Chapter Text
God, I feel so good right now.
It's winter here in the good ole BH. (Beacon Hills, yeah I know it's a lame nickname but hey, It's the best we can do)
My dad doesn't ever keep the heat on for very long so the house has a pretty decent chill to it. Now don't get me wrong, my dad isn't trying to keep the bills down or conserve energy by cutting the heat off, not that there's anything wrong with doing so for those reasons. I've just always gotten WICKED nose bleeds in enclosed temperatures higher than 80 degrees. Sensitive sinuses, I guess.
I don't think much of a chilly house, though. I actually enjoy it. There aren't many things in life better than going to bed in nothing but your trusty pink dinosaur briefs (THEY HAVE PTERODACTYLS SUE ME) when your house is 65 degrees, jumping up into your king sized bed that is covered in soft cream target sheets, taking your grandmas patchy quilt that she made WAY too largely for a 5 year old, and making a human burrito out of yourself until you get lost somewhere between consciousness and dreamland.
But the BEST part of waking up to a chilly home is that time of day (usually 8:30 AM) when the sun hits your window JUST RIGHT. Its beams shine though the small spaces you keep between the blinds and provide a comfortable warmth deep enough to coax you gracefully from your dreams.
Mmmmmmyeahhhh. It's THAT kind of morning.
The first thing I do when I wake this morning is take a huge steadying breath. I can't remember exactly what my dream was about, but I awoke with this longing in my chest. I breathe through my nose and I immediately smell the greasy goodness of bacon. I allow myself a few moments of happiness before I realize what's wrong...
My dad is NOT supposed to be cooking bacon. His cholesterol and blood pressure will thank me when he's not dead at 55.
I guess I should tell you more about my dad. I've mentioned him twice already and you hardly know who he is. Well, firstly, he's awesome! My dad's name is John Stilinski and he is the Sheriff of BH. He looks like a typical white dad to be honest, but he's handsome. Short thinning and gray hair tops his head. His skin is somewhere between Olive and fair. He has contrasting worry lines on his brow and smile lines on his cheeks accompanied by happy crows feet. His eyes are dark blueish brow and he has a dazzling white smile. He's 6 ft tall and sturdy-bodied. He has a dependable look about him and a gaze that can penetrate so deep that you have no choice but to show him who you truly are.
I love him. He's a hero in my book and I have no idea how he finds time to do things for everyone and anyone who needs help, but hey, Heroes are kind of remarkable like that, right? Anyway, he's a rockstar, but the amount of stress he has to deal with on a daily basis does a number on his health. I ruled out Red Meats and unnecessary sugars from his life about 2 years ago, and it's done wonders for his health. His normally wrinkled face is even evening out a bit. But what he thinks I don't know is that his deputies sneak him those bad foods every once in a while. They think my diet restrictions are downright CRUEL, but he's my dad and id like him to be alive to meet my grandchildren. It's already hard enough that he's in one of the most dangerous lines of work, I don't need the extra risk of his diet being an issue.
I'm very protective of my dad. Since my mom died, things haven't been the same for us. I have ADD and am on medication for it. My mother, Claudia Elzbieta Stilinski, was such a tremendous help in our lives. She always helped me focus and took a lot of the stress of having a son with ADD off of my father's hands while he worked his way up the ranks of the BH Sheriff’s Department. You'd expect that a Criminal Lawyer of her caliber wouldn't have much time for children, but she always made time for me. She was so sweet and loved to sing little polish folk songs to me when I was a baby. I wish I remembered more...
I was 9 when she died. She was walking across an intersection and got gunned down by the wife of a man that she helped put behind bars. I don't remember why he went to jail, or even who the man was, but I will never forget the hesitant knock on my door, or the dreaded and empty look in my father's eyes when he tried to explain to me that my mother was never coming home.
I miss her every single day. Her short dark brown hair; pale skin and face dotted with freckles that I loved to touch as a baby; her upturned tiny nose; her hazel eyes; her blinding white smile; the fact that she almost never seemed unhappy; and her smell...
Oh, she smelled like love. Honey, vanilla, and lemonade. I used to cry on her shoulders when kids like Jackson Whittemore told me I was weird. The best part of snuggling up to her while covered in salty tears and long streams of snot was being able to smell her underneath it all. Being able to find comfort in her underneath the pain.
My dad was her soul-mate and he didn't take well to her passing. Jack Daniels became etched to his scent like an ugly dark tattoo and he never seemed happy. But we don't talk about those times. We got over them and are helping each other heal in more healthy ways.
Oddly enough, by regulating my dad's diet, I've become a lot closer to him. Making sure he is taken care of helps me to feel safe. His health is something I can actively be a part of protecting. It makes me feel almost whole again. So right now I am about to grumpily stomp down my front stairs and give him a piece of my bacon-loving mind.
And I was having SUCH a good morning. Ughhh...
I wrap myself burrito style in my patchy granny quilt that looks like someone drank a rainbow but it came spilling out of their nose because they heard a funny joke and it landed on a blank sheet. But it protects me from the cold so I can't complain. When I make sure that every part of my body is safe and warm I stomp out of my bedroom prepared for a fight. Hastily walking down our spiral staircase, I head to the kitchen. On my way there, I hear my dad talking to someone.
Huh. Strange. We don't have visitors this early usually. It's no later than 8:50 in the morning... Huh...
From the sound of it, whoever he's talking to is a guy. I can't hear much because I have my quilt wrapped around my head Beavis and Butthead Cornholio style, so I walk to the kitchen to see who he's talking to. I enter our kitchen through our swinging door and to my surprise, my father is sitting at the breakfast bar... alone. Now that I'm downstairs and in the kitchen, I smell the tell-tale signs of a full on breakfast being made. My dad smiles his big "I love you son" smile at me and I am so utterly confused. I'm startled out of my thinking by a chuckle to my left. What in the...