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“Say goodbye.”
The sheriff woke up in a cold sweat, the sound of a gunshot echoing in his ears. He sat up, pulling the neck of his t-shirt up to wipe his face off. It was only a dream. Stiles was fine, asleep in his room just down the hall. Still, he knew he wouldn’t rest easy until he laid eyes on his son.
He pushed the covers away, got out of bed, and walked to his son’s bedroom. Ever since Scott’s father had told him about that psychopath from the school holding Stiles at gunpoint, he’d been having recurring nightmares. He’d been a second away from losing his son forever, and something like that realization couldn’t just fade away.
Stiles’ room was dark when he peered inside, the dim light from the streetlights outside making it only just possible to see his son’s sleeping form. Noah sighed, letting the tension ease from his shoulders as he turned away to return to his room.
⛉⛊⛉⛊⛉
The barrel of a gun rested against Stiles’ temple, and Noah couldn’t do anything but watch as Chris Argent cocked his pistol. “That’s not your son.”
It wasn’t, but it was all the same. As he stared, Stiles’ form started to flicker, back and forth from his normal look to the pale look of the nogitsune with its nearly sunken eyes. His eyes. One second they were desperate and pleading, filled with tears, and the next, they were smug and all-knowing as they stared back at him.
“Dad,” Stiles called tremulously, and the sheriff reached forward- or tried to. He couldn’t move. He could only watch.
“Dad, please.” His son sobbed before the image flickered again, and the tears were replaced with rage. “Shoot me!”
This time, he woke with a gasp, his chest heaving, and one hand reflexively reaching forward and falling away when he realized the pointlessness of it. He lay there for a minute, talking himself down from a panic and trying to resist the urge to make sure it was a dream.
In the end, he walked down the quiet hallway, one hand gripping the doorway to Stiles’ room as he nearly collapsed with relief at seeing his son. He paused to calm himself down, running a hand over his face before walking into the room with a slight smile. Stiles had thrown his blankets off in the night, and the sheriff quietly picked them up and laid them back over the boy. “Goodnight, Stiles.” He whispered before heading back to his room, hoping for further, peaceful sleep.
⛉⛊⛉⛊⛉
Noah had been sheriff for well over a decade. He’d seen all manners of deaths and murders, maybe more than most small town sheriffs would; It was Beacon Hills, after all. He had seen people with limbs ripped clean off, bodies missing heads, corpses mangled beyond any recognition. Yet, nothing could have prepared him for the sight before him.
Stiles’ body lay on the ground, a small bullet hole placed directly in the center of his forehead and the back of his skull completely blown apart. The ground was splattered with blood and brain matter, like a sickening piece of abstract art.
“We’re supposed to take care of each other.”
Every other time, the sheriff had woken up just before he saw his son die like his mind simply couldn’t handle seeing it happen. But this time, Stiles was already dead, and it didn’t seem like the nightmare would end anytime soon. So this time, Noah took matters into his own hands, forcing the hellish dream away and clawing himself to wakefulness with a shout and a slew of swearing worthy of a sailor as he flung himself out of bed. His footsteps were loud as he raced down the hallway, his heartbeat pounding away in his ears as he reached Stiles’ room.
Stiles was looking back at him, his eyes just as teary and desperate as Noah remembered them in his dream. They stared at each other for a moment before the sheriff and his son moved as one, meeting in an urgent, needy hug. Their arms locked tight around each other as their fingers scrambled for purchase in each other’s t-shirts, and Noah felt hot tears wetting his shoulder, his own doing the same to Stiles’.
“Nightmares?” He croaked after a few seconds of trying to find his voice.
“Yeah,” Stiles said with a huffed laugh lacking any humor. “You too?”
“Yeah. Yeah, me too, kid.” Noah whispered, moving his hand to cradle the back of Stiles’ head when his son started sobbing in earnest. “It’s okay, kid. We’ve still got each other.” He told him, feeling Stiles’ nod.
Neither of them fell asleep again that night but instead relocated to the couch, holding each other close to remind themselves that they did indeed still have each other.