Chapter Text
John thought the hardest part of Claudia's death would be her wasting away before their eyes. Living through the slow, painful process of her fading away until she was nothing more than a wisp of skin and bone, almost too fragile to look at, let alone touch. The kindness was that her personality disappeared last, once she was too weak to be the bright, vibrant girl he met at Berkeley, the quirky, devoted mother Stiles had known his whole life. Even if she couldn't stay awake long enough to check over his homework, she at least had the good cheer to joke and laugh with Stiles, to ask him about Lydia and Harley and his days at school.
Of course John was wrong.
For some, it might be coming home to an empty house, seeing the shadow of her in the corner, decorating the Christmas tree, or at the stove, checking on the pot of chunky potato soup she loved so much. Their bedroom is worse, her perfume still tinging the air, the hint of cinnamon and vanilla both welcome and a curse. Her dresser still in chaos, the reflection of her smiling up at John in the mirror. But John's had time to get used to that, to the lack of her everywhere but in his heart.
No, the hardest part is the silence in Stiles' room, in the kitchen when he does his homework or the living room, where a night of Playstation would often end with John sending Harley and Stiles to their separate corners. Even his office at the station is too quiet, now, without Stiles studying the bulletin board behind John or peeking through the filing cabinets, unable to be still for more than two minutes at a time.
John assumes it's fed by anger at him, for not being there when Stiles and Claudia needed him the most. For leaving his brave, brilliant little boy to hold his dying wife's hand at the end.
(He can't stop wondering if she was in pain, then. If she begged for John and made Stiles promise not to leave her. John hopes that she wouldn't, can't imagine her being so cruel, but he also remembers the tear tracks on her face, on Stiles' chubby cheeks and is coward enough to never ask.)
Not even the deputies can shake Stiles out of it. All the people who have only ever looked at Stiles like something of a station mascot, the reason they all do what they do, unable to draw a peep out of him other than a quiet hello. John can hear it every time their hearts crack, and his hand taps at the bottom drawer, just once, reaching for the bottle he gave to Melendez months ago.
The only thing Stiles seems to take to are the police dogs: Frankie and Saffron and Cleo.
Saffron is Stiles' favorite, with her easy stoicism, sitting next to Stiles without ever flinching, quiet and watchful. She takes his weight perfectly, Stiles leaning into her inch by careful inch, until he breaks down and slings an arm around her back, his nose buried in her short, thick fur. She gives John the sad eyes, then, wet and dark, but she never flinches or shies away. Not even when Stiles falls asleep with his dead weight pinning her down.
Cleo is John's favorite, her excited nuzzling and short yips filling a little bit of the silence. She snuffles at Stiles pockets and hands, searching for treats, but even if she doesn't find them, she drapes herself all over Stiles, rubbing herself against his back and head. She doesn't stop until she earns herself a squawk, loud enough for John's heart to clatter to a halt. He always chances a glance over at the two of them, hoping this day will be the day, that he'll get a smile, maybe a bright knowing look in return, but all he sees is a sad twist to Stiles mouth, his teeth biting hard at his lower lip. Sometimes, more often than John would like, Stiles' lashes are wet and spiky. Those are the times John's stomach swoops low, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from wishing for Claudia's guidance, even though they talked and talked to prepare for this.
Frankie is the pup of the pack, only a year old and new to the station. He's shy with everyone, but especially Stiles. Stiles is patient with him, though, in a way John never thought possible, not after they diagnosed the ADHD. It would be funny, if not for the circumstances, to sit and watch the two of them face off. Frankie on one side of the office, head resting on his paws, watching Stiles through his eyelashes. Stiles on the floor across from him, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him, one foot ticcing from side to side. He doesn't use treats to lure Frankie closer, just good old patience. It takes weeks, and a lot of low, soothing words, but his smile at the end, his laugh as he tries to dodge Frankie's eager tongue, is worth it.
But at the end of every night, Stiles and John always have to go home. And the silence is deafening.
: : :
"What is it?" John asks, low.
Stiles swallows once, his throat working hard around the words. "I feel something."
John doesn't ask what. They've both been through too much for him to not know what would have Stiles scared. He falls to his knees instead, ignoring the ache as he nudges Stiles out of the way to feel for himself. Saffron jumps at the new hand, but John can feel it anyway: a lump about the size of a dime, hard under his fingertips.
"I'll call Dr Deaton in the morning," he tells Stiles. He gives Saffron's belly a pat, then Stiles' hand a squeeze. He wants to say more, but his mouth refuses to form the words it'll be okay. She'll be okay.
They both know that isn't always true.
: : :
They go in after hours, which is usually how police dog visits work, but this time there's more equipment involved. X-rays and an ultrasound machine, syringes both large and small. Stiles is behind John and bumps into him when John comes to an abrupt stop. He spins, catching Stiles by the shoulders, and steers him away, down the hall toward the kennels.
"Dr Deaton told me he has a litter of puppies," John says. "Why don't you go play with them while you wait?"
Stiles gives John a dubious look, but the kennel door is propped open and John can hear the tiny howls just beyond it. Stiles turns toward it, his lips threatening to smile.
"Can I take them out of the cage?" he asks.
Deaton comes out of nowhere to startle John with his answer. "Only if you put up the fence," he says. "And clean up after them if they make a mess."
John isn't sure giving a nine year old that much responsibility is a good thing, not when Stiles is still grieving, but Stiles gives Deaton a solemn nod and is very careful to close the kennel door. John can't really argue with that.
: : :
Once Deaton insists on a biopsy, John is asked to leave the room, trading places with Deaton's lone assistant. He heads for the waiting room at first, out of habit, but then remembers Stiles and the puppies and redirects. John could use a little puppy therapy, too.
John is pleased to see the kennel door is still closed, but it's quiet on the other side. No squeaking puppies or barking dogs, eager to bask in Stiles' attention. Worse, there's no sign of Stiles, no low cooing or giggling or anything at all. He opens the door carefully, hoping to find Stiles passed out with the pack of puppies scattered around and over him, but the floor is bare, the fence tucked away and the puppies in their cage, a furry pile of wheezy snoring. Stiles is nowhere to be found.
Panic rises hot and sour in John's throat. He tries to push it down, picturing Deaton bolting the front door and throwing the slide lock at the top, too high for Stiles to reach. He assumes the back door would be locked the same, but Stiles is a clever boy and can get bored easily. It's also late, later than usual. It could be he slipped out and nested down in the cruiser. It wouldn't be the first time, but he usually gives John a head's up first.
John checks both doors, just in case, but they're both locked just like he expected. And the windows in the two extra exams rooms are both shut as well. John tells himself this is a good thing. It means Stiles is still in the building somewhere, probably tucked in a corner, fast asleep.
John's search is slow and methodical. He starts with the waiting room again and walks slow, Maglite out, checking all the unlocked cabinets and under exam room tables. There's a cattery on the opposite side of the building, well away from the dogs, and even though Stiles has never been a cat fan, John checks there, too. The only thing John finds there is the eerie golden glow of half a dozen pairs of eyes.
That leaves just one corner left, a gray steel door John's never paid much attention to, hidden away at the very back of the building. Swallowing, he opens it in a slow, quiet sweep, unsure of what he'll find. Common sense says this is probably some kind of storage room, , but it doesn't feel as reassuring as John would like it to be. The huge wolf John finds himself staring at doesn't help things, either.
At least, he thinks it's a wolf. Most of the side of the pen he's looking at is cinder block, but John can make out thick black fur on a large head, massive shoulders and paws the size of John's hand. Well, bigger than Stiles' hand at the very least, considering they're side by side on the concrete floor, Stiles having wormed his hand underneath the chain link gate.
"Stiles!" John hisses, hand falling to his sidearm. "Get over here."
The wolf only flicks his ear. Stiles rolls his head. "That's my dad," he says, and gives a nod in John's direction. "He's kind of a fun suck sometimes, but he's the sheriff. Comes with the job, I think." Then, to John. "Come say hi, dad. He won't bite."
A hand lands on John's shoulder before he can disagree and Deaton's gently guiding him into the room. Now that John has a better view, he can see the face head-on (definitely a wolf) and a stark white bandage wrapped around the wolf's midsection. It gives John a sparing glance, but quickly turns back to Stiles, nudging his fingers with its nose. The size of it, the flash of sharp white teeth, makes John's heart stutter and he takes a step toward Stiles on instinct.
"Stiles," John says, his voice low, like the wolf won't hear or understand him if he talks quiet enough. "Please get away from the massive wolf that could bite your fingers off."
Stiles snorts. "He's cool, dad. Watch." He doesn't wait for confirmation and John watches in a sick combination of fascination and terror when Stiles pats the wolf's paw, then strokes its muzzle. For its part, the wolf seems to lean into it, almost like a cat, letting Stiles reach higher.
It isn't until John realizes Stiles is scratching a wolf right between the eyes that he barks out Stiles' name and bears down on the shoulder under his hand. Everybody freezes, including the wolf, and it takes forever, but Stiles' hand does make it onto the other side of the gate and into his lap looking none the worse for wear. His face is different story, though, a mix of anger and regret.
Deaton breaks the silence, rescuing John from having to come up with an apology he isn't sure he'd mean. "Sheriff, we need to discuss Saffron's care?" He lays a hand on John's shoulder to guide him through the door, but John still has a hold of Stiles and Stiles isn't budging.
"Please can I stay, dad? He won't hurt me." His voice is so soft, his shoulders all hunched in on himself. John wants to cave, but the wolf spikes all of John's parental instincts. Even though it, too, seems to be giving John the sad eyes. That might work with Stiles, but John will not be won over by a wolf. He won't.
John sighs, "Stiles."
"He's quite tame, sheriff, I can assure you," Deaton says, startling John away from the wolf's baleful gaze.
"How can you be sure?"
Deaton gestures at the bandages. "Arrow in the gut. He let me bring him in without a fight. He's been here a few weeks and has been the perfect patient."
"So then why is he sequestered out here? Alone?" John tries to ignore Stiles' quiet, belligerent "yeah."
"Because it was the only cage large enough. I usually store the food and blankets in here. I had to move them out to make room."
John wants to trust him. Wants to be able to trust Stiles' instincts, too, but finds it hard to put so much faith in an animal roughly the size of a pony, with wicked teeth and sharper reflexes. But Deaton senses John's indecision and motions him away with a nod of his head.
"Hands stay out of the cage," John says, giving Stiles' shoulder a parting squeeze.
John doesn't have much confidence that Stiles will do as he's told, but the bright smile on Stiles' face almost makes it worth it.
: : :
"She'll have to stay for a day or so, to rest and recover," Deaton says, wrapping up his spiel.
John nods, still shell-shocked, and tired to boot, and gestures toward the back of the building. "I'll just...get Stiles then." Thankfully, Deaton doesn't follow him.
The supply room is silent, now, and John isn't surprised. It's been a long day and they're edging into Stiles' usual bedtime. And while John would like to find the small mound of red hoodie and blue jeans adorable, Stiles has, predictably, slipped his hand underneath the gate again. This time, though, the wolf's paw rests on top of it, and its massive head on top of that. An ear twitches at John's approach, but that's it.
John drops to a crouch on a sigh and looks it in the eye. "You are going to be a pain in my ass, aren't you boy?" The wolf gives him a sleepy blink in reply.
"I've broken tougher." Stiles' dead weight isn't easy to manipulate, but John manages to scoop him up, using his chin to keep Stiles' wobbly head from ruining John's balance. Once he's vertical again, John carefully jostles Stiles into a better hold. Of course, the movement wakes Stiles enough for him to make himself more comfortable and nestle his forehead into John's neck.
"C'n we keep 'im?" Stiles murmurs, slow and raspy.
John presses a kiss to Stiles' forehead. "We cannot keep a wolf, Stiles." He pitches his voice low, his eyes on the wolf, but makes sure the thread of authority is obvious.
Stiles yawns, a jaw-cracking thing, and smacks his lips. His hand finds the empty space over John's heart and rests there, small and heavy and warm. "So lonely,"
Stiles slurs the words enough that John can't totally make them out the ones that trail away, so he doesn't know if Stiles means the wolf, John, or himself.
: : :
In a small, breathless voice, Stiles asks, "Can I go see the wolf, dad? Please?" His eyes are wide and he seems to be breathing harder, through his mouth instead of his nose, like the therapist taught them. John turns to kneel in front of Stiles, to get down on his level and give him something to focus on, and prepares to disappoint his son yet again, but he sees Deaton first, standing down the hall, just outside the kennel door. He gives John a sharp nod, and John sighs, defeated.
"You can see it, but-" he taps a finger against Stiles' chest. "You let Dr. Deaton prop the door open so I can hear you if something happens."
"Dad."
"And no touching this time. Stiles, I mean it." Stiles rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of a grin teasing the corners of his mouth and John can feel the anticipation humming underneath Stiles' skin. He's not sure avoidance is healthy right now, but seeing Stiles all but tear down the hallway toward the storage room helps ease the pain in his chest a little. Saffron, once John reaches her, licks his wrist in understanding.
: : :
After an hour of going through everything, including watching her sulk while Deaton adjusts her Elizabethan collar, they load her into the cruiser. John shuts the door behind her and turns back to the building, stifling a yawn. "What are the chances Stiles hasn't wormed his way into that wolf's cage?" he says to Deaton, giving him a knowing look.
"Pardon me for speaking out of turn, sheriff, but it seems Stiles has formed something of an attachment in a short amount of time."
John sighs. "Kind of hard to miss, I suppose."
"If I may make a suggestion?"
"Suggestions never hurt anybody," John says, hands slipping into his pockets.
"I could use somebody to help feed the animals at night. Stiles could be a big help. It could give him something to focus on, other than the grief. Give him a purpose?"
John blows out a breath and studies the ground at his feet. It sounds like a good idea in theory, but then he thinks back to their last few months with Claudia; Stiles bringing her food and water, helping her down the stairs and out to the back porch. Doting on her almost as much as John, whenever he could, in between homework and school. Part of John wonders if what Stiles needs right now is a break, to figure out how to be a kid again. Or if maybe it's too late for that.
He can't make the decision for Stiles, though, and Deaton seems to understand that. He nods and waves John back into the building, following several steps behind until they reach the storage room. The kennel is quiet, this time of night, so he can hear Stiles' voice carry from a few feet away, telling the wolf about something that happened at school.
"—'cuz Jackson's a butthead, but then I gave her my green crayon and, oh my gosh, she smiled at me. ME! I can't even. She's just. Perfect," Stiles sighs. "Her smile is perfect and her hair is perfect and everything about her is perfect. Harley thought I was overreacting, but she's got this epic crush on Taylor she thinks I don't know about, so she can suck it."
Stiles is splayed out on the floor when John gets there, arms tucked under his head. He turns toward the wolf and makes a small, curious sound. "I wonder if you had a Lydia. I bet you did. You're so big and brave. Handsome, probably, to lady wolves. I bet she loved you back, though, right? And you did all the things that wolf couples do? Like, I don't know, go for baths in the lake and hunt rabbits. Or deer? You're pretty big, so you probably went for the bigger stuff, huh?" Stiles rolls over onto his stomach to get closer and that's when he sees his dad.
"I didn't touch him, I swear," he says immediately, his face turning pink. He shrinks in on himself again and backs away from the cage. The wolf sighs, giving John a very deliberate side-eye.
John huffs a laugh and makes his way over to Stiles. The wolf watches him the whole way, even as John tries to slide down the wall to sit down next to Stiles. John's utility belt makes it awkward and his knees remind him he's on the wrong side of forty now, but Stiles snuggling in close makes it worth it. "Dr. Deaton has an offer he'd like to make you," John says into Stiles fuzzy buzz cut.
"What kind of offer?" Stiles says, sounding both dubious and hopeful.
Deaton takes that as his cue to drop into a crouch next to the wolf's cage. "I was telling your dad how I could use somebody to help feed the animals at night. Do you think you could do it?"
Stiles is silent for a minute, still, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. "How often would I have to come?" he asks.
"As often or as little as you like," Deaton counters. "But only once a day. We wouldn't want your schoolwork to suffer."
Stiles seems to mull that over, his arm tightening around John's stomach. "Can I— Does that mean him, too? The wolf, I mean?"
Deaton looks to John for the answer and so does the wolf. At least Deaton's face doesn't give away anything. The wolf, on the other hand, looks almost hopeful, with his big green eyes and sadly slanting eyebrows. Even his ears look droopy and pathetic. John rolls his eyes and gives Stiles a shake. "Only if Dr Deaton supervises."
Stiles' body jolts, no doubt him wanting to do a victory dance, but he manages to hold it in, and John gives him a smile Stiles can't see.
"We're gonna have to give him a name, y'know," Stiles says instead, and he eases his way out of John's hold, his face so bright and happy, John can almost ignore the nagging feeling of what did I just get us into.
: : :
It's refreshing watching Stiles, though, too. Especially with the puppies, trying to lick any scrap of bare skin they can find, their butts all wiggly-wobbly. With their front paws on Stiles' legs, their hind legs can't find purchase on the floor and they slip-slide all around Stiles' feet. Once or twice, John almost calls out a warning, but Stiles makes sure to take care, cupping them under their round little bellies to set them to rights, checking under his feet to make sure he hasn't missed one that he might step on. It took a while for John and Claudia to teach Stiles to be more aware of himself and his surroundings, but with all the machines Claudia was hooked up to in the end, it was necessary. Seeing Stiles use it now makes something in John's chest tighten, the air from his lungs stuck somewhere in the back of his throat.
Stiles uses that same vigilance with the wolf, taking careful steps over its paws to get to its dishes. The wolf watches Stiles, but makes no move toward him, except for the occasional ear twitch or loud, gusty breath. After, once John makes sure the cage is securely locked, Stiles spends a few more minutes in the storage room, telling the wolf about his day. John had sort of forgotten what it was like, hearing Stiles ramble on about his teachers and the other students. It feels like another step closer to normalcy, to hear all the familiar names again, to know what Stiles is getting up to during the day. Even if John is hearing it secondhand.
By the end of the second week, John is almost comfortable enough that he leaves Stiles alone while he talks to Deaton. With the door propped open, of course.
"So," John says, "you think you'd like to keep him around? It seems to, uh, help. Him, I mean" Inasmuch as Stiles is more animated right after coming home. It dulls not long after dinner, though, with the reminders of Claudia all around them, her apron still hanging inside the pantry, her favorite chair sitting cold and empty in the living room. John wants to attempt to pack things up, but can't yet bring himself to talk to Stiles about it. It's been a year, though. Something should be done.
Deaton levels John with a knowing look. "He's taken to it well. Especially my special guest."
John winces and glances toward the open door. "Yeah, I'm not too thrilled about that."
"I've had him here for weeks, Sheriff. He's never made a single move against me."
"That doesn't mean he won't," John sighs.
"No, it doesn't."
John eyes slide back to Deaton. "I'm not an idiot, Alan. I can see what's coming."
Deaton shrugs. "You're his father, John. Of course you get the final say."
"You really think it's a good idea to adopt out a wolf?"
"I can't tell you for sure he is a wolf," Deaton reminds him, then continues before John can protest, "but even if he is, he can't stay here forever, and I can't say for sure what the DNR will do."
"He didn't have any identification on him at all?"
Deaton shakes his head. "No, but he knows basic commands. And he was completely docile while I did my preliminary exam. Somebody domesticated him, that much I can tell you."
John nods, trying to fight back the threat of defeat looming, and turns back to the supply room to watch Stiles fall more and more in love with the wolf.
: : :