Beyond The Bite • Chapter 10
(Word Count: 1,612)
I attempted to straighten my slightly wrinkled button-up, sighing at the futility. Sniffing, I tried to remain composed while staring back at my reflection in the mirror, the edges of a memory creeping in.
"Dad?" I hollered from my room as I tugged and twisted the confusing accessory that every grown man sports. At eight years old, I wanted to feel grown-up.
Or maybe that was just a young Stiles Stilinski's wish...
"Dad!" A final call accompanied by a defeated huff.
The staircase echoed with heavy footsteps, heralding the arrival of my dad, who entered wearing a suit that matched mine.
"What's the matter?" He cast a teasing grin as he approached, my 'end-of-the-world' problem amusing him.
"Dad," I drawled, frustration lining my voice. "This isn't funny! The tie tutorials are not as straightforward as they seem."
"Come here, son..." His chuckle warmed the room as he deftly tied my tie.
I couldn't help but frown at the whiskey scent on his breath.
He folded my collar down and stepped back to appraise his work.
"Looking sharp, kiddo," he said, his smile genuine and warm.
That smile prompted a question I'd been holding onto. "Dad? Why did Mom have to go?"
The light in his eyes dimmed, and his soft chuckles ceased.
Kneeling to meet my gaze, he placed a firm hand on my shoulder, exhaling slowly. "She had to, son. But remember, she's with you, right here." He gently tapped my chest, over my heart. "She'll always be a part of you."
"Stiles?"
Pulled back to a less comforting reality, I looked away from the mirror, my hand trembling as it left my chest.
"You ready?" Scott's voice was laced with tempered concern.
I nodded and moved past him, every ounce of my being aching. "Let's do this."
Descending the staircase, each creak was a ghostly echo of my dad's homecoming footsteps.
His scent seemed to envelop me, transporting me to every shared moment in our old house. His coat still draped over the couch as if he might pick it up any moment. Memories of us watching the Mets replayed in my mind like an old film.
Despite my resistance, my gaze flickered to the last places we'd shared words, touches, and looks.
The finality of those 'lasts' loomed larger than I had ever expected.
Frozen in the living room, Scott's voice jolted me. "You alright?"
My response was motion, blindly stepping out into the world and sinking into the driver's seat of my Jeep, the silence during the drive a solemn companion.
Derek had urged me to let others in, so I doused my usual defenses, exposing my raw emotions to those who looked on with silent support.
I was trying.
Parking at the cemetery, I brushed away the tears that dared fall, inhaling sharply before exiting the car. Scott remained close as we approached the somber congregation.
Condolences and apologies flowed from the crowd, and I managed only nods in response as we made our way to the front row of chairs where the others were seated—my family. Lydia, Malia, Allison, and Isaac each offered a gesture of sympathy before I found myself in front of Derek, the urge to flee almost overpowering. Yet I stayed, knowing this was a moment to face.
The service began without delay, the officiant's voice resonating with respect for my father. Then the attention turned to me.
Eyes pierced through me expectantly as I approached. Clearing my throat, I unfolded the piece of notebook paper — the eulogy for my dad. The ink was slightly smeared, my handwriting hurried and jagged. I risked a quick glance at the crowd, met with silence. Faces from the precinct, hospital, school, and local shops that dotted our town, faces I knew, looked back at me. Scott and Melissa stood side by side, Melissa sending an encouraging nod. A twinge of pain shot through me at the sight of them together, a mother and her son.
I swallowed hard, looking back down as I started, "We gather here today in the shadow of a towering loss, not just for myself, but for the entire community of Beacon Hills. My dad, Sheriff Noah Stilinski, was a beacon of integrity, courage, and unwavering dedication. To stand here and find the words to encapsulate all that he was, feels like an insurmountable task."
"My dad wasn't just a father; he was my hero." My voice sounded so strained. The words caught in my throat, and the letters began to run together on the page as tears threatened to spill from my eyes. "He was..."
A sob broke free, and I instantly regretted looking up to see the sea of sympathetic eyes. I turned away from the crowd, covering my mouth to stifle the sobs that fought to emerge.
'I can't do this. I can't,' the thought hammered in my mind.
A reassuring hand found my shoulder. "You're doing great. Just breathe," Derek whispered at my ear, his breath warm on my damp cheek. I shook my head, feeling defeated.
But then, calloused fingers interlaced with mine. I looked up to find Derek's eyes, luminous with concern. He squeezed my hand, providing the silent support I needed.
With a nod, I faced the crowd again, wiping away tears and blinking rapidly to clear my vision.
"My dad wasn't just a father; he was my hero, my confidant, my relentless supporter, and my relentless challenge. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, his words carried the weight of his wisdom, his experience, and, occasionally, his exasperation – particularly with the... extraordinary madness that seemed to trail after me."
As a subtle pressure from Derek's thumb calmed me, my tension eased and I continued,
"He taught me the value of the truth, even when the truth was strange enough to border on the unbelievable. He grounded me – sometimes literally when I stepped out of line – but always with the intent to guide me, to teach me. And I am endlessly grateful for those lessons, for the man who stood firm in a world that was constantly shifting beneath our feet.
"To the people of Beacon Hills, my father was the steadfast hand at the helm, steering our community through every storm, no matter how bizarre or frightening. To me, he was the single point of certainty in a chaotic universe. Even after we lost Mom, he was our family – unyielding and irreplaceable.
"In the darkest times, when the shadows crept too close, when I was lost in the maze of my own fears and doubts, it was his voice that led me back. It was his belief in me that kept my feet moving, his strength that shored up my own. Dad had this way of making you feel like, as long as he was there, everything would somehow be okay. And I don't know about you, but for me, that is going to be the hardest thing to let go.
"Noah Stilinski was more than a badge – he was a promise that good could prevail, that laughter could follow tears, that no loss was insurmountable. He taught us to face each day with determination and sarcasm, often in equal measure.
"If I could say one more thing to him, it would be this: Thank you, Dad. Thank you for every grounded weekend, every lecture, every patient word, and exasperated sigh. Thank you for propelling me into becoming a man that I hope you can be proud of.
"I can't pretend to know exactly what comes next. But I know this: his legacy will not end here, nor will the stories, nor the lives he's touched. We carry a piece of him with us – in our actions, our choices, and the way we treat each other. That is an inheritance more precious than anything else he could have passed down.
"Dad, I hope you've found peace. I hope you're reunited with Mom, and I trust the whiskey is as exquisite as you always insisted it should be." Light laughter tinged with tears followed that sentiment. "We love you, miss you, and your memory will always be a treasure to those fortunate enough to have known you. Rest easy, Sheriff. We'll take it from here."
Carefully folding the paper back into a pocket of my dress pants, I felt Derek start to withdraw his hand, but I gripped it tighter. He looked at me, surprised, then his gaze softened, filled with a love I never thought would be directed at me. Together, we stepped away from the podium, our joined hands now visible. Some in the crowd looked on with wide eyes, while others simply smiled; some paid no heed, but it didn't matter to me.
An expectant silence fell just as another thunderclap resounded above us. Rain began to fall in earnest, but Derek drew closer, draping his jacket over our heads for the rest of the service.
As people started to leave, offering final gestures of condolence, Derek remained by my side, his hand never leaving mine. I let the tears flow silently as the interment concluded.
"He's really gone," I spoke, the weight of the truth hitting me now more than ever since seeing my dad's body in the viewing room. I leaned into Derek, who in response, let his head rest gently atop mine.
We remained there, silent sentinels, even as everyone else sought refuge from the intensifying storm.
"The storm's not letting up," Derek observed, gaze lifted to the foreboding clouds.
My eyes shifted from the rain-soaked grave to meet his, locking in an intense stare.
"Let's go home."