#movingalan

Swallowing the ever growing lump forming in throat, that somehow challenged his breathing, Stiles blinked, once, twice, three times before he could reach keys in his front pocket. Shaky hands couldn’t grasp, couldn’t take a hold to even attempt to put them in the ignition, the crippled badge resting in his left palm, chill against his unusual sweaty hands, and even if he tried, he simply couldn’t.

He couldn’t fucking start his car, and couldn’t even wrap his head around the fact that he had to drive home, home where his dad wouldn’t be.

And he couldn’t do a fucking thing about it.

“Stiles,” Scott pleaded, croaked, yet firm voice slipping through concerned lips. Fiery palm moved on top of his best friend’s, attempting to stop the erratic movements he was creating with the fidgeting of the dangling keys. “I’ll drive you home.”

Stiles didn’t budge, vacant gaze fixed on the logo he had learned to know by heart over the months he owned the vehicle. “Stiles?”

Gloomy chestnuts met Scott’s, sparkling even under the moon, and all the boy could muster was a small nod, handing the large black key, the other silver ones following suit with the assaulting sound that made him clench his jaw even harder. “Okay.”

How he even got into the passenger seat was a mystery, beyond him was how he finally made it home. The badge stayed on his palm throughout the entire ride, the muffled sound of the engine being the only thing he could concentrate on. And for some unknown reason, the item reminded him of a beer cap, the twisted shape being like the ones he always seemed to step on whenever they went to parties, causing dents in his sneakers, and oh God, how much he hated those stupid twisted caps.

And somehow, without even realizing it, he finally got inside of his household, Scott on his way back to Derek’s with a promise to text him once he got there. He didn’t mind being alone. Well, he did. But he knew Scott had much better things to think about than staying by his side in the darkness, mourning over his missing dad. Like, finding ways with his useful powers to actually find him.

The brown haired boy didn’t even take time to take off his shoes, the lights still immersing him in the engulfing darkness that would probably swallow him whole if he didn’t have one thing in mind: Fixing his father’s badge.

His fingernails attempted to slide between the creased extremities, foolishly thinking that his human strength could actually skew the metal to give it back its initial form, the only result being sensible fingertips, spotting a burgundy shade.

He wanted to destroy every piece of furniture on his way, punching walls, but he was Stiles, and Stiles didn’t do such thing. Stiles was the brain, he had to come up with solutions, hence why he only used the back of his hand, dampening it with the saltine that kept on pouring from his eyelids both feet guiding him in the darkness. Aiming for the garage, Stiles stumbled in the room, wobbly limbs searching for a hammer and the light switch. Once artificial glow filled every inch of the piece, misty gaze glanced at the large wall, searching for the tool he knew was there, because his father used it not even two days ago, and it had to be there.

With a brief breath of relief, which lasted for only a split second, slender fingers wrapped themselves around the handle. Clenched jaw and the teenager settled his father’s badge on the wooden surface at the corner of the room. Then he hit the metal. Once, twice, three times.

The fracas muffled the sound of his pleading cries, the throaty begging to whatever gods there was, and every hit against the unpolished metal was louder, stronger than the previous. Almost soothing. Steady.

Like a heartbeat.

And how he wished his father’s was in rhythm with the hammer.

A few times, he hit his hand. He considered stopping, the throbbing from his fingertips mixed with the heavy weight of his weapon slowly taking its toll on his strength, but the adrenaline was still rushing through his veins, so he continued. Nails dug harder in the wood that kept the crippled badge in place, thumb brushing against every letter of the word SHERIFF. Lingering for longer than needed, probably digging onto the tip until it became a part of his own flesh.

His misty gaze stayed on the gold, unpolished star, the upcoming headache creeping on his forehead, but he stood tall. Tall, every single hit followed by a sniffle and a few blinks. A throaty cry slipped through his lips, then another one, then another one. Every single one of them echoing against the walls of the now way too empty Stilinski’s garage, muffled by the ever growing pressing of his teeth against his bottom lip, but he had to keep on trying to fix his father’s badge.

He had to bring it to its initial form.

He had to.