Six Feet Under | Sterek

twenty-six;

Scott offers to go back to the house with him, and Stiles loves him for it, but there are things that he needs to protect from his own livelihood - things like laying side by side on a bed, things like dancing himself sick at a hippie festival, things like living. Being alive doesn't have to be a burden when Stiles isn't being alive alone.

So he drops Scott off after a few hours of hanging out (he pretends not to notice the sadness in Scott's eyes and Scott pretends he doesn't smell the fear that's pouring off his best friend). The silence in the Jeep afterwards is jarring, it makes his skin itch.

When he turns the stereo on, it's playing Frank Sinatra. He remembers Derek singing it quietly to himself one night, when Stiles's fingers were holding the steering wheel too tightly and the alcohol bottles were open and accusing.

He turns the stereo straight back off again. He can't do that-can't-can't-

He just can't. Not now. Not when Derek is indirectly the reason he left Beacon Hills, and directly the reason he came right fucking back. 

His dad's cruiser is in the driveway when he rumbles to a gentle stop. The lights are on. For once, his dad isn't hiding at work. For once, he's home which is all Stiles ever fucking wanted and-

He can't make himself go inside. Can't make his legs move, can't make his hands let go of the door handle, can't make himself take the very thing he's been pining for since this whole werewolf situation got started. For once, his dad is here, he's waiting. If Stiles goes inside right now, he can explain it and he might get a hug, and it might actually start to feel okay again.

He just wants his Dad to hold him so he can feel okay.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and Stiles's heart drops rhythm at Derek's name.

'You can tell him the truth, if you want. All of it. Everything. If that's what you want.'

But what is everything? Because Stiles wants to tell him about the world he's living in and he will, one day, but it can't be today. Stiles can't protect him forever, but he can damn well try. He's already lost his mom. He won't lose his dad too.

So there's only one thing that Stiles can say, and it's a fucking lie.

The front door opens. His dad is wearing tracksuit pants and a loose cotton shirt that Stiles used to sleep in. There are lines on his face that weren't there when Stiles left (ran away) and there's a resignation in every breath he takes.

"Son," he greets, voice travelling the distance between them. "I-There's-" He stops, sighs, looks down. "You can go, if you really want to."

Stiles emphatically doesn't want to.

He opens his mouth. A wounded whistling sound is all that comes out before he stops, clears his throat, tries again. "I'm so fucking sorry, Dad."

It's not even half of what he wants to say, but the rest gets trapped by the soft underside of his tongue, and lightning lashes down his spine as his dad shakes his head and moves closer, until he's within arm's length. Words, apologies, I should've been so much better, all of it tripping across Stiles's lips before disappearing back down his throat.

His dad says nothing for a good long while, eyes taking in everything that Stiles has never wanted him to see. The rainbow bracelets on his wrist that should've meant something, the faded henna tattoo that made him think of Storm and birds that can't fly, the pink on his cheeks from the sun and the sea winds, the warning signs 'like-father-like-son' like alcohol drowning him on dry land.