Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1068017.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sheriff_Stilinski/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Sheriff_Stilinski, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Incest, Father/Son
      Incest, Underage_Sex, Stiles_is_14
  Series:
      Part 1 of A_Series_of_Incestuous_Events
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-03 Words: 5355
****** lay down the law (and break it) ******
by abapical
Summary
     Stiles' first heat hits early.
John knows something’s not right before he opens his eyes.
 
Everything is a little sharper than it should be, his senses supernaturally
attuned to each place the comforter brushes against his skin, each heady inhale
of the sweet-crisp scent curling around him. At first, he’s sleep-sluggish and
unconcerned, assuming it’s just part of a dream he can’t quite shake off and
doesn’t particularly want to.
 
Then he turns over and nothing changes. He’s still too hyperaware of
everything, too keen, and that scent is working its way into his consciousness
just as vividly as before.
 
Still there. Not a dream. And Stiles is shaking his shoulder. “Dad--daddy--
something’s wrong.”
 
Thanks to his job, John has perfected the art of waking up and hotwiring his
faculties into high gear in record time. He still doesn’t think he’s ever come
to quite as violently as he does now, whiplashing into a sitting position and
slapping on the bedside light in a split second because he needs to see. He
needs to be sure. Then he puts two and two together and his first reaction is
panic.
 
They haven’t made any kind of arrangements, Stiles is too young for John to
have even seriously thought about it yet. Most parents who have omegas will
make sure they're prepared by the time the kid is around fifteen, since heats
tend to hit around sixteen or seventeen. But Stiles is still fourteen, still
coltish and curious and young.
 
Even before he’s flipped the light on, John can tell how urgent the look on
Stiles' face is. “Something’s wrong with me,” he says again, and it makes John
reel like a brick to the face when he realizes it hasn’t even occurred to
Stiles that this could be his first heat. He’s not old enough for that yet; why
would he ever consider it?
 
“How do you feel?” he asks, and Stiles' breath hitches just from John pressing
the back of one hand to his forehead.
 
“Achy,” Stiles says, drawing the word into a whine without seeming aware he’s
doing it. “Hot and achy.”
 
They’re not ready for this. Early onset heats are so rare the thought never
crossed John’s mind even though Stiles has been breaking the mold since before
he was born. On top of that, the scent is making his head spin and that's not
normal, he knows that’s not normal even though he’s never been around an omega
in heat before. Immediate family members aren't supposed to experience it so
sharply, it’s one of many facts John had drilled into him from his first
awkward sex-ed class and ever after.
 
Typically, there are a few options for a young omega in their first heat: one
involving toys, one involving clinics, and one involving a mutually beneficial
arrangement between the omega's family and the family of an alpha. John doesn't
trust anyone with Stiles, so he had always planned on going with option one,
buying Stiles some toys and praying it was enough to get him through even
though he knows full well it’s not the most effective method and can sometimes
prolong the heat. But he has no toys, hasn’t even thought about buying them
yet, and now it's the middle of the night and his kid has this sharp,
unfamiliar scent coming off him in waves and all John wants to do is bend in
and take huge lungfuls of it.
 
He has to force himself to breathe shallowly through his mouth just to avoid it
when he swings his legs over the side of the bed. The scent is pressing in on
him from all sides and Christ, he can’t even say it at first, Stiles looks so
little standing there in his flannel pajamas, but John has to at least try and
tell him what's happening without making him more distressed.
 
“It’s not supposed to happen this way, kid, but I promise you’re going to be
just fine. You got that?”
 
It’s like a brick to the face all over again when Stiles' eyes go wide with
understanding.
 
Stiles already knows what the plan is for his first heat, John sat him down for
that talk a couple years ago, but he also knows they aren’t prepared for it.
And John’s heart breaks when Stiles asks, in this trembling little voice,
"What's going to happen to me?"
 
As much as his higher thought processes are screaming at him to distance
himself from the situation as much as he possibly can, he can't let his kid go
through this alone. “We’ll get you through it, I promise,” John tells him,
pulling him into a hug without thinking twice. “I’m right here.”
 
Letting go takes him a few seconds longer than it should, but once he manages
that he takes Stiles back to his own bedroom. Gets him comfortable on the bed,
gets him a bottle of lube, and goes out into the hallway even though it kills
him to close the door behind him. There’s a new dimension to Stiles' scent now,
rich and subtle, that John instinctively knows indicates the beginning of
slickness between his legs.
 
He sits on the floor by Stiles' door and tells him that he needs to check and
see how wet he is, to see if he'll need to use the lube. He sounds detached and
clinical and hates himself for it.
 
“I didn’t know it was gonna be like this,” Stiles says softly.
 
And John buries his face in his hands, suddenly grateful for the door between
them. Stiles has to be so scared, being blindsided like this and not even
realizing what he was feeling. He still can’t say anything back at first, he’s
so busy grinding his teeth trying not to listen to the little noises coming out
of Stiles' room, the sound of him shifting on the bed and then a little
surprised oh when he touches a finger to his hole--John instantly knows that’s
what it signifies, even through the door he can smell how wet he is.
 
Stiles seems blessedly oblivious to everything else. "Dad, I...I think I'm
getting really wet.”
 
John has to croak out, "That's good, kiddo," in the most fatherly voice he can
manage even though his heart is shattering all over again. Stiles really has no
frame of reference, he doesn’t know what his body is capable of and never
expected he'd have to find out this fast.
 
There's a pause, then Stiles says, "Should I...should I push it inside?" His
voice is shaking and John knows with bone-deep certainty that it’s because his
whole body is shaking right along with it, just from wanting something inside
him so, so badly.
 
He digs his nails into his wrists to keep from trying to wrench the door open.
Stiles is just a kid and he sounds impossibly small right now. "Go slow," he
says finally. "Nice and slow, buddy, and if it hurts then don't force it.
There's no rush here."
 
And for a little while there's just the sound of Stiles trying to steady his
breathing and John’s own pulse pounding in his temples. Then Stiles gasps,
"I'm...I'm gonna, I think I..." and gives this sharp little cry that John knows
is from pushing his fingertip inside himself, something he's willing to bet
Stiles has never experimented with before. He can't tell if the sounds he's
making are more pleasure or pain, which is making him want to tear the door off
its hinges just so he can hold his son and tell him he's going to be fine.
 
This goes against everything John’s ever been taught about family members’ heat
cycles. He should be backing off, letting Stiles work through this on his own,
but he can't just listen to this and not know if his kid is in pain or not.
"Talk to me, Stiles. Tell me how you feel, are you doing okay?"
 
It takes Stiles a few beats to answer, and when he does, John wants to rip his
own ears off.
 
"It--it's so good, s'so good, I can't--" And he whines, high and surprised, and
a moment later John can smell where Stiles just spilled onto his belly. Just
from one finger, his own finger.
 
That kind of sensitivity is supposed to be considered a good thing in omegas,
it makes them eager and happy to be bred, but to John all it means is that his
kid is going to be suffering in an hour, tops. His heat just started and he's
like a cherry bomb already. He's going to be a ball of exposed nerves when it
hits its peak and his own little fingers are going to feel like torture.
 
"Dad?"
 
John swallows. "I'm right here, kid."
 
"How long is it gonna be like this?"
 
And John can't speak at all for a minute.
 
"Everyone's a little different," he hedges. Claudia was an alpha like him, he
doesn't have any firsthand information to draw from as to what kind of
chemistry is going to be wreaking havoc on Stiles' poor endocrine system. All
he knows is that first heat can be an irregular one, so he can't even tell
Stiles how long it's going to last. It could be a few hours, it could be more
than a day. "Just listen to what your body wants and don't do anything that
makes you hurt and you're gonna be fine."
 
It sounds encouraging enough. It sounds like exactly the sort of thing that
should help him calm down.
 
It's still less than an hour of John soothing him through the door before
Stiles starts crying.
 
John can’t imagine what he’s feeling. He has to be so overstimulated by now,
covered in sweat and come and still hard in spite of everything.
 
There’s no way John can leave him alone like that. Stiles is so tactile, even
with toys it would have been hell for him trying to get through this alone.
He’s always been a sensitive kid and John’s always been extra sure to give him
physical contact, especially after they lost Claudia, since he never wants
Stiles to feel unwanted and he knows he works long hours. And now he has to sit
outside with his head in his hands while he listens to his son come and come,
his moans getting more and more fevered, and he knows it just isn't enough for
him.
 
When Stiles utters a broken little whine and goes, "I don't know what to do
anymore," a few more hairline cracks spread across John’s resolve.
 
He just sounds so pitiful, like he's in pain and on the verge of tears, and no
matter how many times John reassures him it doesn’t seem to have any effect.
The last time Stiles made himself come, he let out the most helpless little
moan and whimpered,I think something's wrong with me, it's not getting any
better.
 
John tries. He says the most calming things he can think of. He shakily scrolls
through a dozen websites on his phone, looking for advice. He gathers up some
water bottles, protein bars, and a few damp washcloths and vacillates just
outside the door until Stiles chokes out, "Daddy, I don't think I can do this.”
 
That’s the last straw. He tells himself he's just going to go in long enough to
make sure Stiles is okay, that's it. “Can I come in for just a minute?”
 
Stiles hiccups. “Yeah.”
 
And John pushes open the door and the scent almost knocks him over.
 
It was bad enough from the hallway, but Stiles is drenched in the commingled
smells of sweat and come and heat, and too far gone to seem embarrassed about
any of it.
 
John had only planned on passing over a water bottle, feeling his forehead, and
asking if Stiles thinks he’d be better off if they got him to a clinic for the
night. But Stiles can't really keep himself propped up, or doesn't understand
why he needs to, so John sits on the edge of the bed, loops an arm around his
sweaty shoulders, and helps him drink.
 
He's blazing hot to the touch and so deep in his heat now that John physically
hurts for him. His face is crimson, he’s flushed all down his thin chest, and
there are pink trails on his thighs, like he raked his nails along the skin.
Nothing that won't fade in time, but John reaches and runs a finger along one
of them anyway, hugs Stiles a bit more firmly with his other arm. It tears him
up inside, such a blatant reminder that Stiles is in here all on his own trying
to handle something that could very well end with him hurting himself.
 
“We could still get you to the hospital, if you think that would be better.”
 
Just bringing it up makes him want to wince. Clinics are ruthlessly efficient,
but still controversial even now. John’s never met an omega, or a parent of
one, who’s claimed a clinic as their top choice for a first heat. Heat
facilities are a last resort for omegas who need a safe space until the worst
is over, and John can’t imagine Stiles faring any better shut up in one of them
with nothing but a standard-issue pelvic manipulator to see him through his
heat.
 
Stiles does wince, eyes going wide. “No. It’s not that bad, I’m okay.”
 
John stares fixedly at the footboard. “Look, maybe we should--”
 
“I don’t want to be alone,” Stiles blurts out.
 
And John can’t say anything to that.
 
He gets Stiles to finish one of the water bottles, makes sure he isn't hungry,
then offers him one of the washcloths as casually as he can. Stiles takes it
without a trace of self-consciousness and gives a shudder against him when he
scrubs it down his belly. John’s not feeling particularly reassuring anymore,
but he rubs Stiles' back a little and kisses his temple and murmurs, "I know it
doesn't feel like it, but you're doing fine. It's never gonna be like this
again, I promise. we'll have things all worked out for next time, okay?"
 
Stiles sniffles and drops his head against his shoulder. "I just want it to be
over."
 
He’s radiating heat like a kiln but nuzzles against John anyway, seeking out
the human contact his body's been craving ever since this started. "As soon as
you're through this, we'll get you in to the doctor and and see about finding
you an alpha for next time," John tells him, since this is what should happen
when an omega has their first heat, he knows this, but all he really wants to
do is wrap Stiles up in his arms and drink in his scent until he loses himself
in it.
 
Ever since Stiles' scent had marked him as an omega, he'd sworn to himself he'd
make things as painless as possible for him when he was old enough to start
having heats. The least he can do is hold him through it and promise him things
will get better. He's a little ashamed of himself now for thinking he'd just
leave Stiles with a bunch of toys. Stiles' first heat was going to be torture
no matter what, just because John is selfishly overprotective.
 
And still, when Stiles' whole body shivers when John mentions finding him an
alpha, it makes John want to drag him in for a consult about suppressants as
soon as humanly possible, never mind that they aren’t for everyone and omegas
aren’t meant to go on them until their cycles have settled. Instead, he drops
another kiss on Stiles' temple and tries to get up.
 
When Stiles latches onto him with a panicked little yelp, John doesn’t actually
mean to look. He just can’t avert his eyes fast enough, can’t help noticing
that Stiles has scrubbed off the worst of the mess but he’s already hard and
starting to drip onto his stomach again. His body knows what it wants even
though his mind is still struggling to catch up, and it breaks John’s willpower
all over again. On top of being touch-starved, Stiles is just scared and wants
his daddy, like after a nightmare.
 
“Hey.” His hands are already shaking with the effort to keep from touching his
fucking kid. He just prays Stiles is too riled up to notice. “I’ve got you, I’m
right here.”
 
Stiles manages to tug a fold of sheet over his lap, but John can see his skinny
hips giving jerky little thrusts, like he's trying to rut against a fucking
bedsheet without even realizing it. And he can smell everything, knows Stiles
is wet and slick and probably driving himself mad by clenching down around
nothing over and over. He's about to give Stiles a shoulder pat and extricate
himself as gently as he can when Stiles looks at him with eyes so dilated
they're almost all pupil and asks, "What if I'm not doing it right and it
doesn't get better?"
 
"You just... do what makes you feel good," John tries, head so foggy he's
surprised he can string a sentence together.
 
Stiles turns his face into his shoulder and sighs. "This feels awful, daddy."
 
"If you think you can take a rest, sometimes that helps," John manages to say,
but he knows it's a lost cause; Stiles is way too wired to be anywhere close to
having enough of a lull in his heat to allow for a nap. "Or just..." he steals
a sip from Stiles' water bottle, "just go a little slower, sometimes that makes
things feel a little better if you're not trying to rush through it."
 
Stiles grumbles that nothing's going to feel good for much longer, he's pretty
sure he's already sprained both his wrists, and John almost chokes.
 
He already feels like the worst dad ever, making Stiles handle this all on his
own, he doesn't need Stiles actually injuring himself too. So he takes each of
Stiles' hands in both his own, in turn, and carefully flexes his bony wrists in
each direction to just make sure everything is in order. "Chances are, you'll
be sore," he says bluntly, because there's no sense in holding back the truth.
"If you can, try and go a little easier and that should help, all right?"
 
Stiles is nodding, brow all crumpled up, and John can smell the salt-sharp
scent of tears before he sees them. His hand seeks out the back of Stiles' neck
on instinct, giving a quick squeeze the way he’s always done to help bring him
back down to earth.
 
And Stiles throws his head back, arches, and comes with a helpless little gasp.
Just from the sheet rubbing against him. John’s hand is still clasping his
nape.
 
It happens so fast John doesn’t even realize it at first, and when the reality
finally hits he freezes. Stiles is sobbing a little now and typically John
would give him a hug and rub his back a little, but should he really? He can't
even remember what a normal father would do. A normal one, who isn't drunk on
the scent of his kid's heat.
 
Stiles just shaking, covering his face with his hands and hiccupping that he
doesn't know what's wrong with him, he didn't know it was going to be like this
 
"There's nothing wrong with you," John says, hoping and praying Stiles is too
distracted to notice how strained he sounds. He carefully tries to ease back
his hand, but Stiles is having none of it and catches it in one of his own.
 
"No, I think there is. this isn't normal, right? I'm too--"
 
He sniffles again and John wants to pull him close and let him tuck his red-
cheeked face into his shoulder for as long as he needs, but he can't. He needs
to leave, should have left long ago, but he knows how inexperienced Stiles is,
knows he shouldn't be left entirely unsupervised for this. He kept wailing
about how it wasn't enough, god knows how many fingers he was using, how rough
he was being. John was right outside the door trying to coach him through it as
best he could, but how effective was that ever really going to be?
 
"Are you leaving?" Stiles asks him in a tiny voice, and John is done for. "I
didn't mean to--I can't help it."
 
John just shushes him, helps him sit up enough to drink from another water
bottle, and sends up a prayer of thanks the smell of Stiles' heat is thick
enough to block out any scents he might be giving off. "Only if you tell me to,
kiddo. Whatever you need, okay?"
 
"I don't want you to go. Please, dad, it's... it gets really scary sometimes."
 
His cheeks and eyes are both fever-bright, but he clings to John all the same
when he finally caves and pulls him into a hug. "Shhh, I'm right here."
 
Stiles gives another little sigh and John presses a kiss to the crown of his
head. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise." He takes another of the cloths he
brought in earlier and eases Stiles back just enough to smooth it along his
forehead, down the damp hollow of his throat, and tries with all his might to
ignore the way Stiles' lashes flutter.
 
He's shaking with the effort to push down his instincts and not to push Stiles
onto his back even though he knows he could make it all better, knows it as
viscerally as he knows he’s going into this just as unprepared as Stiles.
Claudia died when Stiles was too young for them to even discuss preparing for
heats, and neither of them expected to have an omega at all. It's rare for a
pair of alpha mates pair to produce an omega, and alpha fertility rates are low
on top of that, but Stiles was determined to be born.
 
"'s nice" Stiles tells him, and the edge of panic is gone from his voice this
time. "Thank you, daddy." He sounds so innocent even though the smell of him is
clouding John’s mind. Someday, his boy is going to make an alpha very happy.
This is a good thing, he reminds himself, and pretends that that doesn't make
him feel like ripping said hypothetical alpha in half. No one is good enough
for his kid.
 
His kid who arches his narrow hips off the bed as John wipes the come from his
stomach. John stares resolutely at the opposite wall. Tosses the washcloth
towards the door as if that’s going to make Stiles' scent any less
overpowering, tells himself he'll go and guiltily jerk off the second he falls
asleep--he's so worn out it might not be long now.
 
But Stiles has been at this for what has to feel like ages and his bed is
completely wrecked, he probably feels completely wrecked, and the heat is still
all over him like a sticky blanket he can't shake off. He's gone a long time
now without anything inside him and his body isn't happy about it. His legs are
splayed wide already, like he can’t bring himself to keep them closed, and John
can smell him getting wet again even though he's been pouring all his effort
into blocking it out. It's a perfectly natural thing, nothing to be ashamed of,
but while the human side of him is busy rationalizing, the alpha in him just
wants to push Stiles' skinny legs apart and press his face right up against his
needy little hole.
 
Stiles is already whimpering, arching off the bed, and his voice is tight and
anxious when he says, "Daddy, I think I need... it hurts, I need-- something."
 
He's getting bad, having trouble speaking in full sentences and burning up all
over again. When he turns his face until it’s pressed against the outside of
John’s knee, John can feel the warmth of it through his sleep pants. His hand
feels so clumsy when he pets over Stiles' head, forcing himself to keep his
contact above the neck. "Stiles, shhh, it's okay, it's all gonna be okay, just
do whatever you need to do, yeah? I'm right here."
 
And Stiles keens against him, this high little sound of complete frustration.
"I think...I think I'm doing it wrong. Nothing works."
 
He's shaking again and the sheet got kicked down to the foot of the bed earlier
so John can see everything. Even though he tries to keep his observations as
detached as he can, it makes him clench his jaw when he sees how the way
Stiles' cock is all flushed and swollen, already dripping, and Stiles hasn't
even laid a hand on himself. “Just listen to your body, kiddo, it knows what to
do," he says, which is partially a lie, because while Stiles' body knows what
it wants, it's not going to get it without an alpha. "Ask yourself what you
need."
 
"I need..." Stiles' hand trails down between his legs, and John winces as he
shoves two fingers inside himself without hesitation. He must be so sore, even
if the heat is blocking the pain out for now. Stiles cries out, but it's much
more frustration than relief. "This is-- the only thing... why doesn't this
make it better?"
 
John can't believe he's about to say this, but his kid is desperate and hurting
and he's too goddamn young to have a clue what he's doing; he needs some kind
of guidance. "I want you to try something for me, all right?"
 
And Stiles nods against his leg, gripping at the cotton of his pants with his
free hand.
 
"Take your fingers out," John starts, and Stiles' head snaps up like he just
suggested the impossible.
 
John can't look away from him, though, he's already in too far. "I think maybe
you're being too rough on yourself. I know you want this to be over, but if you
push yourself too much it's just gonna make it worse, understand?"
 
Stiles' face twists up so pitifully when he obeys, wetness glistening on his
fingers as he rests his hand on his stomach. "Dad, no offense, but I don't know
if I'm feeling this advice."
 
John agonizes for a lifetime. “Kid, I’m sorry, I know you need help, I just
don’t know what I can--”
 
He doesn't expect Stiles to moan loud enough for the whole block to hear and
try to tug his hand between his legs.
 
John yanks it back, stricken.
 
“Please.” Stiles is staring at him, wild-eyed. “I can’t do it myself.”
 
The rationalist in John is already trying to patch his frayed nerves together,
reminding him that Stiles is in over his head, that John needs to check him
over and make sure he hasn't torn himself open or pushed himself too far, that
John needs to teach him making himself come doesn't have to be a rush to the
finish line. It doesn’t matter that Stiles is young and small and heat-wracked,
all of which add up to a lot of orgasms even when things are moving slowly; he
needs to learn somehow and there’s no one else to teach him.
 
“Please,” Stiles says again. “I need it so much, dad, please?” He’s gripping
John’s wrist a little tighter, trying to guide him.
 
And John...John lets him.
 
He’s searing hot inside, heat and slickness like John can’t believe. John’s
face is pressed to the crown of Stiles' bristly head, carefully averted even
though his eyes are screwed shut.
 
Somehow, even though his throat is like sandpaper, he manages to speak, trying
to couch this in educational terms as he eases his finger inside. Nice and
slow, just like he told Stiles earlier. “You feel the difference? Think you can
do this by yourself next time?”
 
But Stiles just moans and tightens around him. His thighs are trembling.
 
John has to stop him from rolling onto his belly and presenting, he draws the
line there. He needs to make sure Stiles isn't burying his face in a pillow and
muffling himself. The second his kid decides he might not want this, John needs
to know. Not to mention what the sight of Stiles presenting might do to the
tattered shreds of his self-control. The poor kid needs to be knotted, they
both know it, and it's only John’s dubious moral strength that's stopped it
from happening. He doesn't understand how he managed to have a kid this
beautiful, this is something that occurs to him pretty regularly as it is, let
alone while seeing him try to turn over and lift his ass in the air.
 
"Next time," he promises, his voice so strained and raspy he hardly sounds like
himself anymore, "next time, I'll get you the best alpha I can find, someone
who's gonna take such good care of you."
 
And when Stiles sobs, John can't resist ducking to mouth at his nape, right
where his hand falls so often on a day to day basis. Stiles is warm, lithe and
sweat-sharp and soft-skinned, and John barely manages to swallow his groan.
"Does that sound good, kiddo? We'll get someone who knows how to help you
through this, someone who knows how to knot you just like you need."
 
Stiles jerks like a live wire in his arms. "Yeah, want it, daddy, please," and
John can't tell if he's begging him or this hypothetical alpha.
 
He's quivering all over, whimpering so much John freezes because he thinks he's
hurt him. "Stiles, look at me--are you okay?" And fuck, his kid looks like he's
drugged out of his mind. His eyes are dark and lidded and his mouth looks
almost bruised from the way he's been biting his lips.
 
Stiles is too tired and way too far gone to actually answer him, though. He
slurs, "Want you in me, daddy," and all John can do is pretend Stiles is just
asking for his fingers.
 
He can't unthink that thought, can’t unhear Stiles' voice, but he can’t let on
either. So he reaches around, rubs Stiles' hard little cock a few times until
he whines and spills over his hand, keeps two fingers crooked inside him all
the while. Stiles shudders in his arms again and again, coming until there
doesn't seem to be anything left.
 
"Too much, daddy," he whispers, which is when John finally lets his fingers
slip out.
 
The poor thing is so exhausted, he goes limp against John’s chest as soon as
his body stops twitching. His breath is hitching, John thinks he’s crying into
his pillow at first and his blood runs cold. “Stiles,” he says carefully.
 
Then Stiles is twisting around, clutching at him with shaky hands and burying
his face in his shoulder. And John can hear him clearly now: “Thank you, oh my
god,thank you.”
 
John could gently ease away, but he doesn’t. He lets Stiles burrow his face
into the crook of his neck, strokes his damp back as he finally sinks into an
uneasy sleep. When he wakes up, he'll get him to eat something, and he'll...
take care of whatever Stiles needs. There's no point in pretending he's not
going to.
 
He does slip away long enough to call into work for the day. Not something he
does often, but it's his son’s first heat, the department can handle itself
just this once. Stiles needs him and he's going to be there for as long as it
takes. His alpha instincts are telling him to wrap Stiles up in his arms and
not leave his side, though some of that is probably paternal instinct too. The
lines have crossed too many times for John to try and untangle them now.
 
Next time, he'll make good on his promise and be sure Stiles has a good
attentive alpha to handle everything he needs.
 
Next time. That’s what a good father does.
 
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