Chapter Four: Whiskey Reverie

It was the longest day in history. Or at least it felt like it to Sheriff Stilinski - and the day wasn't over yet.

All morning he had been working on a complicated drug and attempted murder case. Sloppily organized reports by some rookie cops and improper acquisition procedures threatened to throw the whole case out the window. District Attorney Barry Donaghue had been breathing down his neck all afternoon, badgering him to find additional evidence and witnesses, or else he'd have to grant a local drug dealer legal immunity in exchange for testimony. Neither of them wanted that, especially Stilinski, who had arrested the dealer on charges of assaulting a minor. A high school junior who had been hospitalized with a collapsed lung and several broken ribs. A boy who could have easily been his own son.

No, Sheriff Stilinski would not let the dealer walk. He'd clean up this mess, even though it hadn't been his screw-up in the first place.

Then, to make matters worse, after having to leave work for an hour to take Stiles home from school because of his suspension, a couple of federal agents showed up. A thirty-something man with a professional demeanor and strong handshake, and his partner, a pretty and friendly woman who belonged in an ad for Better Homes and Gardens. The pair were tracking a known serial killer, and believed he may have recently passed through Beacon Hills. They showed him photos and police reports, and provided him with lengthy descriptions. The alleged crimes made him nauseous, and he was thankful he hadn't seen or heard of any such man. But he promised to keep an eye open and welcomed them to use all the resources at the station's disposal while in the area.

At quarter past eight, Sheriff Stilinski finally had a moment to himself. He had a mountain of paperwork on his desk he needed to tackle, but he allowed himself one moment of calm and reflection before he started. The guilt he had been suppressing all day finally bubbled to the surface. He'd actually done it; he had hit his son. Years and years ago (could so much time have passed?), when his wife had been pregnant, they had been cuddling together in bed on a stormy Tuesday night, listening to the wind howl and the rain hit the roof. He had pressed his face to her belly, to see if he could hear the baby's heart beat. He had felt his tiny son moving in her womb, and had promised himself then and there that he would do whatever it took to protect him, to lead and guard his little child in the world, and he promised that he would never raise a hand – or a belt – against his son, like his father had him.

He'd broken that promise – in more ways than one.

He wasn't a good father. Principal Thomas had confirmed as much. He spent too much time at work, and not enough with his son. He wasn't the leader, the provider, the role model, the protector, or the friend he wanted to be for Stiles. He still felt acutely the loss of his wife everyday, and sometimes it hurt him to look at Stiles – god, how he looked more like her with each passing year; they had the same carefree spirit and hazel eyes – and know that he had failed him, had failed her. He wondered what she would say if she was with him now.

Probably she'd reassure him that he was a wonderful father, and he was doing his best. She was always saying things like that. She had had this amazing capacity to encourage and strengthen him. And, for reasons still unknown to himself, she had loved him. Loved him with a conviction and dedication he hadn't known was possible. She had been the best wife and mother any man could ever hope for. He missed her so much. Sometimes the pain was so bad he couldn't breathe.

Sheriff Stilinski closed his blinds, so no one would be able to see into his office. He sat behind his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and extracted a hidden bottle of Scotch whiskey and a glass. He poured smoothly and deliberately, half filling the glass with the golden liquid. He drank it neat, without ice or water, savoring the smoky, earthy taste, and the slight burn as it traveled down his esophagus. He felt the warmth of the alcohol in his stomach. He only wished it would take away the chill that had settled over his heart.

Sheriff Stilinski thought about Stiles, and poured himself another glass. Lately it seemed like if they weren't yelling or making snide comments at each other, they weren't communicating. He wondered if this was an inevitable part of raising a teenager or a reflection of his own parenting. He couldn't remember the last time he and Stiles had just sat down and talked about anything. There was a time when Stiles told him everything. When he would run into the station after-school, flop into a chair, and divulge every single detail about his day. The only way to get him to shut up was to place food in front of him.

Or he'd run around the station, asking a million questions without stopping for a breath, following at his father's heels and getting into everything. Sometimes he could be a nuisance, especially when Sheriff Stilinski was trying to meet with a complainant, and Stiles would badger them for details and information, until he was finally banned from his father's office. But secretly Sheriff Stilinski loved those times, loved having his son there with him, having him be a part of his work; the two most important things in his life together in one room. And people loved Stiles, from the moment they met him. His chest would swell with pride when Stiles held his own against adults, refusing to let them patronize him just because he was young. He was perceptive and bright, precocious and quick-witted. "That's quite a boy you have there," people would say.

"I know," the sheriff would reply with a smile. It pleased him to know that Stiles was his.

He wondered if Stiles realized how proud he was of him: of how determined he was, of his cleverness and fearlessness, of the effort he put into his ideas and how hard he worked to implement his plans. If only he would apply the same energy and intelligence to his studies.

He'd never admit it, but he was secretly impressed by the prank Stiles had pulled that day. It was hilarious and creative, and harmless enough. He hadn't caused any lasting damage – except perhaps to Thomas's pride, but Stilinski could live with that; he felt the man needed to be taken down a couple pegs. And he was proud that Stiles had taken the blame. He knew Scott had been involved – of course he had been; you never saw one of those boys without the other. He was proud that Stiles wasn't a snitch, that he had been loyal, protecting his best friend despite the consequences. (Although, as a father, he also wished Stiles would have saved himself from being suspended.)

He remembered holding Stiles in his arms for the first time. He'd been so small and helpless, this little pink bundle of flesh and toes, his eyes too big for his face, wide and staring curiously. He was growing into a fine young man, despite the sheriff's own colossal parental failures. He had loved him from that very moment, a love bigger and more terrifying than anything he had ever experienced. Even fifteen years later, it scared him that he could love another human being so much.

A tentative knock at the door broke his reverie. Sheriff Stilinski shook his head to clear the liquor-induced fog, and quickly returned his whiskey bottle to its hiding place. "Yes, what is it?"

"There's a call for you, Sheriff. On line two."

"Okay. Thank you, Andrews." Great, he thought, more work. "Hello. Sheriff Stilinski speaking."

"It's, uh, Melissa McCall." The woman's voice was familiar, and welcome after the day he'd had. He had always found his son's best friend's mother to be a comforting, soothing sort of person. She reminded him of Claudia that way.

"This is a surprise. What can I do for you?"

"It's, well, it's about Stiles." Sheriff Stilinski's heart sank.

"What is it? What's happened? Where is he?"

"Well Sheriff, that's the problem. We don't know where he is. He's, uh, he's run away."

Sheriff Stilinski asked Scott and Melissa to come down to the station, so he could talk to them in person and get a statement from Scott. While he waited, he had another glass of whiskey to calm his nerves. Now was not the time to lose his cool, not if he wanted to find his son.

Runaway? Why would Stiles runaway? He was afraid he already knew the answer.

Melissa and Scott arrived within ten minutes. He ushered them into his office, along with Deputy Andrews. "Scott, I want you describe what Stiles was wearing when you last saw him, so we can put out an APB." Scott nodded and began to describe Stiles' clothing and bike. Andrews took notes with a pencil on a pad of paper. Sheriff Stilinski interjected every once in a while to ask questions – was he wearing his helmet? Did he have anything with him? What time did he last see Stiles? Could he be more specific? – or to add further clarification: "I'd say his eyes are more hazel than brown. They're not as dark as Scott's. They're lighter, kind of a mocha color. Did you get all that? Good. Get that APB out straight away."

Andrews nodded and left the room. Scott told the sheriff about the note. "What did it say, exactly? This could be important."

"I-I'm not sure."

"But you're sure he said he was headed for the coast?"

"Yeah. He said he wanted to see the Pacific Ocean."

"Alright," Sheriff Stilinski was a flurry of activity, grabbing things off his desk, rummaging through papers and drawers. "I'm going to head home, see if I can find any more clues. Then I'll head out in my cruiser. Maybe he didn't get too far, or maybe he changed his mind and is heading home. Damn it! Where are my keys?!"

Melissa McCall gently placed her hand on his arm. He hadn't realized he was shaking. She handed him his keys. "We're going to find him," she said.

"I hope you're right. Call me if you hear from him."

"You know we will."

TEENWOLF

Stiles lost track of time and distance. He had started out strong, biking at a quick, steady pace. Within half an hour, he had reached town limits. Within an hour, he had passed the farthest point outside of town that he had ever biked: half a dozen miles outside of Beacon Hills. He and Scott had biked out there years ago on a whim. They had wanted to see if they could make it to Sunnydale. It wasn't long before they had gotten bored and tired, and had given up on their scheme and headed home. But he was making better time than his ten-year-old self, and had already covered the same amount of distance in half the time. Of course, this time around he didn't have Scott along with him, stopping him to look at this creek or that salamander, laughing and having a good time.

Running away was a lonely endeavor.

He paused to have a drink from the water bottle he'd refilled at the last gas station. He was feeling pretty good. He knew he could make it through a couple towns before nightfall, giving him plenty of light. He wanted to cover as much ground as possible. Maybe he could even make it to Sunnydale before calling it a night. He had a friend there he'd met at space camp. They hadn't talked in a couple years, but he was sure she'd be willing to put him up for one night. He still had several miles before he crossed the county line, and, he reasoned, when one is running away, it's probably best to get out of one's father's police jurisdiction before stopping for the night.

Stiles had bought a $5.34 map at the gas station. He would have to take care how much money he spent, but the map – and the ham sandwich he had purchased – had seemed necessary at the time. He'd taken a pencil and traced a route from Beacon Hills to Santa Monica – he had decided that would be his final destination. He spread the map across his handlebars and considered his route. Right now, he guessed he was averaging about 15 mph, but he was getting exhausted. He definitely was not made for endurance. His butt was sore, and he had begun to alternate between standing and sitting while pedaling. He figured he could make it another thirty or forty miles to a town twice the size of Beacon Hills. He didn't have enough money for a motel room, but he figured he could handle sleeping one night at a bus station. The rest of the days of his trip would be divided between travelling and panhandling, so he'd have money for food and shelter. He had no doubt people would take pity on him, a pasty small-town boy.

Perhaps he was being overly-optimistic, but he had a long, hard trip in front of him, and plenty of time for reality to set in. He kept on, kept pushing himself, excited at what lie ahead, and already regretful for what he had left behind.

The sun was sinking lower behind the tree line when Stiles' book-bag started ringing. He was on a long stretch of barren road, surrounded by trees. He braked and attempted to twist his torso, so he could unzip his bag while still wearing it, but he couldn't reach. The ringing continued. He shifted the book-bag into his lap, and rummaged inside a small front pocket. A photo of Scott filled his screen. "Hello?" he asked, but Scott had already hung up. "I'd better call him back, in case something's wrong." Stiles started dialing the number, when he noticed the battery icon in the corner of the screen blinking red. 6% it warned. It gave one feeble attempt to connect his call, then died. "No! No!" Stiles whacked the phone against his left hand, trying desperately to beat it back to life.

For the first time since he had left home, Stiles realized the scope of the situation he had put himself in. He currently had no idea where he was, or how far from civilization. He had no way to charge his phone, which meant in an emergency he was stranded. He didn't know the area or the wildlife, and while camping under the stars had seemed like a romantic idea, it suddenly seemed very foolish. He didn't have enough supplies. He was tired and hungry. He had no idea what he was doing.

But he refused to turn back.

He couldn't handle two failures in one day.

He tried to convince himself that he'd be fine, he'd figure it out, but in the waning light of day he was less sure of himself. Darkness was steadily falling, and the shadows around him grew and became eerie, threatening.

He decided his best bet was to keep pushing on. He figured he must be getting close to town. Stiles took a ten-minute break to catch his breath and hydrate. He removed his helmet, hung it on the handlebars, and pushed his bike. He didn't care if walking took more time. His legs felt like jello. There was no way he could continue pedaling.

Stiles walked for half an hour. He could barely push the bike. The road stretched endlessly before him. It was barren and deserted. The sun had disappeared, only faint traces of light painted the horizon. Night had fallen.

Three cars passed him without stopping. He was thankful his father had made him install all necessary reflectors on his bike. He knew the people saw him, saw his hitched thumb, but they continued on their way. He had overestimated human kindness toward teenage boys. Seemed he had been doing a lot of overestimating today.

Another ten minutes passed. The road in front of Stiles brightened in the glare of oncoming headlights. They steadily grew brighter, and Stiles realized the car was slowing down. A 2008 Ford Edge pulled up beside him. It was painted a deep red, but in the dark the color resembled dried blood. The driver rolled down the passenger window and leaned over the console. "Hey, kid. Where are you headed?"

"Santa Monica."

The man laughed. "You still have a long way to go."

"I know."

"It's not safe for a kid your age to be out this time of night. What if someone veered off the road and hit you? Can I drive you someplace?"

"Where are you headed?"

"There's a town about twenty miles north of here. I could take you as far as there."

"Okay."

The man opened the hatchback and stepped out of the car. "We'll put your bike in the trunk here. There's lots of space." Stiles allowed the stranger to lift his bicycle into his vehicle and lay it on its side. "There, all set."

Don't do it, Stiles, his father's voice was loud in his head. Hitch-hiking is dangerous. Don't ever do it, especially not alone. Promise me you won't. Stiles shook his head and climbed into the Ford's passenger seat.

Sheriff Stilinski drove along back roads in his police cruiser. He watched carefully out the windows, checking for signs of his son. He inspected every ditch, sewer pipe, and creek, terrified he'd find Stiles' broken and bloody body. Each time he found one empty, he sighed in relief. But his heart was beginning to falter. He was no closer to finding his son. He clenched Stiles' note in his hand against the steering wheel, his knuckles white from gripping so tightly. "I'm sorry, Stiles," he whispered into the darkness. "I'm sorry. I never wanted to make you feel my life would be better without you. I'm so, so sorry." He only hoped he'd be able to apologize face-to-face.

TBC...