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They stood together in silence, both of them unaware when they tilted their heads to the side in much the same way. In spite of their relative outward quiescence, inwardly, their minds raced down two separate tracks which began from the same place: each was determined to do whatever necessary to keep the other safe.
A youthful shout from several houses down broke the illusion of calm that had settled upon them, and they both braced for the imminent fallout. “Son,” Sheriff Stilinski began, “is there something you want to tell me?” After a beat, he said - hoping he didn’t sound anywhere near as desperate as he felt after a year of lies and half-truths and late nights worried sick and wondering what his sweet Saoirse would think if she could see them both now - “Because whatever it is, you can tell me.”
Stiles continued gazing dully at the symbol painted in bold crimson strokes upon their front door, and then his lips tightened, and his nostrils flared. All he had wanted since his idiotic teenage need for excitement reared its troublesome head and resulted in a furrier, angrier version of his best friend was to somehow ensure that his father came through all of the ensuing werewolf crap unscathed. He’d foolishly imagined after that horrible night at the station that his father had managed to escape the worst of it, and then two weeks ago, he blew it all by swooping in and saving Derek Hale’s ungrateful ass from the latest and greatest threat to the good and supernaturally unaware people of Beacon Hills.
The fact that the young alpha had actually been trying to rescue Erica and Boyd at the time provided Stiles with far too little comfort now that the alpha pack had helpfully proven beyond any doubt that he had now placed his only family in their infrared sights. Sure, his classmates were back home, had been brought back into Derek’s pack, but how long would they stay that way?
His eyes burned, remembering his discussion with Ms. Morrell in the spring. Could what he was feeling now - what he seemed to always feel these days, sometimes at the back of his mind, sometimes overwhelming all other thoughts, all other emotions - really be called hyper-vigilance if the threat was literally right at their front door?
Shoving semantics aside, Stiles swallowed roughly and then straightened out of the defeated slump into which his shoulders had fallen at first spotting the disconcertingly red triskele which may, or may not, have been created with actual blood. They had long since passed the time when ignorance offered his father even a modicum of protection, and this little token of the alpha pack’s affections clearly served to remind him that his wards could only safeguard those inside the house.
“Yeah, dad, I know. But not out here, okay?” He glanced around the neighborhood, somewhat belatedly, he knew, and then moved out of the way so that his dad could unlock the door. As he waited, he pulled out his cell and hit the second number in his speed dial. “Scott,” he said, feeling his dad’s eyes flit over to him in open interest, “I’m telling my dad. Yeah, everything, and I want you here.”
As Sheriff Stilinski let his son precede him, he felt his eyebrows crawling steadily up his forehead in response to the ongoing phone call. He had known, of course, that anything Stiles was caught up in would involve Scott, as well, but he hadn’t actually expected his son to admit it. The two of them typically tried to cover for each other whenever possible. He shut and locked the front door and then turned to watch Stiles pace back and forth in the entryway, the familiar sight oddly comforting. No matter how much his son had changed in the past year, some things would always stay the same. “There’s something you need to see, anyway. No, he’s not gonna shoot you! Bring Isaac, if you’re that worried. Yes, I know he’s there. How do I know? Because you would whine way more than this if you didn’t have someone to impress with your manliness and maturity.”
His son hung up on Scott without allowing him any time to reply to his dig, and then sent off a text the sheriff couldn’t quite make out. He watched Stiles cast about himself restlessly and then clap his hands together, making his way to the kitchen.
“Coffee,” Stiles decided. “I should make some. Except, no. Too much caffeine is probably not the best thing right now.” He rummaged through the pantry and found a box of peppermint tea. Feeling mildly accomplished, he pulled the tea kettle out from one of the cabinets over the stove and set about filling it with filtered water.
“So,” Sheriff Stilinski said, leaning against the kitchen entrance, “you told Scott you’re going to tell me ‘everything.’” He let the statement hang, knowing the question behind it was unmistakable.
Stiles nodded as he set the kettle on to boil. “And I meant it, but I really need you to give everyone enough time to get here first.”
“And by ‘everyone,’ you mean...?”
The doorbell rang, and although Stiles turned with the intention of answering, his dad got there first.
A silence eerily reminiscent of the one from earlier carried into the house, and Stiles quickened his stride, coming to a stop when confronted with his dad and Derek staring each other down. “Derek,” he began, pushing down the anger at the werewolf’s culpability in the events leading up to this little meeting, “come on in. I believe you know my dad?”
The twin looks of disbelief that came his way were as unexpected as they were unwelcome, and Stiles looked up at the ceiling helplessly. They hadn’t even started yet, and things were already falling apart.