When Stiles croakily opens his eyes the following morning, he's actually disappointed to discover that he has not Rip Van Winkle'd his way to Friday after all. Whoever said that the wait is the best part of it all should have got his (her?) head examined. Because if it were upto Stiles, he most certainly would have skipped the wait altogether and jumped straight to the action instead. The thing is, it's still Thursday today and Stiles is grumpy about it. The world will just have to deal with it.
It's only a few seconds after he's woken up that Stiles realises what actually woke him up. It's his phone buzzing thunderously on the bedside table. Rubbing the sleep-induced blur out of his eyes, he grabs the buzzing menace off the table and squints into the painfully bright glare of the small LCD. It's his dad.
In an instant he's sitting bolt upright on his bed, heart pumping furiously. Something bad has happened, he just knows it. There would only ever be one reason for his dad to call so early in the morning. In fact, there have only ever been two other occasions so far that have merited such calls.
The first one was a really long time ago, when his dad had not yet become Sheriff and his mom was still alive - though he had begun to see so little of her by then because she spent so much time at the hospital and he had so much going on in his life including school and his adventures with Scott to be able to squeeze long hospital visits in the midst of it all. It had been about four-thirty that morning when his dad had called their home line - voice all shaky and choked up - telling him to get dressed, quickly! because he was on his way to pick him up so they could go pay mom a visit. No one had told him then that it would be the last of any such visits, and he had grumbled the whole way.
The second one wasn't too long ago; hardly a year has passed since. He can still remember it all as vividly as if he were there right now, reliving it again. Scott's limp, lifeless body hardly recognisable with all the tubes and blood, being rolled away to the ER by his own mother. Allison's there too, with her dad, in whose arms she has crumbled into an inconsolable mess. Stiles can't seem to cry right then; his blood has frozen in his veins. It's only much later that the tears begin. He remembers glancing at the clock down the hall; it was 3:15 AM. An hour ago he had been home fast asleep when his dad had called.
It could never be a good thing to receive a call from his dad this early in the morning. Stiles gingerly slides the green button across the screen and very slowly puts the phone to his ear.
"Hey, dad."
"Hey, son." There's a short pause. "You up?"
"Am now." Stiles laughs nervously - more of a coping mechanism firing up than anything else, because contrary to what many people believe (including himself sometimes), experience really does nothing to soften the blow. It's deep, raw and painful every single time. This much he has come to learn, accept and fear.
"Is it Scott?" he asks quickly, before this conversation can take any sudden, sharp nosedive into uncomfortable beating around the bush banter - the sort that always precedes the breaking of bad news. It's too early in the day to indulge in needless trivialities anyway. "It's him, isn't it? I knew it! That idiot- "
"Wha- "
"What did he do this time? Is he dead? Is that it?"
"Stiles! Scott is fine. And you need to calm down- deep breaths...good...yes, one more..."
Stiles hasn't had a panic attack in ages. The fear of one, however, is still indelibly ingrained in him. That inescapable feeling of utter helplessness as you watch your own fears suddenly come alive and grow into frightening proportions, feeding off your own consciousness as it slowly chokes you, is not something you simply grow out of. Such things leave scars permanently carved into your very bones, festering deep within you all your life - they haunt you ceaselessly; and then at the slightest hint of weakness or desperation, return with a scorching vengeance.
"Better now?" he hears his dad say, but there's such a heavy pounding in his ears that he only hears it as the muffled echo of some distant, garbled, cryptic message resonating in his eardrums in slow, lazy waves.
Stiles nods mutely and then realising that his father cannot see him, says, "Y-yeah...I'm okay."
He closes his eyes as a sudden, unexpected prickle of hot tears threatens to rush out. If his dad hears the small sharp intake of air, he says nothing. In fact, neither of them says anything for a long time.
In the end, Stiles speaks first. "So what is it?" he says, surprisingly calm.
His dad lets out a sigh - not one of those Oh god, I can't believe I actually helped bring this thing into the world! kind of sigh, but the sort that escapes the lips of a man who has stripped himself bare of every last shred of strength he had, trying to hold together the crumbling remnants of an impossible dream. He sounds old and tired; fragile and falling apart.
"Dad, wha- "
"Stiles...I haven't been a very good father to you, have I?"
"Dad!"
"No, Stiles...you are my son, the only family I've got...and- and- tonight I came home and I was just sitting here all alone in this old house...thinking about us - you, me, your mother...and then I realised something...I have never been there for you, Stiles, all these years. I don't even have enough memories of us. I think I've...missed out on your life, son. What does that say about what kind of a father I've been?"
For the longest moment Stiles is speechless. As far as conversations with his dad went all his life, it's been a constant game of little lies and awkward small talk. The big stuff they always by-passed, circum-navigated, skirted, mutually ignored in unspoken agreement. Sometimes, when his dad was in a particularly good mood, they discussed some of his cases. And while they might have micro-analysed other people's problems, theirs they never did. It has never exactly bothered Stiles till this day; and if indeed there ever arise questions that need answering, there's always the vast wasteland of half-baked advice and at your own peril life-lessons to be scavenged from in the be all, end all form of the multi-headed monster - the internet.
And if all else fails, he has Scott - had actually, since they're not on speaking terms anymore. Still, in those days, they were once inseparable - and yes, Scott might not have been his best option but he didn't have much anyway to begin with.
The point is, an attempt to recollect the last time he and his dad have had a meaningful conversation on a serious topic returns about zero results, which, truthfully, is certainly more than he can give. Over the years he has often tried to trace back through time to when they had fallen into this convenient neglect, but then it has always proven to be more trouble than it's worth.
"Dad," he says at last, a strange emotion - one he hasn't felt in a long, long time - welling up within him. "I wouldn't say it's been easy on either of us all these years since- since mom passed away, but I don't think for one second that we'd be having this conversation tonight, right now, if we didn't get atleast some things right down the road. I think we're okay. In our own way. Somehow."
"Stiles- "
"And dad," - Stiles is smiling, a warm nostalgic smile - "don't even think about apologising, because though it's not been perfect, I think we've always had each other's backs when it came down to it. We made it, all limbs and appendages attached, and that must count for something!"
The Sheriff lets out a soft chuckle. "Look at us," he says, and Stiles knows that he's smiling from the way his voice suddenly lights up. "You lecturing me! I guess we'll be alright after all."
Stiles laughs heartily, throwing back his head. He feels better than he's felt in a very long time. He would like to think that his life is finally taking a turn to happier places - he's got a not date with one of the hottest guys he's ever seen; and somehow things seem to be finally simply falling into place between him and his dad. Only he should have known after having lived eighteen years as Stiles Stilinski, that the mighty forces of the universe would be an utterly spent, gooey lump of impotent nothingness before they let anything of the slightest consequence, happinesswise, even approach the sparse, arid vicinity of his little life.
If this realisation had not dawned on him yet, it most definitely should have when he presently turns his head carelessly to the side and sees the bright red glow of his digital alarm clock staring back at him ominously from the bedside table, almost as though it were some miniature (but equally potent, if not more) manifestation of Sauron's all-seeing eye. Of course nothing foreboding seems to be gathered from all these still, and Stiles only registers a small expression of mild surprise when he sees the time.
"Dad," he says immediately, sounding concerned, "it's six-thirty here, so it must be...um...around three-thirty over there! You should go to bed now. You're not getting enough sleep, are you?"
"Is it already?" his dad replies, laughing - but Stiles can hear the obvious tiredness in his voice and it upsets him deeply that things couldn't be easier. He knows that for his dad, his job is so much more than simply a means to provide for his family. Stiles has never been able to understand it, and eventually he'd come to simply accept it.
"Dad, you need to take care of your own life too, you know," Stiles says, somewhat bitterly.
"I'll catch some sleep down at the station," the Sheriff says after a brief pause.
"Okay, then," says Stiles, letting out a loud yawn as he stretches sitting on his bed, "catch some now too."
"Hey, son," his dad says, suddenly sounding serious, "I'm very proud of you. And if your mother was still alive, I'm sure she'd be even more so."
Stiles sits very still for what seems like an eternity. "I love you, dad," he says at last.
"I love you too, son."
After they hang up, Stiles curls up in his comforter and sobs into his pillow. One and a half-hour later, his alarm goes off and he wakes up smiling.
There's a missed call notification waiting for him. He had dropped his phone beside his pillow after his dad's call and had obviously not heard it buzzing there. It's from Lydia. He decides not to call her back right now - he has to rush to class, and besides, she probably just called to say good morning. He flings his phone back on his bed and jumps into the shower.
It's only when he's already on his way to class that his phone buzzes again. It's Lydia. Immediately he senses that it's something urgent and anxiously answers the call.
"Hey, Lydia! Good- "
"Stiles!" Lydia cuts him short, out of breath. There's a lot of chatter in the background. She seems to be running, from her sharp gasps.
Stiles is suddenly worried. "Lydia!" he says warily. "Are you alright? What's going on?"
"Stiles!" Lydia gasps again. And this time Stiles is seriously very concerned. Because if that isn't a sign of some terrible news about which he is soon to be enlightened, Stiles doesn't know what is. "I...am...so...sorry..." Stiles swallows a glob of something unpalatable as Lydia pauses to catch her breath. "I...should have...told you earlier..."
Stiles is alarmed now, a deep set fear taking root within him. "Lydia, what are you talking about?"
"It's about Derek..." Lydia says, almost in a whisper. "I...I- I'm so sorry, Stiles..."
The line goes dead. A cold dread settles over Stiles' entire being as he tries dialling Lydia's number but gets directed to her voicemail instead. Over the course of the day he tries calling her, several times, but to no avail. To add to his great anxiety and bewilderment, Professor Derek Hale is absent today. By the end of the day he's so fucking worried he has to literally walk out of his last class for fear he just might vibrate out of his skin sitting there. He tries to soothe his nerves by telling himself that Lydia must have simply switched off her phone to avoid being disturbed in class. Which she obviously would have been - disturbed, that is - had his pestering calls actually gone through. This logic, however, fails miserably under the pressure of concerns and worries of a far superior magnitude.
In fact, by now, there's very little doubt in Stiles' mind that he is very soon about to become the receiver of some unpleasant news. Lydia's completely bizarre call this morning had made that much clear. What he does not understand is how Lydia is acquianted with Derek at all. She seemed pretty distraught during the brief time they had talked. And, to make matters so much worse, he hasn't been able to contact her since. He hopes she's doing alright, wherever she is, and that she'll get in touch with him soon.
In the meantime, he's going to refocus his entire disgruntled ire on the head of a certain Derek Hale, who is conveniently missing from the scene by the way. All this would have been so much easier to deal with had he been here. Which is precisely why Stiles is so not letting this slide by when that beefy buffoon does decide to show up. He hates being not in the know. Ignorance you see, my dear fellow, has got absolutely nothing on bliss; in fact it's fucking torture. And Stiles can't stand it at all.
Worry gives way to blind, probably ill-advised, conjecture on the fate of his current bff, Lydia Martin, when he does not hear anything from or about her even by evening. It's a pretty fucked up situation, and Stiles is sure he wouldn't be half so riled up had he not received that very disturbing call from Lydia this morning. When someone suddenly disappears after making some bizarre, cryptic call, there arises sufficient reason to worry over said person's welfare.
When he gets back, Jackson definitely senses that something's on his mind and makes a series of repeated enquiries after it. But what does Stiles say? That his ex-girlfriend and him are now bffs (because Jackson most definitely does not know about this affair); that she had made a very disturbing call to him only this morning, from which he has gathered that somehow it concerned Derek Hale - yes, that Derek; and that, worryingly enough, he has been unable to reach her ever since?
Nope, definitely not happening.
So he tells him one truth instead, to conceal another more pressing one. "It's Derek," he says nervously, and Jackson immediately raises an eyebrow, looking very interested. "We- we sorta have a date tomorrow night. Well, technically it's not a date, but I've long chosen to live in a state of constant denial about that fact. So...yeah, I'm pretty stoked about it, but..."
"Don't even worry about it," Jackson says, flashing him an enormous lop-sided grin, before giving him a light pat on the shoulder. "I've got your back. That Derek guy won't even know what hit him tomorrow night. You are hoping to get laid, aren't you? Well, lemme tell you, Stiles, you are going to have the best fu- "
"Oh. My. God."
"What? Oh, come on, it's not like you don't want it. You practically screamed your approval last night- "
"I can't believe I'm actually having this conversation right now!"
As Jackson shoots him a bemused expression, Stiles is glad he has atleast one person in the whole world right now, to laugh with, hard to believe as it may be that that person - against all odds - happens to be Jackson himself. But then in just this past one year so many relationships he never doubted would endure have been reduced, almost overnight, to mere memories that this particular chance is not a fact that difficult to accept anyway.
It is only much later, as he lies alone and troubled in bed, that he realises he knows literally next to nothing about Derek Hale - apart from his name and the fact that he is a professor at Columbia. Come to think of it, who the hell is Derek Hale anyway? To Stiles, that is. An apology can only stretch so far and who's to say there are no strings attached - ulterior motives (though Stiles can hardly think up one) - to this, supposedly, not date.
For the first time Stiles begins to wonder. And that can hardly be a good start to any relationship - pretend or otherwise.
~ooo0ooo~
The following morning, however, Stiles can hardly sit, stand or even be still. There's a big, goofy grin on his face that refuses to budge, or even dial down for that matter; and he actually begins to feel bad for having mercilessly teased Scott's smitten ass back in the day, with the deepest relish at that. Jackson, surprisingly, does a highly commendable job of not ridiculing his own hopeless butt to oblivion. Stiles is very impressed - and much more than that, extremely grateful.
The only thing he can say about his classes today is that it's all too much of a blurry mess of a memory to be recollected with any warrantable certainty. Infuriatingly enough, Derek is absent today as well. And amidst all this uncertainty Stiles realises that Derek hasn't told him when he'd be coming to pick him up - or where they'd be meeting, alternatively. If this isn't troubling enough, there is also the fact that he's not seen or even heard from Derek since their last meeting. Somewhere deep inside, Stiles gets a feeling that something is not quite right - though he has absolutely no idea what that might even be.
It is with these unsettling thoughts that Stiles returns to the apartment and immediately hops into the shower. The warm water is a soothing relief to all the anxiety that has been building up all day. Too soon, however, it's back with an even more powerful force and he has to abandon the barely adequate confines of the shower cubicle to seek comfort in other more tasking activities to distract himself.
He picks out a dark-blue shirt to wear tonight and occupies himself in ironing it. Having done this, he goes on to select a pair of light-brown pants - his favourite one actually - and a grey jacket. That should do it, he thinks. Shouldn't it?
Thankfully Jackson arrives just then, sparing him from possibly making the fashion blunder of the century. He would probably never admit it out loud, owing undoubtedly in greater part to the extremely shameful nature of the fact, but Stiles has never really been on a date. Like ever. He's tried once, and only once; and the memory of the resulting story scares him even today. In fact, he has never ever had a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend, for that matter. Jackson, on the other hand, is totally on the extreme opposite side of the spectrum. He has experience, unlike Stiles - lots of it. And although he would probably never trust him with his life, this he can - with great faith. And so he does.
"To tie or not to tie..." Jackson observes thoughtfully before he declares solemnly: "To tie. Since this is apparently just a formal dinner, no strings attached. And...with that shirt, probably a...red one. Do you have it?"
"Do I have what?" asks Stiles, utterly lost.
"A tie! A red tie."
"No- I mean, yes- not a red one though. I have a blue one with little swirls on the- "
"That won't do," Jackson dismisses him disinterestedly.
"Why is it so important for it to be red? Also, do I have to wear one anyway?"
"Because red is hot - trust me, you don't want to take me up on it, lots of hard fieldwork have gone into ascertaining it. And what's more, I'm sharing it with you for free. So just be grateful and don't argue."
"Oh...kay..." says Stiles, letting out a low whistle at the end - because shit, this is some serious stuff right here.
"You can borrow mine," says Jackson, looking extremely pleased with himself.
"Thanks but I think I'll quickly go grab one from the shop around the block. I can't just sit here doing nothing."
As he exits their apartment, he hears Jackson shout after him: "Good idea! You can't keep borrowing mine..."
Stiles shakes his head with a chuckle and promptly takes the elevator down. The shop really is just around the block - a couple of minutes' walk at most. There are not many people inside when he walks in, and he finds a nifty red tie fairly easily. A female attendant hands him the small package, all smiles. He smiles back with a small nod and starts heading back, feeling surprisingly good about everything.
He sees the black Camaro come to a stop outside his apartment building just as he reaches there. At first he doesn't pay it any attention. He's just about to walk in when he sees Derek climb out of the driver's side door. All of a sudden he's panicking. Because- oh god, Derek's already here and he's barely even dressed yet! This has got to be the most embarrassing start to any date in the sad and long history of embarrassing dates. But then, isn't Derek a little too early? Stiles is sure it was just nearing five when he stepped out, and it's hardly been twenty minutes since. Doesn't matter! What's important is that Derek is here already and he needs to get his scrawny ass dressed asap. Derek probably has other plans tonight after all.
Stiles is calmly trying to slip in unnoticed when Derek sees him. He stops in his tracks and smiles innocently instead. Derek, however, looks like a series of weird spasms has broken out all over his face. To be honest, he looks terrified, as if Stiles has somehow morphed from his hey kid, beat it! state to an object of unimaginable terror. As he stands there staring, very confused, the passenger's side door opens. Derek makes a sudden aborted move as though he is trying to warn whoever it is that is stepping out, oblivious.
Stiles only sees the blonde curls at first - but then that is all he needs to see. Strawberry blonde - he'd recognise that anywhere. At first he's surprised and elated; and then everything starts to slowly make sense. An unfamiliar emotion storms inside him. Lydia still has not noticed him as she removes her sunglasses, tosses her hair, and turns to flash Derek a smile. His expression seems to quickly alert her as she instantly turns back around to face Stiles, her own expression unreadable.
Stiles cannot say what he's actually feeling right now - betrayed, angry or jealous. Perhaps a mixture of all the three. He feels hot tears already running down his face, because damn if this isn't humiliating. He cannot remain here any longer. He turns around abruptly.
"Stiles, wait!" he hears Derek call out, and he hates himself for actually stopping. "Stiles, I can- I can explain."
"There is nothing to explain, Derek! Just...go away. You too, Lydia."
He bolts inside and runs up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. As he marches into their apartment, Jackson walks out of the kitchen, takes one look at him, and instantly grows alarmed.
"Stiles? What- "
Within seconds of his entrance there's loud banging on their door. Stiles opens his mouth to warn Jackson but he's too late. The door swings open to reveal Derek and Lydia standing there side by side, totally out of breath. Jackson takes a step back, startled.
"Lydia?! What are you doing here?! ... And who the hell are you?"
"Stiles, you've got to trust me, it's not what you think," Lydia says, looking past Jackson at Stiles.
"Jackson, don't even- !" cries Stiles as the other makes a motion of stepping aside. He takes one long look each at Derek and Lydia, then slams the door shut.
"What the hell is going on?!" demands Jackson, looking from the door to Stiles and then back.
Stiles only grits his teeth and walks back toward his room. Exactly. What the hell is going on? Stiles would very much like to know that.
