<span style="color: #00BF80"><span style="font-weight: bold">“<span style="font-style: italic">Well, I'm not dumb but I can't understand why she walk like a woman and talk like a ma</span>-ohjesuschristthankyou.”</span></span><br/><br/>Kian nearly cried with joy.<br/><br/>That the sight of his tormentor invoked such a reaction was concerning to say the least, but his bladder was by now a constant ache that no amount of jiggling, shifting or hunching could relieve. The last hour (hour? It felt like eternity) had been spent all but collapsed; focused on nothing but keeping the urine in and belting the lyrics out. Lydia and Thomas, who Kian could almost have called animated in their criticism of his one man show, had frozen in place at the snap of the first deadbolt; peering up at Ian’s descent with wide eyes and shallow breaths as though too deep an intake of air could be enough to draw unwanted attention. Lucas remained slumped, apparently indifferent to the wolf in their midst. Kian ignored them; barely heard Ian’s jibe, everything inconsequential beside the urgent need to piss.<br/><br/><span style="color: #00BF80"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Great, good. Thanks. Please, <span style="font-style: italic">please</span>, can I use a bathroom,”</span></span>Apparently, mere hours and the absolute refusal to wet himself like a toddler was enough to teach a twenty year old idiot good manners. Well, better manners.<span style="color: #00BF80"><span style="font-weight: bold"> “Please man, I need to go. I’ll do anything. I’ll use a fucking bucket, just <span style="text-decoration: underline">please</span>.”</span></span><br/>------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><br/>Stiles hit the ‘call’ button for the 98th time that day and pressed the cracked screen of his iphone to his ear, feeling stupid, anxious and hopeful all at once as it began to ring.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040"> “C’mon.”</span></span>One ring, two. Three.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“C’mon, c’mon, come on.” </span></span><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">“The person you have called is unavailable right now, please try your call again later or leave a message after the-.”</span><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“FUCK!”</span></span><br/><br/>Stiles hit ‘end’ without bothering to leave a message. He’d left somewhere in the realm of 40 already, at first scolding (<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">"Hey jerk, it’s Stiles. Where the fuck are you? You didn’t even message me, not one miserable ‘brb’. That’s just cold. Are you cheating on me? Is that it? You’ve gotten a new best friend who doesn’t kick your ass at COD and steal your socks? Well buddy, you can wake your own god damn ass up tomorrow because I’ll never forgive you. Anyway, call me when you get this, asshat.”</span></span>), then indignant (<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“Hey. Asshole. Answer your goddamn phone. You owe me a poptart and, like, three bags of coffee m&amp;m’s after this shit. Not cool <span style="font-style: italic">el camarada</span>, not even a little bit. Call me back already.”</span></span>), to weirdly apologetic (<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“Look, I’m sorry I called you an asshole. I mean, you are <span style="font-style: italic">definitely</span> an asshole for totally disappearing today, but I didn’t mean it like that. You know? I meant like, <span style="font-style: italic">hey, Kian’s an asshole, but he’s my buttho-</span> well not <span style="font-style: italic">my</span> asshole, that’s disgusting. You know what the fuck I mean. Call me back already because I’m sort of freaking the fuck out, alright?”</span></span>) and finally to straight up desperation (<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“Kian, call me. Seriously man. I don’t know what the fuck is going on and I’m losing my shit right now and dad is driving down to talk to the cops here and I have no idea where you are. I’m really, really worried about you dude. Call me as soon as you get this.”</span></span>)<br/><br/><span style="color: #804000"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Stiles!” </span></span><br/><br/>Stiles jumped, dropped his phone and very nearly stepped on it. Sheriff John Ślusarczyk sighed and handed and handed his son a cup of filthy dishwater masquerading as vending machine coffee -<span style="font-style: italic">decaf</span>vending machine coffee. Stiles had been practically vibrating off the walls by the time John had made the hour and a half drive from Portsmouth - to the point that he was seriously considering slipping the boy a Valium if he didn’t calm the hell down. It was bad enough that he had one kid missing, he didn’t need the other accidentally braining himself on the floor all because he was too hyped up on caffeine to control his limbs (a difficult thing for Stiles at the best of times - always with the flailing).<br/><br/><span style="color: #804000"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Stiles,”</span></span>John said again, dropping a hand on his son’s shoulder and steering him back towards the cluster of vinyl covered chairs in the waiting room.<span style="color: #804000"><span style="font-weight: bold">"I know you’re worried, but working yourself up like this isn’t going to help anyone.”</span></span>Stiles opened his mouth to argue before he was summarily silenced by a stern look he knew all too well; the old ‘don’t mess with me now, son’ cop face.<span style="color: #804000"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Sit.”</span></span>Came the unyielding command. Stiles sat.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #BF0080">“Sheriff Ślusarczyk?”</span></span>The officer manning the front desk called. Stiles leapt to his feet, slopping coffee down his front as he all but ran to the reception desk. John rubbed a hand over his face and followed.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“You found something?”</span></span>John hated to hear the eager tone in Stiles’ voice. The crippling worry in his gut that had started as an ache only that morning at Stiles’ first call churned unpleasantly.<br/><br/>The cop shook her head.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #BF0080">“I’m sorry, but there doesn’t seem to be much we can do at this stage. Mr Wight is an adult, not returning home for the night doesn’t indicate that a crime has taken place.” </span></span><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“But he left his work unlocked, did you check for a struggle?”</span></span>Stiles demanded.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #BF0080">“There was nothing to indicate that-” </span></span><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“So what, do you need a body part to turn up first? He wouldn’t just not come home! We’ve got to-” </span></span><br/><br/><span style="color: #804000"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Stiles. Sit down.” </span></span><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“Dad, no, come on. You know that Kian wouldn’t-” </span></span><br/><br/><span style="color: #804000"><span style="font-weight: bold">“I know, but I need you to go sit down so I can talk to Officer Han about the case.” </span></span><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #FF8040">“Dad-”</span></span><br/><br/><span style="color: #804000"><span style="font-weight: bold">“Go.” </span></span><br/><br/>Stiles slumped back to his seat, paper cup clutched forgotten in one hand.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #BF0080">“Sheriff, I’m sorry. I know your son is concerned, but there doesn’t seem to be any evidence that something untoward took place.”</span></span><br/><br/><span style="color: #804000"><span style="font-weight: bold">“I understand, and I know how these things go, but look-” </span></span>He lowered his voice, mindful of the attentive ears behind him.<span style="color: #804000"><span style="font-weight: bold">“I know this kid. He wouldn’t just disappear like this, and we both know that missing persons who aren’t considered vulnerable don’t always get investigated as well as they should be. Just...can’t we get the coffee place checked out a little more thoroughly. Please.” </span></span><br/><br/>Officer Han sighed. Big men in uniform with puppy dog eyes would get her kicked from the force, one of these days.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #BF0080">“I’ll see what we can do.”  </span></span>