All Sharp Like Fox Teeth: Volume Two – Chapter 7 – quicksylver28

Reading Time:
13 Minutes

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With both Noah and Tony present, they chose to divide and conquer. Noah supported a still shaky Melissa to his cruiser to take her home and would try to find out more about the whole Scott situation. Meanwhile, Tony decided to take Stiles for a drive along the winding forest roads. Driving always helped to relax him in the past when he was restless or upset and he figured that it might work for the teen in his vulnerable state.

He guided the Ranger Rover toward the preserve and they were soon sailing passed the carved wooden sign. The drive was silent for a while, only the wind through the open windows singing around them above the dull roar of the four wheel drive engine. Stiles gave directions in pointed fingers and grunted words, his gaze distant as he stared out at the passing trees. He’d stopped trembling but his skin was still pasty white and worrying.

He looked exhausted. It was probably too hard to keep up the cheerful act he’d been portraying and as much as it worried Tony to see his son look so despondent, he was actually glad that Stiles wasn’t pretending to be ok just to ease his and Noah’s worries. He could only hope that their support and the therapist could help the teen deal with everything weighing on him before he broke under the pressure.

Leaves and gravel crunched under the tyres as they pulled unto a dirt side road that led deeper into the trees. The air smelled like decomposing leaves and wood, with the sun shining down in thin beams through the thickening canopy. By the time they pulled into a small clearing with the ruins of an old house, the small road had almost darkened to twilight shade. They both had to blink against the sun illuminating the clearing, the ruins blackened by fire and collapsing in age and neglect a stark and jagged wound against the verdant green.

The subject of Scott didn’t come up again, Stiles going mum on the subject right after Tony’s promise at the hospital. Tony didn’t press. The teen had been extremely cagey about what he’d been through since the day they’d met and pushing would just result in the boy clamping his walls shut. And Tony didn’t want that after he’d put in so much effort in making the boy comfortable enough with him to share.

Besides, Tony had case files, reports, an investigator’s mind and a potential ally in the sheriff. Given time and effort, he was sure that Noah would come to trust him enough to give him the real low down about what was really happening in this place; as they both loved Stiles and wanted him safe, sane and protected.

The burnt out shell still smelt faintly of ash and rot, despite years of sun damage and rain fall. A fair bit of graffiti marred the worn and damaged walls and broken windows. A large red painted symbol was half scraped from the door by some wild animal or something. Pebbled glass and wood chips crunched underfoot as Tony and Stiles walked the perimeter of the foundation, neither stepping closer to the low stone basement. The cellar doors were half rotten and half open, the stone staircase leading down and disappearing into pitch black shadow.

It was an all-around creepy place. Especially with its tragic history. Mac had laid it all out for him over breakfast one morning at the hotel, having purchased and devoured the local history book she’d eventually passed on to him when she left. The Hales had practically been the founding family of the town, settling in the area when there had been mostly nomadic indigenous tribes hunting the valley.

Patriarch Iphram Hale had been the first mayor of the Beacon Hills settlement and had built the first clan house in this very spot. Generations that came after had preserved and rebuilt the place as needed, guiding the development of the region and guarding the natural treasure that was the virgin preserve. It had been Josiah Hale that had eventually petitioned to protect the forests under government legislation and stopped the urban boom that threatened the natural beauty of the place.

Talia Hale had been yet another Hale Mayor when most of the family died in a brutal fire, leaving three of almost two dozen family extended members gathered for a reunion, alive when the flames finally died down and the smoke cleared. At first considered an unfortunate freak accident, it was just a couple years ago that Noah, with help from his inquisitive and curious son no doubt, had quietly changed the status to arson. However, since most of the co-conspirators were now either dead or missing; it was most likely another one of the ‘things that don’t make sense… yet’ that Tony had quietly noted down to ask about later.

They ended up siting on the hood of the Range Rover, sharing a bag of trail mix Tony always seemed to have in his pocket and passing a thermos mug of tea between them. The quiet had turned from pensive to contemplative as Stiles munched through the snack steadily, his shoulders relaxing as his cheeks regained some colour. He still didn’t speak though… didn’t try to fill the space with words or gestures… didn’t try distraction or diversion to hide how drained he felt.

Tony decided to do some sharing of his own. To let the boy know that he wasn’t alone in his struggle. That even if he wasn’t ready to share what was hurting him, Tony would be there, waiting and ready to listen. He took a fortifying sip of tea that topped off the cup with the last of the warm liquid.

“Survivor’s guilt is a real bitch.” he murmured into the still air, happy birdsong echoing around them despite the low mood. “I don’t have any fancy words to tell you how much it sucks or how it sticks to the ribs like a burr. That’s for my own therapist to teach me. Maybe then I will be able to say something comforting and inspiring. But it’s been years and I still can’t talk about it… can’t think about it without feeling like swallowing razor blades.”

He could feel Stiles staring at his profile but he didn’t look away from the old house, not if he wanted to get it all out. It still cut. Sliced sharp enough to burn.

“I didn’t like Caitlyn Todd at first. She was bossy, quick to judge, though any slight against her was sexism and too often let her religion colour her choices because she thought that she was smarter than the rest of us. A real piece of work…” he winced, he’d always tried not to speak ill of the dead but he needed his son to understand? Empathize? Sympathize? Whatever.

“Still, she was getting better… she had the potential to be better… given the chance…” Tony shrugged, closing his eyes against the vivid sense memory that rolled over him. He swallowed heavily.

“I can still feel the heat of her blood on my face. Feel the specks of brain matter as they slid down my forehead and into my eyelashes. We’ve been laughing just seconds before, she was making a fucking joke and then bam… bullet right between the eyes. Sniper. Killed her with a rifle with her own name… the Kate. For the irony… he said later. Fucker. Same asshole whose life she spared just days before because he had, quote unquote, ‘kind eyes’.”

He exhaled heavily, shaking off the feeling of wet on his face and forcing his eyes back open. “I was so angry for so goddamned long after that. Still am, actually. Angry at Ari for killing her in front of me and splashing her hot blood and brains all over me… Angry at Cait for dying before we could become the great team I knew that we eventually could. Angry at my asshole boss from pissing this guy off enough that he wanted to hurt him by hurting those close to him.”

He rubbed a fist against his chest, feeling cold despite the bright sunlight. “But mostly I was angry so as to cover up how scared shitless I was that it could have been me. In fact, I learned after the fact that it should have been me. I was his original target. He was supposed to shoot me that day and chose Cait instead on a fucking whim. A fucking split second whim because he felt that killing her would cut my boss deeper.”

His next exhale was ragged, his head bowing as he forced himself to finish what he started. Stiles deserved to know that Tony understood.

“It fucked me up for a long time. Still does, to be honest. Shit like that sticks to you like a second skin, just as difficult and painful to peel off. Nightmares about different scenarios. Nightmares about zombie Cait asking me why her and not me. Nightmares of my boss asking me why I let it happen… How he’d rather that it had been me that died in her place.”

He chuckled hoarsely but it was utterly devoid of humour.

“But what really gets to me if the fact that … in the few seconds after the shot, underneath all that fear and shock and anger … I was so fucking happy that it hadn’t been me. That I was alive. That it wasn’t my blood and brains scattered over the roof top. Not my name my boss was screaming as we ducked for cover. It wasn’t me with a picture up on the wall of the agents killed in the line of duty.”

He ran a hand down his face, “It took some tough love from a near stranger to get me out of the downward spiral I’d fallen into in the aftermath. He walked up to me in the dingy bar I’d been sitting, soaking in cheap whiskey and regret, scrambled me up by my Tom Ford collar and dragged me out of that place.”

Stiles had shifted closer, pressing his shoulder to Tony’s in silent comfort as the older man kept going.

“He’d only met me once before… former Navy SEAL… thought he was a murder suspect at the time. We didn’t part on good terms. But he saw me in that place and wouldn’t let me stay there. He yanked me out the door, sat me down at the curb and told me something that I’d never forget.”

His memory went back to that conversation, the smell of the dirty gutter’ the smell of sweat and old beer coming from the dive behind them.

**** FLASHBACK ****

Phillips had squatted nearby, close enough to catch Tony’s bleary gaze but far enough to avoid being splashed by vomit if necessary.

“The problem with grief is that it eventually it stops asking whether something was your fault and starts insisting it was.” His voice was gruff and matter of fact. “And you end up thinking that if you suffer enough afterward, it balances the scales. It doesn’t.”

Tony had blinked at those words, his eyes stinging as he stared at the ground between his feet.

“The dead don’t get less dead because you destroy yourself over them.” the other man had continued, showing no mercy to his aching lungs and battered heart. Tony shook his head, denial on his lips.

“We should have seen it coming.”

“No one sees a sniper coming, kid. You didn’t kill her. That rat bastard did.”

“She died because we missed something.” Tony’s voice was ragged.

“Then learn from it.”

Tony scoffed, blinking up at the other man. “It’s that easy?”

“No.” came the brutal answer. “But sitting in a shitty bar waiting to rot doesn’t honor her either. You know what honors the dead? You don’t crawl into the grave after them. You carry them forward. You do the job better tomorrow than you did yesterday.”

“It should have been me.” The words seem torn out of him. He hadn’t said them to anyone else, not Gibbs… not Abby, not even Ducky. “I feel as if I killed her myself.”

A rough hand fell on his hunched shoulder and squeezed. “Surviving her death is not the same as killing her. You just feel that way because guilt is easier to control than grief. You can’t understand how you survived so you’ve made that guilt the only thing left of her. That way you could pretend that it gives you some kind of answer. That’s not remembrance… that’s punishment. Remembrance is carrying all the good parts forward with you and leaving the bad parts behind.”

“But what if all that’s left is the bad parts?”

Then you aren’t done grieving yet.”

**** END FLASHBACK ****

Tony let out a shuddering breath and wiped away tears before turning to face his son. Stiles’ expression was horrified yet consoling, his pale hands gripping Tony’s tight enough to hurt. Tony gave him a quirk of the lips as he couldn’t bring himself to smile just yet and squeezed back.

“You’re allowed to survive something terrible. Surviving doesn’t mean betrayal. It doesn’t mean that they died because you didn’t.” he pressed a kiss against the teen’s hair as his head came to rest on Tony’s broad shoulder. “The dead don’t begrudge us life. They don’t want us walking around like ghosts because of them. They want us to live. To live what life we still have to the fullest.”

He looked back at the old house, his gaze distant as if he was seeing through it to the forests beyond.

“It’s never going to be easy and we can’t do it alone but we need to carry them forward with us and leave the bad arts behind. We do better tomorrow that we did yesterday. We survive… we live. We forgive them… then we forgive ourselves.”

“It’s that easy?” Stiles parroted back his words tonelessly and exhausted.

“No. Not alone.” Tony echoed the answer he’d been given. “That’s what your dad and I are here for. And Lydia and her Mom and Danny and his mom and Shelby and Mac and even Uncle Aaron back in Quantico. We don’t face loss alone. We don’t carry the pain and grief and anger alone.”

He reached up and hugged the boy’s thin frame against his own. “We will always be here for you, Mimmo. You don’t have to pretend to be okay all the time… not for me. Not for your father. I know it’s hard to believe so we will keep proving it to you every single day. For as long as it takes for you to believe it. I’m here, your dad is here. We love you. Ti amiamo tantissimo, mio ​​dolce ragazzo.”

At that Stiles began to wail, heart wrenching cries that echoed in the quiet of the clearing. Tony could only brace the teen as he shook, his face pressed into Tony’s neck as he sobbed, deep enough to sound painful. It felt as if some kind of dam had broken and everything Stiles was feeling was pouring out unimpeded, dark and painful. Like some thick glass bottle had broken and couldn’t be stoppered up anymore.

The wind picked suddenly up as clouds began to roll over the just clear blue sky. Tony glanced up and around warily as the grass and wild weeds began to sway, the ruin creaking as wood shifted and settled. Air felt charged, something making the hairs on his skin raise and his heart race. Stile seemed to not even notice, even as Tony held him closer as he screamed out his hurt, seconds away from hustling the boy into the Rover and out of the freaky weather.

Suddenly there was a person in front of him, as if out of nowhere, crouched a dozen feet away with electric blue eyes and a distorted face. Tony’s eyes went wide at the sight of the sharp fangs in that snarling mouth and helplessly reached for his holster as he leaned back with a curse.

“Christ on a cross.” he scrambled for his knife instead as he yanked both Stiles and himself from the hood and around the side of the SUV. He quickly put his body between his son and whatever the fucking unholy son of Bigfoot and Elvis was growling at them… his knife up and at the ready to defend them both. “Fucking Sunnydale Bullshit.”

Stiles had stopped crying, sniffing hard and clinging to Tony’s shirt as he peaked over his shoulder.

“Derek?” he squeaked in surprise.

The feral cosplayer wannabe stopped growling, straightening up as the distortion on his face faded away into a frankly, very handsome one. “Stiles? You ok?”

His eyes were still electric blue and his voice was still all growly but he didn’t seem as much of a threat anymore. Tony still kept his knife ready though. Shit had yet to be properly explained.

“Yeah…” the teen coughed, trying to step out from behind his father and failing as Tony kept moving with him. “Come on Dad…” he whined and tugged at the designer shirt in front of him.

“Dad?” yelped the handsome growler, the blue in his eyes fading to bewildered hazel. “I am so confused.”

“You’re not the only one, pal.” Tony had a growl of his own as he frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, knife still unsheathed and glinting in the sun as the dark clouds seemed to fade away just as suddenly as they’d appeared. “And someone better start explaining… pronto.”

Stiles gave a mix between a giggle and a whimper and let his head fall heavily against Tony’s broad back.

“Fuck my life.”

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