Chapter Text
Sheriff Stilinski thought he’d left all of this behind when he’d retired from the Air Force. Hoped he’d never have to deal with anything like this again. The weird, the insane, the inhuman, the dangerous. It’s all supposed to stay safely on the other side of the ‘Gate. It did, too, when it was his job. But somehow, it seems, it’s all found him again, even way out in this podunk little town, hundreds of miles and millions of lightyears away.
He can’t say anything to Stiles, can’t confirm or deny any of his son’s assertions. He signed away his ability to speak on this matter when he got his security clearance. So when Stiles insists that the creatures with superhuman strength and glowing eyes are werewolves, Noah can’t correct him, can’t tell him they’re actually aliens, Goa’uld, that Scott—that poor boy, but maybe he managed to nab himself a Tok’ra if he’s really lucky—is possessed, probably lost forever. The Scott they knew is gone.
When Cora collapses—and if she really is Goa’uld, as Stiles claims, why isn’t she healing?—and he brings her in, he quietly asks the doctor to give her an MRI. He needs to be sure, needs to know how many of these things he’s dealing with when he calls in the cavalry.
It hurts—oh, God, does it hurt—to hear the betrayal in Stiles’ voice when he says, “You just don’t believe.” He barely manages to bite back the denial, hates himself for being such a hypocrite, for becoming a liar just as his son is trying to tell him the truth. He has to walk away, doesn’t dare meet his boy’s eyes, tries to blink back the tears, until— “Mom would’ve believed me.”
He can’t. He just can’t. He needs his son to be safe, to stay out of this. He needs to make a call, right now. He just hopes the message will end up in the right hands.