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English
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Purple Archivist: Read and Read Again
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Published:
2013-10-18
Completed:
2013-12-07
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12,134
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10/10
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Water for the Baby

Chapter 5: Conversations with fathers

Summary:

A phone call to a dad.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

There are moments when Stiles is reaching out to touch someone, when his fingers are hovering with intent, that he thinks about his dad. What his dad would say about his choices. Whether he would level a disapproving frown or shrug in unconcern.

The memory of his dad’s frown usually makes him pull back.

He hadn’t thought about that frown over coffee, too consumed by the person in front of him.

But he’s thinking about that frown now as he tosses his sweat-soaked, pungent capoeira clothes into the washing machine, throws in a few towels to finish off the load. He pauses as he’s about the add soap. The label of liquid detergent declares that its “Spring Breeze!”, shows a field of daisies on the bottle. He lifts it to his nose and inhales. The smells mix with his impressions from Derek. The guy would hate the scent. Would think the chemical undertones too astringent.

Stiles taps his foot against the side of the washing machine. He doesn’t have anything else and doesn’t really want to head back out. His muscles are stinging from the earlier exertion and he’s hungry again. Left over Chinese in the kitchen is calling, a steady hymn in the back of his brain. The wash could wait, but it seems like a bad idea to put it off, given his status as a master level procrastinator. Lydia had made him an embossed certificate once that still hung proudly in the kitchen.

Cringing internally, Stiles adds the soap, turns the machine on and closes the French door that so sweetly hides the washing machine and gathering of dust bunnies from prying eyes. Heading to the kitchen, he digs his phone from his back pocket and rings his dad while pulling the slightly grimy containers of leftovers from the top shelf of his refrigerator and tossing them in the microwave. His haphazard movements add to the splatter on the interior. Duck sauce joining tomato spots.

His dad picks up with his usual “Stiles” and Stiles breathes in, savoring his voice for a second before answering. The microwave dings and Stiles launches into a flurried description of his day while pulling out chopsticks and inhaling mouthfuls of drunken noodles and bits of duck.

He’d promised his dad, after all, that he would always think twice about relationships, that he would run his crazy ideas by him. So he tells him at length about capoeira, about werewolves, about coffee complimented by navy-bean soup. He finishes off his story and his noodles with a commentary on his own laundry soap.

As far as Stiles knows – and this is the kind of thing he knows a lot about – his dad and Lydia have only two primary points in common: namely their love of him and their immediate belief in what he says (there are lots of little ones, like their shared love of fresh tomatoes).

Lydia had believed him at the studio (and did he need to call her later. She was probably already planning on coming over), and his dad believed him now. He did, however, ask the completely and totally understandable question “You’re sure he’s not crazy and just believes he’s a werewolf?”

Stiles considers, because what his dad says is always worth a moment’s reflection. “It would have to be a pretty complete delusion. There aren’t any breaks or fugues like there are with most hallucinations.”

“And you’d be safe with him?”

Stiles smiles, runs his toes across the kitchen floor tiles, “As safe as with anyone I don’t know well. Nothing about him set off any alarms. Although, they seem to keep it pretty quiet.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you so enamored by anyone.”

“Dad. Dad. His brain is new! And it’s so pretty. I just want to dig my fingers in and hold on.”

“And you want to know my opinion.”

“Always. You’re my go-to-guy. My oracle. My shield in times of …” His dad interrupts with “Remember that he’s a person and not some new toy.”

Stiles huffs. Because wasn’t that just the crux of the matter.

“I’m serious Stiles” the Sheriff continued. “Is this a person you like, you want to get to know, or is he just some body wrapped around experiences you want to feel?”

Stiles nods at the air, pushes away from the counter and tosses his containers in the trash. He’s quiet for a moment, fidgeting, starting to wipe down the counters with one hand, phone plastered to his ear with the other.

His dad sighs, breath rattling mechanically in Stiles’ ear, “think about it son, before you do anything rash." He keeps going quickly, not giving Stiles a chance to start up. "Now, good talk. You go stew, hash things out with Lydia, and sleep on it while I go get some work done and try to reorient my world-view to include the existence of werewolves. I might get crazy and ask Melissa if she’s interested in a drink. Who knows.”

Stiles mouth tilts fondly. “Don’t tell anyone dad.”

His dad snorts something about being nuts and hangs up.

Notes:

My laundry is drying on a rack next to me. I think I might hate my detergent.