• "I want to be selfish, just this once. I want to have this. I want to have you." •
• "You already have me." •
______
Leaving Beacon Hills and heading to New York for spring break, Mieczyslaw 'Stiles' Stilinksi set out on a path of greatness. Or wh...
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Stiles Stilinski wasn't a stickler for organization or sleeping, that was a well-known fact. That's why when Noah went to check up on him early the next morning, he wasn't surprised to find his son awake and lounging on his back in the middle of his bedroom floor with his feet propped up on the edge of his bed. A pile of scattered comic books was strewn across the soft carpet with disregard, one laying precariously over the boy's face. The only sign that the teen was awake was the incessant jittering of his right leg, something he usually did when he was either bored or concentrating. He stared at his son for a moment, a small smile on his lips as he cleared his throat, his arms casually crossing over each other as the rested against his chest.
"Hey kiddo. How are you doing?"
Stiles loudly groaned from underneath the comic. "Besides feeling like I've been hit by a freight train?" He remarked as he pushed the worn paper off his face and began to sit up. "Yeah, I've been better."
"You're Uncle Phil called."
"Yeah?" Stiles questioned, lips pulling up slightly, his legs crossing over each other and back straightening minutely.
He always loved his Uncle Phil. He didn't know if it was because Phil was the last thing, besides his father, that he had left to remind himself of his mother, or the fact that his Uncle was one of the better people in the world. He would later decide that it was the former rather than the latter.
Not to mean that his Uncle wasn't great, because he was. Stiles remembered when he was younger and he would visit his super awesome Uncle Phil, when his dad was going through one of his 'rough patches'. And how when Phil tucked him in safely at night, he would tell Stiles stories of his mother when she was young and beautiful and most certainly alive and happy. And Stiles would always grin because he almost forgot what she looked like, what she was like, before the treatments.
But his Uncle was also mysterious. He had secrets behind the smile he always flashed. Stiles knew that he did and it annoyed him to no end that he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. There was always a slight tingling on the back of his neck whenever his Uncle was around. A tingle that usually meant that there was more to a person than what they were letting people believe. And it freaked Stiles out a little, because he had only ever encountered said feeling around supernatural creatures or hunters.
But nevertheless, Uncle Phil was simply, well, Uncle Phil. There was no other way to describe the man. He was one of the few family members Stiles had left. And he was just happy that the older man had stuck around as long as he had.
Uncle Phil, with the big heart and kind, mysterious eyes. Uncle Phil that always laughed at his stupid jokes and absolutely killed it when they played Call of Duty with each other once a week. Uncle Phil who was always looking out for him, who told him happy stories of his dead mother and would always make him smile. Uncle Phil who always made him feel less alone in the world.
"Is he coming to visit?" Stiles finally settled on asking. His Father didn't miss the hopeful twinge in his voice.
The Sheriff smiled at his boy, leaning on the door frame, arms still crossed over his chest. "Not exactly, kiddo."
"What do you mean, not exactly."
Noah clicked his tongue, his features easing even more, regret briefly crossing his face. "Your uncle and I had a talk and we both thought that it would be better if you went to stay with him for a while."
"Dad-" Stiles started to protest.
"Please, Stiles." His voice was serious now. The kind of tone a worried parent would use in times of crisis. It was a tone that made Stiles swallow his tongue and his gaze at his Father softened slightly. "I want you to be safe and this town has proven that it's not safe here. Not now at least. It's only for the summer. And you love your uncle Phil."
Stiles couldn't argue. One, because he did love his Uncle and two, because no one could really argue with the fact that Beacon Hills wasn't safe, not just now but for the majority of the town's history. It was almost as if Beacon Hills was just that, some sort of beacon for the bad and supernatural.
"When do I leave?" Stiles asked instead. His head swirled with all the terrible things that could happen in his absence.
"Tonight." Was all Noah said. Stiles bit the inside of his cheek hard as he got to his feet. There were so many things that he had to do. So many precautions to put in place, to tell his friends about. He had still yet to go and visit Dr. Deaton to find out about his 'abilities'.
The world seemed to spin around Stiles when he took a tentative step forward, the feeling of panic rising in his chest. Then he took another step and another and another until he closed the gap between his Dad and himself. Just as the world began to blur in a wild disarray of colors he threw his arms around his Father, who grasped his shoulders back surprised. Stiles took a deep breath. His nostrils filled with the smell of fresh ink on paper, sweat, old coffee, and gun power. A smell that reminded him of home and he settled almost immediately.
"I just want what's best for you, kiddo." Noah muttered, closing his eyes as he squeezed back gently. "You know how much I care about you, how much I love you, right?"
"I love you too, Dad." Stiles mumbled, his face buried into his Dad's shirt as he hugged the man tighter, like he was never going to see him again.
In Stiles' defense, by being in Beacon Hills there was always the chance that you might not make it through the next big bad. And, not to brag, but a Beacon Hills without a Stiles Stilinski was practically free real-estate for manipulative supernaturals because there would be no one there to see through their lies. No one to question their integrity or to follow up on half arsed backstories. No offense to his friends but when it comes to problem-solving, anything that can't be crushed by brute strength or shot at with an arsenal wasn't particularly the forte of Scott McCall or the others.
Stiles Stilinski was the much-needed brains behind the braun of the McCall pack, the only person that rivaled his intellect was Lydia Martin, but none of the others seemed to listen to her as much as they did him. Stiles figured that it was because he was higher up on the command chain, you know, werewolf pack wise and all. Scott had once mentioned that Stiles was second in command and although the pale boy had followed up that statement with a slew of sarcastic comments and jests at the severe lack of ability that the others must have in order for him to be considered somewhat in charge, he never really questioned it. Neither did the others.
It made sense, in a way. Stiles was always there. He picked people up when they were down, resolved petty conflicts as if it were second nature and made sure every single member of the McCall pack stayed out of trouble. He was the research man, the glue that held them all together. He made sure they ate healthily and always had a place to sleep, that they trained properly and to the full extent of their abilities and that they always finished pack night with a puppy pile.
In short, the pack was a family and Stiles Stilinski was the 'Pack Mom' -even though he contests that title name with every fiber of his being because seriously Issac why'd you have to make that analogy? Now Jackson is never going to let him live it down-.
"Hey Dad?" Stiles questioned after a long moment, his arms never budging from his grip on Noah's shirt. The Sheriff mumbled a 'yes' in response. "You're not going to stick to your diet when I'm gone are you?" He asked hopeful, although he already knew what his Dad's answer was.
