Chapter Seven: Leave Out all the Rest

Stiles shivered, though whether because of cold or memory he couldn't tell. His skin was covered in goose pimples, and he hugged himself. He could still feel Marshall's fingers on him, his acrid breath in his ear. "You're freezing," his father noted, shrugging out of his sheriff's jacket. He draped it across Stiles' shoulders. Stiles pulled the jacket tighter around himself, inhaling his father's earthy scent: coffee and stale sweat, with a hint of ink and aftershave. Robust, to match the man. "How's the hand?"

"It's alright." The cut on Stiles' palm had looked worse than it was. His father had washed away the dirt and blood with water from one of the jugs, and had wrapped Stiles' hand with a blue handkerchief he kept in his pocket. Stiles had always teased him about carrying a handkerchief, claiming it made him seem like an old man - "What is this 1955? Next you'll be telling me about the good ole days before the Internet, when the only entertainment you had was a ball and two sticks." His father would defend the piece of cloth's usefulness. Stiles guessed he was finally seeing it's purported value firsthand. Another one for the list of things he'd been wrong about.

They made their way back to the cruiser by flashlight. Thin clouds had covered the moon, obscuring the already meager light. Stiles could see traces of the trail he'd left, trampled beneath the boots of the police officers. He could discern which prints were his father's – size eleven, the heel sunken in deeper than the rest of the foot; he walked heavily on the balls of his feet. And he could tell which were his own – smaller and narrower, the recognizable treads of Chuck Taylors. His father's footprints walked directly beside his all the way to the clearing.

The rest area was crowded with police vehicles. The flashing blue and red lights made everything look surreal. Officers were standing around with notepads and bags of evidence, cameras hanging around their necks, guns holstered at their sides. Stiles had watched them photograph the campsite. The crime scene. Stiles imagined yellow police tape roping off a chalk outline in his shape.

Pierce had taken Marshall into custody; they were probably halfway to the station by now. Santiago had stayed behind to take his statement, gently prodding him for information. She was kind and spoke softly, like he was a little child. He felt like a child, helpless and vulnerable – but less innocent somehow. Stiles looked over her shoulder while he answered her questions, watching as his father stooped low to pick his wallet and cards off the ground. The sheriff lingered on his student ID, running his fingers over Stiles' photo. Then he picked up his pillow, and tucked it under his arm. He knew Stiles couldn't sleep without it. He rolled up the sleeping bag, and tossed it into the fire. Stiles watched the flames rise and engulf the material, reducing it to nothing more than flakes of ash. He wished he could do the same thing to this entire day: burn it from existence. "Okay, Stiles, I think we're done." Santiago gave him a small smile, and turned to see what he was looking at behind her. "Sheriff Stilinski, you can take your son home now."

The sheriff came over and placed a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Will he have to testify?" he asked. This idea – that he might have to stand in front of a courtroom of strangers, in front of Marshall himself, and tell everyone what Marshall had tried to do to him – had never crossed Stiles' mind. He just wanted to go home and forget this day had ever happened. A trial would drag this ordeal out for months; he'd never be free of Marshall. His entire life would become defined by this one night.

"I can't say yet." Santiago looked at Stiles kindly. "We should have enough evidence and testimony to prosecute Marshall without Stiles, but it's still a possibility. It depends on what the attorneys bring up in court, how Marshall pleads. Unfortunately, these things are never as straightforward as they should be. If it was required, would you be willing to testify, Stiles?"

He didn't want to think about it. It made him nauseous to imagine himself seated in front of a courtroom full of strangers, their eyes watching him, judging the validity of his words. Marshall's eyes on him, that smug smile on his lips. But could he afford not to testify? He had heard about cases from his father in which a lack of witness testimony had led to more lenient sentences, criminals being set free. He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't let Marshall hurt anyone else. If this was what he had to do, he would do it. Marshall needed to pay for what he'd done.

Stiles nodded. Sheriff Stilinski put an arm around his son's shoulders. "He won't have to do this alone."

Santiago smiled. "You're a good father, Sheriff Stilinski. I hope you realize that." She put a gentle hand on Stiles' arm. "No matter what happens; or what you feel about what happened, about yourself; no matter what you hear; I want you to remember something Stiles. You are not a victim. You're not a victim. You're a survivor, and you're a fighter. You're strong. And you have a father who loves you more than anything in the world. You're not alone. You're never alone. Take care of yourself."

When they got into the police cruiser, Sheriff Stilinski turned over the ignition and jacked up the heat. They were quiet for a long time, a pregnant silence, heavy with the feelings they couldn't express, the words stuck on their tongues. Neither knew what to say, where to begin. Stiles wondered what his father was thinking – what he thought about him.

"I-" he started.

"Th-" his father said at the same time.

"You go first."

"They kept your bike, for evidence or something, I guess. I tried to get it back, but they wouldn't let me have it."

"Oh. That sucks." Now he had no means of transportation, unless he walked everywhere, which sounded horribly unpleasant and tedious.

"I was thinking, Mac Egan has a jeep for sale at a decent price. A blue 1980 CJ-5. Mileage isn't great, and it needs a bit of work, but it's a sturdy vehicle. If you passed your driver's test this summer, I might consider getting it for you."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. But you'd have to be careful, and you'd have to abide by my rules, and listen to what I tell you. And I had better never catch you speeding or driving recklessly. This isn't a freebie. I expect you to get your grades up, even if that means summer school. And, I hope you realize, you're still grounded."

"I kind of figured."

"Yeah, well, sometimes it feels like you don't listen to me anymore."

Here it comes, Stiles thought – the lecture. None of this would have happened if I'd just listened to him, if I had stayed home like he ordered, if I had had enough sense not to get into a car with a stranger. He looked out the window, but it was too dark to see anything, but his own reflection in the dark glass. He realized he was crying again. You're a bad boy, aren't you Stiles? Tell your daddy to leave, and I'll show you what happens to misbehaved boys. You'll never want to cause trouble again. The sight of his own face disgusted him. He looked at his father, who was staring at him. Something about his face looked odd. "What?"

It took him a moment to realize his father was crying. Silent tears dripped from the corners of his eyes. Stiles had only seen his father cry twice – the day his mother had been diagnosed and the day she died. Stiles hadn't understood the words the doctors tossed around about atrophy and brain tissue and dementia, but he had known it wasn't good. He remembered sneaking downstairs when his parents thought he was in bed. His mother had been sitting in a kitchen chair, his father was on his knees in front of her, his face buried in her lap. Stiles knew he was crying because of the sound: loud, painful sobs that made his shoulders tremble. His mother rubbed his back, and in the dim light vehemently professed her love for her two beautiful strong men. It had terrified Stiles to see his father so broken. He had run back to his room and hid under his covers.

The day his mother died, the tears were different. Stiles had held her hand when she died, and when it was over, the nurses had shooed him from the room. He'd sat on a bench, waiting for his father. When his dad arrived, he had knelt in front of him, and gathered him in a hug. Stiles had wept into his father's shirt and cried incoherent sentences, trying to make sense of his loss. His father's mourning was silent; Stiles felt, but didn't hear, the tears that dripped from his father's eyes into his hair.

The sudden waterworks were unexpected and disturbing. Stiles was startled and freaked out. For the second time that day, he didn't know how to react to his father's unusual emotional outburst. "Dad, I'm sorry. I promise I'll listen, and I'll be better behaved. I'm so sorry. Please don't cry."

Sheriff Stilinski choked on a sob. He was crying harder now, great sobs that shook his large frame, snot dripping from his nose like tears. He had to pull over to the curb and park the car. Stiles tentatively laid a hand on his father's back. Sheriff Stilinski reached over the seats and grabbed him in a bone-crushing hug. It was awkward, with the gearshift sticking into their bellies, and the space between them making it harder to reach. There was something urgent in the way his father hugged him, like he wanted to do it as often as possible, suddenly fearfully realizing he had almost lost the chance to do so.

"It's okay, Dad. Please don't cry. I'll listen, I promise. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please believe how sorry I am." His father mumbled something he couldn't make out. "What?"

Sheriff Stilinski pulled back, and wiped at his runny nose with his sleeve. He scoffed at his own overt show of emotion. "God, Stiles," he said. "Don't you realize how much I love you?"

Stiles had no idea how to respond to this question.

"For someone so smart, sometimes you can be dense."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's real loving."

"Look, you know I didn't mean it like that, it's just, Jesus, Stiles, I'm not good with words, how am I supposed to say this to you? I know we're not perfect, and I know we butt heads a lot, especially now that you're a teenager-"

"Dad, I-"

"Don't interrupt, okay? Just let me talk. I know we don't always see eye to eye, and I'm not always there when you need me. I know I lose my temper, and sometimes I expect too much from you. I know I'm not perfect. In fact, sometimes I'm a pretty poor excuse for a father." Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but Sheriff Stilinski silenced him with a motion of his hand. "I should never have hit you. No matter how shitty my day is, no matter how stressed I am or what cases I'm dealing with, no matter what obnoxious stunt you pull, there is never a good enough excuse for me to strike you. I was wrong, and I'm sorry. I promise I will never raise my hand against you again."

"Dad-"

"It's not easy raising you on my own. I work all the time, and sometimes you slip through the cracks. I worry if you're getting enough to eat and if you're wearing clean clothes. I worry that maybe the house isn't clean, and what you need is a feminine touch or a woman's perspective. I miss your mother, and there are days when it hurts just as badly as the day she died. She was always the patient and understanding one. If she was alive, you never would have run away. This afternoon she would have sat us both down, and we'd have had a long talk, gotten everything out in the open. She wouldn't have let us leave until we worked everything out. If she was here, the idea that you were a burden or unwanted, or whatever the hell it is you thought, would never have crossed your mind." The sheriff swallowed and paused a moment to collect himself. "You are the most important thing in my life. I love you so much, it scares me. I live in this constant state of worry that I'm failing you, or that I'm going to lose you like I did your mother. And I couldn't handle that Stiles. If anything happened to you, I'd die. I would have nothing left to live for if I lost you. And if you thought that I felt anything other than love for you, if even for a second you thought I didn't want you, god, I'm even an bigger failure than I thought. Tonight was the single most terrifying night of my life. Knowing how close he came to..." Sheriff Stilinski clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into the calloused skin of his palms. "I'm going to try harder, Stiles. I'll do better." His father looked at him again, and in his pale green eyes, Stiles could see the intensity of a love his father struggled to express. "I love you."

There was so much Stiles wanted to say, but couldn't. "I love you too, Dad."

Sheriff Stilinski reached over the console again, and took his son's hand in his own. He pressed it to his lips, and smiled. "You haven't let me hold your hand since you were about six years old, and you told me you were old enough to cross the street without my help." Using his free hand, Sheriff Stilinski started the car, merged back onto the road, and steered, holding Stiles' hand in his own. Keeping him there beside him. He was determined not to let go until they were safely home. "Don't ever leave me again. You know, at least until you're done growing up. If the time comes and you're unemployed at thirty and drinking beer and playing video games in my basement, then you'll be welcome to get the hell out."

Stiles smiled. "I won't, Dad. I won't run away again." Come what may, no matter how terrifying or difficult, Stiles promised himself that he would never again abandon the ones he loved. He would stay, and he would deal with whatever they faced.

"And I want you to feel you can tell me anything, okay? You can always talk to me."

"I know."

"Good." They were quiet a moment. A ghost of a smile stayed on the sheriff's lips. Every once in a while, he rubbed his thumb back and forth across the back of Stiles' hand. It was a small gesture, but it comforted Stiles immensely. In his mind, he pictured his mother's gentle hands, stroking his forehead when he was sick, and rubbing his father's back as he cried into her lap.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"You know you're my hero, right, and despite what Marshall said, I do still need you? And not just cause you saved me tonight, or cause you're a cop, or cause you keep a roof over my head. You've always been my hero, and nothing could change that, not a homicidal maniac or an ignorant high school principal. I know I can always count on you. Not everyone can say that about their dads. I'm going to do better, be better. Make you worry less. And I'll keep the pranks under control."

"You'll stop playing practical jokes?"

"No, of course not, I'm just going to make sure I don't get caught."

Sheriff Stilinski laughed. "I guess I wouldn't want it any other way." They were quiet again. Stiles was getting too warm, so he turned down the heat, and turned on the radio. The faint sounds of some indie rock band filled the car, crooning poetic lullabies to quiet his soul. "So, Santa Monica, huh?" his father asked.

"Yeah."

"Why there?"

"I wanted to see the ocean I guess, the way it just goes on for miles and miles, and you stand on the beach and the ocean just stretches out before you and you feel so small. I saw some brochures in a gas station, and Santa Monica looked like a nice resort city, right on the water. There were all these pictures of beaches and piers, palm trees and avenues with shops and museums. It seemed exciting I guess."

"I know you didn't get to go this trip-"

"Which is probably for the best. Now I just want to go home-"

"But maybe sometime, you and I can take a vacation up that way. I have loads of vacation days saved up. It's about time I used them and spent some time getting to know my son again. Do you think you'd like that?"

"Yeah, I would. It's been a long time since you and I had a holiday together, or since we did anything at all together really."

"Far too long."

"I was thinking, since I'm suspended for the next two weeks, and grounded, maybe I could spend my time at the station with you. Maybe help you with some cases, or filing, or something like that. Who knows, maybe I'll find something that interests me. I heard you had some animal attacks you were worried about. Maybe I could take a look. I've always been interested in natural predators. Would that be okay?"

"Yeah. I'd actually really like that, Stiles. I'd like that a lot."

"Okay," Stiles smiled, and relaxed into his seat. "Sounds good."

Driving home, his father's presence warm and strong beside him, Stiles felt he could overcome anything, even the horrors of the night he'd had. With love and patience, and a good measure of sarcasm and good humor, he and his dad could get through anything. Every day, they were surviving. They were a testament to life after loss. Whatever came, he knew his father would be there by his side, strong and dependable.

Stiles could feel himself drifting off to sleep. He knew he was safe with his father there beside him. They had survived; they could make it through anything. The worst was behind them. Or so he thought.

END


Author's Note: I hope the previous chapter didn't scare you off, and you continued to read until the end. Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and faved. I can't express how much your support means to me. I hope you enjoyed the fic, and my testament to the amazing father-son relationship between Stiles and Sheriff Stilinski. (Definitely my favorite relationship in the show. Seriously, best thing ever.)

Thanks again for your continued support. You are very lovely readers.

~NoTimetoStop