Hearing his voice—that tight, thick way he talks when the tears are coming and he’s being brave—
“Yeah. You’re okay.”
It’s quiet, flinty—Al’s spitting lava as he says it because if it isn’t true he will make it true. To hell with werewolves and foxes and frontotemporal dementia, to hell with this place and everyone in it: there is no man, god, or supernatural beast that will stop him from tearing down the sky if it will make his son feel safe and happy.
He hangs on to that silent vow, and to Stiles for another minute or two before drawing back with a glance down at the bag he dropped, then a look at Stiles as he stoops to pick it up and lift it into view.
“So, uh…are selkies on the chessboard back home, far as you know?”
no subject
“Yeah. You’re okay.”
It’s quiet, flinty—Al’s spitting lava as he says it because if it isn’t true he will make it true. To hell with werewolves and foxes and frontotemporal dementia, to hell with this place and everyone in it: there is no man, god, or supernatural beast that will stop him from tearing down the sky if it will make his son feel safe and happy.
He hangs on to that silent vow, and to Stiles for another minute or two before drawing back with a glance down at the bag he dropped, then a look at Stiles as he stoops to pick it up and lift it into view.
“So, uh…are selkies on the chessboard back home, far as you know?”