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When had Stiles gotten so self-sufficient? The sheriff lamented how he’d dealt with his wife’s passing; that seemed the point at which Stiles had turned into the caretaker in their relationship.
Despite their role reversal, he still tried to keep tabs on his son. Keep him in check. Keep him on the straight and narrow.
On good days, he marveled at his son’s energy, passion and curiosity for whatever caught his attention. On bad days he wondered how he and Claudia had managed to produce progeny who couldn’t bridle that curiosity or adhere to basic social cues.
Lately he just worried.
Stiles biggest motivation was to protect those he loved with everything he had to the detriment of himself. The kid made it nearly impossible for him to do his other important job—parenting.
When the vault door had swung back open, he’d expected Stiles to emerge, coltish legs unusually graceful or abysmally clumsy, dependent upon how much attention he was paying to his surroundings. He’d watched, mystified, as Stiles had drifted out of the vault, eyes firmly glued to the ground. Not paying any attention. A pod person.
He was so relieved to see his son he’d broken into a jog and enveloped Stiles in a hug. Expecting protests of ‘I’m too big’ or ‘not in public, Dad’ he’d been surprised when Stiles had not only endured the hug but had returned it.
Stiles hadn’t moved from his side, or interjected anything into the conversation, which was completely out of character for his fidgety, nosey son.
Right now Rafael McCall was detailing how he’d gotten the drop on the perp who had turned out to be one of the teachers proctoring the test. School had never been so exciting when he’d been young.
Stiles unlatched from his side and he took a moment to straighten his uniform, surprised when he felt moisture on his fingers. He brought his hand up and inspected it, noticing the dark smudge, which resembled drying blood.
Wait. Blood.
“Yeah, the blood. I was just getting to that. I came around the corner and the teacher was holding a gun to Stiles’s forehead and I knew I couldn’t hesitate. I took the shot and unfortunately the blood sprayed all over Stiles. I was thinking he should be decomtamin…hey, Stilinski, where are you going?” McCall demanded.
He swiveled his head around, searching frantically for his son. “Stiles!”
Some psycho had held a gun to his baby’s head. Rafa might be an asshole but thank God he was a good shot. Now he needed to see his son, make sure he was okay. Someone should’ve led with the news Stiles had almost been shot!
He shushed Rafa and heard high-pitched wheezing. It was coming from around the corner.
It only took seconds to reach him but in that short time, Stiles had escalated from noticeable wheezing to what one doctor had called hyperventilation syndrome. Stiles was bent over at the waist, arms clutched to his rapidly expanding and contracting chest, lungs working like bellows. His mouth hung open, fighting to pull in every molecule of oxygen available. Unfortunately his son was over-breathing which usually lead to rapid heartbeat, dizziness and lightheadedness.
In short, Stiles was in the throes of one whopper of a panic attack.
Was there anything scarier than watching your child fight for breath? He didn’t think so.
Placing one hand lightly between Stiles’s shoulder blades and wrapping his other around his biceps, he reminded his son he wasn’t alone. “It’s okay, Stiles. I’m here with you.”
Wait. What had the psychiatrist told him to do when Stiles had his first panic attack all those years ago? Stay calm. He could do that. He’d been in law enforcement for more than twenty years. He could write the fucking book on staying calm.
Stiles swayed on his feet and calm went out the fucking window.
He couldn’t offer anxiety medicine because Stiles hadn’t taken any since right after Claudia…right after things changed.
He didn’t need to move Stiles to a quiet place. The hallway was silent except for Stiles’s tortured breathing, at least now that Rafa had shut the hell up.
There was something about not making assumptions about what Stiles needed. He didn’t know what his son needed at this moment except to stop hyperventilating.
The last two suggestions he’d been given he could absolutely do—speak in short, simple sentences and be predictable.
He hauled Stiles upright and wrapped his son in a bear hug. “I’m right here. Breathe with me. In. Out. In. Out. Listen to my voice, Stiles. In. Out. In. Out.”
The wheezing was still horrible, as bad as any asthma attack of Scott’s he’d ever witnessed. He could feel the sweat on the back of Stiles’s neck where he lightly supported the fragile length.
When his son leaned his weight against him and his head flopped over his shoulder it was time to move to the ground. Stiles was still his little boy but that little boy was almost as tall as he was, was getting broad across the shoulders, and had developed some muscles in the last year. If they went down without warning it was going to cause some damage.
Easing his son’s weight downward, he let them slide down in a controlled fall. He ended up with his back against the wall and Stiles awkwardly splayed across his lap.
He could work with this.
Pulling his son back into his arms, he soothed him as best he could, supporting his weight while rubbing circles on his back. “We’ll figure this out, Stiles. Stilinskis stick together so you’re stuck with me. Just listen to my voice. In. Out. In. Out. You can do it.”
He lost track of time but little by little, Stiles’s breathing became less labored.
Scott and Rafa approached them but he shook them off and for once the McCalls didn’t argue. Stiles wouldn’t appreciate anyone seeing him like this. Not that he should be ashamed. His son had a fucking gun held to his head. Blood from a dead man had sprayed all over his kid. Stiles was allowed to be sick and stressed.
Stiles’s color was awful but the squeaking breaths had finally let up. “Hey, do you think you can walk to the car?”
His son nodded yes despite not having moved out of his arms or making any attempts to move at all. He thought in the aftermath of the panic attack this response was a bit optimistic but he’d carry his kid out if he had to because they were going home.
“What do you say go home, order a pizza and watch some movies? Unless you want to invite Malia over.” He tacked the last thought on as it occurred to him Stiles might not want to be cooped up with him, not when he had another option.
Sometimes he forgot Stiles had a girlfriend. He was so used to Stiles-and-Scott that it was hard to accept the kids were growing up. Stiles-and-Scott had become Stiles-and-Malia.
His son’s long limbs stiffened in his arms and he finally pulled away from his grasp. The look was pure misery and he realized he’d said the wrong thing. He knew the pretty girl was recovering fine; she’d pushed past him on steady legs as she scowled at the world. Apparently he’d been premature in thinking there was a Stiles-and-Malia.
“Come on, kiddo. Time for some Stilinski bonding time.”
His knees creaked as he climbed to his feet. He was relieved when Stiles took the offered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Once he was certain his son was steady, he aimed them toward the exit, his hands holding on to Stiles’s forearm.
Stiles shook off the hold and he was going to protest—what if his son got dizzy or passed out—but something loosened in his chest when he felt his hand grasped.
Memories of holding his toddler’s hand as he learned to walk danced through his head. Walking had lasted for maybe one day, tops, before Stiles had discovered he could run everywhere. Brown eyes sparkling with mischief as he left destruction in his wake. The kid had never looked back.
At least he still consented to be seen in public with his old man. Wasn’t embarrassed to hold his hand.
He squeezed the long fingers more tightly. He wasn’t going to let go of his son anytime soon. Stiles might not realize it, but he still needed his father’s love and protection.
The End