Chapter Text
Noah came downstairs with the braces in his hands, one in each hand, the plastic catching the light in a way that made them look even uglier than he remembered.
"Found these in the back of your closet," Noah said.
Stiles looked up. "Why were you in my closet?"
Noah set them on the kitchen table. "You haven't been wearing them."
"So you went through my room."
"I wasn't going through your room, I was—"
"You went into my closet without asking because you noticed I wasn't wearing them and wanted to confirm it." Stiles tilted his head. "Which you could have just asked me."
Noah's jaw tightened slightly. "Are you going to tell me why you stopped?"
"I was going to. You just didn't ask."
Stiles watched his father quietly count to ten.
"Okay," Noah said. "I'm asking."
Stiles looked at the braces on the kitchen table. "They make my hips worse. I gave it two weeks. My knees felt slightly more stable and everything above them felt like it was compensating for something it wasn't built to compensate for. My lower back started hurting. Both hips were clicking on the stairs." He looked back up. "That’s like when I fix the jeep with duct tape. Structurally it holds for the drive home, but it destroys everything else.”
Noah's mouth opened.
"I know what you're going to say," Stiles said. "More time. But more time doing something that's hurting me isn't patience. It's just hurting me for longer."
"The orthotist said—"
Stiles laughed. “Why are you acting like he’s the expert? I had to teach him what EDS even was on the first fucking appointment!”
Noah opened his mouth then closed it.
Stiles sighed. “I know you think it’s best. I know you think it’ll help. But no one is listening to me when I tell them it’s not.”
Noah looked at the braces. Then at Stiles. Then he picked them up off the kitchen table and didn't say anything else.
Stiles didn't know if that meant he'd won or just postponed it.
The man was crouched by the front wheel well when Scott pulled into the driveway in his mom’s car. Stiles saw him before he even got the door open.
He didn't recognize him. Forties, clipboard, walking slowly around the Jeep with the particular detached attention of someone calculating value. Noah was standing by the hood with his arms crossed, nodding at something the man had said.
Stiles got out. "What's happening."
Noah looked up. Something moved across his face — not guilt exactly, but close enough. "Hey. This is Dave, he's just taking a look—"
"At my Jeep."
"At the Jeep, yeah."
Dave straightened up and extended a hand. "Your dad called about a possible sale, said you might be looking to upgrade to something—"
Stiles looked at his dad. "You called someone."
"I thought we could just get an idea of what it's worth—"
"Without telling me."
"Stiles—"
"Without asking me." He wasn't yelling. He was aware of Dave with his clipboard trying to become invisible, aware of the neighbors and the open street and all of it, and he still couldn't make himself stop. "This is my Jeep. My name is on the title. You gave it to me. For my birthday. And you called a stranger to come look at it and you didn't say a single word to me."
Noah's jaw tightened. "I was going to talk to you about it tonight."
"After he'd already been here."
Dave cleared his throat quietly. "I can come back another time—"
"No," Stiles said. "Thank you for coming out. We won't be needing an appraisal."
Dave nodded, made a note on his clipboard that Stiles tried not to read anything into, and got in his truck.
They stood in the driveway and waited until he was gone.
"That was mom's car," Stiles said, quieter now.
"I know."
"I know you're scared." He swallowed. "But you don't get to make this decision. Not without me."
Noah looked at the Jeep for a long moment.
"Okay," he said.
It wasn't an apology. It wasn't a concession exactly. But it was the first time that word had come out of his dad's mouth and meant I hear you instead of this conversation is over.
Stiles nodded once. Then he went inside.
Stiles had thought about how to have this conversation for two weeks.
He'd gone through probably fifty versions of it in his head. The logical one. The emotional one. The one where he laid out the whole clinical distinction between dependency and addiction. He'd practiced staying calm. He'd practiced not letting his voice do the thing it did when he was frustrated, that slightly too fast, slightly too high thing that made adults stop listening to the words and start managing the tone instead.
He sat down across from his dad at the kitchen table.
“I need to talk about the meds being in the safe.”
Noah set down his paperwork and waited.
“I can't have them when I'm at Scott's. They're in the safe. I can't have them when you're on a double and I don't see you for eighteen hours. They're in the safe. Last week my hip subluxed in fourth period and I sat there for two hours because they were in the safe and you were on shift and there was nothing I could do about either of those things.”
Noah opened his mouth.
“This isn’t about addiction,” Stiles said. “I'm not talking about dependency. I've thought about every way to have this conversation and it keeps coming back to the same thing. They're locked up and I can't get to them and that's most of my life.”
Noah's jaw tightened. “You should have texted me.”
“You were out on a call. And that's not the point.” Stiles spread his hands flat on the table. “The point is that it didn't matter how bad it got because the answer was always going to be the same. They're locked up and I can't get to them and that’s not fair.”
He paused. “The medication is supposed to manage pain. It can't do that from inside a safe I don't have the combination to.”
Noah was quiet for a moment. “I can leave a dose with the nurse at school—“
“That’s not a fix. It’s a Band-Aid, and a shitty generic brand one at that.”
Stiles watched a muscle flex in his dad’s jaw and neck.
“Melissa works, so if she has a dose and locks it up, we’re back to the same problem, Dad. And you know, as well as I do, you’ll forget to give her more. Do you really think it’s safer handing out a couple doses around random people in town than just teaching me to manage it myself?”
“Melissa isn’t random—”
“You know what I mean.” Stiles sighed. “I know you think you’re helping. But all you’re doing is prolonging how long I’m in pain. I have to learn to do this myself.”
Noah deflated at that.
“What are you gonna do? Manage my meds until I’m fifty?” Stiles asked.
Noah rolled his eyes and sat with it for a moment. Then he moved from his seat and disappeared down the hall.
Stiles blinked as the pill bottle of oxy was placed in front of him on the table.
“You are careful. No drinking—”
“Dad, I don’t—”
“Stiles, do you think I’m stupid?”
Stiles closed his mouth. He knew when not to push his luck.
“No drinking. You pay attention to the side effects and don’t drive if you’re too drowsy. No using Adderall to combat that. You take them as directed. If I find out you aren’t, they go back in the safe.”
Stiles nodded and gave a tight smile, tears threatening to fall. He replied quietly, “Thanks.”
His dad pulled him into a hug and sighed. “Sorry. I just worry.”
“I know.”