Chapter Text
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Chapter 11
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He wakes to the unbearable sensation of being simultaneously stabbed in the back and cut open along his chest. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to move, it hurts to think but, God, he’s thankful to be alive. He grits his teeth together as he tries to sit up but finds that he can’t do more than lie miserably on his side with the top half of his body supported on one elbow. Sweat is gathering along his temple and he finds it so ridiculous that he’s struggling with trying to get himself out of bed when he remembers being able to run for miles and miles before becoming out of breath. It’s so stupid he wants to scream.
The childproof cap of his medicine is thankfully loose when he fumbles to grab it from his bedside table. He shakes three out, is almost tempted to swallow all of it in one go but refrains, slips two of them back into the bottle before throwing back the single pill. It doesn’t bring him a single bit of relief, not yet anyway, and all he can do until it does is lie back on his bed feeling weak and exhausted and body in so much pain it feels as though he’s being jabbed and sliced at with a hot poker.
Dull gray light is coming in through the poorly shut curtains of his room and it’s only now he realizes that he’s alone, Derek gone from his bedside. He can hear the birds just waking up with song and a quick look at the clock on his desk tells him that it’s only a little before 6 o’clock in the morning.
He taps lightly along the bottom edges of his bandages, his fingers occasionally catching on the buttons of his shirt. He wishes, pathetically, that the medicine would kick in and just dull the pain enough that he can maneuver himself out of bed and into the toilet because he feels the need to take care of some urgent business. At the fifteen minute mark he feels well enough to sit up without having to double over and bemoan his situation with a few choice curse words. By the time he’s done with everything he needs to do in the bathroom and makes it down the stairs into the living room he feels good enough to consider some food. That is, until he finds his dad sitting at the dining room table with a half-empty bottle of scotch and a tumbler that’s two fingers full of the golden liquid.
‘D-dad,’ he stutters and watches as the older man expertly knocks back what’s left in the glass and starts to fill it up again, as though Stiles’ presence requires him to partake in more liquid courage. There’s too much scotch in the bottle to be from the old one they kept in the cupboards – he remembers his dad promising not to drink excessively in deference to his high blood pressure – and he can tell it was a recent purchase from the rumpled paper bag lying limply on the table and the empty packaging box flat on its side by his dad’s feet.
He wonders what time his dad got in, wonders where he bought the alcohol from, wonders how long he’s been drinking for. All shops are prohibited from selling alcohol after 2am and he hopes, he hopes, his dad hasn’t been here sitting for that long, or even longer, with nothing but a bottle to keep him company.
Stiles is careful as he takes the bottle away, realizes there’s only slightly less than a third of the scotch left now that he’s close enough to measure it in his hands. He hates himself for the dark smudges under his dad’s eyes, the haggard look on his face, the deep lines between his eyebrows and the tension around the corners of his lips. What he hates the most is the blank expression his dad gives him when he finally looks up from his glass.
‘Sit down,’ John tells him, not a single hint of inflection in his voice as he speaks, ‘and start talking.’
He hugs the bottle close to his chest even though it hurts but he can’t tell if it’s more from heartbreak or the actual wound itself. There is no contest. He lowers himself to the seat opposite his dad and tries to breathe around the ache and the rattle he feels under his ribcage as his dad swirls the liquor in his glass in a lazy circle. He wonders if this is the right time to talk about it but if his dad wants to do it now while he’s halfway to drunk then fine, maybe it’ll lessen the shock when he finally tells him the whole truth.
Stiles doesn’t know which part to go from but he figures the only way to do it is to tell his dad whatever he can, starting from his earliest memory back in a rundown apartment in San Francisco learning about guns; how to take it apart and put it back together again. He thinks he was about 8 at the time. He fumbled at first, as all beginners would at the cold weight and heavy press of a loaded gun in their hands, but the way they taught him was both cruel and, without a doubt, extremely efficient.
He tells him what he can of what he did before he found out everything he lived for was nothing but a lie; a farce to keep him in line. He talks about the Code, what it means to be a Hunter, and what role he plays in order to keep the balance between the supernatural world and the human world from tipping. He finds himself talking mostly about the first couple of months before and during the time he found himself in Beacon Hills; the pinnacle point that changed everything in his life.
The frown on his dad’s face grows deeper and deeper the more he talks, and it’s not long before his glass is empty again but he doesn’t gesture for the bottle, of which he is thankful for because Stiles doesn’t think he can say no to his dad if pressed. He finds himself tightening his fingers around the neck of the bottle anyway, slowly inching it out of sight before it can be brought up.
‘Is this why you chose to be a police officer? So you can cover up everything you did?’ His dad asks, not a single hint of accusation in his voice, sounding more tired and resigned than anything else.
He flinches as if struck even though, yes, that was one of the many reasons why he chose that profession. Mostly, he chose it because he wanted to stay by his dad’s side as much and as often as he possibly can and partially because he’d be able to keep a lid on things if some cases turn out to be less run-of-the-mill and more supernaturally inclined instead.
‘A bit,’ he admits, because there’s no more use in lying to his dad, not when he’s already laid everything out on the table. ‘There wasn’t anything else I knew how to do.’
There were a myriad of careers to choose from. He knows because his dad gave him pamphlet after pamphlet, one college booklet after another in a bid to get Stiles to pick something safer. But, the thing is, he knows he wouldn’t be able to stick to it.
‘So you thought—’ his dad breathes heavily through his nose as he brings a hand up to his forehead, momentarily hiding his face away from him.
Stiles hates that he did this to his dad, that he put the defeat in his tone and posture.
He feels guilty for bringing this on his dad but he tells himself he deserves it – the hate, the anger, the disgust – and he finds himself suddenly fascinated with the wood grains on the table while his hands compulsively tighten and loosen around the glass bottle with its bottom edges digging into his thigh muscle. He braces himself for the inevitable fallout because there’s no way his dad would be fine with this, regardless of their blood relation.
John eventually sighs as he stands up, smelling strongly of alcohol but not drunk enough to sway even the slightest bit on his feet. Stiles worries that he must’ve been steadily drinking over the course of several hours to come out of it like this; dull around the edges compared to his regular self but still relatively sober.
‘Go get something to eat. I know you skipped dinner,’ his dad tells him as he drops the glass in the kitchen sink and maneuvers his way around Stiles, shying away from coming too close and touching him.
It hurts; he’s not going to lie. His dad is purposefully avoiding coming into contact with him when they used to be able to hug and dole out casual pats on the back like all families do. He listens as slow, heavy footsteps make their way up the staircase, down the hallway before disappearing into the master bedroom.
Stiles finds his throat clicking as he tries to swallow down the lump in there and it takes him several minutes of breathing in and out, slowly and deeply, until he doesn’t feel like he’s going to lose himself in another dizzying panic attack. He stands, almost stumbles over his clumsy feet over the empty box on the floor as he makes his way into the kitchen to dump the rest of the scotch down the drain.
It’s not the good stuff; just one of those plain and cheap bottles of scotch that doesn’t leave a nice aftertaste, more to get the consumer drunk than anything else. He feels no remorse over the waste of it because it’s not a high-grade quality of scotch; it’s just booze.
He microwaves a small portion of cottage pie and eats it standing in the middle of the kitchen, shoveling spoonful after spoonful of the bland mince and potatoes into his mouth. He normally loves Melissa’s cooking, loves the flavors, the smells and the rich aroma that always comes from her recipes, but he can’t taste anything beyond the starchiness of the potatoes leaving behind a floury feeling on his tongue. He forces himself to swallow it all down because he hasn’t eaten for too long and he’ll need all the strength he can get to recover from his injuries. There’s about two or three bite-size chunks left in his bowl when he feels sick to his stomach from all the thoughts rolling around in his head and he has to force himself to stop before he makes even more of a mess of himself.
Stiles hovers over by the sink as he tries to quell his stomach and it takes several deep heaving breaths and several more minutes before he decides he’s had enough food in his tummy and enough revelations for one morning. He dutifully does the dishes, the only three that are in the sink, and leaves it to air-dry on the wire rack before retreating back to bed to waste the rest of his day away with his head conjuring one horrible scenario after another.
He stops outside his room and listens carefully to whatever sounds that might come out from the master bedroom but its quiet; not even a single snore to be heard to indicate his dad sleeping off the alcohol in his blood stream. He tamps down the sudden need to check in on him, decides that his dad probably has had enough with seeing him for one day.
There’s a dull ache in his chest, the Vicodin working all of its wonders on his body as he gingerly slips off his jacket and unbuttons his shirt to replace it with a loose top but the moment he starts to stretch his arms over his head he changes his mind and decides to sleep without it instead. He kicks off his shoes and trades his jeans for a worn pair of sweats before sliding the covers off his bed off and folding it around his body as he settles in. The sheets are cool against his skin, feels soothing against the ache in his back and the sting along his chest even through the bandages. His head hurts and he tries not to think too much about what he’s said and what he’s revealed, but it’s difficult to tune out the look of disappointment and hurt on his dad’s face.
He doesn’t know how he manages it but he falls into a light doze and dreams of his dad calling him a bastard son, holding onto a bottle of scotch like a lifeline and throwing an empty tumbler in his direction. He wakes to the sound of shattering glass and jerks into an upright position in his bed and swears loudly when he notices his dad leaning over him. He scrambles into a sitting position, remembers belatedly of his wounds and hopes he hasn’t accidentally torn off the stitching. He runs shaky fingers along the incision of his chest and is thankful it isn’t stained with droplets of blood.
John sighs quietly through his nose as he starts carefully pulling Stiles out of bed telling him, ‘We need to change the bandages.’
‘It’s okay,’ he tries to push his dad off as he stands up, never minding the blankets as they pool around his feet. ‘I can do it.’
His dad smells like aftershave, no hint of alcohol left on his breath or body as he follows Stiles out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. The first-aid kit is already lying open by the sink with a bottle of antiseptic, a bag of cotton balls and rolls of gauze lined up along the counter ready for use. There’s no clock in the bathroom to tell him how much time has passed and how long he’d slept for but according to the ache in his chest it might be somewhere between 4 to 8 hours later since that’s about how long the Vicodin only lasts for at any one time.
It feels awkward with his dad watching him gingerly roll off the bandages around his chest and he can’t help the wince when he feels the stitching catch just a little bit on a loose thread. It hurts but not unbearably so. There’s a long line going down his chest roughly 5 inches long. It’s red and angry, large scabs over in some places and deep bruises in a couple others. He knows they had to cut him open to get to the bullet fragment, that they almost had to break a couple of ribs in order to reach in without too much difficulty but he’s thankful they didn’t. He’s not sure how much better he’d be able to cope with it if he had broken ribs on top of the gunshot wound in his back and the deep incision along his front.
His hands shake pathetically as he dabs some antiseptic onto a cotton ball and he can’t help the wince as he lightly pats it along the cut. He watches his dad do the same for another cotton ball before reaching behind him to the gunshot wound just beneath his shoulder blade.
‘Thanks,’ he murmurs and tries not to jerk at the cold, painful application of antiseptic on the injury. His dad’s fingers are light and gentle but it doesn’t stop his body from betraying him with an involuntary flinch every time it touches skin.
As it turns out, he actually needs help to wrap a new layer of gauze around his body and he can’t help feeling embarrassed and guilty as he lifts his arms just up to his shoulders and lets his dad take over. He drops his arms back down when it’s finished and starts to throw away the used cotton balls and wash down the sink area while his dad packs the first-aid kit away.
They both stand awkwardly in the bathroom after it’s all done and Stiles fights down the urge to clear his throat as he skirts his way around his dad to make a hasty retreat back into his room thinking that’s that; his dad doesn’t have to deal with him anymore now that he’s done his part with helping his prodigal son.
He’s surprised when his dad follows him back into his room, waits for Stiles to sit back down on his bed before he takes up the seat next to him and eyes him with a sharp gaze.
Stiles draws in a sharp breath as his dad speaks.
‘I’m angry,’ John starts, his gaze never once wavering as he focuses his whole attention on him, ‘you’ve lied to me for so long but given the circumstances if I hadn’t seen what happened with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed a single word you said this morning. I’m devastated that you’ve had to…’ he trails off, expression crumpling to one of grief before he regains back the strength he needs to plow on, ‘that you’ve had to take lives to find your own. You’re guilty of multiple counts of murder and several other crimes. I’m guilty for harboring a fugitive who used to go by the name Dylan, but I think I can live with it.’
Stiles feels shaky with relief and guilt as he breathes out and takes in his words, wonders what he ever did to deserve his dad’s protection, how he must’ve earned it. ‘I know I’m not a role-model son—’
‘No, but you’re my son,’ he says shakily, his voice giving way to the emotional turmoil building up between them. ‘Regardless of everything that’s happened, through thick and thin, you will always be my son. I can’t condone this behavior but like I said before; you made the best of what you had in the circumstances that you were given. I don’t agree with it 100% but you’re here and you’re alive and that, to me, is a miracle.’
He reaches out for his dad but stops before he completes the movement, uncertain if the touch will be accepted even though they’ve, more or less, talked through the worst of their issues. John leans forward in his chair and is careful with where he places his arms around Stiles’ shoulders as he gently holds him close. He tries not to cry but it’s hard not to when he realizes what his dad is willing to go through, how much he’s willing to keep quiet, to allow Stiles to stay.
It’ll take a lot to repair their broken relationship but Stiles will work for it, just like he worked to have him back in his life. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give to stay by his dad’s side.
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There’s a folder detailing a ballistics report that’s been lying on his desk for far too long, and there are files and records in the drawers of the police station he knows will become compromising evidence some day. John isn’t sure how he can protect Stiles but he starts by taking all he can of the documents back home with him and burning all the paper trails in the rarely-used fireplace concerning a young 17-year old boy. He erases all electronic records of blood samples collected from the school gym over 4 years ago and he deletes the video recording of what took place in the interrogation room shortly after. He takes the gun from the evidence room and keeps it in his safe at home, burning the plastic it came with and throwing the melted scraps into the fireplace along with the smoldering ashes.
John doesn’t know how else to protect his son, but he starts by making sure Dylan O’Brien doesn’t exist.
It’s ironic, in some ways.
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Epilogue
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Irises were his mother’s favorite flowers. He doesn’t find out from his dad, although he does confirm it when asked, instead Stiles finds out from the many little iris-themed knick-knacks his mother used to collect and place around the house before she died and John packed them away into the attic. He took some of them back out, tucked a few away in his room to remind himself of her and her smile whenever his gaze falls upon them.
The plastic of the gift-wrap crinkles between his fingers as he shifts in front of her grave. There are a lot of things he wants to say but they’re all fighting for precedence in his throat and he finds that he can’t get a single word out. All he can manage is a weak laugh and a small smile as he crouches down to place her favorite flowers under her name, fingers trailing delicately on the petals.
His chest aches as he touches the marble and traces the curves of each letter in her name, finds his lips moving to murmur them out softly under his breath. His fingers still when he hears footsteps coming up along beside him and he turns to see Derek, dressed in an immaculate black suit mirroring his own, with his eyes focused on the photo of Stiles’ mother protected behind glass on her headstone.
‘Is it time, yet?’ Stiles asks as he stands to his full height, making sure to pick up the other bouquet of flowers he bought specifically for the occasion.
‘Yeah,’ Derek replies as he nudges his head in the general direction of where a small crowd has gathered around a closed coffin. ‘Erica is going to arrive with her dad soon. We should take our seats.’
‘Okay,’ he breathes as he gives his mom one more lingering look before walking away.