The Sheriff's cruiser was waiting in the driveway when Stiles pulled in and he cursed under his breath when his headlights illuminated the garage door. There was no way he could open it to get to the gasoline without his dad hearing the rattle and creak of the thing, and it would be a bigger pain in the ass to try and climb the tree up to his bedroom window than to just go through the front door and face the music. He was a lot of things, but a sneak wasn't really one of them. He was blatant in his delinquency, proud of his misbehavior, and even though he would never admit it, not even to himself, getting his dad's attention was kind of the point. Leaving his jeep in the driveway, he locked the doors and shoved his keys down into the pocket of his jeans before slipping into the house.

The dining room was dark as was the living room, and the small part of him that always seemed to hover behind his left shoulder, that was still a scared young man, was immensely relieved not to find his father sitting quietly with the bottle of Jack he thought he'd hidden in the back of the old curio cabinet. The rest of him was steeling himself, ready for the confrontation, the weight on his shoulders getting heavier and heavier with each stair he climbed. At the top of the landing he found himself faced with a choice; turn right and collapse into his bed and pretend that this, all of this, hadn't happened, or go left, where a thin sliver of gold light worked its way through the crack where his father's office door hung ajar.

He could have gone right. Could have pretended. The Stilinskis were good at that… pretending. Pretending that they were ok, pretending that they weren't falling to pieces one lie at a time, every day a little bit colder and a little bit worse than the last…

It was probably what he should have done.

Bit of a surprise then, that his feet moved without his permission, turned and carried him down to the end of the hallway where he pushed the door open with an ominous, haunted house creak and stepped inside the little, dimly lit office. His father was leaning heavily on his elbows, hunched over the top of his desk which was covered in a sprawling mess of case files. His head was tipped down and he didn't look up from his reading when Stiles came in, didn't acknowledge him at all as he crossed the bit of worn carpet silently, sat down in the chair before the desk, curling in on himself like a student before the principal, ready for his sentencing.

As silent minutes ticked by Stiles decided that this might be the worst of his father's tactics so far, whether it was an intentional punishment or not. Being solidly ignored, completely, as though he weren't even there at all, was, surprisingly, viciously painful. Especially coming from his dad. As his eyes traced the exhausted lines of the Sheriff's shoulders, the weariness in the man's face, his mind wandered back to a time when they'd felt like family instead of strangers, a time when he'd felt like he could go to his dad with anything, could shelter himself within the man's arms. Now he just felt a terrible ache in his chest and a coldness in his limbs, a distance that made him sick.

"Well son," the Sheriff sighed, finally breaking the silence as he tossed his pen onto the desktop between them and straightened in his chair, finally looking at him with a resigned sort of disappointment that cut like a knife. "Gonna tell me where you were this time?"

Stiles swallowed, forced himself not to shift uncomfortably in his chair. He supposed this was a chance, an opportunity to break the pattern of distrust and withdrawal between them. Because like his dad always said; once an occurrence, twice a coincidence, three times a pattern. And it was definitely a pattern. What they had was definitely a pattern. But the thing was, their pattern was safe. It wasn't perfect, hell, wasn't even good, but it was safe. Better the devil you know…

"I don't know what to do anymore Stiles," his father said softly, breaking him out of his scattered musings. He'd neglected to take his Adderall for the last three days and he was feeling the effects along with his recent adrenaline spike; a sort of jittery tension that had him fighting to keep his knee from bouncing, had his thoughts in a spin. "I just…" Sighing hard, the man scrubbed his hands over his face. "I just don't know what to do anymore Stiles. You're almost two hours past your curfew…"

It was the total defeat in the man's voice that caught Stiles attention. It wasn't something he'd ever associated with his Dad, and it scared him. So of course his mouth leapt out ahead of him, deployed the sharp, acidic sarcasm and stinging words that were his first line of defense.

"That wasn't my fault!" he snapped, biting down hard on his tongue when he realized just how badly the sentence had come out. "I would've been on time, but…"

He trailed off, hit with a sudden wave of hesitancy. He wasn't sure why he didn't want to tell his dad about the dog, but the words had caught in his throat and he couldn't seem to cough them up.

"But what, Stiles?" his dad snapped, anger finally creeping into his voice, and that was familiar. That was safe. A part of the pattern. "What's your excuse this time?"

"I hit a dog," he snarled through clenched teeth, his own anger boiling up out of his chest and forcing the words out to hang in the air between them. And that was a part of the pattern too. "It jumped out in front of me, just… came out of the trees. Out by the Preserve…"

"And what the hell were you doing out at the Preserve? Stiles?" his father asked, standing up from his chair and slamming a fist down onto his desk. "I told you that you could go to school and to Scott's. Last I checked the Preserve is neither of those places. I swear Stiles, if I find out you were out there drinking again…"

"I wasn't drinking!" Stiles shouted. "You think I'm stupid enough to drink and drive?! It was raining and the damned thing jumped out in front of me! I damn near flipped the jeep trying not to kill it…"

And that was the wrong thing to say.

Or… maybe the right thing…

The Sheriff went pale and clammy as he sank slowly back into his chair, his face like a sheet as all the fight went out of him, the fury fading from his eyes.

"Were you hurt?" he asked throatily, his voice thick and hoarse.

Stiles was quiet a minute, tempted to just get up and leave. He hated pity, hated… concern. It made his skin feel too tight.

"I'm fine," he muttered finally. "But I had to go to Deaton's; I couldn't just leave it there."

The Sheriff sighed again, ran a hand through his hair, and Stiles was struck one more time by the weariness in his father's face, the lines that told the story of their lives if you could just read them right.

"Fine," he assented, "You couldn't leave it. But that doesn't change anything Stiles. You shouldn't have been out there at all and I… I can't be worrying about where you're at anymore." His hands went unconsciously to the mess of paper on the desk, lifted the cover of a file before dropping it again into the same position. "I've got other things…"

Stiles narrowed his eyes, leaning forward to run his gaze over the files. The Sheriff noticed his sudden interest and frowned, shuffled the papers together quickly and stuffed them into a desk drawer.

"I can't do this anymore Stiles," he said with a cold finality. "You can't do this anymore."

Stiles arched an eyebrow, confused by the abruptly serious look on his dad's face. A chill gripped the back of his neck and he had the sudden horrible premonition that he was about to be told to pack his bags for boot camp.

"Give me your keys."

Ok.

That was worse.

"What?!" he yelped. "Dad! You can't… I… how will I get to school?"

"You can walk," the Sheriff deadpanned, his hand out expectantly, waiting. "Or you can take your bike."

"Dad, you…" Stiles sputtered, "You can't take the jeep. I need it! I have class. And… practice, and…"

His mind latched on to the one excuse he hoped my work.

"And I have to go back to Deaton's! I told him I'd be back; I have to… I have to make sure the dog is…"

"Keys, Stiles."

A full minute passed as he sat frozen in his chair, staring at his dad with his mouth open before he was finally able to move, shoving shaking fingers into his jeans pocket and gripping his keys tight, the metal teeth biting into his palm as he clutched them in his fist. A sneer curled his mouth as he tossed them at his dad, who leaned away but caught them against his chest all the same, peeling off the key to the jeep before tossing them right back.

"I'll be home early for the rest of the week," he said, refusing to look at his son. "So you're going to go to school, you're going to go to practice, and you're going to come home. Understood?"

Stiles felt the anger jump inside of him again, bucking against the restraint of authority. "I'm going to the vet's after practice," he hissed. "I'm the one who hit that dog, the least I can do is make sure he's ok."

The Sheriff frowned, arched an eyebrow, and Stiles had the sudden feeling that he was being measured and judged. He didn't know what his father saw, but eventually he relaxed in his chair, his body going slack as he nodded.

"Fine," he conceded, pointing a finger. "One hour. Practice is over at five? You be home by six thirty."

"You're only giving me a half hour to walk?" Stiles yelped in disbelief.

"Not my problem Stiles," the Sheriff shrugged. "Figure it out, or don't, but you be home by six-thirty. Now go to bed. I don't want you late for school tomorrow."

Stiles hands fisted at his sides at the clear dismissal, iron control the only thing that kept him from flipping his chair and blowing his stack. As it was he gave the chair a good kick on his way out but it only served to make him feel childish, as did slamming his bedroom door hard enough to shake the frame. His eyes lit briefly on the window as he considered chain smoking his way through the rest of the cigarettes in his pocket but the thought was a fleeting one. Out from under his father's eye he felt his system starting to crash, a hot, heavy weariness flooding his muscles. Crashing into his bed face first, jacket, sneakers and all, he grabbed on to his pillow and let the darkness pull him under.

XXX

In the back of the darkened vet clinic, Alan Deaton gazed down at his newest patient with a frown on his typically calm face.

He'd been speaking quietly to the werewolf for almost an hour since the young Stilinski boy had left, but he hadn't gotten the reaction he'd hoped for. Instead of shifting back into his human form, or even his beta form, the wolf had lain stock still in the bottom of the kennel, shivering in fear despite the vet's reassurances that he was safe within the protected walls of the clinic. When Deaton had first revealed his knowledge of the wolf's true nature, he had cracked one bright blue eye and rolled it back toward him, clearly frightened but unable to summon the strength to raise his heavy head. Slowly, gradually, his body had relaxed again under the lull of Deaton's low, calm voice, though he was still occasionally racked with tremors, and it was evident that exhaustion and blood loss had taken its toll when the animal's huge chest heaved a massive sigh and it settled down into the blankets, breathing deep and slow in sleep.

Deaton sighed, dragged a hand over his face. He suspected that the man had been drugged with mistletoe, effectively trapping him inside his lupine form, but without a blood sample he couldn't be sure and at this juncture he wasn't comfortable with taking one. Still, it seemed he should at least be trying to shift back at this point. The emissary had to wonder then if there wasn't something more at play, some long lasting trauma locking a man's mind inside a wolf's body, or if there was even any semblance of a man left. He'd seen werewolves come out of fighting rings once or twice before, so imprisoned and so abused for so long that they didn't know anything else anymore.

Which left him with a dilemma.

It was his job, his duty to maintain the balance, and before him was the potential to gravely upset that balance.

The wolf wasn't an alpha, that much was certain, but it was certain too that he had taken a life, an innocent one, and that mattered. Whether it had happened in the ring or not, it mattered. He couldn't give a person the bite, but he could give a person a bite, and a bad one at that. He was a fighter, aggressive, volatile – he wouldn't have survived the pits if he weren't. It would be the safest thing to have him put down. Perhaps even the kindest thing.

But would it be the right thing?

He'd been fought, hit by a car, hauled around by one stranger and poked and prodded by another all in one night, fear and stress and pain more than any living thing should be expected to tolerate well, and yet he hadn't reacted with aggression. He hadn't bitten the Stilinski boy, hadn't slashed or snapped…

Whether it was the mind of a man or the mind of a wolf within him, it would appear that for now, he was... under control. Somehow, beyond all hope or expectation, he'd retained that, human or lupine, a sharp respect for the human body and the human constitution capable of cutting through a fog of fear and pain thick enough to blind anyone.

Safe then.

For now.

With only a fraction of the guilt he should feel, Deaton latched the gate of the kennel securely before flicking off the lights and locking up.