Where's the Fire?
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Summary: Sheriff Stilinski waits up for his son.
Where's the Fire?
I’m not upset that you lied to me, I’m upset that from now on I can’t believe you. - Friedrich Nietzsche
Sheriff Stilinski sank down onto the couch with a sigh. He could almost feel the years settling on him like a heavy blanket, joints registering their complaint at having been put through overtime yet again. It was late and the house was empty. It often was, these days.
Stilinski popped a beer can open and balanced it on his knee, waiting for Stiles to come home, wondering what mayhem his son was up to. The kid was running around like a headless chicken more often than not. Sure he’d spout some line about study groups or midnight showings, but no teenage boy runs to those like he’s trying to put out a fire.
And Stiles had been showing up at a lot of fires. Name a crime scene and there he was. Innocent bystander, sure, hardly ever a witness, but still there.
One’s an incident, two’s a coincidence…
Stiles was a good liar, evading questions and rattling off quips fast enough to leave your head spinning, but the sheriff knew a thing or two about lies and a hell of a lot more about his son.
…and three’s a pattern.
Stiles sure as hell hadn’t gone off to “work on a history project” with Scott, just as Scott certainly wasn’t “doing math homework” with Stiles. Stilinski gave a slow shake of his head. Rule one of setting up an alibi: get your stories straight.
The sheriff took a swig of beer and thought back to all the outrageous lines his son had come up with over the years to talk himself out of sticky situations. The kid had flair, that was for sure. Sometimes, once Stiles had been steered out of harm’s way and Stilinski could drop the disciplining dad act, he would chuckle over the kid’s lines. Even when his son was clutching at straws he still managed to pull it off.
Except there was lying and then there was lying (and then there was reclining your body in a horizontal position), and Stiles’ were taking on a more desperate edge. Something was going on - had been going on for a while now - and damn that kid, he was probably caught right in the middle of it.
But Stilinski knew when to push and when to wait. Didn’t mean he liked waiting, watching his son like a hawk, noting every time things were just off-centre from normal. Some things were so off-centre, like that supposed prank the two pulled on Jackson, that Stilinski wondered if Stiles honestly believed his father was buying it.
Stiles didn’t want him to know what was going on, probably didn’t want him to worry, but sooner or later Stilinski was going to find out. As for the worrying part, well, he always worried.
Like now. He sat there on the couch, forgotten beer dripping condensation into his jeans and some muted television program lighting the room, clenching his teeth so hard he could feel a tension headache coming on.
He checked his phone then checked it again because he had no idea what he’d looked at the first time. He set the phone beside him on the couch then instantly picked it up again, this time forcing himself to read the time on the screen. He double-checked to make sure it hadn’t accidentally gone on mute before setting it back down, within easy reach. Waiting.
A crick in his neck and the jingle of keys hitting the ground woke him up.
Summary: Sheriff Stilinski waits up for his son.
Where's the Fire?
I’m not upset that you lied to me, I’m upset that from now on I can’t believe you. - Friedrich Nietzsche
Sheriff Stilinski sank down onto the couch with a sigh. He could almost feel the years settling on him like a heavy blanket, joints registering their complaint at having been put through overtime yet again. It was late and the house was empty. It often was, these days.
Stilinski popped a beer can open and balanced it on his knee, waiting for Stiles to come home, wondering what mayhem his son was up to. The kid was running around like a headless chicken more often than not. Sure he’d spout some line about study groups or midnight showings, but no teenage boy runs to those like he’s trying to put out a fire.
And Stiles had been showing up at a lot of fires. Name a crime scene and there he was. Innocent bystander, sure, hardly ever a witness, but still there.
One’s an incident, two’s a coincidence…
Stiles was a good liar, evading questions and rattling off quips fast enough to leave your head spinning, but the sheriff knew a thing or two about lies and a hell of a lot more about his son.
…and three’s a pattern.
Stiles sure as hell hadn’t gone off to “work on a history project” with Scott, just as Scott certainly wasn’t “doing math homework” with Stiles. Stilinski gave a slow shake of his head. Rule one of setting up an alibi: get your stories straight.
The sheriff took a swig of beer and thought back to all the outrageous lines his son had come up with over the years to talk himself out of sticky situations. The kid had flair, that was for sure. Sometimes, once Stiles had been steered out of harm’s way and Stilinski could drop the disciplining dad act, he would chuckle over the kid’s lines. Even when his son was clutching at straws he still managed to pull it off.
Except there was lying and then there was lying (and then there was reclining your body in a horizontal position), and Stiles’ were taking on a more desperate edge. Something was going on - had been going on for a while now - and damn that kid, he was probably caught right in the middle of it.
But Stilinski knew when to push and when to wait. Didn’t mean he liked waiting, watching his son like a hawk, noting every time things were just off-centre from normal. Some things were so off-centre, like that supposed prank the two pulled on Jackson, that Stilinski wondered if Stiles honestly believed his father was buying it.
Stiles didn’t want him to know what was going on, probably didn’t want him to worry, but sooner or later Stilinski was going to find out. As for the worrying part, well, he always worried.
Like now. He sat there on the couch, forgotten beer dripping condensation into his jeans and some muted television program lighting the room, clenching his teeth so hard he could feel a tension headache coming on.
He checked his phone then checked it again because he had no idea what he’d looked at the first time. He set the phone beside him on the couch then instantly picked it up again, this time forcing himself to read the time on the screen. He double-checked to make sure it hadn’t accidentally gone on mute before setting it back down, within easy reach. Waiting.
A crick in his neck and the jingle of keys hitting the ground woke him up.