly, he remembered that he no longer carried a key to the house on him, having removed it shortly after moving into his first dorm.
"Fuck," Stiles said, leaning down to see if a spare key was still under the mat.
Stiles found no key under the mat, nor in or under any of the potted plants on the porch – not even around the swinging bench, or hidden amongst the rock garden bordering the porch.
Throwing his hands up in frustration, Stiles moved toward the living room windows overlooking the porch.
"Fuck yeah!" Stiles yelled, finding that the third window down was unlocked.
Tossing his bags in first, Stiles attempted to angle himself into the dark living room as gracefully as possible. Just when he had set a second foot onto the hardwood floor, he felt something knock against him from behind, and he swerved quickly to catch whatever was about to fall.
Something cold and smooth fell into his hands, experience telling him that the feel, size, and weight was that of a photo frame. His suspicions were confirmed when the lamp next to the sofa turned on, an orange glow dimly illuminating the high ceilinged room.
"Dad," Stiles said, turning to see his father sitting in a wheel chair next to the sofa.
Stiles's heart sank slightly at the sight, throat restricting uncomfortably.
"Stiles," his father said, a smile noticeably absent from the man's tired face.
"Uh… Sorry about this," Stiles said, lifting the photo frame up, "I, uh… I didn't have a key on me, and I couldn't find a spare. Luckily the window was unlocked."
His father released a snort.
"Well, you could have helped," Stiles said, eyebrows scrunching in defiance, "You probably heard me try the door."
"I was hoping you would just turn around," his father said, "I didn't think you were really coming."
"Well, if you had taken any of my calls, you would have known better," Stiles said, "Did you even check my messages?"
"We were out in the gardens today," his father said, eyes closing.
"We?" Stiles asked, stepping closer to his father.
"What?" his father asked, eye opening slowly, "What are you doing here, Stiles?"
"I'm here to see you, dad," Stiles said, "You know that, we spoke on the phone for a long time about this. We decided it was best for me to move back in for a little while."
"You decided," his father said, huffing, "And you're not needed. I'm fine."
"That's bullshit," Stiles said, emotions quickly giving way to anger, "Melissa called me about your stay in the hospital this week, dad. You need help."
"I already get all the help I need," his father said, reaching down to move his wheelchair toward the room's entrance.
"Look," Stiles said, releasing a sigh to refrain from letting anger guide his tongue, "I already discussed your options with you, either you moved into a hospital for 24/7 surveillance, or I moved back in. You chose the latter."
"Stiles," his father said, stopping at the entrance, "I hung up on you. I thought my answer was clear enough."
"Dad," Stiles said, "It's past 2:00AM, and I've had a long day on the road. I don't have it in me to argue with you right now. Let's just put this on pause right now, okay?"
"Fine," his father said, wheeling himself into the hallway, "But stay out of your old room, I'm using it. You can pick any of the guest rooms on the first or second floor."
"You're using my room?" Stiles asked, "For what?"
"Don't worry about that," his father said, "I moved down here when I got the wheelchair, you can either stay down here with me, or you can head up. It's your choice."
Stiles stepped into the hallway and paused as he watched his father make his way down the dark hall.
Releasing another sigh, Stiles hiked his bags back over his shoulder and stepped onto the stairway.