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His dad called him out of school and himself off work. As Stiles finally comes fully awake around ten thirty in the morning, he has a moment of panic, then remembers.
Remembers everything.
With a whimpering groan, he rolls onto his side and buries his face in his pillow. Maybe if he tries hard enough he can suffocate himself.
Finally the dual pangs of his bladder and empty stomach drive him from his bed. After he finishes in the bathroom, he stumbles downstairs and into the kitchen. The smell of fried food--bacon, eggs--makes his stomach gurgle and his appetite vanishes. While his main reason for going to Deaton the day before was the exhaustion, he also was sick two mornings in a row.
Morning sickness. Fucking morning sickness.
He can't think about that now.
Bleary eyed he shuffles over to the half-full coffee pot and pours a cup. As he's doctoring it with sugar and milk, he hears his dad come into the kitchen and takes a deep breath before turning to face him.
There's a frown on John's unshaven face and his eyes are red, dark circles beneath them. He's holding an empty glass.
There wasn't juice in that glass.
Stiles' heart sinks and he forces the cup to his lips. He needs to clear his head.
"You can't have caffeine."
He gapes at his dad, until the steam from the coffee burns his lip and he sets the cup down with a plunk. "What?"
"Caffeine isn't good for the..." John gestures with the glass and Stiles can see he's not completely sober.
"Okay. How about you drink it."
"I'm fine." The bottle is on the counter and John heads for it to refill his glass with Jack Daniels.
"Dad...Isn't it a bit early?"
"Didn't sleep, so no," John snaps, then takes a deep drink before heading back out of the kitchen.
Staring after his dad, realizing he's driven him to drink again, Stiles feels numbness spreading over his chest. God, he's fucked up so badly. Slowly he pours out the coffee and, as he watches it go down the drain, his stomach turns over, and he's throwing up before he can think to stop it. The last couple days he's at least had warning and made it to the bathroom.
Retching watery bile, he gasps and chokes until there's nothing left. Sweat covers his forehead, the nape of his neck, beneath his arms, and he's shaking like a leaf. He manages to rinse out the sink, then his mouth, before staggering to a chair and slumping into it, pillowing his head on his folded arms on the table.
When he was sick last night, his dad was immediately at his side.
Not this time.
*****
Eventually, Stiles manages to get up. He's hungry again, the dichotomy of that is too much for him to think about, so he just finds a couple of semi-stale crackers and pours himself more seven up. After finishing those and waiting to see if his stomach will settle, he slowly makes his way into the living room and finds his dad on the couch, glass empty again in one hand, the other using the remote to flip through the tv channels.
He doesn't look at Stiles.
"Dad...dad? Can we talk?" he stutters out and John pauses on the weather channel. There's a nor'wester hitting Maine. Sitting at the other end of the couch, Stiles stares at the paused image of high winds buffeting buildings a hundred years older than anything in Beacon Hills, and feels like something is buffeting him just as hard.
He feels like he could shatter as easily as those windows.
"Dad?"
Slowly John swivels his head to look at him and there's so much disappointment on his face. Stiles wants to cry, but, instead, he swallows hard and tries, "I don't know what to do, dad."
"I don't either, Stiles." He lifts the glass then shakes his head and drops the tumbler heavily onto the end table.
"I'm sorry."
"You kept things from me again. That's as good as lying." The cold tone in his dad's voice makes him cringe and hot tears prickle the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them away.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Stop it. Just...stop it." It's not yelled, not angry sounding, but Stiles can see the helpless frustration in his dad's eyes, hear it in his voice, and he just curls into a ball, arms protectively wrapped around his head, though he knows his dad won't hit him.
His words hurt enough.
When John picks up the glass and goes back to the kitchen, Stiles flees to his room, burrowing beneath the covers and crying until the ever-present exhaustion sends him to sleep.
*****
The sound of yelling awakens him and, at his father's angry words, "He's pregnant. Pregnant. How the Hell is that even possible?" he freezes in shock, then flings himself from the bed. Peter. Oh God. No.
Stiles nearly falls down the stairs, grabbing the banister and the wall to steady himself, and takes a deep breath, then cries out at the sound of flesh hitting flesh.
"No, no, no," starts up as a litany as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and runs into the kitchen, where the sound of another hit comes from, accompanied by a low grunt.
The sight he's greeted with surprises him, though. He expected to find his dad down beneath Peter's fists. But Peter's not here.
It's Derek sprawled on the floor rubbing the underside of his jaw as a red mark fades. John's shaking his hand and Stiles, seeing the split and bleeding knuckles, starts towards him, but Derek barks out a command for him to stay out of it, as he pulls himself back to his feet.
As John hauls back to hit him again, ignoring his own safety, Stiles runs forward and grabs his arm. The fist comes inches from his face before John stumbles back in shock.
"Sheriff," Derek growls, immediately placing himself between father and son, his back to Stiles, his hands fisted at his sides. "Back off."
"Stiles..." John's face crumbles and he raises shaking hands to his red rimmed eyes. "Oh, Jesus, kiddo, I'm sorry. I..."
"Hit me all you want. Do not ever lay a hand on him."
"I wouldn't. I never have. Oh Jesus, not even a spanking."
"Dad," Stiles protests in momentary embarrassment, but then Derek turns to him, eyes bright blue, whole stance protective.
"Stiles, go back upstairs." He softens his voice, concern seeping into it. "This is between me and your father."
In a flash of insight Stiles gets it and he shakes his head. "This is between him and Peter, but neither of us can let that happen. Derek, I..."
Frowning, Derek murmurs, "He can't hurt me. Let him..."
"No. Jesus, violence isn't going to help." Pushing past the werewolf martyr, he goes to his dad, who's leaning against the kitchen counter, trembling and sweating. At the stale smell of whisky, Stiles winces but it doesn't stop him from wrapping his arms around his dad and burying his face in his neck.
Slowly John's arms encircle him back and he mutters too low for Stiles to discern, but he does hear Derek nearly silently leave the kitchen. They stand there for a long time, before John gently urges him back and wipes a shaking hand over his face. "Giosue, I'm so sorry."
Stiles forgives him for everything, including using his despised real name. "What was all that?" Though he's pretty sure he knows.
"Derek came over. I...didn't even ask why, just started yelling and then...Why would he provoke me into hitting him?" Even drunk, John's overly perceptive.
Sighing, Stiles turns to start a pot of coffee, making a face as he remembers he can't have any. Well...he could... Shoving that thought aside--if he's going to disobey orders, and not take care of himself and the thing inside him, he's going to have to be sneaky--he dumps the old ground and adds new to the filter before pouring in the water and turning it on. All that gives him time to think and John time to sit at the table.
He doesn't remember hearing the front door open and close so he says, "Derek, get your ass in here," and isn't surprised when the werewolf shuffles into the kitchen, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, eyes dipped in submission. Stiles points to the table and Derek grumpily sits across from John who looks guilty.
Stiles pours two cups of coffee and grabs a bottle of water for himself before joining them. "Let me guess. Peter sent you over here to diffuse any potential violence from my dad."
Derek hunches deeper in his seat and drinks some of the steaming hot coffee. Stiles rolls his eyes at his burning his tongue to get out of talking for a moment, but then the werewolf grunts and sets his cup down. "He wanted to know if you'd told him."
"And was it Peter's idea to let him whale on you or yours?" He ignores the noise his dad makes and stares at Derek until he caves.
"Mine. You know what Peter could do to him. Better he go after me."
"Better?" John barks, then subsides again into his own coffee and confusion.
"It's a second's place to ascertain and deal with threats to the Alpha," Derek says stubbornly, and Stiles groans in annoyance at the relief he feels. He'll thank him later.
"No more hitting, okay? Dad, you just can't...Peter, he'll..." He can't say it again, can't bear to acknowledge it, but he can see the truth on Derek's face as he nods in agreement. Feeling a headache coming on, Stiles drops his head into his hands.
"Sheriff, you have to stay away from my uncle. This is out of your control."
"You realize that just pisses me off again, right?" Scowling, John slams his mug down and Stiles jolts back up, panicking.
"Dad."
"Peter should be in jail. He should get the crap beaten out of him. Hell, no one would stop me from putting a bullet in his head."
Derek goes rigid. "I would. Despite what he's done to Stiles, he's my Alpha. He's Stiles' Alpha by his own choice."
"He didn't choose this." John's face is reddening again, and Stiles reaches out and grabs his hand.
"Dad, please. Just...we have to deal with this."
"I'm trying," John grits out. "You telling me you knocked some girl up, that I was prepared for as any dad can be, but this...Stiles, this is insane."
Sudden tears clog his throat and he chokes out, "I know."
"Oh, Jesus, don't cry, kiddo. We'll figure this out. I'm not going anywhere and I won't go after Peter, I promise." John pulls Stiles out of his chair onto his lap and Stiles just collapses, crying.
Neither notices Derek slipping out the back door, leaving father and son to try to reach some kind of equilibrium.
End