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Summer heat lent a languidness to the night air, complemented by the lazy chirruping of crickets and buzzing of cicadas. The altogether quiescent atmosphere, combined with the tumbler of scotch resting beside him on his Adirondack chair, should have left the sheriff feeling peaceful. After all, in the years since his son had started sleeping soundly through the night, he had spent many an evening whiling away the hours before slumber called by relaxing in this chair.
True, things had changed since the early years. Saoirse died, leaving the other chair, which to this day sat beside his, devoid of an occupant, until Stiles was of an age to stay up late enough to join the sheriff. Then, when he started middle school, his son made his first friend, and there were sleepovers and skyping and gaming afoot. While he could not have been happier that his son had finally found someone his own age to relate to and rely on, the sheriff could not deny that he felt the new separation keenly.
Lonely nights in the backyard became the norm again.
He would feel worse about it, but every time he considered doing something to try and ease the loneliness, he would remember the weight of the wedding ring he could not bring himself to remove from his left hand. Not yet, he would decide anew, and the empty Adirondack chair would stay that way for another day, another week, another month, another year.
In the months following the discovery of Laura Hale’s bisected body, he counted it a blessing that there was no one waiting for him in the backyard. There were far too many nights when he never made it home, and the thought of someone staying up late, anxiously anticipating his return, was more than he could handle.
Oh, he knew that Stiles worried about him. All he needed to do was look at the reduced fat cheese and in the fridge and the Stevia that had taken place of the sugar (someday, he swore he would discover where his son was hiding the real thing) in the top left cabinet to confirm that if ever it was in doubt. Still, somehow the two of them had let the distractions of their daily lives put more distance between them than his son’s friendship with Scott McCall could justify.
It wasn’t just the second Adirondack chair that seemed abandoned anymore.
And tonight he was back in his own chair, peering out at the same dim view with enlightened eyes.
He thought he had handled the day’s revelations incredibly well, all things considered. After he had released his hold on his son, he had sat back down in his recliner and asked some more questions, and the boys, including Derek Hale, had all been refreshingly forthcoming. They probably felt as though they owed the sheriff at least that much after very nearly sending him into cardiac arrest with their unique version of show-and-tell. Stiles had watched him with such relief, but it was shadowed by some new fear.
When the others left at last, the sheriff had asked his son what was bothering him. Stiles had raised his big brown eyes from the spot he had been staring at since the door closed behind their three guests, and startled the sheriff with how old and careworn they had become.
His son’s voice had sounded so tired, so defeated when he spoke. It was the morning after the lacrosse team won state all over again, and yet it was so, so much more. “I know all the lies have hurt you, dad. I hated it, and I’m still so sorry about all of it, but I could do it, because it kept you safe. But I can’t keep you safe anymore. Not like that. And I hate you being a part of this even more.”
“Oh, Stiles.” Of all the times he had ever felt inadequate as a parent, this one very nearly took first place. It was overshadowed only by the day he had woken his son in order to help him get ready for Saoirse’s funeral, when the vast uncertainty of their lives had threatened to swallow them both whole. “Son,” he had said, pulling him into his arms again, “that isn’t your job. I’m supposed to be the one looking out for you, as the sheriff, and more importantly, as your father.”
Fierce sniffling against his neck had assured the sheriff that his uniform would likely need a good washing, but he had not cared in the slightest. What had bothered him was his son’s response. “It is, though. It is my job. You’ve always told me that if I have the ability to help someone, then I also have the responsibility to do it.” That was true. He had said that. Ben Parker’s words of wisdom had been a source of many a deep discussion in the Stilinski house for years now. He just hadn’t ever expected those discussions to lead to this: “And I know what’s out there, and I know how to fight it, so I have to. I have to.”
It would have been so easy to deny it. He could have told his son that he was to live with his Great Aunt Diane and never interact with werewolves ever again. Sipping from his dwindling scotch, the sheriff still could not quell completely the temptation, the need, to send his son as far away from the danger as possible, but he also knew that doing so would mean losing Stiles more surely than if he met his death tomorrow. His son might like to brush some things under the rug until he could fool himself into believing they were no longer there, but at the core, he was just like the sheriff: a Stilinski to the last.
“Alright, son,” he had whispered. “Alright. But you’re not alone with this anymore. We’ll figure it out.”
Because the Stilinskis never run.