Adamantine

Chapter Three

When Jackson opens the door, Thomas is almost expecting another teenager; another friend he doesn't remember, perhaps. But what he definitely isn't expecting is the man he saw sitting behind the desk earlier that day at the police station. Except now, instead of staring vacantly at an old newspaper article, he's frantically shoving his way inside.

"Where's my son?" he asks breathlessly, dark smudges under his eyes and a haggard appearance evidence of past rough nights. "Where's Stiles?"

Through context, Thomas knows this man can't be anyone except his dad. But looking at him, closer now than before at the station.... There's not even the slightest glimmer of a memory. Still, it's almost overwhelming, looking at him now and realizing that he'd seen his father earlier that same day but not having known it.

"Dad?" he asks lowly, almost a whisper, taking the smallest of steps forward. The man, dressed in police uniform, badge dully glinting off his chest, sucks in a shuddering breath and his clouded eyes lock with Thomas's.

"Oh my God... Stiles?" he whispers, voice hitching. Stiles finds himself, not entirely of his own accord, stumbling towards the man, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"Don't you ever do that again," his dad orders, hold firm. "We've been looking for three months. Three months.... Oh God, I can't lose you too, Stiles; not after your mom... I don't know what I'd have done..."

Thomas feels a slight pang of guilt, despite the fact that his capture was in no way his fault. "I'm sorry," he mumbles truthfully. "I'm sorry."

After a few more moments, Thomas pulls out of the embrace, remaining comfortably close to his dad's side. There's this...almost aura about him, one that makes Thomas feel safe. It's a good feeling.

"...Are you okay? They didn't hurt you, did they?" his father asks, suddenly fretful, placing a hand on Thomas's cheek and turning his head to the side as if to check for damage.

"I'm fine," Thomas assures. Seemingly mollified with this response, the Sheriff allows his hands to drop from Thomas's face. One of them falls to his side, but the other gently clasps Thomas's shoulder, as though he's afraid his son will slip away again if he doesn't have a hold of him.

"Okay.... So, all teary welcome-homes aside, how're you doing, Mr. Stilinski?" Scott asks, grinning. Thomas snorts out a quiet laugh.

"Better now, definitely. But, I hope you kids don't mind if I take him home now. Tomorrow's going to be pretty rough, too, and I think we both deserve the rest."

______________

Having perpetually been busy with one thing or another since the second he arrived in the Glade, Thomas was never given much time to think beyond the situation at hand. But now, lying in his actually-pretty-shucking-comfortable bed, that's all he can do. Even utterly spent, he can't seem to stay still for more than a few seconds, and it's beyond frustrating because how the hell am I supposed to sleep when I can't stop moving?

Aggrieved, Thomas shifts uncomfortably under his blankets, grumbling to himself as he resettles into a different position for the fiftieth time. He slides his arms under his pillow and readjusts himself so his bed-shirt isn't twisted sideways beneath his stomach. He carelessly fluffs his pillow, mushing his face into the cotton. He forces himself to relax, thinking about the Glade and how, albeit very briefly, peaceful it had been between the time he showed up and when he first ran into the Maze.

Strained memories of shared laughs and Frypan's decent cooking lull him to sleep.

Kill me. If you've ever been my friend, kill me.