Chapter Text
As soon as Michael Stilinski hangs up with his son, he gets up from his desk and walks down the hall to the crime lab. He sticks his head in the door and catches Jay's eye, motions him to join him outside. He takes them to the side patio, where they lean against the wall and Jay pulls out a cigarette and lights it.
Michael waits until he's taken half a dozen decent drags before he broaches the subject. “I need you to do me a favor.”
Jay shrugs easily. “Sure. What's up?”
“I need you to run a trace on my son's cell.”
“Hmm.” Jay snubs the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot and puts the butt in his pocket. “We have a warrant for this?”
“No. That's why it's called a favor. Just like that favor I did for you down in Sacramento.”
Jay holds up a hand. “Hey, hey, no need to go mentioning Sacramento. I didn't say I wasn't going to do it. Just need to know my parameters. You know if I have to go backdoor, it's going to take longer. A few hours.”
“Just get it done. I need to know where he is.”
If Stiles is going to continue to insist on lying to him, Michael feels absolutely no remorse about lying right back. Because he knows his son, and he knows when he's trying to fast talk him, and when he's trying to sound brave, but he's actually afraid. And the Stiles he just got off the phone with? That Stiles is scared shitless.
Jay nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. “He okay?”
Michael rubs a hand over his face, pulls a little on his mouth and chin as he passes by them. He shakes his head. “I really don't know.”
He's not sure, exactly, what to think, when a neighbor or two mentions, in passing, a boy hanging out in his backyard. It's probably Scott, who's always in and out, and has been know to occasionally climb in through Stiles' window, which this kid is apparently doing, too. Then again, all the neighbors know who Scott is, and would probably have either not bothered bringing it up, or would have at least identified him by name.
But things have been good in the last few months. Quiet. He hasn't found Stiles at any crime scenes, hasn't watched Stiles' eyes slide away from his, in guilt or discomfort. Hasn't wondered what his son is up to and when they lost the easy trust they used to have. He doesn't want to do anything to upset that, and so, probably foolishly, he lets the whole matter lie.
It isn't until a Friday afternoon a couple of weeks ago, when he makes an impromptu run to the house from work, that he starts putting the pieces together. Stiles' music is blaring so loudly that it's easily heard from the street, and if he doesn't turn it down, Mrs. Hannity from next door is going to call his office to lodge a complaint about noise pollution. So Michael bypasses his office and heads straight to Stiles' room, ready to goodnaturedly chew him out before they commiserate about old ladies and their sensitive ears. He can hear dull thuds through the ceiling, which means Stiles is probably dancing, secure in the knowledge no one can see, and he readies himself to gently tease his son about that, as well.
But he pulls up short at Stiles' door, back to where he can see in, but where Stiles' view is partially blocked, and his opening volley dies on his lips. Stiles isn't alone. Isaac Lahey is bounding around the room with him, both of them shouting along to the music at the top of their lungs.
Once he's exonerated of his father's murder, Michael only sees him in passing. At lacrosse games, around town with the Reyes girl or the Boyd kid, or Derek Hale, who has somehow, despite all rational expectations otherwise, managed to obtain some kind of informal guardianship of Isaac. He knows from parent teacher conferences – where Harris takes great delight in enumerating all of Stiles' misdeeds; Michael is slowly reaching the end of his patience with Harris using his son as his whipping boy – that Isaac and Stiles are lab partners, but he hadn't been remotely aware they were anything close to friends.
And maybe he could have dismissed it as just that, as two teenagers blowing off steam on a lazy afternoon – it's not like he's never watched Stiles and Scott making fools of themselves in similar situations; could have discounted or explained away the fact they're half dressed when Stiles rarely takes his shirt off in front of him, could even have decided the large, purple bruise in the middle of Stiles' chest is from lacrosse, or that maybe he's finally convinced Lydia of his charms.
He could have written off all of those things, if it weren't for their hands.
As much as they're bouncing around, laughing and dancing and pretty much being teenage boys, their hands never leave each other, not really. There's a palm brushing an arm here, then fingers sliding across a shoulder there. A wrist, a hip, little touches that linger just a second too long for casualness, any time they're within a foot of each other.
They don't even seem to notice they're doing it, and that may be the most telling.
Stiles stumbles; Isaac grins and catches him at the waist to steady him. The tips of his fingers slip just inside Stiles' waistband, before he lets him go with a tiny push. Michael is starting to feel a bit like a voyeur – there's a casual intimacy here that isn't meant for outside eyes – so he slides into the room and hits the “off” button on the iDock.
Stiles' reaction is...memorable. He spins around with a deer caught in the headlights look, while his hands flail wildly before he trains them back to his sides.
“Dad,” his voice cracks, ““Hey...uh, hey there. Aren't you...ah...aren't you working?” The way he's determinedly trying not to look at anything but Michael raises a red flag that there are things he doesn't want him seeing, and now that music isn't blasting in his ears, it's easy enough to pick up the rest of the pieces to complete the puzzle.
Pieces like the lacrosse uniform lying crumpled in two different places on the floor - number 14 and not 24. Pieces like Stiles' shirt balled up at the end of a very, very rumpled bed, while the jeans and boxers he went to school in are sitting in the doorway – Michael very purposely does not think about the discoloration standing stark and obvious against the dark material.
Mostly, though, he notices Isaac trying to crawl his way through the wall by the window, terror oozing out of every pore. Michael Stilinski is an officer of the law; he is sworn to uphold it. But he has never quite been able to regret that someone murdered Isaac's father. No child should live with that kind of fear.
He keeps his voice calm and does his best to make his body language as non-threatening as possible, even though he's addressing Stiles and not Isaac. “I am, I just swung by to pick up some files. I knocked you know. Maybe you should think about turning the sound down.” A small lie, but he really didn't intend to catch Stiles off guard, and it makes it easier on them both.
And because he can't just pretend Isaac isn't there, he turns his attention to where the boy still hasn't relaxed an iota. “Hello, Isaac.”
If possible, Isaac shrinks even further back. “Sh-Sheriff.”
Crap , he should have remembered that the last time they actually had a conversation, he was locking Isaac in a cell. The last thing he wants to do is scare the kid more. Stiles has tensed right along with Isaac, and Michael watches as he takes a step to the side, to where he's partially blocking the other boy from view.
It's at that moment he realizes exactly how serious this thing is he's witnessing. It's obviously time to have that conversation he'd aborted at The Jungle , time to find out exactly what other events he's been missing in his son's life. But not in front of Isaac. And first he's got to get the kid to peel himself off the damn wall. He wishes he weren't in uniform; it can't be a good memory for him.
He smiles more directly at Isaac. “Mr. Stilinski is fine.” And miracle of miracles, Isaac's shoulders relax and his jaw unclenches.
“Mr. Stilinski.”
Stiles is watching Isaac, too, and Michael wonders if he's aware of one corner of his mouth turning up as Isaac answers him, like he's proud, or relieved, or maybe both of those things rolled up into one. There's so much comfort between the two of them, so many unspoken signals that travel the space between them. Whatever this thing is, it's not new.
Michael clears his throat, because if he stays any longer, things will move on to awkward, and he really does have to get back to work.
“Okay, I've got to head back in. Remember we have neighbors, son.” It will do good for Stiles to recall that just because Michael works a lot, it doesn't mean he's completely oblivious. “Make sure you get your homework done. Mr. Harris says you two have a big chemistry project coming up.”
He manages, just barely, not to laugh as Stiles sputters out some very unfortunate word choices, bids the boys good-bye, and heads back down the stairs. Tomorrow morning, he'll sit Stiles down and make sure he understands Michael loves him no matter who he loves, embarrass him by mentioning safe sex, and make sure Stiles never, ever sees how much it concerns him that Stiles has chosen to have his first serious relationship with a boy as damaged as Isaac Lahey.
He has every intention of speaking with Stiles, but they've paved that road before, and that night, a fresh body comes rolling in. He ends up working a double, and then another double, and like so many other times, the more important father-son things get pushes aside for the more urgent things. By the time he gets a day off, he's so exhausted he falls in the bed and doesn't wake up for 24 hours, before cutting his weekend short and heading back into the station.
And then...well, then it's today, and he gets a cryptic call from his son and allusions to an Isaac who is hurt badly enough that Stiles is running and won't tell Michael where. Stiles is too young for this, but then, he's always tried to save the world. Isaac is too young for this, but then, kids like him have always had to grow up fast.
After he leaves Jay, he sits at his desk and tries to concentrate on other things. Stares blankly at paperwork, and at the caseboard, at the stack of messages on his desk. He picks up his phone and tries calling Stiles back, but isn't surprised when he only gets voicemail.
Finally, he can't take the waiting any longer. He might not be able to hurry Jay up, but he could do his own legwork. And any legwork involving Stiles always starts at Scott. He lets Jay know to call him as soon as he gets a hit, tells Rita he's going to run down some leads – not technically a lie – and grabs his badge and jacket. Five minutes later he's starting up the cruiser, and thirty seconds later he's driving down main street, in the direction of the McCalls.