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Stiles smiled at deputy Davis and said, "He's sick. Really very sick. He has been puking in the toilet all night long and he's in there right now. Sorry."
It was a lie. His dad has spent his morning puking alright, but right now he was locked up in his room. He had one of Jack's bottles with him, whatever that meant. But Stiles didn't think it was a good idea to tell deputy Davis that his dad was skipping work. In the same way he knew not to let the man come in and see the mess in the house. Because mum had always asked the house be impeccable when Stile wanted to have Scott over and, right now, the house wouldn't pass inspection. And if his mum wouldn't let him have a Scott over—and it was Scott they were talking about, Scott who couldn't care less about the state of anything, and especially not a carpet—then Stiles had no doubt that she wouldn't want deputy Davis to see what the living room looked like.
Officer Davis was still frowning like he was smelling something fishy. Maybe wondering how Stiles' dad had gotten sick in the first place.
"It's my fault," Stiles tried, because he had found out he could explain away anything and everything if he just started by saying he was somehow responsible. It had taken Scott out of trouble with his own dad many times. "I… cooked last night. I wanted to make him a surprise." That should work. Stiles had gone through a phase when he played at making witch potions when he was a kid. He might have accidentally on purpose tried one on dad by convincing him it was tea. Deputy Bergman had joked about it with mum at the barbecue last summer. Deputy Davis had joined right in with more mortifying stories about times when Stiles had been an innocent, misinformed child. Stiles was much older and wiser now.
Deputy Davis looked at Stiles a little bit longer. Stiles tried to look like Scott. Scott always looked like he didn't understand what was going on and couldn't be lying about anything.
Eventually, deputy Davis told Stiles to tell his dad to get better soon. Stiles waved him away promising that he would take good care of his dad. That made deputy Davis grimace and leave. Stiles watched him go away until he had seen deputy Davis climb in his care and leave. Then Stiles shut the door and sighed in relief. Like Shaggy and Scooby when they had gotten very close to being captured by the monsters, a big whoosh, right from the bottom of his lungs.
He looked at the carpet, full of dried mud and bits of crisps and cookies. Stiles hadn't been very careful now that mum wasn't here to tell him not to bring food in front of the TV or to take off his dirty shoes at the door. He had never thought that was possible, but he missed it now. Missed his mum so bad it hurt. And Stiles' dad must miss her very terribly too. Stiles hadn't really lied to deputy Davis when he had said his dad was sick.
Stiles looked at the kitchen. It was filled with dirty dishes, cartons of pizza and empty cereal boxes. Definitively wouldn't pass inspection. And Scott's mum was bound to come visit sooner or later. Stiles had no hope of making her leave with the threat of puke. She had cleaned after Scott and Stiles after The Incident of the Blue Spaghetti of 1999. Now she was immune.
Stiles wasn't very clear with what would happen if the adults found out how Stile's dad took care of the house but… well. It couldn't be good could it? Bad enough when Stiles was caught doing childish pranks, this was grown up stuff. The punishment could only be worse.
With a groan Stiles opened the cabinet that held the cleaning supplies. This must be—what did Ms. Smith call it? Karma—karma calling in the debt of every time Stiles had done something that ended in pieces or water or flour (or that memorable time with glue and pasta) all over the carpet and his mum had cleaned it before dad came back home.
Stiles grabbed a bottle of something. There was a picture of a toilet and a bath on it, squeaky clean, shining under the light. Stiles looked in the direction of the toilets his dad had vacated a couple hours ago. He had no trouble remembering the stench, and he heaved at the mere idea of what was awaiting him.
Well, he still owed karma for all the times someone had cleaned after him when he was sick—and The Incident of the Blue Spaghetti of 1999 had been really disgusting—it seemed only fair.
x-x-x
If Stiles had to eat one more curly fry in his whole life he was going to barf. No kidding. Just the smell coming from the box on the kitchen table was enough to make his stomach roll.
Dad was already passed out on the couch. Long hours, too little sleep. A little like when Stiles had played video game all night and then he had to get up early in the morning for school. All week. Several weeks in a row.
Though that had only happened once because, after the second week, Stiles' teachers had complained and threatened to call Stiles' dad if he fell asleep in class one more time. It was a low blow, but it was very effective. Stiles had been so afraid his teacher would follow up on his threat he'd gone to sleep at height every evening for two weeks straight and he had spent all the rest of his time studying to get back on track with his grade before that too attracted someone's attention.
It had been a long week.
And now Stiles was running out of Adderall—he might have cheated on the dosage while he tried to stay focused on his schoolwork—his go to comfort food was making him feel nauseous and Scott's mum had made a comment about their fridge the last time she had been over that had Stiles worried pretty much the same way he had been when his teacher had asked of she should talk with dad, or when officer Davis had come to check on the sheriff because he wasn't at work.
Stiles eyed the prone form of his father on the couch. The half full bottle on the low table in front of it. The empty glass. And the content of his dad's pockets which he had taken out when he had laid down for his nap. There were the keys of the house, a crumpled receipt from a shop Stiles hadn't seen in Beacon Hill yet. Stiles wondered if it was the place where dad bought his Jack. More interesting, next to the receipt was his dad's wallet.
Stiles had never thought there were so many kinds of vegetable in a grocery store. He hoped green beans and broccolis would be enough to placate Ms. McCall on her next visit. He also bought carrots because those didn't need any actual cooking to be edible.
x-x-x
"Can I come play at your house?" Scott asked one Tuesday during recess.
Immediately Stiles' chest tightened in fear. Not fear of Scott. Scott was a thoroughly nice person, about as dangerous as a golden retriever puppy. But Scott wasn't very sharp and he had a tendency to tell his mum all about his day.
If Stiles let Scott into the house…
Stiles was almost certain that the house was squeaky clean right now. There was real food in the fridge, even leftovers from when Stiles had made pasta and broccoli—undercooked pasta and slightly black broccoli, these leftovers weren't getting eaten anytime soon but they looked nice in the fridge. Stiles' dad was working evening shift all week so he wasn't home between the time Stiles came back home from school and the time he went to bed–Stiles usually found him snoring on the couch in the morning.
But what if Stiles had forgotten something? What if Scott spotted it and told his mum? Something was wrong with Stiles' dad. If the grown-ups found out about it, something terrible would happen, Stiles knew it like he knew the sun rose in the morning and the moon shined at night.
Stiles' chest felt so tight "I…" what should Stiles do? Stiles felt out of breath like when he ran for too long. "I need to ask…" Mom would have know, she would have fixed dad with a bowl of soup and a peck on the cheek. Stiles was just a stupid kid, he didn't know how to fix things. "I need to ask my dad," Stiles wheezed.
Before Scott could answer, he ran to Ms. Smith and asked permission to go to the toilets.
When class started again Scott's smile had turned strained. But, after spending ten minutes in a cubicle, trying to get his lungs to draw in air, Stiles felt too tired and lightheaded to care.
x-x-x
Dad was passed out on the ground between the couch and the coffee table. That… didn't look quite right. Stiles closed the door behind him and locked it for good measure. His instincts were screaming at him to open it back and run for the closest adult, but Stiles ignored that voice and walked slowly to dad's side.
He was already out of breath as he crouched at his dad's head. The tightness in his chest more vicious than with Scott.
"Dad?"
Dad didn't move. The eternal bottle of Jack was laying, empty, at his side. Stiles looked at it and he felt real hatred for the first time in his life. He hated that thing like he couldn't bring himself to hate Jackson the Jackass. He hated it more than he hated cancer. People fought against cancer and tried to get better. Actually… Stiles looked down at the slack face of dad.
Stiles' head was swimming, his concentration shot completely to hell. But an insistent voice was growing louder and louder inside of him.
The bottle hadn't appeared in Stiles' house on its own. The bottle hadn't forced dad to drink it. Dad had brought the bottle. Dad had drunk its content. If dad died then it was his fault. Stiles hadn't done anything.
A hiccup tore through Stiles' chest, half a gasp for air and half a sob.
Dad should have died instead of mom. Mom would have taken care of Stiles. She wouldn't have left him alone like dad had. Dad was just working and sleeping all the time. It was like he couldn't stand to be with Stiles.
Stiles' entire body was on fire. He didn't have enough air to breath but he had enough to sob and each heave of his chest felt like being stabbed.
Panic replaced his anger. He couldn't breath.
Stiles reached for his dad once again. Grabbing his shoulder and trying to shake it. "Dad!" He tried to shout but only a whisper came out.
x-x-x
Stiles woke up feeling like his body was made of something very heavy instead of bones and muscles. Adamentium maybe. If it was, he needed to revise his personal superhero top-ten and bump wolverine up a rank or two.
Sitting up was the worst idea ever as it awakened ninja assassins trying to stab the back of his eyes. Also, a stamped of elephant was now running around in his skull. But that was only the beginning. Not only was his whole body heavy, it was also achy, tired and just so completely drained Stiles contemplated laying back down to sleep some more. And someone was snoring nearby. Just for bonus discomfort.
Trying to keep the elephants as undisturbed as possible Stiles slowly turned his head.
Oh, yeah. Dad, bottles, useless adults.
Stiles picked himself up as best he could. He trashed the empty bottle, remembered that he was still wearing his outdoor shoes, took them off before he tracked enough mud around that he would need to vacuum, drank a glass of water and he picked at a few sticks of carrot. Eventually he gave up and went to bed.
In the morning, Stiles took one look at dad's bloodshot eyes and decided to make himself a chocolate milkshake for breakfast. He didn't answer when dad asked him what he was planning on doing with the food processor.
Stiles smiled for the whole five long minutes it took him to blend his milkshake to satisfaction.
x-x-x
Stiles picked the last of the greasy papers from the counter and threw them away. He washed every surface and whipped the hob and sink with white vinegar and then rinsed them with water. Stepping back he inspected the kitchen and decided his work here was done.
He laser glared the piles of paper on the coffee table on his way through the living room. These were dad's papers and they now lived in various parts of the house where mom would have never allowed their presence. Dad's work had always been relegated to dad's study before. Now it invaded every surface despite Stiles' persistent tidying and clearing. Like the plaid that always found its way on the couch or the bottles that always appeared in random drawers and cupboards.
Stiles had tried getting rid of them. With absolutely no effect. Once, he had gathered everything, full, half-full and empty bottles and put them on display on the coffee table. Everything had disappeared when he returned from school. Dad had actually spent a whole week preparing atrocious food and pretending to be interested in Stiles' day—all the while looking somewhere else—before Stiles stumbled on another bottle.
That particular experience didn't feel worth a repeat performance. Not with the way Stiles had felt his chest tighten every time the man in his dad's seat avoided his eyes.
Stiles tried his best to accept that things had changed. The study remained empty. Stiles shared the house with a zombie.
Even Scott wasn't the same lately. He wasn't very verbose at the best of time, but now he was downright silent. It was worrying the teachers, who didn't just threaten but actually called in Scott's parents. Stiles had once seen Ms. McCall have an animated conversation with Ms. Smith.
Stiles, on the other hand, was a little too tired to give a proper shit. But Scott was his best friend. So Stiles had taken to sit next to him at recess and at lunch, side completely plastered to Scott's, and retell for him entire movies from beginning to end—movies that Stiles wasn't always old enough to watch, but who cared.
x-x-x
It was Thursday and Stiles should have been in school, but he had run out of Adderall the day before and decided to take a study day or two. He felt a little bad about leaving Scott all alone but it wasn't like Stiles was a great help right now. Or ever really.
With an attention span of about five seconds, all he had managed so far was sitting at the kitchen table—leg jumping up and down and fingers trembling and head aching from Adderall withdrawal—and stare at his book. His working hypothesis was that, if he fixed the book long enough, some of its content might make its way through Stiles' eyes to his brain. No luck so far.
Dad had a week off for the first time in a month. Which meant that dad was currently passed out—in his bed for a change—from yesterday's drinking. Stiles had seen a bottle on the night stand when he walked past this morning and wasn't worried about any sudden parental interest in his whereabouts for… oh, say the next seven days at least. Then there was a week-end, during which dad was conveniently working days, and then a whole week of night shifts and… yeah. Parental supervision: postponed to never again.
Stiles had sent an email from his dad's account to tell the school how Stiles had caught a bug and wouldn't be coming—this was proper cosmic justice at work. It was now one and they hadn't called, so he felt pretty safe on that front.
The doorbell ringing interrupted Stiles' not reading.
Now, that, Stiles hadn't planned for.
Before he could decide what would be worse, him opening the door or the ringing awakening dad, the door was pushed open—stupid, why hadn't Stiles locked it?"— and Scott's dad walked in, looking tired and holding a suitcase.
"John, are you here? Can I use your comp… Stiles." The first expression on Scott's dad face was guilt. Stiles had seen it enough lately he could recognize it on anyone. But once M. McCall was back from his surprise the guilt disappeared and in its place appeared something between curiosity and suspicion. "Stiles, why aren't you at school?"
At this point, it was clear to Stiles that M. McCall was suspecting Stiles to be up to some prank. It was also clear that no quick lie would make M. McCall go away.
Stiles had been petrified when Scott's dad had first come in, but now his brain was catching up with the situation of having Agent McCall in his living room and his whole body went into panic mode. Lately that meant that his lungs froze in his chest and his throat felt like he had tried to swallow a plastic ball. Which was the worst possible reaction because Stiles needed to talk the man out of his house. If M. McCall saw him stop breathing he wouldn't leave until he talked to Stiles' dad.
Taking his lack of reaction for guilt, Scott's dad set down his suitcase to cross his arms. "I don't have time for this. Stiles, Where is your father? What are you doing here?"
Stiles managed to force some air through his nose. Enough to let out, "At the shop! My dad went to the shop." But that was enough to leave him weak. He tried to force more air in his body without being too obvious about it. Fat chance since M. McCall was used to Scott's asthma problems.
The man didn't look less suspicious, it was something of a default expression, but his surprise was now replaced by worry. "Stiles? Are you okay?"
Stiles coughed to disguise a wheeze. He could feel his chest starting to radiate in pain though so he didn't have a lot of time. "Yes- no! Nasty cough." he coughed some more though now it was hurting his throat. "Dad went to get medicine."
Scott's dad wasn't entirely convinced. But he was a little convinced. And Stiles started to think he might get out of this one, might drive the nosy FBI agent away. But then he spotted something he hadn't seen before. Behind agent McCall, clearly visible in the hallway, was one of his dad's bottles. And even that might have been explained away, but this one was half broken and still contained some liquid. Stiles had to have been blind to miss it, or completely caught in his own thoughts, as he tended to get when he was off his meds. And right now he was without med and without breath and he really, really needed to stay concentrated, but the reminder of everything that was at stake just kept circling around his head instead of excuses and contingency plans. Stiles was usually so good at thinking up plans.
"Stiles?"
Stiles' eyes snapped back to Scott's dad, but it was too little too late. Stiles was now audibly panting, and Agent McCall's eyes were wide and worried and searching for what Stiles had been starring at. Stiles could tell the moment Agent McCall found the bottle. It was the moment Stiles' chest sized and closed shop.
It was funny because everything went slow motion, like in the cartoons. Scott's dad turned around and Stiles had time to see everything, from the guy's ear to the way his lips shaped around his question. It was still his voice going "Stiles, what is that, where is you father?"
Stiles thought he should have maybe stepped away from his chair as he collapsed on the ground.
x-x-x
So, fainting like a damsel in distress was now a thing.
Also, someone was shouting.
The stampede of elephant wasn't very happy about that. Or maybe it was grumpy at being back inside Stile's head. At least this time he was resting on something relatively comfortable. It felt a lot like the couch. And there was a cushion under his head and dad's whiskey smelling plaid on top of him. He could go back to sleep if he wanted.
Stiles decided he would explore the shouting first, see if he could get it to stop. And then he would sleep some more.
Stiles fought to open his eyes enough to squint. They opened the rest of the way on their own once he caught sight of the reason fro the shouting.
M. McCall was holding dad by the collar of his dirty t-shirt. Dad's face was white with hints of green and he looked spooked, like he was watching a ghost. Or mom that last day at the hospital. M. McCall looked murderous. He kept screaming at dad and pointing at Stiles and generally behaving like he had lost all his marbles. And it just made dad look more green and more spooked and Stiles didn't care if this was grown up stuff. No one treated his dad like that.
Stiles managed sitting with a lot of efforts. He knew standing would be pushing it so he didn't try. Instead he went for a croaky "Hey."
M. McCall was still screaming at dad and wasn't looking at Stiles. "…even if you didn't owe it to the community who elected you as their Sheriff, John, how could you do that to your own son…" and a lot of variant along the lines of "you coward bastard".
"HEY!"
M. McCall snapped his mouth shut and turned his head at once.
Stiles' throat hurt a lot but he kept going. "Let my dad go!" Which M. McCall did. Immediately dad went tumbling down the stairs on unsteady legs until he was close enough to throw himself at Stiles. The hug only encouraged Stiles to hate M. McCall more. "You can't treat people like that. I will tell the deputies and they will arrest you!"
M. McCall ignored Stiles' threats. They were a lot of bull anyway. Stiles didn't want the deputies anywhere near his dad right now. He looked about ready to be sick and he smelled like booze. Really not a good impression to make for the sheriff.
"Stiles," M. McCall ordered. "Calm down. And you," he looked down at John, who was still holding Stiles tight and getting his shirt wet with tears. Go take a shower and sober up."
Despite the evident disgust in his voice dad obeyed. Stiles didn't really understand how that worked but he wouldn't let M. McCall get away with it the way dad did. In fact, he hoped dad would refuse. But he didn't, instead he went obediently up the stairs.
Agent McCall remained silent until the shower started upstairs.
"Now, Stiles, I have a few questions for you."
"I haven't done anything! You're being a bully and I hate you!" Stiles' head was still pounding and now his eyes were filling with tears. He tried to wipe them away with the back of his hand but just managed to spread them around his face.
At least Scott's dad looked sad too. "I know, kiddo, sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I just… how long has your dad been like that?"
"Like what?" Stiles asked, trying to make it sound like M. McCall was making a big deal of nothing.
"Come on, Stiles. I'm just trying to help. I'm sure a clever kid like you know it's not good for anyone to drink so much they pass out. It can kill your liver if you do it for too long."
Stiles definitively caught that last part. "Kill?" he asked so low it was almost inaudible.
Agent McCall's eyes became even more sad. "Bad choice of words. Don't worry. Your dad will be fine. But he needs help Stiles. Do you want to help me get your dad the help he needs?"
Stiles nodded. Help sounded good. Someone else's help. Because Stiles had tried and he wasn't enough.
"How long then?" M. McCall asked gently.
"Since mom- since she…" It actually felt good to say it, like the dam that had been keeping all the hurt in Stiles' chest was slowly breaking and letting some of it go. Some of it took the form of tears running down Stiles' cheeks and this, also, felt okay.
Scott's dad tried to go for a hug too, but Stiles was still angry with him. He wasn't very close to him, M. McCall wasn't a very great dad in Stiles' opinion and he couldn't entirely forget the way he had treated Stiles' dad.
"That's a long time," M. McCall said looking around the house. "Someone has been here to clean the house. Who was it?"
Stiles felt a bitter taste fill his mouth. "Santa's little helpers."
M. McCall got that look, the one that said he wasn't impressed and if Stiles had been his son he would have never answered like that to an adult. "I'm serious Stiles."
Stiles shrugged. "Who do you think?"
M. McCall were fixed on him now. Slowly, the man looked around the place. He walked into the kitchen, surveyed the shining surfaces, opened the fridge, took out an eggplant and gave it an accusatory look. He turned back toward Stiles, this time he definitively looked back to angry.
"Has Melissa been here? Has she helped your dad hide his drinking?"
"What? No!" That was so ridiculous it wasn't even worth taking seriously. "Why would she do that? I bought the eggplants." Under M. McCall's gaze he felt compelled to explain "She was making comments about the content of the fridge. I didn't want her to think something was wrong.
M. McCall had gone very still and his eyes were now piercing right through Stiles to see if he was lying. "You… did the grocery and the cleaning,"
Stiles nodded again. Really, where had M. McCall been for the last couple of months? It wasn't like anyone every came at the house anymore.
"So you were the one abetting John."
Stiles had only a vague idea of what that word meant. It wasn't good though.
Right then heavy footsteps went down the stairs and dad appeared. He looked less green, more awake. More ashamed too. He was holding his shoulder almost at the level of his ears and was keeping his eyes on the ground.
"John," M. McCall said somberly, "we really need to talk."
x-x-x
And talk they did. They went in dad's study and stayed there for hours. There was more shouting—though Stiles was relieved to hear his dad do his own share of that this time—and there was angry voice raising and at some point something that sounded a lot like dad crying. There were phone calls. After three hours an angry Ms. McCall joined them and there was more shouting and more crying but by everyone this time. Even M. McCall came out of the study with wet eyes. Stiles felt absolutely no sympathy for him.
Of course Stiles wasn't bed-ridden for all of that. But he made the mistake of barging in when M. McCall called the sheriff's office and tried to get the phone away from him. After that, there was no more listening-in behind the door.
Stiles was ready to believe the end had come when the doorbell rang again and two deputies, deputy Davis and deputy Henri, his dad's second and a family friend, joined the adults in the study.
Stiles started crying again. Loud this time. There might have been pleas for them not to take his dad away amongst the sobs, he wasn't sure. All it did was make his dad cry again and all the other adults look guilty or angry or sad.
After that, Scott's mum took him to his room and made him pack an overnight bag. Usually she didn't seem to like him very much, but tonight she was really nice. She drove them to the school where they collected Scott. And then, the two of them were dumped at Ms. Smith's place without any explanation other than "everything will be fine."
Stiles ended up going to school on Friday. He was still without his med, so it was one of the longest day of his life. Not at all made better by the fact that he didn't know what would happen to his dad. Scott didn't say a word all day in class. He didn't say a word in the evening while they ate or after while they did their homework. He didn't say a word during the weekend.
On Sunday night, Scott's mom came to get them.
Stiles spent Sunday night at home with his dad. M. McCall was there too. On Monday, dad worked day and Ms. McCall and Scott joined them for the evening meal. On Tuesday it was deputy Davis. On Wednesday Ms. McCall and Scott again. And then deputy Henry for two nights.
x-x-x
After two week, Scott's mom and Scott stopped being regular guests in the Stilinski household. Well, Ms. McCall stopped. Scott still showed up a lot.
After a month Stile's dad had stopped shaking and giving longing glances to the liquor cabinet and the deputies and M. McCall only made weekly visits.
After two moths M. McCall left and never came back.
During the third month, Stiles had a bad panic attack and his dad sent him to a counselor. The counselor helped Stiles a little and gave the address of another counselor to dad.
No one ever healed completely from the losses. Not the Stilinskis, not the McCalls, and Stiles kept an eye out for bottles named Jack and healthy food that helped livers stay strong and healthy.
And then there were werewolves.