References to domestic violence ahead.
2008
A cold wind blasted Stiles Stilinski's scalp as he biked feverishly down the quiet road. Speed... Speed solved everything, as far as he was concerned. Going fast, there was no time, no reason, to dwell or think — just react, just watch the world whirl by in a blur of color and light. He wasn't struggling through sixth grade ("he has so much intelligence and potential, Mr. Stilinski — if only he'd focus..."), he wasn't nursing a hopeless crush on the absolutely celestial Lydia Martin, he wasn't being taunted and occasionally shoved by that asshole Jackson... There was just him, and the road.
He was like the wind. He was free.
Stiles heard the rumbling tires of a car somewhere around the bend ahead of him; he slowed down with a grimace. Then the car came into view... and his throat tightened.
It was a black Ford, disconcertingly familiar. It slowed at the sight of him, then came to a stop. Stiles' legs urged him to keep on going, but they stopped nonetheless. He wasn't sure why; maybe he was looking for some closure of his own.
The driver's side window rolled down. The face on the other side, craggy like a mountainside, had a friendly smile on its face. Stiles' stomach churned.
"Hello, Stiles. I was hoping I'd run across you."
Stiles nodded stiffly. "Mr. McCall. What can I do for you?"
"I suppose you know I'll be leaving soon for the FBI." His voice was surprisingly calm and neutral for someone who was basically being ridden out of Beacon Hills on a rail; after all, everyone knew that before everything happened, Mr. McCall was planning on taking his entire family with him to Los Angeles. It was still a small community, and things like that tended to get around.
So did the not-so-innocent things. Stiles would know; he was responsible for one of the bigger tidbits getting out in the first place.
It was about six months previous that it all started. He'd gone over to the McCall house one Sunday afternoon to grab Scott to do some exploring or biking. He knew that Scott's dad had left that morning for an interview in Los Angeles, and that his mom had recently gotten the bright idea to make Scott watch documentaries when it was just the two of them in an effort to improve his grades. So it was Stiles' duty as a friend to rescue his buddy from such madness.
Once at the McCall residence, he hopped off his bike and jogged up to the front door, rapping quickly on the glass. The door swung open, and Stiles' heart fell through his rib cage in a way that it hadn't since his mom died.
Mrs. McCall's eyes were red; she sniffled. There was an angry purple bruise just below the right corner of her mouth. She was still shaking.
"H-hello, Stiles," she said, her arms wrapped across her chest, her hand clutching at her triceps. Her voice was trembling under the same mental effort she was exerting to keep it under control.
He knew immediately what had happened. He'd been steeped in law enforcement since his earliest memories, after all. One of his first ride-alongs with his dad had been to a domestic violence call, one the sheriff would never have answered with his son in the car if he'd had a choice. As it was, his dad gave strict orders to not leave the car and to stay out of sight. As it turned out, his caution hadn't been needed; the husband was passed out dead drunk on the living room sofa, so the sheriff stayed with the wife on the porch while they waited for a deputy to arrive. But what Stiles would always remember from that night, watching the two from the front seat of the squad car, was her eyes: the pain, the fear — not just of physical harm, but of a future suddenly twisted and dark and uncertain.
The look that Mrs. McCall had in her eyes at that very moment.
"Scott's in his room," she continued, startling Stiles back into the real world. "You can go up if you like. I think he could use a friend right now." Her voice dropped low, almost to a whisper at those last words. If Stiles had had any doubt before, he didn't anymore. Yet his mind couldn't help but rebel at the notion; Scott's dad was kind of a hardass, sure, but he never seemed the type to...
Never ignore the evidence. If his father (and CSI) had taught him one thing, it was that. And the evidence here... Damning.
"Thanks, Mrs. M." He waited until she stepped aside, not wanting to squeeze past her — he wasn't sure how much closeness to a man she could take at the moment. Casting a cautious glance behind him, he hopped up the stairs. He hesitated at the door to Scott's room, just at the moment when his hand was about to clench over the doorknob. What the hell could he say? Did Scott even want to see him at a time like this?
He shook his head; he'd never find out unless he went in, and damn him if he was going to abandon his best friend if he was needed. Stiles pushed open the door.
All the lights were out, only the afternoon sun left to splay shadowy fingers through the tree outside Scott's bedroom window. Scott — his best friend — was curled up on the bed, his back to the door. Stiles couldn't hear anything but the rustling of branches outside and Scott's shallow breathing.
He swallowed. "Hey." There was no answer. "Mind if I—"
"Go away." And okay, Stiles had fully expected that. Not that expecting it made it hurt any less.
"Okay, if you want me to go, I will." He paused. "But I'm kinda beat. So I'm just gonna sit here..." He slowly made his way to Scott's desk and sat in the chair. "And I'm gonna rest for a while. If you wanna talk before I go—"
"I don't."
"Hey, sure. Just saying."
Silence fell over the room then. Stiles' legs itched to move, his hands ached to grab, his eyes yearned for his phone. But he couldn't give in. Not now. He just sat, stock still in a manner that would've shocked his teachers, and watched Scott's shadowed form on the bed.
He had no idea how much time passed; he found himself hypnotized by the way the scattered patterns of light danced on Scott's L.A. Raiders poster. It couldn't have been long, though, because the light outside hadn't died in the slightest when the silence was finally broken.
"I'm a total wimp, aren't I?"
"What?" Stiles nearly jumped to his feet, but forced himself back into the chair. "No! Why—?"
When Scott spoke again, his voice was weak, tremulous. "I wanted to stop him. But I couldn't say anything. I couldn't even move. What's wrong with me? Am I just a weak stupid—"
"It's not your fault." Vague memories of his dad saying the same to him when his mom died bubbled to the surface. He remembered how little it helped. He could only hope that it helped Scott more. But he wouldn't bet on it.
"Wh-why did he do it?" Scott asked, his voice now thick. "Why'd he hurt Mom...? I thought he loved us..."
"I don't know..." Stiles said, that same unwelcome sinking feeling he got in his gut that he felt all those nights sitting at that hospital bedside.
Scott didn't say much after that. He didn't even lift his head when Stiles finally left, though he nodded a little when Stiles promised he'd be back soon.
Stiles left the tomb-like McCall house as fast as he could; he couldn't bear the quiet, the hollowness. Mrs. McCall didn't even appear as he slipped out the front door. He phoned his dad the first chance he got. The next few nights, the elder Stilinski didn't come home until late, but Stiles completely understood. He also understood when his father told him that he should keep this to himself for now — give some time for Scott and his mom to adjust and figure out what to do. (And to keep them safe; he didn't say that, but Stiles understood it instinctively.) It took about a week and a half until Stiles heard that Mr. McCall had checked into a hotel; that was followed by three days of dropping every hint he could to every loose-tongued piano teacher and barfly he knew of.
Rafael McCall was persona non grata in Beacon Hills in record time. Stiles was perversely proud of the fact.
"... And I was wondering if I could ask you a favor." Stiles started, his mind plunging right back into the present.
Mr. McCall was asking a favor? Of him? Even though the big shot FBI agent never figured out how news of his indiscretion had gotten out so quickly, surely he couldn't think that Stiles would do jack shit for him? Was he desperate? Or just stupid?
Rafael McCall held out a slim white envelope. "I'd like you to give this to Scott."
Stiles stared at the envelope as if it were about to bite him. "What is that?"
"Just a letter. It has my contact information, in case he wants to talk. And a little money."
"Money?" Stiles snorted, feeling on the verge of laughing aloud — probably hysterically. "You think money is going to fix what you did?"
The friendly, neutral smile on Mr. McCall's face didn't slip in the slightest; Stiles yearned to punch it off him, the same way he did his wife. "Now, Stiles," he said, so patient he was practically condescending, "I don't know what you've been told happened, but—"
"I know everything," he burst out. He didn't even consider how it might've reflected poorly on his dad and his discretion — that guilty thought would come later. What was important right now was that this man understand that Stiles couldn't be bullshitted. "You're nothing but a fucking wife beater and a coward!"
He slapped the envelope out of Mr. McCall's hand. It was quickly picked up by the wind, disappearing into the forest. Neither noticed.
Mr. McCall glared, the facade finally cracked. "Hey, I've never been anything but patient with you. I helped you and Scott when Mrs. Landis caught you on her farm, remember? I think you owe me a little respect."
"Well, golly gee, Mr. McCall!" Stiles cried in a bright, cheery tone. "Thanks a million for getting us out of trouble with our wacky hijinks! That totally makes up for you using your wife as a punching bag!"
"Watch your mouth, kid, or—!"
"Or what?" Stiles asked with icy calm. "You'll hit me?" There was a dead silence. "Big man, hitting women and kids. No wonder you're FBI material. Oh, and FBI doesn't stand for 'Face Battered In,' y'know."
Mr. McCall glowered, his face turning dark — the look, Stiles decided, of a man who didn't know how to hold his temper. And there he was, provoking him. Well, he always did like to live a little dangerous. "I don't have to take this from a hyperactive little punk like you. What happens with my family is none of your business."
"Yeah, well, from what I hear, they're not 'your' family. Not anymore."
That was the worst part. Mr. McCall had his family, but he was so fucking stupid that he didn't appreciate what he had. He tore it apart, on purpose, threw it away, on purpose... The anger burned hot in his belly. Didn't he know how fucking lucky he was, to have his wife, to have his son, for all of them to be together? Why wasn't that enough for him?
Stiles was a pretty easygoing kid; his grades were proof enough of that. But now... It was one thing to know what he'd done, but to actually have to see the man, to imagine what those fists had done, what that throat had said...
He'd never hated anyone so much in his young life.
"Married almost fifteen years," McCall snarled through gritted teeth. "Make one mistake..."
"See, I don't know what it's like in Douchebag Land, but here in the real world, beating up your wife is kind of a deal breaker. You know what you did to my best friend?"
"I never touched Scott...!"
"'Cause you hadn't gotten around to him yet?"
"I love my son..."
Stiles laughed, a harsh bark that felt foreign coming out of his throat. "Man, you're a waste as a Fed. You could go on Letterman with that act!" The false cheer dropped off his face. "I don't know why the FBI still wants you. If you're as good at being a cop as you are at being a dad and a husband, you should be cleaning up after the K9 dogs. But I'm glad they're still giving you a job. Because that gets you out of Beacon Hills, and out of Scott's life. I hope you never come back."
Mr. McCall's face was stone hard, stone cold. Stiles stared back, calm; this wasn't the face of a rage that could get him physically hurt, so why not stare down the bastard, show him he couldn't just hit or charm his way out of everything? There was a long silence, broken only by the rustling of leaves, before Mr. McCall spoke again.
"Since we're being so... honest with each other, you know I see your dad's car parked outside the bar a lot more these days." He shrugged casually. "Must be tough on the guy. His wife dies, he has to raise his son all alone... And does that son keep his head down and help his father cope?" He shook his head sadly. "Nah, he has to go raise hell, make his dad worry... I know it'd drive me to drink."
Stiles' fists tightened.
"But I'm sure he's doing the best he can. He's a good man," McCall continued. "Better man than me. I mean, if Melissa were sick, and only Scott was around when she died, well, I hate to say it, but I'd resent him. I'd blame myself for not being able to comfort her in her last moments, and hate him for being there when I couldn't. It wouldn't be fair, of course, but who says grief is fair?" He looked Stiles straight in the eyes. "Ah, what am I talking about? I'm sure your dad doesn't feel that way. It's not like he gives you any odd looks or ever acts like he'd rather not talk to you, right?"
Stiles swallowed.
"I should get going." Rafael McCall started to roll up the window, but paused. "You think you're Scott's friend, don't you?"
"I know I am," Stiles replied. That was the one thing in this messed up world he was sure about.
"So I'm sure you're certain that you're not hurting him just by being around, aren't you? You did help take his dad away from him, even if you think it's for his own good. You're sure he doesn't resent you at all? I'm sure you would, though... as someone else who's also lost a parent. I'm sure if the roles were reversed..." Stiles was silent. "Well, you boys will work things out for yourselves. Say hello to your father for me." He finished rolling up the window; Stiles watched as the car roared away, disappearing into the treeline.
It was dark by the time Stiles got home. His father was in the living room, the paper in his lap. Stiles sniffed the air — he wasn't exactly sure what he was trying to smell. Booze? "Hey."
His father looked up, his eyes a little unfocused, but otherwise clear. "You're a little late, Stiles."
"Yeah, sorry. I, uh, got sidetracked."
"You get sidetracked a lot." The words weren't unkind or accusatory, but Stiles flinched nonetheless. "You could've texted or called."
"I will next time. I promise!" He wasn't sure why he was so insistent, why his voice was tinged with panic. No, of course he knew — Mr. McCall had gotten into his damn head.
Stop it! The guy's an asshole! He had no idea what he was talking about!
"So..." Stiles began, just so he didn't have to hear himself think, "should I get some spaghetti started for dinner, or...?"
His father sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. "I'm sorry, son, I'm exhausted right now. It's been a really long day. I think I'm just going to skip dinner. Go ahead and order some pizza. Whatever you want." He placed a couple of twenties on the coffee table.
Stiles swallowed. "Long day? Wanna talk about it, or...?"
"Thanks, but I'd rather end it right now. I think I'm just gonna hit the hay. G'night, Stiles."
"G'night, Dad." He thought his dad could hear his throat close at that last word, but apparently, he didn't; the elder Stilinski just trudged tiredly up the stairs.
Stiles was alone in the dimly lit living room. He pulled out his cell phone and started to call the pizza place, but paused after the second digit. He backspaced and hit the autodial for Scott's number. The phone trilled once. Twice. Thrice. Four times. Five. Six, way beyond the number of times it should've rung if the phone had been off. Then...
"Yo, this is Scott. Leave me a message."
He stared down at the phone, filling Scott's voicemail with silence. He barely felt his thumb twitch to cut off the connection. Stiles sighed, resting his head back on the couch cushion. He couldn't even find any comfort in hating his best friend's dad; how could he, now that the son of a bitch was long gone? He closed his eyes, trying to think of his mother, of her voice, of her comfort...
Everything's going to be all right, Stiles...
But she was lying then too, wasn't she?
Stiles fell asleep on that couch, his only company the cold shadows that surrounded him. He didn't know what would happen over the next few days — the next few years — events that would both chase away the fear and turn it all too real. But for now, he had his dreams... Dreams of Lydia feeding him grapes while Rush Limbaugh sat on Mr. McCall's head, his muffled screams barely audible over the rip-roars of the radio "star's" flatulence.
In his sleep, Stiles snickered.
AN: So, I've never watched a full episode of Teen Wolf, but I see a LOT about it on Tumblr. There was this gifset of a scene between Stiles and Scott's father that struck me. It was obvious there was a history there, and I wondered what it was. This is what I came up with. Please please be kind.
Many thanks to spookybibi for giving this thing a sanity check.