The cruelest lies are often told in silence.
(Robert Louis Stevenson)
During dinner the sheriff sits across from his son and watches as Stiles pauses mid-sentence to take another bite. The babble continues, unabated, within moments but he's stopped listening. Stiles' story is just that. A story. Another lie in a long line of lies, and there are only so many he can stand to hear in a row. Each is a punch to the gut, a cut to the heart, a painful example of yet another time that Stiles doesn't trust him with the truth. It hurts. Wounds like these don't scar, not visibly, but he can feel each one.
In battling evil, excess is good; for he who is moderate in announcing the truth is presenting half-truth. He conceals the other half out of fear of the people's wrath.
Stiles worries about his dad. He's got a dangerous job and a stressful home life with a teenage son who can't seem to keep himself out of trouble. There's also other things to worry about, things like blood pressure, cholesterol and triglycerides, whatever the hell those
are, so during dinner, when his dad asks him about his day… Stiles lies. He ducks and weaves and embellishes like a master because if keeping his dad safe means keeping him in the dark, well, that's how it's going to be. A few secrets never hurt anyone, right? It's fine. It's all fine.