Stiles is tired. He’s tired of werewolves, and he’s tired of the fact that he hardly sees Scott if it’s not a life-or-death situation. He’s tired of hunting down the Kanima, tired of hating Jackson, tired of not knowing what’s going to happen next. He’s tired of the war with the Argents, and tired of Lydia being sick. He’s tired of using his dad and Danny to get information. He’s tired of people keeping secrets about important things. He’s tired of keeping important secrets from his dad.
What he wants when he gets home, more than anything, is to sit down at the table with his father, his father who is no longer the sheriff, and tell him the truth. He doesn’t want to leave anything out. He wants to start with the night Laura Hale’s body was found (the first half), the night Scott was bitten, and just talk until there’s nothing left to tell, until there’s no more secrets.
Because he’s tired of lying.
But instead, he quietly goes up to his room and collapses into his bed.
“Stiles?” his dad asks, poking his head into his room after knocking softly on the door.
“You feeling okay?”
“’M fine,” he says. Lie.
“You’ve been quiet lately. It’s unlike you.”
“Just been tired.” Truth.
“I’ll let you sleep then. We’ll have breakfast in the morning?”
“Sure. Can’t wait.” Half-truth. Because he loves lazy Saturday mornings with his dad. Loved. When there were no secrets. When he didn’t have to carefully monitor every word that came out of his mouth. When he didn’t have to focus every thought on what lies to tell, and which truths were safe.
Because that’s his life, that’s what it’s measured in now. Truths, lies, half-truths, and mostly-lies.
Most of his life was lies now. When did that happen?
Laura Hale’s dead body. Scott bitten by an animal. Scott’s a werewolf. That’s his life. His life is a series of lies he tells his father.
He barely has the energy to kick off his shoes, but he somehow manages.
Too tired to even bother with his jeans or his hoodie. Too tired to climb under the blankets where its warm and he can pretend everything is okay. Where he can pretend his mom is alive and his dad is still Sheriff, and they’re all still happy.
He thinks maybe it’s cold, but he’s too tired to care.
When he wakes up the next morning, the blankets are draped over him, and he’s curled up under them. He doesn’t want to move. Tired.
But he can’t get back to sleep, despite the constant pounding in his head, telling him he hasn’t slept nearly enough. He’ll probably never be able to sleep of this tired. It isn’t his body that’s exhausted. It’s just his body. It’s his everything.
He climbs out of bed, tripping over his shoes, and a textbook, and his lacrosse stick, and half a dozen other things between his bed and the bathroom. The shower doesn’t make him feel any less tired, but at least he’s more awake.
“Good morning, Stiles,” his dad says when he wanders into the kitchen. Stiles doesn’t like the sound of his voice. It isn’t the voice of the man who just lost his job. It’s the voice of a father who has something to say. It’s the voice Stiles hears when his dad is suspicious, when he knows something Stiles has been hiding. Stiles doesn’t like it. He doesn’t know what it is he doesn’t like. The possibility that he knows something for real this time, has irrefutable evidence?
Or the probability that Stiles is going to have to lie to him about it.
There are two cups of coffee on the table. One sitting next to the Sheriff – former Sheriff, empty. The other sitting at the chair across from him, half finished, and cold.
“We have a guest?” Stiles asks. “I didn’t hear anyone come in.”
“Derek Hale stopped by early this morning.”
Stiles really should be more shocked by this, should have some kind of reaction other than “Hm. I didn’t even think he knew where the front door was.” He’s too tired to care that he probably shouldn’t have said this.
Former Sheriff Stilinski raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t question him on it.
“He had a pretty wild story to tell. About the Argents, and the death of his family, and Scott. And you.”
Stiles stares up at him in shock. No way. No way did Derek Hale tell his father about werewolves.
“So, why don’t you start with the night Scott was bitten, and don’t skip anything.”
Stiles doesn’t need telling twice, and before he knows it, he talking until he feels like his lungs are bleeding.
But at the end of it, he feels a little less tired.