fic: hyper heart alone, derek/stiles, nc17, 1/4
masterpost
Stiles is stiff when he pulls up in front of the house and kills the engine. He rolls his shoulders, shakes out his elbows, blinks dry, tired eyes as he stares through the windscreen at the placid, patient whitewashed wood of the house. The lace curtains he remembers stare back at him, unmoving. The grass is green and neatly-trimmed, shining and sun-dappled, and he’s almost hypnotised by it when a rap on the car window startles him.
A woman is smiling widely at him through the glass, giving him an open-handed wave.
He rolls down the window. “Hi, Mrs Sylvester,” he says, crossing his fingers behind his back. He’s pretty sure she’s Mrs Sylvester, but it’s been a while.
“Stiles!” she says. “How are you? It’s so good to see you, even though the circumstances aren’t-“
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I can’t really stop, I have a lot to do today, but it is wonderful to see you Mrs Sylvester, and I hope you’ll drop by in a couple days, when I’ve had a chance to get settled in.”
“Of course!” she says, warm and flustered. “I understand how difficult this must be for you. I’ll come by tomorrow with a little something. Is chicken casserole still-“ She breaks off, looking unsure. “Can your-“
“It’s still my favourite,” Stiles lies, smiling easily at her. “That would be very kind of you.”
“Of course,” she says, smiling again, stepping back from the car. “Of course. And tell-“
“I will,” Stiles says, and keeps smiling as he rolls the window back up.
He doesn’t know why he stopped here to begin with.
He starts the car again and sets off for the hospital.
*
It takes a while to get to his dad’s room, and when he arrives his father is alternately attempting to charm and abusing the poor nurse who’s gotten herself stuck with him.
“You’re going to need a wheelchair just as much as you needed help dressing,” she snaps once he pauses to draw breath, and Stiles winces. “And if you think I’m going to let you undo-“
“Stiles!” his dad blurts, sounding considerably less pleased to see him than Mrs Sylvester had.
The nurse turns a cool, assessing gaze on him. “I can only hope your son has more sense and less bullheaded idiocy than you do, Sheriff,” she says primly, and sweeps towards the exit. “I’ll be back,” she tells Stiles on her way past, and he accords the threat the respect it is surely due.
“Damned busybody,” his father mutters unhappily.
He looks tired and pale, but no more than that.
“Me?” Stiles asks lightly. “Because I can go.”
“I know you can,” his dad says sharply. “I did notice that you are capable.”
“Okay,” Stiles says awkwardly. “Well, I’m here now.”
“I do appreciate the trouble,” his dad says, and Stiles’ step forward falters, but he recovers quickly, unlike his father, and keeps walking until the rough bedspread is under his fingers.
“Are they almost ready to let you check out?”
“They were almost ready two hours ago,” his dad complains, sinking back against the raised mattress.
“Want me to try and speed them along?”
“Nah,” his dad says. “My ministering angel’ll just dig her heels in.”
“I did get that impression,” Stiles says. “Not your biggest fan?”
His dad starts muttering again, but nothing that Stiles can decipher.
Stiles sits gingerly on the end of the bed. “So-“ he starts, but his dad just huffs and stares up at the ceiling. Even the muttering goes silent.
Stiles can take a hint.
When the nurse reappears, she takes in the scene at a glance and throws Stiles a pretty effective deathglare.
“Sheriff Stilinski,” she begins, tone long-suffering, “Dr Michaels will have your papers ready soon. I’m going to need to go through some care instructions with your son.”
She’s matter-of-fact about it, but she throws a worried look at Stiles’ dad, and he doesn’t look away from the ceiling when he mutters his agreement.
She doesn’t come any closer, so Stiles goes towards her, and she draws back into the corridor.
“Mr Stilinski,” she says, and Stiles should be used to hearing that from actual adults now, but he isn’t sure he ever will be. Her voice is gentle, and Stiles braces himself. “I want you to know that your father is expected to make a good recovery.”
“But,” Stiles says, and she smiles at him. He doesn’t know why people keep doing that today.
“But it’s going to take some time, and if you can’t persuade him to adhere strictly to our recommendations it’s going to take a lot of time.”
Stiles’ eyes dart around, flickering over her nametag, the trolley full of files, the crisp folds of her collar. “What are your recommendations?”
“Your father sustained a very serious wound,” she says. “I don’t expect he’s told you there will be permanent damage?”
“No,” Stiles says. “He hasn’t told me much at all.”
She nods. “It won’t impair his quality of life,” she says, “as long as he doesn’t damage it further.”
“And you think he will.”
“He’s a very stubborn man.”
“He’ll be able-“ Stiles swallows. “It won’t prevent him from working? He’ll be able to fulfil his duties.”
“He will,” she says, though the tilt of her head looks doubtful. “To a large degree and after a recovery period.”
Stiles exhales hard, and listens closely to everything she tells him.
When they go back inside, Helen says, “Dr Michaels signed your discharge papers.”
“When?” his dad asks suspiciously.
“Two hours ago,” she says breezily.
Stiles grabs his dad’s packed bag, and watches as his father pushes himself into a sitting position, watches him freeze in pain halfway through the movement.
Stiles rushes to support his father’s back, but his father bats his hands away, so Stiles watches as Helen has to help his father sit up.
*
Stiles’ dad has one hand on the car door and is slowly twisting his upper body back around to close it when Stiles snatches the door away from him, slams it, and ignores the disgruntled look his dad gives him.
The house is just as it was earlier, blank and still, but next door’s curtains twitch, and a woman peers out at them. “Who’s that?” Stiles asks, shouldering one of his duffels and taking his dad’s bag in the other hand.
“Jessica Torrance,” his dad says. “She’d be a few years older than you. Away at college when the family arrived. Moved back when her mom died and she inherited the house.”
Stiles waves quickly and turns his face away, not wanting to encourage her. He’s going to be here for a while, but not long enough that he plans to make any new friends. He walks towards the house, trying to pace himself without looking like he is, so his dad can keep up. His dad outstrips him, actually, and Stiles’ heart leaps until they stop at the front door and he realises his dad’s struggling for breath a little. He doesn’t acknowledge it, just digs in his pocket for his keychain.
“You’ll have to go by the hardware,” he says. “Get one cut.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “After I get the rest of my stuff in. I’ll make a list of groceries too.”
He has to get his dad’s prescription filled as well, but he doesn’t mention that.
“You talked to Scott yet?” his dad asks.
“No,” Stiles says. When he glances at the phone the message light is flashing, and it starts ringing as though the thought has triggered it.
“Speak of the devil,” his dad says.
“I should help-“ Stiles says, but his dad is already moving towards the bathroom, waving a dismissive hand over his shoulder.
Stiles picks up the phone.
“Hello?” he says, and he doesn’t mean to be cautious, but that’s the way it comes out.
“Stiles!” Scott’s voice says, and despite everything, Stiles relaxes when he hears the excitement in it.
“Hey,” he says. “Scott. How are you?”
“I’m fine, man, I’m totally fine. How are you? How’s your dad doing?”
There’s warm concern in his voice, same as Mrs Sylvester’s. Stiles supposes he can expect that from everyone he has to have this conversation with, but he responds to it anyway.
“I’m fine. My dad’s good. He’s going to be good.”
“Not the same thing,” Scott says wryly, and Stiles shrugs before he realises Scott can’t see it, same way he’d done when he was a kid.
His dad reappears as Stiles says, “No, but it’s looking good.”
His dad makes his way up the stairs, and Stiles keeps an eye on his slow progress as Scott asks, “You’re going to be in town for a while, though?”
“I’m so glad you have your priorities straight, dude,” Stiles says. “My little vacay lasting a while is totally what counts here.”
“You know what I mean,” Scott says impatiently. “Are you?”
“Rest of the summer,” Stiles confirms, watching his dad’s feet vanish up the last few steps, tread ponderous. “School starts back end of August.”
“Awesome!” Scott exclaims, and Stiles has to laugh, lightened by the smile he can’t contain.
“Yeah?” he asks affectionately.
“Dude!” Scott says. “We’ll all come over tonight! I mean, if that’s okay? If your dad isn’t up to it-“
“It’ll be fine,” Stiles says. “It’s hardly going to be a rager.”
That much is true, at least.
*
Stiles has been back to Beacon Hills a couple of times since he left, for the odd Christmas here and there, and to act as best man at Scott and Allison’s wedding, but the visits had tapered off through the years, and when the entire pack had been out of town the last time he came he decided to take that as a sign. So he has been back since the wedding; he just hasn’t seen anyone.
“That doesn’t count!” Lydia says. “And why are you calling it the wedding, it was no such thing! If any wedding was the wedding it was mine! Not that you’d know.”
“I know,” Stiles says peaceably. “I know. I was really sorry to miss it, but I’d just started a new job and I couldn’t get away.” He hadn’t and he could have.
Lydia narrows her eyes at him. “Jackson is bringing the DVD,” she says meanly. “Since you couldn’t even be bothered to watch the clips we put up.” He had watched; he just hadn’t had anything to say.
“You looked beautiful,” he offers.
She still does, hair gleaming in the setting sun coming through the kitchen window, and he thinks her air of unhappiness is directly caused by his presence, rather than being intrinsic to her, the way he remembers.
“And it would have killed you to tell me that two years ago,” she says.
Stiles shrugs, not quite able to meet her eyes, and when the doorbell chimes she makes an exasperated noise and goes to answer, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the spotless kitchen.
Scott’s hug almost knocks him off his feet, so it takes him a minute to register Allison’s presence. He had known she was pregnant, of course, but there’s knowing and there’s knowing.
“Stiles!” Scott is saying, hands still on his shoulders, holding him there. “It is so great to see you, I’m so glad you’re here, not that I would have wished any of this, but really this is the best result I could have hoped for-“
“Wow,” Stiles says, dazed, and he isn’t even talking about Scott’s continuing lack of ability to modulate himself in any way, shape or fashion.
“-we weren’t sure you were ever going to come back, so-“
“End of the summer,” Stiles says, and pushes past Scott to get to Allison. “You two’ve been busy since the last time I saw you.”
“Stiles,” Allison says happily, and reaches up for a hug. It takes a bit of manoeuvring, but they manage it.
“Seven months?” he guesses.
“And a half,” she says, widening her eyes at him and grinning. “Yeah. I can’t really believe it.”
“Me neither, dude,” Stiles says, and they both mean it, but they’re smiling, so he thinks maybe that’s okay.
Then of course he has to hear all about it from Scott: Allison’s sonograms; their child’s perfect, gorgeous heartbeat; the cream Allison likes him to rub onto her belly; Allison’s swollen feet; Allison’s waddle- And then Allison whacks him, and Stiles escapes their fight into the kitchen, just in time to save the last of the cupcakes he’d bought that afternoon from Lydia’s boredom.
“There were six of these!” he hisses in annoyance.
“There were five and now there’s two!” Lydia says. “I am at the Research Institute, you know. Subtraction is a must.”
“My dad had one, and there was one left for everyone else,” Stiles says. “You couldn’t just have eaten Jackson’s, you had to eat mine?”
“Hmm,” Lydia says, tilting her head towards the knock on the front door. “I realise you’re a grade-school teacher, but I didn’t think your brain would have stagnated to such a degree.”
“What?”
“There’s six of us,” she says, and then Scott is opening the door to Jackson and Derek.
*
The last time Stiles saw Derek was at the wedding, where he lurked in the background like the creeper he’s always been.
The last time Stiles spoke to him was the day before he was due to leave Beacon Hills for college, though he hadn’t realised then that it would be a permanent move.
The conversation didn’t go very well.
*
“Jackson,” Stiles says, striding towards the front door with his hand held out. “Derek.”
Stiles is expecting a handshake, but Jackson does some sort of hand-clap-clasp thing that is both friendlier and way more teenage than Stiles had been expecting.
“Hey, man,” Jackson says, “good to see you,” and walks straight past Scott and Allison’s frostiness to join Lydia in the sanctuary of the kitchen.
“Derek,” Stiles says, getting in first.
“Stiles,” Derek says stiffly. “It’s been a while.”
“Not long enough,” Stiles says, then remembers Scott and Allison are listening in and adds, “Given the circumstances.”
“I’m sorry about your father,” Derek says, and although Stiles thinks it’s genuinely meant it’s still awkward. “I know he’s doing well.”
“You do?”
“I’ve heard he’s doing well,” Derek clarifies, telling Stiles exactly nothing.
And Stiles doesn’t want to ask when Derek got a line to the grapevine installed, so he says, “He isn’t doing well.”
“As well as can be expected,” Derek says after a moment, rather than offering the baseless, meaningless reassurances Stiles had expected.
It makes him irrationally irritated, because Derek appears to know more about the situation than Stiles had this morning, because he thinks this might be Derek trying to be sensitive. “About as well,” he says, and walks past Scott and Allison’s surprised faces to where Lydia is saying, “No, I ate your cupcake and Scott’s too, although if you want to eat Allison’s go right ahead. I need some entertainment tonight.”
“Sorry I’m boring you,” Stiles says, counting the minutes until he can claim his dad needs him and end the night early. “Did Jackson bring the pictures?”
“Did someone say cupcake?” Allison asks, Scott’s eager face hovering over her shoulder, problems forgotten in the face of pastry.
“I want a cupcake!” Scott says brightly.
“There isn’t enough-“ Stiles says, while Lydia contributes, “Stiles is a terrible host, he-“
“-because Lydia ate everyone’s-“
“I can have Stiles’,” Jackson says.
“Stiles can’t count and is excluded from consideration,” Lydia says. “He never had one to start with.”
“I want one,” Allison says plaintively, so of course Lydia says, “I want one!” mutinously.
Derek snatches both cupcakes from Jackson’s greedy hands.
“You don’t even like cupcakes!” Lydia protests, and Derek hands one over to Allison, hesitates while his pack watches him like a nestful of hungry baby birds vying for the last scrap, and shoves the remaining morsel at Stiles.
“Oh,” Stiles says, startled. “I don’t-“
“Eat it,” Derek instructs, and the food is crumbling in Stiles’ mouth before he realises he’s put it there, before he even sees Lydia reaching to steal it back.
He swallows quickly and licks across the rest of the cupcake. She subsides, glaring.
“Wow,” Stiles says. “That went south fast.”
*
It’s later when Scott leans in close and says, “Your dad’s okay, though, right?”
The slideshow of Lydia and Jackson’s wedding is playing on the TV and everybody else is staring at it with glazed eyes. Scott is speaking quietly, like he thinks Stiles has somehow forgotten the rest of the room is listening in. They’ve gotten better at hiding it, at least.
“I don’t know,” Stiles says blankly, watching Lydia’s radiant smile flash out at him. “I think so, yeah. Mostly. He’s my dad.”
“Yeah,” Scott says unhappily, and bumps his shoulder against Stiles in an attempt at comfort. It isn’t very effective, but it’s nice that he’s trying.
“Some people aren’t paying attention,” Lydia says pointedly, and Scott sits up straight like he’s the one she was addressing.
“Some people have seen this seventeen times,” Derek mutters, and Stiles smiles despite himself.
It’s later than Stiles was expecting when they all leave at Derek’s prompting, with easy cheek-kisses and shoulder-thumps and promises to talk tomorrow.
It’s strange.
He isn’t sure if he likes the way things are now; he isn’t sure if he wants them back to the way they used to be or if he just doesn’t want to have to deal with any of it.
It’s a relief when they’re gone.
Stiles goes through the house checking windows and doors. He doesn’t see the DVD until he circles back around to the living room. It’s sitting on the coffee table in its jewelcase, a bright yellow post-it obscuring the picture of Lydia and Jackson wreathed in flowers that serves as the inlay. Lydia has printed HOMEWORK! on it in large, obnoxious letters.
Stiles watches it again before he goes to bed, watches his own strained smiles, the relaxed happiness of his friends, Derek always hovering halfway out of the frame, a dark, lingering presence; and then he has to go up the stairs, skipping past the squeaking step so he won’t wake his father, listen carefully for his father’s breathing in the still and silent bedroom, and then go and get into his cramped childhood bed so he can try and sleep until morning when he’ll have to do it all again.
*
“Dad,” Stiles says, when he stumbles into the kitchen in the morning, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “you weren’t supposed to get up before me.” And then he sees Derek, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a sheriff’s office uniform on his back.
“Deputy,” Stiles says faintly.
“Undersheriff,” Derek corrects, and Stiles nods mechanically.
“I told you I was working with Derek, right?” his dad says.
“Uh,” Stiles says. “No. No you did not!”
“I’m sure I mentioned it,” his dad says.
“I would have remembered!” Stiles says. “Mentioning isn’t the same as telling! Why didn’t you warn me!”
The sheriff looks at Derek askance, and Derek rises smoothly to his feet and hooks a hand around Stiles’ elbow.
“It’s been a while since Stiles has seen his friends,” Derek says, which is both true, and a total lie, in that he’s applying the word friends to himself and Stiles. “We should catch up outside.”
“Weren’t you over last night?”
“Won’t be long, Fred,” Derek says, and drags Stiles out onto the porch.
“Did you tell my dad we’re friends?” Stiles asks as Derek carefully shuts the door behind them.
“No,” Derek says.
“Because we aren’t friends.”
Stiles thinks Derek looks uncomfortable, but it’s hard to read anything off Derek, and if it isn’t anger or some variation thereof Derek probably isn’t capable of feeling it anyway.
“I didn’t claim friendship with you to get a job,” Derek says.
“And what the hell?” Stiles hisses, cold fury lashing unreasonably fast and strong. “You’re a deputy?”
“Under-“
“Undersheriff! You’re the undersheriff?”
“Yes,” Derek says.
“That,” Stiles says patiently, “was a request for an explanation.”
Derek doesn’t answer as quickly as Stiles would like, so he says, “I mean, I can go and ask my dad what the hell he’s thinking, if you’d prefer-“
“He doesn’t know I’m a werewolf,” Derek says.
“Right,” Stiles says. “New fear, thanks.”
“He thinks I’m a Wiccan.”
“You told him you were a witch?”
“Wiccan,” Derek corrects, like Stiles doesn’t know, like Stiles is the one who’s being ridiculous. “He thinks I need the full moon off for religious reasons. Your father is respectful of all alternative religions. Unless they’re actually cults, or involve ritualistic sex, or-“
“Yes,” Stiles interrupts. “Got it.”
“Plus, it lets him tick that little box on his paperwork,” Derek finishes. “He likes that.”
“Wiccan,” Stiles says. “Why?”
“Because I wasn’t going to tell him I was a werewolf,” Derek says. “And after you left there was never a reason for him to know.”
Stiles’ teeth snap together. He’d thought he’d gotten past this, hasn’t felt this angry in years, not since he left all this behind, not since he left Derek behind. He hasn’t felt like this since the last time he spoke to Derek.
He doesn’t like it.
He doesn’t know how he feels about his life and the universe nowadays, hardly knows how he feels at all, but he knows he doesn’t like this.
The doorknob twists sharply under his hand.
“Stiles,” Derek says, halting his progress. “Scott is Wiccan too.”
Stiles slams the door behind him, leaves Derek standing alone on the other side.
*
“So, that’s weird,” Stiles says to his dad, can’t help himself. “Derek Hale as your undersheriff, really?”
“He’s good at the job,” his dad says, muscles bunched in his shoulders as he pours hot water into his coffee-cup. He isn’t even doing anything, just holding a kettle, but he can’t quite hide the wince as he sets it down.
“But he’s Derek Hale,” Stiles says absently. “Hey, remember when you thought he was a crazed serial killer who cut his sister in half?”
“Yes,” his dad says warily.
“I miss that.”
“Stiles,” his dad says, exasperated. “You’ve been back ten seconds, how are you like this already?”
“I have a rich life overflowing with excitement and incident that keeps me constantly entertained and engaged,” Stiles says with dignity, ignoring how that sounds a little like an admission about the lack of engagement he’s feeling right now. “Everybody here got really boring,” he says in dissatisfaction.
“I’m sure they’re devastated their lives fall short of your expectations,” his dad says. “Derek’s going to be working with me from home sometimes while I get back on my feet. You want to let him back in now and go entertain yourself while the grown-ups work?”
“I’m going to find Scott,” Stiles says, and goes straight back out the front door, not acknowledging Derek’s hunched form still on the porch as he breezes past and flees the scene.
*
Scott owns a garage way out past Monterey Lane. Business seems to be ticking over, but Scott lets his workers handle it while he sits in the tiny office with Stiles and flings a stressball at the walls.
“I can’t believe you have two and a half employees,” Stiles says.
“Part-time doesn’t make you half a man,” Scott says, and Stiles scoffs, because there’s no way he’s admitting Scott has three employees. “And that’s hardly any.”
“I can’t believe you have one employee.”
“Yeah,” Scott says, turning to grin at Stiles, and the rebounding stressball smacks him in the face. He catches it as it drops and keeps an eye on it when he throws it again. “I can’t believe people let you look after their kids. Remember when you babysat for Mrs Grant that one time and nearly got her kid a lapdance?”
“It wasn’t my fault she didn’t know her son was a stripper!” Stiles says, face brightening with pleased outrage. “She was the one who told me to make sure his friends had everything they needed!”
“Yeah,” Scott says, face soft with nostalgia, but he doesn’t prolong the argument, which Stiles almost regrets, because they’ve had it a hundred times, but not in years. “Nobody ever let you babysit again, though. I wouldn’t have pictured you ending up like this.”
Stiles’ throat tightens, and for a minute the only sound is the rhythmic thump of the ball against the walls. “Yeah,” he says. “Me neither. It’s good, though. It’s a good life.”
“Yeah?” Scott asks.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, hands spasming where they’re trapped between his knees. “I miss it.”
“You’ve been back two days,” Scott says. “You haven’t had time to miss it. I miss you.”
Stiles fees a sharp pang at that, but he shoves it away. “Yeah,” Stiles says. “Pretty nuts things ended up this way, right?”
“Things didn’t just-“ Scott starts, voice rising with sudden frustration, but when he sees Stiles’ careful blankness the surge of emotion dissipates, and he sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty nuts.”
And he throws his stressball.
*
Stiles feels pretty haggard when he gets home-back to his dad’s place, later than he’d planned.
It’s good being back, or it isn’t too bad, and it’s good seeing his friends. He has missed Scott, something he doesn’t really have room to acknowledge, just like he doesn’t have the capability of dealing with Scott’s injured feelings, and Scott has no right to expect him to do that, but Stiles feels the low burn of guilt anyway, an unwelcome reminder of the way he used to feel about Scott, the things he used to do for his best friend.
He doesn’t do that anymore, doesn’t want to, doesn’t miss it, and if it means that he’s never quite managed to make another best friend, well, he has other things now.
Things he wants and doesn’t, like the delivery-guy standing at the front door, handing a massive brown bag of takeout to Derek.
“Thanks,” Derek says, and pulls the door open wider to admit Stiles.
“Thanks,” Stiles says sarcastically.
“You were late,” Derek says, shutting the door. “Your dad was hungry.”
Stiles can’t tell if that’s actually criticism or if it just feels like it is because it’s coming from Derek, but either way he feels his blood pressure rise.
“I don’t need you looking after my dad,” he says.
Derek looks warily at Stiles, then the bag of food. “I got szechuan chicken,” he offers.
“I don’t want szechuan chicken!” Stiles says. “And I don’t want you in my house!”
Derek’s face smooths out. “It isn’t your house,” he says.
“Excuse me?” Stiles hisses.
“This hasn’t been your home in years. I’ve seen more of your father in the last two weeks than you have since you left, and he was in hospital for half of it. You really don’t want to run me off.”
“I do,” Stiles says, heart pounding in his throat. “I really, really do.”
“Well,” Derek says. “He wouldn’t thank you for it.”
“You don’t get to shove your way back into my life,” Stiles says. “It isn’t fair.”
Derek frowns like he’s actually puzzled by Stiles’ protest. “What isn’t fair?”
And he is puzzled, he really is, and that makes it so much worse. “I don’t want you to be here,” Stiles says instead. “I don’t want you telling me I’m a shitty son, and I don’t want to be here.”
“That isn’t a problem I can fix,” Derek says after a minute. “You’re going to have to deal with it. But I’m involved in your father’s life, and you’re going to have to deal with me too.”
Stiles breathes through that for a second, unbalanced by the strength of his reaction, trying to get himself under control. When he feels calmer, he says, “Never was able to manage that,” and watches Derek’s face flicker. “Guess I’ll just have to put up with you.”
Derek holds the bag up again. “Want my house special?” he offers, and Stiles tries not to think about the fact that Derek remembered his favourite.
“No,” he says, pushing past Derek into the living room. “Don’t do me any favours.”
His dad makes him sit at the kitchen table with Derek. Derek got his dad’s favourite too, and Stiles is a little reassured that it’s the same, but he’s more resentful that Derek knows what it is.
“Stiles,” his dad snaps, for the zillionth time.
“Yes?” Stiles asks mildly, swallowing his chicken first. His dad gets uncomfortable whenever Stiles doesn’t react as he expects. Stiles isn’t really sure what to do with that.
“I won’t be able to resume all of my duties immediately-“
“Helen told me you weren’t ready to go back to work at all,” Stiles says, heated. He doesn’t interrupt people anymore, but when his dad tries to speak he does it again, hurries out, “And do you think I haven’t seen you, do you think I haven’t noticed how weak you are? You can hardly move your arms, you can’t breathe properly yet, your chest is-your-“
His hands are shaking and he’s breathing in gasps, but his father’s lungs are probably never going to be right again, so he can’t really mind, even when he sees Derek’s eyes on him. He puts down his fork.
“I can make calls, keep on top of things, keep people in line, but I’m not feeling up to much more than that,” his dad continues deliberately, ignoring his freakout completely, and the pauses for breath are barely noticeable, but Stiles notices. “There isn’t the staff to allocate this to, and Derek is busy out at the prison and he’s already picking up my slack. I need you to do this.”
“Do what?” Stiles asks suspiciously. “Stop rationalising roping me in and tell me what it is. If I was going to balk it would have been when Helen told me I might have to bathe you with a sponge.”
He isn’t exactly proud when his dad’s face sets, determinedly ignoring Derek’s presence for that little titbit, but he forces himself not to regret it. He isn’t a kid anymore, but he keeps acting like one here, with these people, and it has to be their fault because it isn’t his: this isn’t him. He handwaves all hypocrisy and the thought itself, and says, in his best teacher-voice, “Tell me,” and “No,” when his dad does. “Not a chance in hell I am doing your paperwork.”
Which, of course, is how he ends up down at the office with Derek the next morning.
The place is empty, and it takes Stiles a second to remember it’s a Sunday, and Mary diverts the calls to her cell before noon.
“Do you always work Sunday?” Stiles asks politely.
“Yeah,” Derek says. “Mary gets in at noon.” Like Stiles is new.
“What happened to Deputy Doug?” Stiles asks.
“Went out to LA,” Derek explains briefly. “It isn’t too bad once Mary gets here. Quiet. Sundays, I mean.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “This isn’t your paperwork, is it? Because I’m not doing your paperwork. I mean, I’ll shred it, I’ll do that for you-“
“No,” Derek says. “It isn’t my paperwork.”
“So how does my dad even have any paperwork?” Stiles asks. “If all he’s doing is making phonecalls for the foreseeable. How much paperwork can there be?”
“Um,” Derek says, and opens the door to the closet off his dad’s office where his assistant Petra used to sit before her position was restructured, which is to say eliminated, although her desk is still there, squeezed in among the document boxes stacked high, the messy piles of paper dumped on the floor. “He hasn’t really been in here since Petra left two years ago,” Derek says, sounding almost apologetic, and Stiles curses.
Things are better once Mary gets in. She brings a doggybag of blueberry pancakes and an unassailable air of cheerfulness into the office with her.
“Afternoon!” she says when she spots Derek. “Next week you are coming to church with me young man, no excuses, you know nobody ever comes in here on a Sunday morning, they’re all too hungover to make trouble. I’m not going to get extra brunch for you anymore if you don’t-“ She breaks off when her eyes fall on Stiles, face empty and surprised before it lights up with recognition. “Oh! Stiles! We knew you were back in town, but-“
That’s all Stiles hears before he’s enfolded in warm arms and flowing scarves and flowery talcum-powder scent. She keeps speaking; he can feel the vibration through her motherly breasts, but he can’t hear the words. It’s a long time before she releases him.
“-someone here with him, he’s always so lonely without me. And a teacher!”
She sounds thrilled. Derek looks wildly uncomfortable, probably because he knows intimately what it is to live through that hug.
“Yes,” Stiles says. “I am. He’s very proud.”
“Well,” Mary says dubiously, looking at Derek. “I’m sure he’d have every reason? If you two were like that. Did I miss something? No, I’m sure I didn’t miss that.”
“What?” Stiles feels like he’s the one who’s missed something.
“A teacher!” Mary exclaims, delight overtaking her again. “Such a good choice.”
“I’m doing rounds,” Derek says, snagging his keys from the hook behind Mary’s desk and vanishing out the door, throwing Stiles to the wolves, as it were.
“A teacher!” Mary says again. “That is such a wonderful career. What made you settle on it? I wouldn’t have picked it for you.”
“Neither would I,” Stiles says, “but working with children was part of my community service and once I figured out how to balance sugar and cough medicine I got kind of attached to the little monsters, and then college taught me not to do that under any circumstances even though it totally works, so I’m doing kind of okay now. They seem to like me.”
“You’re such a joker,” Mary says, voice hard, “never tell that story to anyone, make something up and lie until you’re blue in the face,” and blessedly changes the subject.
*
“It’s not like I would ever do that now,” Stiles is telling Lydia, ignoring her glazed-over eyes. “I was just a kid back then! And it’s not like I would tell anyone, only Mary! And you! Mary and you don’t count.”
“Wait,” Lydia says, blinking herself awake. “Is this Mary Francis? Because she got old while you were gone. Old and boring and conservative. All she does is take pictures of her cats dressed up as boybanders, and explain to people why she doesn’t squash speeding tickets anymore and then ask them why they aren’t married yet.” Lydia finesses her curls in the reflection of the bar window, giving herself a smug look. “She can’t ask me that anymore. She spends extra-long being sanctimonious about speeding instead. Come on, we’re going to miss happy hour.”
She breezes through the door, leaving Stiles behind.
He takes a moment before following her in, because it’s been a while since he’s done this with friends and he needs to brace himself. “Okay,” he says to himself, rubbing his palms on his jeans, thinks, okay and bites his lip to keep the word in. He has to get used to being around werewolves again, fuck.
He has to learn to control himself again. He hasn’t had to do that in a long time. He hasn’t had any reason to, nothing that would have disturbed his serenity to that degree.
Stiles curses himself and goes inside.
Derek is the first person he sees, standing by the bar, eyes fixed on the door, on Stiles.
Derek’s chin lifts in greeting, and Stiles has to go over and speak to him; anything less would be totally unacceptable.
“Hey,” Stiles says, taking the space at the bar beside Derek.
“Hey,” Derek responds, and turns to try and attract the attention of the bartender.
“Oh, weren’t you-“ Stiles gestures towards the door. “-waiting for someone?”
“No,” Derek says shortly.
“Right,” Stiles says. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I should just-“
He starts to move towards the rest of the group, over in the corner, Lydia talking Allison’s ear off while Scott and Jackson occasionally grunt at each other, but the bartender is in front of them and Derek says, “What are you having?”
“Uh-“ Stiles says. “That’s fine, I’ll get my own. Jack.”
Derek just orders a coke, and then the bartender totally ignores Stiles’ proffered note.
“Thanks, Ted,” Derek says, and Stiles throws another look at the keep, because if that’s Ted Bartholomew he was two years behind Stiles in school and that’s weird.
His mouth is open to ask, but Derek is moving away and Stiles grabs his drink and says, “I forgot you couldn’t drink, and Allison’s pregnant. Did you just come here because of me?” Derek stops further down the bar, away from the small cluster of people in front of Ted. “The group, I mean,” Stiles clarifies awkwardly, kicking himself for it. “Is this something you’d usually do?”
“More often when Allison was still drinking,” Derek says. “But Lydia likes it.”
Stiles looks over to where Lydia is totally ignoring her husband, laughing and flashing a gleaming smile out at Allison, attracting a couple of glances.
“I can see that,” he says wryly, and Derek grins down at him, sudden and startling.
Stiles feels his breath shudder, and his forehead draws down into a frown. He watches Derek’s face change, mirror his, and says abruptly, “I don’t like you lying to my dad,” not what he’d meant at all, and untrue besides.
“You used to lie to your dad all the time,” Derek says, frown settled in, etching lines on his face that look natural now that they’re there.
“I’m allowed,” Stiles says. “I’m his son.”
“I’m good at my job,” Derek says after a minute. “We’re part of the community.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, unsettled by the truth of that, the difference.
“Do you-“
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Stiles says, and lets himself be drawn in by Lydia’s laugh.
“-and a strawberry daiquiri,” Allison is saying when he reaches the group, and Lydia puts her hand over her mouth to hide her giggles. “Maybe a blue hawaiian as a capper. You know tequila sunrise is my favourite, but that’s more of a two in the morning, bad decisions to indulge in kind of a drink, so-“
“Totally appropriate for the maternity ward,” Lydia says, and Allison snorts.
“Hey!” Scott protests, and Allison pets him consolingly.
“Lush,” Stiles says admiringly.
“Not so much nowadays,” she says, regretful. “But once I can persuade Lydia to babysit I’ll be back in the saddle.”
“Lydia doesn’t like babies,” Jackson says moodily, and Lydia’s smile becomes fixed.
“I like other people’s,” she says. “Well no, that’s a lie, but I’ll babysit for my best friend if I have to.”
“We all will,” Derek says, right behind Stiles, making him jump. “The group will offer you any support you need.”
Stiles can hear the stress on the word ‘group’, can hear that it’s a substitution.
“And I appreciate that,” Allison says diplomatically, voice cooling as she looks at Derek. “But I don’t want you babysitting my child. I don’t want to make anyone do anything they don’t want to.”
“They want to,” Derek says. Allison makes a sceptical face. “This is-“ Derek starts, then bites back whatever he was going to say, aware of their surroundings. “-important to all of us,” he finishes, and Stiles can hear the banked lecture about pack and community contained in that, so he edges away towards Scott and Jackson.
“Out at the prison tomorrow?” Scott asks Derek while Stiles tries to think of an opening gambit.
“Yeah,” Derek says. “Not all day, though, I’ve got to-“ He breaks off with a glance at Stiles, and Scott nods understandingly.
The warmth of the alcohol in Stiles’ mouth is a relief.
*
The rest of the night is just as awkward as Stiles had been dreading, so he’s pretty out of it by the time they leave the bar.
“-gave him a ride,” Lydia is saying while Stiles lets his head tilt all the way back so he can watch the stars flicker at him.
He hears Derek’s voice murmur, then Derek’s hands are on his back, pushing him upright while the rest of the group call out goodbyes.
Stiles waves vaguely, but then Derek is saying, “Come on. My car’s over here.”
“Oh,” Stiles says blankly, but Derek’s hand is a warm pressure on his arm, guiding him forwards. “Fine, whatever.”
“You haven’t changed,” Derek says, and Stiles laughs sharply.
“That’s-“ he says.
“What?” Derek asks.
“True, unfortunately,” Stiles says, body drifting closer to Derek as they walk, entirely against his wishes. “And really, really not.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, and Stiles feels really depressed and old suddenly.
It isn’t something he usually feels: he’s only in his late twenties, and he has a full, busy life, always plenty to do. He makes sure of it.
Not much to do here, though, or nothing he wants to, anyway.
“Yeah,” Stiles says sadly, looking at the car they’ve stopped in front of. “Oh, is this yours? It’s-different.”
“Yes,” Derek says, “it is,” and Stiles squints at him suspiciously.
“It’s nice,” he says grudgingly, and when Derek laughs, “Shut up, I know you’re making fun of me.”
“Okay,” Derek says. “Inside.”
He gets Stiles inside the car, one hand on his back and one on his head, and while he walks around to the other side Stiles blinks at the fuzzy darkness of the roof.
“I should be driving,” Stiles says when Derek starts the engine.
“You really shouldn’t.”
“No, I mean-I always drive. Drove. I always drove you, before. Have I ever even been in your car? Your last car, I mean.”
“I get injured less nowadays,” Derek offers.
“Everything’s different,” Stiles says. He doesn’t mean to sound wistful.
“Not everything,” Derek says, and, “That will happen.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, feels the gentle hum of the engine in his bones, watches Derek controlling it, one hand moving the gearshift as the other lies relaxed on the wheel, and thinks maybe that’s what he’s feeling instead, the effect of watching Derek confident and oblivious, same as it ever was. “Why-“
“Why what?”
Thinks about feeling that instead, the same thing he’d felt all those years ago.
He slumps forward, lets his head thump against the low dashboard.
“What?” Derek asks again, and Stiles can still see his hand out of the corner of his eye, a shifting blur, and he has to close his eyes against it, because he’s just drunk enough to not to be too worried about it, to let himself consider it, to think that Derek might-
He’s drunk enough to be really stupid.
“Nothing,” he says. “Home, Jeeves.”
*
His dad is still up when they arrive, light on in the kitchen, but Derek walks him to the front door anyway.
“I don’t need an escort,” Stiles says, but when he reaches into his pocket for the key he tips backwards, into Derek.
Derek’s hands are resting on his hips, even though he’s in no danger of falling. “Obviously not,” Derek says in a low voice that rumbles through Stiles, setting him off, every nerve ending juddering, body tensed for something, anything, and Derek’s hands are still there, just touching him, big and steady, and Stiles lets his head tilt back until Derek’s face comes into view, lashes obscuring his eyes as he looks down at Stiles, and then Stiles’ dad opens the door.
“Couldn’t find your key?” he asks pointedly, and Stiles takes his hand from his pocket to hold it up.
“Fred,” Derek says, setting Stiles back on his feet.
“Thanks for bringing him home, Derek,” Stiles’ dad says in a disappointed voice, and Stiles pushes past him into the house.
He heads up the stairs, leaves his dad and Derek to their discussion of him, but when he reaches his room, with its musty bed and posters on the wall a lifetime out of date, he just stands there in the darkness while the helpless anger builds, and when he hears Derek’s engine start he’s suddenly on his way back down.
“Hey,” he spits at his dad. “I don’t appreciate your talking like I’m some kind of imposition here, like you’re saddled with some no-good kid you have to look after. Because I’m not the one who’s imposing, and I can take care of myself.”
His dad just looks at him for a minute, disappointment clear on his face, and Stiles has his mouth open to throw something else at him when he says, “I don’t appreciate being told I’m an imposition,” and all the wind goes out of Stiles’ sails.
“No, that wasn’t what-“ But it had been what he’d said.
“And I don’t know where you ever got the idea I saw you as one, but I’m sorry for it.”
“Dad, that wasn’t-I didn’t mean that.”
“No? Because you’ve done a fine job of acting like you do.”
“Oh, it isn’t-“ Stiles scrubs a hand over his forehead. “I’m too drunk to have this conversation.”
“And that’s another thing. If you were out with Derek how come he was stone-cold sober and you’re a mess.”
“I’m not a mess,” Stiles says automatically, cursing werewolf metabolism. “And Derek doesn’t drink.”
“I’ve seen Derek drink,” his dad says, and now Stiles is cursing Derek. “Is this something I need to be concerned about?”
“No,” Stiles says, aware he sounds like a sulky kid and feeling like one too. “God, dad. Anyway, it wasn’t-I don’t want you thinking that, okay, because it isn’t true, I don’t think you’re an imposition, I don’t-“
“You’ve made it clear you don’t want to be here,” his dad says. “You’ve made it clear every time I’ve seen you since you left, and if you think I don’t care that the times I’ve seen you have been few and far between you would be wrong.”
“That had nothing to do with you,” Stiles says, hand so tight on the newel the trim is biting into his skin. “I just had to get out of here, I had to get away, but I never wanted to get away from you.”
“And you expected I would be able to tell the difference?”
“I didn’t mean to make you think-“
“You didn’t seem to care much either way.”
“I don’t want to be here now,” Stiles rushes out, “but I don’t-I want you to be okay, I need to make sure you’re okay, I want to do that.”
“You used to,” his dad says. “You always used to.”
“I still do,” Stiles says, “I always did.” And that’s mostly true, though the distance had worried away at their relationship until it frayed, until it began to sour the way Stiles had felt all the other relationships in his life turning, and he had known he was pulling away from his father with the rest of his life, but he had been too angry and hurt to fix it, to even try.
“I want to be here for you,” he says. “I just don’t want to be here.”
“Why?” his dad asks, and Stiles shivers out a breath, because nobody ever has.
“No reason,” he says. “Just me being stupid. Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”
“Get you upstairs,” his dad says, but he clutches the banister all the way up, and Stiles’ hand hovers behind his back, just in case.
*
“Hungover?” his dad asks the next morning, as Stiles slings bacon on the grill.
“No,” Stiles says, “used to it,” then rethinks that answer and says, “Nah, don’t really get hangovers,” which is the same thing but less douchebaggy.
“This is something I’m becoming concerned about,” his dad says.
“No reason to,” Stiles says, starting the coffee. “I just go out a lot.”
“You don’t drink alone.”
“No, dad,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.
“Do you have a lot of friends?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, “more than I ever had here.”
Which is true, as far as it goes.
Stiles has a very entertaining life, and he’s always entertained when he drinks, so much more easily; and maybe that is why he does it so much: to break the tedium.
His dad grunts. “I’m glad.”
Stiles feels an unexpected pang at that, at the idea that he’d never really put in the effort required to convince his dad that he was okay, that he was happy, and he throws an extra strip of bacon on for his dad as recompense.
*
“How does my dad ever prosecute anybody?” Stiles asks, drowning in disorganised files and irregularly stapled documents when Derek brings him coffee midmorning.
“He has a ranking system,” Derek explains. “He does the paperwork he thinks there’s any chance he’ll need to use, which is not a lot.”
“I wondered why this was all such bullshit,” Stiles says, then casts a covert look at Derek’s uniform, his wry look. “Not that, ah-Jonathan Marks’ attempt to ride the Fullers’ dog home from the prom wasn’t the crime of the century.”
“Decade,” Derek says. “To qualify for century Snickerdoodle would have had to take the large dog crown last year, not just place.”
The dog’s name was Augustus, and Stiles’ mouth curves in pleasure before he can stop it. Derek echoes the smile back to him easily, and Stiles remembers being angry with him last night, angry that he’d learnt how to be happy again while Stiles was away, but now he’s looking at Derek’s smile and thinking of the way he’d felt later, on the porch, when he was closer to Derek than he’d been in years; mostly he’s wishing he’d had more to drink so his memory wasn’t quite so crystal-clear, because all he can think about is the courteous, comforting press of Derek’s thumbs into his hips, the shaky sweep of Derek’s breath over his face when he’d tilted his head back to look at him.
He wishes he’d had less to drink so he could’ve appreciated it more when it was happening.
His eyes are fixed blindly on the papers in his hand, because he can’t look at Derek with his cheeks burning like this.
“Making much progress?” Derek asks.
“Not really,” Stiles says. “But it doesn’t matter. Dad doesn’t need this done now; he just doesn’t want to have to do it himself.”
“Need any help?”
“No,” Stiles says, squinting suspiciously up at Derek. “Why are you offering?”
“No reason,” Derek says virtuously, then caves immediately. “I want you to teach me his system.”
“His system?”
“His ranking system. He won’t tell me how to do it, says he isn’t going to encourage me on my path to becoming an undisciplined layabout, but I want that system.”
“I don’t have it,” Stiles says, amused.
“He’d tell you, though,” Derek says. “And wouldn’t you like some help with this?”
“I’ll consider it,” Stiles says loftily, relieved to be regaining his equilibrium. “I’m going to need some more coffee as incentive. A lot more coffee. And also those orange-cranberry muffins when they have them and apple-cinnamon when they don’t.”
He isn’t expecting Derek to say, “I’ll see what I can do, Chief,” before vanishing back out into the hallway with a grin, and Stiles is left alone in the middle of the snowdrift, frozen and resentful, because he knows Derek won’t.
*
next
Stiles is stiff when he pulls up in front of the house and kills the engine. He rolls his shoulders, shakes out his elbows, blinks dry, tired eyes as he stares through the windscreen at the placid, patient whitewashed wood of the house. The lace curtains he remembers stare back at him, unmoving. The grass is green and neatly-trimmed, shining and sun-dappled, and he’s almost hypnotised by it when a rap on the car window startles him.
A woman is smiling widely at him through the glass, giving him an open-handed wave.
He rolls down the window. “Hi, Mrs Sylvester,” he says, crossing his fingers behind his back. He’s pretty sure she’s Mrs Sylvester, but it’s been a while.
“Stiles!” she says. “How are you? It’s so good to see you, even though the circumstances aren’t-“
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I can’t really stop, I have a lot to do today, but it is wonderful to see you Mrs Sylvester, and I hope you’ll drop by in a couple days, when I’ve had a chance to get settled in.”
“Of course!” she says, warm and flustered. “I understand how difficult this must be for you. I’ll come by tomorrow with a little something. Is chicken casserole still-“ She breaks off, looking unsure. “Can your-“
“It’s still my favourite,” Stiles lies, smiling easily at her. “That would be very kind of you.”
“Of course,” she says, smiling again, stepping back from the car. “Of course. And tell-“
“I will,” Stiles says, and keeps smiling as he rolls the window back up.
He doesn’t know why he stopped here to begin with.
He starts the car again and sets off for the hospital.
*
It takes a while to get to his dad’s room, and when he arrives his father is alternately attempting to charm and abusing the poor nurse who’s gotten herself stuck with him.
“You’re going to need a wheelchair just as much as you needed help dressing,” she snaps once he pauses to draw breath, and Stiles winces. “And if you think I’m going to let you undo-“
“Stiles!” his dad blurts, sounding considerably less pleased to see him than Mrs Sylvester had.
The nurse turns a cool, assessing gaze on him. “I can only hope your son has more sense and less bullheaded idiocy than you do, Sheriff,” she says primly, and sweeps towards the exit. “I’ll be back,” she tells Stiles on her way past, and he accords the threat the respect it is surely due.
“Damned busybody,” his father mutters unhappily.
He looks tired and pale, but no more than that.
“Me?” Stiles asks lightly. “Because I can go.”
“I know you can,” his dad says sharply. “I did notice that you are capable.”
“Okay,” Stiles says awkwardly. “Well, I’m here now.”
“I do appreciate the trouble,” his dad says, and Stiles’ step forward falters, but he recovers quickly, unlike his father, and keeps walking until the rough bedspread is under his fingers.
“Are they almost ready to let you check out?”
“They were almost ready two hours ago,” his dad complains, sinking back against the raised mattress.
“Want me to try and speed them along?”
“Nah,” his dad says. “My ministering angel’ll just dig her heels in.”
“I did get that impression,” Stiles says. “Not your biggest fan?”
His dad starts muttering again, but nothing that Stiles can decipher.
Stiles sits gingerly on the end of the bed. “So-“ he starts, but his dad just huffs and stares up at the ceiling. Even the muttering goes silent.
Stiles can take a hint.
When the nurse reappears, she takes in the scene at a glance and throws Stiles a pretty effective deathglare.
“Sheriff Stilinski,” she begins, tone long-suffering, “Dr Michaels will have your papers ready soon. I’m going to need to go through some care instructions with your son.”
She’s matter-of-fact about it, but she throws a worried look at Stiles’ dad, and he doesn’t look away from the ceiling when he mutters his agreement.
She doesn’t come any closer, so Stiles goes towards her, and she draws back into the corridor.
“Mr Stilinski,” she says, and Stiles should be used to hearing that from actual adults now, but he isn’t sure he ever will be. Her voice is gentle, and Stiles braces himself. “I want you to know that your father is expected to make a good recovery.”
“But,” Stiles says, and she smiles at him. He doesn’t know why people keep doing that today.
“But it’s going to take some time, and if you can’t persuade him to adhere strictly to our recommendations it’s going to take a lot of time.”
Stiles’ eyes dart around, flickering over her nametag, the trolley full of files, the crisp folds of her collar. “What are your recommendations?”
“Your father sustained a very serious wound,” she says. “I don’t expect he’s told you there will be permanent damage?”
“No,” Stiles says. “He hasn’t told me much at all.”
She nods. “It won’t impair his quality of life,” she says, “as long as he doesn’t damage it further.”
“And you think he will.”
“He’s a very stubborn man.”
“He’ll be able-“ Stiles swallows. “It won’t prevent him from working? He’ll be able to fulfil his duties.”
“He will,” she says, though the tilt of her head looks doubtful. “To a large degree and after a recovery period.”
Stiles exhales hard, and listens closely to everything she tells him.
When they go back inside, Helen says, “Dr Michaels signed your discharge papers.”
“When?” his dad asks suspiciously.
“Two hours ago,” she says breezily.
Stiles grabs his dad’s packed bag, and watches as his father pushes himself into a sitting position, watches him freeze in pain halfway through the movement.
Stiles rushes to support his father’s back, but his father bats his hands away, so Stiles watches as Helen has to help his father sit up.
*
Stiles’ dad has one hand on the car door and is slowly twisting his upper body back around to close it when Stiles snatches the door away from him, slams it, and ignores the disgruntled look his dad gives him.
The house is just as it was earlier, blank and still, but next door’s curtains twitch, and a woman peers out at them. “Who’s that?” Stiles asks, shouldering one of his duffels and taking his dad’s bag in the other hand.
“Jessica Torrance,” his dad says. “She’d be a few years older than you. Away at college when the family arrived. Moved back when her mom died and she inherited the house.”
Stiles waves quickly and turns his face away, not wanting to encourage her. He’s going to be here for a while, but not long enough that he plans to make any new friends. He walks towards the house, trying to pace himself without looking like he is, so his dad can keep up. His dad outstrips him, actually, and Stiles’ heart leaps until they stop at the front door and he realises his dad’s struggling for breath a little. He doesn’t acknowledge it, just digs in his pocket for his keychain.
“You’ll have to go by the hardware,” he says. “Get one cut.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “After I get the rest of my stuff in. I’ll make a list of groceries too.”
He has to get his dad’s prescription filled as well, but he doesn’t mention that.
“You talked to Scott yet?” his dad asks.
“No,” Stiles says. When he glances at the phone the message light is flashing, and it starts ringing as though the thought has triggered it.
“Speak of the devil,” his dad says.
“I should help-“ Stiles says, but his dad is already moving towards the bathroom, waving a dismissive hand over his shoulder.
Stiles picks up the phone.
“Hello?” he says, and he doesn’t mean to be cautious, but that’s the way it comes out.
“Stiles!” Scott’s voice says, and despite everything, Stiles relaxes when he hears the excitement in it.
“Hey,” he says. “Scott. How are you?”
“I’m fine, man, I’m totally fine. How are you? How’s your dad doing?”
There’s warm concern in his voice, same as Mrs Sylvester’s. Stiles supposes he can expect that from everyone he has to have this conversation with, but he responds to it anyway.
“I’m fine. My dad’s good. He’s going to be good.”
“Not the same thing,” Scott says wryly, and Stiles shrugs before he realises Scott can’t see it, same way he’d done when he was a kid.
His dad reappears as Stiles says, “No, but it’s looking good.”
His dad makes his way up the stairs, and Stiles keeps an eye on his slow progress as Scott asks, “You’re going to be in town for a while, though?”
“I’m so glad you have your priorities straight, dude,” Stiles says. “My little vacay lasting a while is totally what counts here.”
“You know what I mean,” Scott says impatiently. “Are you?”
“Rest of the summer,” Stiles confirms, watching his dad’s feet vanish up the last few steps, tread ponderous. “School starts back end of August.”
“Awesome!” Scott exclaims, and Stiles has to laugh, lightened by the smile he can’t contain.
“Yeah?” he asks affectionately.
“Dude!” Scott says. “We’ll all come over tonight! I mean, if that’s okay? If your dad isn’t up to it-“
“It’ll be fine,” Stiles says. “It’s hardly going to be a rager.”
That much is true, at least.
*
Stiles has been back to Beacon Hills a couple of times since he left, for the odd Christmas here and there, and to act as best man at Scott and Allison’s wedding, but the visits had tapered off through the years, and when the entire pack had been out of town the last time he came he decided to take that as a sign. So he has been back since the wedding; he just hasn’t seen anyone.
“That doesn’t count!” Lydia says. “And why are you calling it the wedding, it was no such thing! If any wedding was the wedding it was mine! Not that you’d know.”
“I know,” Stiles says peaceably. “I know. I was really sorry to miss it, but I’d just started a new job and I couldn’t get away.” He hadn’t and he could have.
Lydia narrows her eyes at him. “Jackson is bringing the DVD,” she says meanly. “Since you couldn’t even be bothered to watch the clips we put up.” He had watched; he just hadn’t had anything to say.
“You looked beautiful,” he offers.
She still does, hair gleaming in the setting sun coming through the kitchen window, and he thinks her air of unhappiness is directly caused by his presence, rather than being intrinsic to her, the way he remembers.
“And it would have killed you to tell me that two years ago,” she says.
Stiles shrugs, not quite able to meet her eyes, and when the doorbell chimes she makes an exasperated noise and goes to answer, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the spotless kitchen.
Scott’s hug almost knocks him off his feet, so it takes him a minute to register Allison’s presence. He had known she was pregnant, of course, but there’s knowing and there’s knowing.
“Stiles!” Scott is saying, hands still on his shoulders, holding him there. “It is so great to see you, I’m so glad you’re here, not that I would have wished any of this, but really this is the best result I could have hoped for-“
“Wow,” Stiles says, dazed, and he isn’t even talking about Scott’s continuing lack of ability to modulate himself in any way, shape or fashion.
“-we weren’t sure you were ever going to come back, so-“
“End of the summer,” Stiles says, and pushes past Scott to get to Allison. “You two’ve been busy since the last time I saw you.”
“Stiles,” Allison says happily, and reaches up for a hug. It takes a bit of manoeuvring, but they manage it.
“Seven months?” he guesses.
“And a half,” she says, widening her eyes at him and grinning. “Yeah. I can’t really believe it.”
“Me neither, dude,” Stiles says, and they both mean it, but they’re smiling, so he thinks maybe that’s okay.
Then of course he has to hear all about it from Scott: Allison’s sonograms; their child’s perfect, gorgeous heartbeat; the cream Allison likes him to rub onto her belly; Allison’s swollen feet; Allison’s waddle- And then Allison whacks him, and Stiles escapes their fight into the kitchen, just in time to save the last of the cupcakes he’d bought that afternoon from Lydia’s boredom.
“There were six of these!” he hisses in annoyance.
“There were five and now there’s two!” Lydia says. “I am at the Research Institute, you know. Subtraction is a must.”
“My dad had one, and there was one left for everyone else,” Stiles says. “You couldn’t just have eaten Jackson’s, you had to eat mine?”
“Hmm,” Lydia says, tilting her head towards the knock on the front door. “I realise you’re a grade-school teacher, but I didn’t think your brain would have stagnated to such a degree.”
“What?”
“There’s six of us,” she says, and then Scott is opening the door to Jackson and Derek.
*
The last time Stiles saw Derek was at the wedding, where he lurked in the background like the creeper he’s always been.
The last time Stiles spoke to him was the day before he was due to leave Beacon Hills for college, though he hadn’t realised then that it would be a permanent move.
The conversation didn’t go very well.
*
“Jackson,” Stiles says, striding towards the front door with his hand held out. “Derek.”
Stiles is expecting a handshake, but Jackson does some sort of hand-clap-clasp thing that is both friendlier and way more teenage than Stiles had been expecting.
“Hey, man,” Jackson says, “good to see you,” and walks straight past Scott and Allison’s frostiness to join Lydia in the sanctuary of the kitchen.
“Derek,” Stiles says, getting in first.
“Stiles,” Derek says stiffly. “It’s been a while.”
“Not long enough,” Stiles says, then remembers Scott and Allison are listening in and adds, “Given the circumstances.”
“I’m sorry about your father,” Derek says, and although Stiles thinks it’s genuinely meant it’s still awkward. “I know he’s doing well.”
“You do?”
“I’ve heard he’s doing well,” Derek clarifies, telling Stiles exactly nothing.
And Stiles doesn’t want to ask when Derek got a line to the grapevine installed, so he says, “He isn’t doing well.”
“As well as can be expected,” Derek says after a moment, rather than offering the baseless, meaningless reassurances Stiles had expected.
It makes him irrationally irritated, because Derek appears to know more about the situation than Stiles had this morning, because he thinks this might be Derek trying to be sensitive. “About as well,” he says, and walks past Scott and Allison’s surprised faces to where Lydia is saying, “No, I ate your cupcake and Scott’s too, although if you want to eat Allison’s go right ahead. I need some entertainment tonight.”
“Sorry I’m boring you,” Stiles says, counting the minutes until he can claim his dad needs him and end the night early. “Did Jackson bring the pictures?”
“Did someone say cupcake?” Allison asks, Scott’s eager face hovering over her shoulder, problems forgotten in the face of pastry.
“I want a cupcake!” Scott says brightly.
“There isn’t enough-“ Stiles says, while Lydia contributes, “Stiles is a terrible host, he-“
“-because Lydia ate everyone’s-“
“I can have Stiles’,” Jackson says.
“Stiles can’t count and is excluded from consideration,” Lydia says. “He never had one to start with.”
“I want one,” Allison says plaintively, so of course Lydia says, “I want one!” mutinously.
Derek snatches both cupcakes from Jackson’s greedy hands.
“You don’t even like cupcakes!” Lydia protests, and Derek hands one over to Allison, hesitates while his pack watches him like a nestful of hungry baby birds vying for the last scrap, and shoves the remaining morsel at Stiles.
“Oh,” Stiles says, startled. “I don’t-“
“Eat it,” Derek instructs, and the food is crumbling in Stiles’ mouth before he realises he’s put it there, before he even sees Lydia reaching to steal it back.
He swallows quickly and licks across the rest of the cupcake. She subsides, glaring.
“Wow,” Stiles says. “That went south fast.”
*
It’s later when Scott leans in close and says, “Your dad’s okay, though, right?”
The slideshow of Lydia and Jackson’s wedding is playing on the TV and everybody else is staring at it with glazed eyes. Scott is speaking quietly, like he thinks Stiles has somehow forgotten the rest of the room is listening in. They’ve gotten better at hiding it, at least.
“I don’t know,” Stiles says blankly, watching Lydia’s radiant smile flash out at him. “I think so, yeah. Mostly. He’s my dad.”
“Yeah,” Scott says unhappily, and bumps his shoulder against Stiles in an attempt at comfort. It isn’t very effective, but it’s nice that he’s trying.
“Some people aren’t paying attention,” Lydia says pointedly, and Scott sits up straight like he’s the one she was addressing.
“Some people have seen this seventeen times,” Derek mutters, and Stiles smiles despite himself.
It’s later than Stiles was expecting when they all leave at Derek’s prompting, with easy cheek-kisses and shoulder-thumps and promises to talk tomorrow.
It’s strange.
He isn’t sure if he likes the way things are now; he isn’t sure if he wants them back to the way they used to be or if he just doesn’t want to have to deal with any of it.
It’s a relief when they’re gone.
Stiles goes through the house checking windows and doors. He doesn’t see the DVD until he circles back around to the living room. It’s sitting on the coffee table in its jewelcase, a bright yellow post-it obscuring the picture of Lydia and Jackson wreathed in flowers that serves as the inlay. Lydia has printed HOMEWORK! on it in large, obnoxious letters.
Stiles watches it again before he goes to bed, watches his own strained smiles, the relaxed happiness of his friends, Derek always hovering halfway out of the frame, a dark, lingering presence; and then he has to go up the stairs, skipping past the squeaking step so he won’t wake his father, listen carefully for his father’s breathing in the still and silent bedroom, and then go and get into his cramped childhood bed so he can try and sleep until morning when he’ll have to do it all again.
*
“Dad,” Stiles says, when he stumbles into the kitchen in the morning, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “you weren’t supposed to get up before me.” And then he sees Derek, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a sheriff’s office uniform on his back.
“Deputy,” Stiles says faintly.
“Undersheriff,” Derek corrects, and Stiles nods mechanically.
“I told you I was working with Derek, right?” his dad says.
“Uh,” Stiles says. “No. No you did not!”
“I’m sure I mentioned it,” his dad says.
“I would have remembered!” Stiles says. “Mentioning isn’t the same as telling! Why didn’t you warn me!”
The sheriff looks at Derek askance, and Derek rises smoothly to his feet and hooks a hand around Stiles’ elbow.
“It’s been a while since Stiles has seen his friends,” Derek says, which is both true, and a total lie, in that he’s applying the word friends to himself and Stiles. “We should catch up outside.”
“Weren’t you over last night?”
“Won’t be long, Fred,” Derek says, and drags Stiles out onto the porch.
“Did you tell my dad we’re friends?” Stiles asks as Derek carefully shuts the door behind them.
“No,” Derek says.
“Because we aren’t friends.”
Stiles thinks Derek looks uncomfortable, but it’s hard to read anything off Derek, and if it isn’t anger or some variation thereof Derek probably isn’t capable of feeling it anyway.
“I didn’t claim friendship with you to get a job,” Derek says.
“And what the hell?” Stiles hisses, cold fury lashing unreasonably fast and strong. “You’re a deputy?”
“Under-“
“Undersheriff! You’re the undersheriff?”
“Yes,” Derek says.
“That,” Stiles says patiently, “was a request for an explanation.”
Derek doesn’t answer as quickly as Stiles would like, so he says, “I mean, I can go and ask my dad what the hell he’s thinking, if you’d prefer-“
“He doesn’t know I’m a werewolf,” Derek says.
“Right,” Stiles says. “New fear, thanks.”
“He thinks I’m a Wiccan.”
“You told him you were a witch?”
“Wiccan,” Derek corrects, like Stiles doesn’t know, like Stiles is the one who’s being ridiculous. “He thinks I need the full moon off for religious reasons. Your father is respectful of all alternative religions. Unless they’re actually cults, or involve ritualistic sex, or-“
“Yes,” Stiles interrupts. “Got it.”
“Plus, it lets him tick that little box on his paperwork,” Derek finishes. “He likes that.”
“Wiccan,” Stiles says. “Why?”
“Because I wasn’t going to tell him I was a werewolf,” Derek says. “And after you left there was never a reason for him to know.”
Stiles’ teeth snap together. He’d thought he’d gotten past this, hasn’t felt this angry in years, not since he left all this behind, not since he left Derek behind. He hasn’t felt like this since the last time he spoke to Derek.
He doesn’t like it.
He doesn’t know how he feels about his life and the universe nowadays, hardly knows how he feels at all, but he knows he doesn’t like this.
The doorknob twists sharply under his hand.
“Stiles,” Derek says, halting his progress. “Scott is Wiccan too.”
Stiles slams the door behind him, leaves Derek standing alone on the other side.
*
“So, that’s weird,” Stiles says to his dad, can’t help himself. “Derek Hale as your undersheriff, really?”
“He’s good at the job,” his dad says, muscles bunched in his shoulders as he pours hot water into his coffee-cup. He isn’t even doing anything, just holding a kettle, but he can’t quite hide the wince as he sets it down.
“But he’s Derek Hale,” Stiles says absently. “Hey, remember when you thought he was a crazed serial killer who cut his sister in half?”
“Yes,” his dad says warily.
“I miss that.”
“Stiles,” his dad says, exasperated. “You’ve been back ten seconds, how are you like this already?”
“I have a rich life overflowing with excitement and incident that keeps me constantly entertained and engaged,” Stiles says with dignity, ignoring how that sounds a little like an admission about the lack of engagement he’s feeling right now. “Everybody here got really boring,” he says in dissatisfaction.
“I’m sure they’re devastated their lives fall short of your expectations,” his dad says. “Derek’s going to be working with me from home sometimes while I get back on my feet. You want to let him back in now and go entertain yourself while the grown-ups work?”
“I’m going to find Scott,” Stiles says, and goes straight back out the front door, not acknowledging Derek’s hunched form still on the porch as he breezes past and flees the scene.
*
Scott owns a garage way out past Monterey Lane. Business seems to be ticking over, but Scott lets his workers handle it while he sits in the tiny office with Stiles and flings a stressball at the walls.
“I can’t believe you have two and a half employees,” Stiles says.
“Part-time doesn’t make you half a man,” Scott says, and Stiles scoffs, because there’s no way he’s admitting Scott has three employees. “And that’s hardly any.”
“I can’t believe you have one employee.”
“Yeah,” Scott says, turning to grin at Stiles, and the rebounding stressball smacks him in the face. He catches it as it drops and keeps an eye on it when he throws it again. “I can’t believe people let you look after their kids. Remember when you babysat for Mrs Grant that one time and nearly got her kid a lapdance?”
“It wasn’t my fault she didn’t know her son was a stripper!” Stiles says, face brightening with pleased outrage. “She was the one who told me to make sure his friends had everything they needed!”
“Yeah,” Scott says, face soft with nostalgia, but he doesn’t prolong the argument, which Stiles almost regrets, because they’ve had it a hundred times, but not in years. “Nobody ever let you babysit again, though. I wouldn’t have pictured you ending up like this.”
Stiles’ throat tightens, and for a minute the only sound is the rhythmic thump of the ball against the walls. “Yeah,” he says. “Me neither. It’s good, though. It’s a good life.”
“Yeah?” Scott asks.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, hands spasming where they’re trapped between his knees. “I miss it.”
“You’ve been back two days,” Scott says. “You haven’t had time to miss it. I miss you.”
Stiles fees a sharp pang at that, but he shoves it away. “Yeah,” Stiles says. “Pretty nuts things ended up this way, right?”
“Things didn’t just-“ Scott starts, voice rising with sudden frustration, but when he sees Stiles’ careful blankness the surge of emotion dissipates, and he sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty nuts.”
And he throws his stressball.
*
Stiles feels pretty haggard when he gets home-back to his dad’s place, later than he’d planned.
It’s good being back, or it isn’t too bad, and it’s good seeing his friends. He has missed Scott, something he doesn’t really have room to acknowledge, just like he doesn’t have the capability of dealing with Scott’s injured feelings, and Scott has no right to expect him to do that, but Stiles feels the low burn of guilt anyway, an unwelcome reminder of the way he used to feel about Scott, the things he used to do for his best friend.
He doesn’t do that anymore, doesn’t want to, doesn’t miss it, and if it means that he’s never quite managed to make another best friend, well, he has other things now.
Things he wants and doesn’t, like the delivery-guy standing at the front door, handing a massive brown bag of takeout to Derek.
“Thanks,” Derek says, and pulls the door open wider to admit Stiles.
“Thanks,” Stiles says sarcastically.
“You were late,” Derek says, shutting the door. “Your dad was hungry.”
Stiles can’t tell if that’s actually criticism or if it just feels like it is because it’s coming from Derek, but either way he feels his blood pressure rise.
“I don’t need you looking after my dad,” he says.
Derek looks warily at Stiles, then the bag of food. “I got szechuan chicken,” he offers.
“I don’t want szechuan chicken!” Stiles says. “And I don’t want you in my house!”
Derek’s face smooths out. “It isn’t your house,” he says.
“Excuse me?” Stiles hisses.
“This hasn’t been your home in years. I’ve seen more of your father in the last two weeks than you have since you left, and he was in hospital for half of it. You really don’t want to run me off.”
“I do,” Stiles says, heart pounding in his throat. “I really, really do.”
“Well,” Derek says. “He wouldn’t thank you for it.”
“You don’t get to shove your way back into my life,” Stiles says. “It isn’t fair.”
Derek frowns like he’s actually puzzled by Stiles’ protest. “What isn’t fair?”
And he is puzzled, he really is, and that makes it so much worse. “I don’t want you to be here,” Stiles says instead. “I don’t want you telling me I’m a shitty son, and I don’t want to be here.”
“That isn’t a problem I can fix,” Derek says after a minute. “You’re going to have to deal with it. But I’m involved in your father’s life, and you’re going to have to deal with me too.”
Stiles breathes through that for a second, unbalanced by the strength of his reaction, trying to get himself under control. When he feels calmer, he says, “Never was able to manage that,” and watches Derek’s face flicker. “Guess I’ll just have to put up with you.”
Derek holds the bag up again. “Want my house special?” he offers, and Stiles tries not to think about the fact that Derek remembered his favourite.
“No,” he says, pushing past Derek into the living room. “Don’t do me any favours.”
His dad makes him sit at the kitchen table with Derek. Derek got his dad’s favourite too, and Stiles is a little reassured that it’s the same, but he’s more resentful that Derek knows what it is.
“Stiles,” his dad snaps, for the zillionth time.
“Yes?” Stiles asks mildly, swallowing his chicken first. His dad gets uncomfortable whenever Stiles doesn’t react as he expects. Stiles isn’t really sure what to do with that.
“I won’t be able to resume all of my duties immediately-“
“Helen told me you weren’t ready to go back to work at all,” Stiles says, heated. He doesn’t interrupt people anymore, but when his dad tries to speak he does it again, hurries out, “And do you think I haven’t seen you, do you think I haven’t noticed how weak you are? You can hardly move your arms, you can’t breathe properly yet, your chest is-your-“
His hands are shaking and he’s breathing in gasps, but his father’s lungs are probably never going to be right again, so he can’t really mind, even when he sees Derek’s eyes on him. He puts down his fork.
“I can make calls, keep on top of things, keep people in line, but I’m not feeling up to much more than that,” his dad continues deliberately, ignoring his freakout completely, and the pauses for breath are barely noticeable, but Stiles notices. “There isn’t the staff to allocate this to, and Derek is busy out at the prison and he’s already picking up my slack. I need you to do this.”
“Do what?” Stiles asks suspiciously. “Stop rationalising roping me in and tell me what it is. If I was going to balk it would have been when Helen told me I might have to bathe you with a sponge.”
He isn’t exactly proud when his dad’s face sets, determinedly ignoring Derek’s presence for that little titbit, but he forces himself not to regret it. He isn’t a kid anymore, but he keeps acting like one here, with these people, and it has to be their fault because it isn’t his: this isn’t him. He handwaves all hypocrisy and the thought itself, and says, in his best teacher-voice, “Tell me,” and “No,” when his dad does. “Not a chance in hell I am doing your paperwork.”
Which, of course, is how he ends up down at the office with Derek the next morning.
The place is empty, and it takes Stiles a second to remember it’s a Sunday, and Mary diverts the calls to her cell before noon.
“Do you always work Sunday?” Stiles asks politely.
“Yeah,” Derek says. “Mary gets in at noon.” Like Stiles is new.
“What happened to Deputy Doug?” Stiles asks.
“Went out to LA,” Derek explains briefly. “It isn’t too bad once Mary gets here. Quiet. Sundays, I mean.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “This isn’t your paperwork, is it? Because I’m not doing your paperwork. I mean, I’ll shred it, I’ll do that for you-“
“No,” Derek says. “It isn’t my paperwork.”
“So how does my dad even have any paperwork?” Stiles asks. “If all he’s doing is making phonecalls for the foreseeable. How much paperwork can there be?”
“Um,” Derek says, and opens the door to the closet off his dad’s office where his assistant Petra used to sit before her position was restructured, which is to say eliminated, although her desk is still there, squeezed in among the document boxes stacked high, the messy piles of paper dumped on the floor. “He hasn’t really been in here since Petra left two years ago,” Derek says, sounding almost apologetic, and Stiles curses.
Things are better once Mary gets in. She brings a doggybag of blueberry pancakes and an unassailable air of cheerfulness into the office with her.
“Afternoon!” she says when she spots Derek. “Next week you are coming to church with me young man, no excuses, you know nobody ever comes in here on a Sunday morning, they’re all too hungover to make trouble. I’m not going to get extra brunch for you anymore if you don’t-“ She breaks off when her eyes fall on Stiles, face empty and surprised before it lights up with recognition. “Oh! Stiles! We knew you were back in town, but-“
That’s all Stiles hears before he’s enfolded in warm arms and flowing scarves and flowery talcum-powder scent. She keeps speaking; he can feel the vibration through her motherly breasts, but he can’t hear the words. It’s a long time before she releases him.
“-someone here with him, he’s always so lonely without me. And a teacher!”
She sounds thrilled. Derek looks wildly uncomfortable, probably because he knows intimately what it is to live through that hug.
“Yes,” Stiles says. “I am. He’s very proud.”
“Well,” Mary says dubiously, looking at Derek. “I’m sure he’d have every reason? If you two were like that. Did I miss something? No, I’m sure I didn’t miss that.”
“What?” Stiles feels like he’s the one who’s missed something.
“A teacher!” Mary exclaims, delight overtaking her again. “Such a good choice.”
“I’m doing rounds,” Derek says, snagging his keys from the hook behind Mary’s desk and vanishing out the door, throwing Stiles to the wolves, as it were.
“A teacher!” Mary says again. “That is such a wonderful career. What made you settle on it? I wouldn’t have picked it for you.”
“Neither would I,” Stiles says, “but working with children was part of my community service and once I figured out how to balance sugar and cough medicine I got kind of attached to the little monsters, and then college taught me not to do that under any circumstances even though it totally works, so I’m doing kind of okay now. They seem to like me.”
“You’re such a joker,” Mary says, voice hard, “never tell that story to anyone, make something up and lie until you’re blue in the face,” and blessedly changes the subject.
*
“It’s not like I would ever do that now,” Stiles is telling Lydia, ignoring her glazed-over eyes. “I was just a kid back then! And it’s not like I would tell anyone, only Mary! And you! Mary and you don’t count.”
“Wait,” Lydia says, blinking herself awake. “Is this Mary Francis? Because she got old while you were gone. Old and boring and conservative. All she does is take pictures of her cats dressed up as boybanders, and explain to people why she doesn’t squash speeding tickets anymore and then ask them why they aren’t married yet.” Lydia finesses her curls in the reflection of the bar window, giving herself a smug look. “She can’t ask me that anymore. She spends extra-long being sanctimonious about speeding instead. Come on, we’re going to miss happy hour.”
She breezes through the door, leaving Stiles behind.
He takes a moment before following her in, because it’s been a while since he’s done this with friends and he needs to brace himself. “Okay,” he says to himself, rubbing his palms on his jeans, thinks, okay and bites his lip to keep the word in. He has to get used to being around werewolves again, fuck.
He has to learn to control himself again. He hasn’t had to do that in a long time. He hasn’t had any reason to, nothing that would have disturbed his serenity to that degree.
Stiles curses himself and goes inside.
Derek is the first person he sees, standing by the bar, eyes fixed on the door, on Stiles.
Derek’s chin lifts in greeting, and Stiles has to go over and speak to him; anything less would be totally unacceptable.
“Hey,” Stiles says, taking the space at the bar beside Derek.
“Hey,” Derek responds, and turns to try and attract the attention of the bartender.
“Oh, weren’t you-“ Stiles gestures towards the door. “-waiting for someone?”
“No,” Derek says shortly.
“Right,” Stiles says. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I should just-“
He starts to move towards the rest of the group, over in the corner, Lydia talking Allison’s ear off while Scott and Jackson occasionally grunt at each other, but the bartender is in front of them and Derek says, “What are you having?”
“Uh-“ Stiles says. “That’s fine, I’ll get my own. Jack.”
Derek just orders a coke, and then the bartender totally ignores Stiles’ proffered note.
“Thanks, Ted,” Derek says, and Stiles throws another look at the keep, because if that’s Ted Bartholomew he was two years behind Stiles in school and that’s weird.
His mouth is open to ask, but Derek is moving away and Stiles grabs his drink and says, “I forgot you couldn’t drink, and Allison’s pregnant. Did you just come here because of me?” Derek stops further down the bar, away from the small cluster of people in front of Ted. “The group, I mean,” Stiles clarifies awkwardly, kicking himself for it. “Is this something you’d usually do?”
“More often when Allison was still drinking,” Derek says. “But Lydia likes it.”
Stiles looks over to where Lydia is totally ignoring her husband, laughing and flashing a gleaming smile out at Allison, attracting a couple of glances.
“I can see that,” he says wryly, and Derek grins down at him, sudden and startling.
Stiles feels his breath shudder, and his forehead draws down into a frown. He watches Derek’s face change, mirror his, and says abruptly, “I don’t like you lying to my dad,” not what he’d meant at all, and untrue besides.
“You used to lie to your dad all the time,” Derek says, frown settled in, etching lines on his face that look natural now that they’re there.
“I’m allowed,” Stiles says. “I’m his son.”
“I’m good at my job,” Derek says after a minute. “We’re part of the community.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, unsettled by the truth of that, the difference.
“Do you-“
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Stiles says, and lets himself be drawn in by Lydia’s laugh.
“-and a strawberry daiquiri,” Allison is saying when he reaches the group, and Lydia puts her hand over her mouth to hide her giggles. “Maybe a blue hawaiian as a capper. You know tequila sunrise is my favourite, but that’s more of a two in the morning, bad decisions to indulge in kind of a drink, so-“
“Totally appropriate for the maternity ward,” Lydia says, and Allison snorts.
“Hey!” Scott protests, and Allison pets him consolingly.
“Lush,” Stiles says admiringly.
“Not so much nowadays,” she says, regretful. “But once I can persuade Lydia to babysit I’ll be back in the saddle.”
“Lydia doesn’t like babies,” Jackson says moodily, and Lydia’s smile becomes fixed.
“I like other people’s,” she says. “Well no, that’s a lie, but I’ll babysit for my best friend if I have to.”
“We all will,” Derek says, right behind Stiles, making him jump. “The group will offer you any support you need.”
Stiles can hear the stress on the word ‘group’, can hear that it’s a substitution.
“And I appreciate that,” Allison says diplomatically, voice cooling as she looks at Derek. “But I don’t want you babysitting my child. I don’t want to make anyone do anything they don’t want to.”
“They want to,” Derek says. Allison makes a sceptical face. “This is-“ Derek starts, then bites back whatever he was going to say, aware of their surroundings. “-important to all of us,” he finishes, and Stiles can hear the banked lecture about pack and community contained in that, so he edges away towards Scott and Jackson.
“Out at the prison tomorrow?” Scott asks Derek while Stiles tries to think of an opening gambit.
“Yeah,” Derek says. “Not all day, though, I’ve got to-“ He breaks off with a glance at Stiles, and Scott nods understandingly.
The warmth of the alcohol in Stiles’ mouth is a relief.
*
The rest of the night is just as awkward as Stiles had been dreading, so he’s pretty out of it by the time they leave the bar.
“-gave him a ride,” Lydia is saying while Stiles lets his head tilt all the way back so he can watch the stars flicker at him.
He hears Derek’s voice murmur, then Derek’s hands are on his back, pushing him upright while the rest of the group call out goodbyes.
Stiles waves vaguely, but then Derek is saying, “Come on. My car’s over here.”
“Oh,” Stiles says blankly, but Derek’s hand is a warm pressure on his arm, guiding him forwards. “Fine, whatever.”
“You haven’t changed,” Derek says, and Stiles laughs sharply.
“That’s-“ he says.
“What?” Derek asks.
“True, unfortunately,” Stiles says, body drifting closer to Derek as they walk, entirely against his wishes. “And really, really not.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, and Stiles feels really depressed and old suddenly.
It isn’t something he usually feels: he’s only in his late twenties, and he has a full, busy life, always plenty to do. He makes sure of it.
Not much to do here, though, or nothing he wants to, anyway.
“Yeah,” Stiles says sadly, looking at the car they’ve stopped in front of. “Oh, is this yours? It’s-different.”
“Yes,” Derek says, “it is,” and Stiles squints at him suspiciously.
“It’s nice,” he says grudgingly, and when Derek laughs, “Shut up, I know you’re making fun of me.”
“Okay,” Derek says. “Inside.”
He gets Stiles inside the car, one hand on his back and one on his head, and while he walks around to the other side Stiles blinks at the fuzzy darkness of the roof.
“I should be driving,” Stiles says when Derek starts the engine.
“You really shouldn’t.”
“No, I mean-I always drive. Drove. I always drove you, before. Have I ever even been in your car? Your last car, I mean.”
“I get injured less nowadays,” Derek offers.
“Everything’s different,” Stiles says. He doesn’t mean to sound wistful.
“Not everything,” Derek says, and, “That will happen.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, feels the gentle hum of the engine in his bones, watches Derek controlling it, one hand moving the gearshift as the other lies relaxed on the wheel, and thinks maybe that’s what he’s feeling instead, the effect of watching Derek confident and oblivious, same as it ever was. “Why-“
“Why what?”
Thinks about feeling that instead, the same thing he’d felt all those years ago.
He slumps forward, lets his head thump against the low dashboard.
“What?” Derek asks again, and Stiles can still see his hand out of the corner of his eye, a shifting blur, and he has to close his eyes against it, because he’s just drunk enough to not to be too worried about it, to let himself consider it, to think that Derek might-
He’s drunk enough to be really stupid.
“Nothing,” he says. “Home, Jeeves.”
*
His dad is still up when they arrive, light on in the kitchen, but Derek walks him to the front door anyway.
“I don’t need an escort,” Stiles says, but when he reaches into his pocket for the key he tips backwards, into Derek.
Derek’s hands are resting on his hips, even though he’s in no danger of falling. “Obviously not,” Derek says in a low voice that rumbles through Stiles, setting him off, every nerve ending juddering, body tensed for something, anything, and Derek’s hands are still there, just touching him, big and steady, and Stiles lets his head tilt back until Derek’s face comes into view, lashes obscuring his eyes as he looks down at Stiles, and then Stiles’ dad opens the door.
“Couldn’t find your key?” he asks pointedly, and Stiles takes his hand from his pocket to hold it up.
“Fred,” Derek says, setting Stiles back on his feet.
“Thanks for bringing him home, Derek,” Stiles’ dad says in a disappointed voice, and Stiles pushes past him into the house.
He heads up the stairs, leaves his dad and Derek to their discussion of him, but when he reaches his room, with its musty bed and posters on the wall a lifetime out of date, he just stands there in the darkness while the helpless anger builds, and when he hears Derek’s engine start he’s suddenly on his way back down.
“Hey,” he spits at his dad. “I don’t appreciate your talking like I’m some kind of imposition here, like you’re saddled with some no-good kid you have to look after. Because I’m not the one who’s imposing, and I can take care of myself.”
His dad just looks at him for a minute, disappointment clear on his face, and Stiles has his mouth open to throw something else at him when he says, “I don’t appreciate being told I’m an imposition,” and all the wind goes out of Stiles’ sails.
“No, that wasn’t what-“ But it had been what he’d said.
“And I don’t know where you ever got the idea I saw you as one, but I’m sorry for it.”
“Dad, that wasn’t-I didn’t mean that.”
“No? Because you’ve done a fine job of acting like you do.”
“Oh, it isn’t-“ Stiles scrubs a hand over his forehead. “I’m too drunk to have this conversation.”
“And that’s another thing. If you were out with Derek how come he was stone-cold sober and you’re a mess.”
“I’m not a mess,” Stiles says automatically, cursing werewolf metabolism. “And Derek doesn’t drink.”
“I’ve seen Derek drink,” his dad says, and now Stiles is cursing Derek. “Is this something I need to be concerned about?”
“No,” Stiles says, aware he sounds like a sulky kid and feeling like one too. “God, dad. Anyway, it wasn’t-I don’t want you thinking that, okay, because it isn’t true, I don’t think you’re an imposition, I don’t-“
“You’ve made it clear you don’t want to be here,” his dad says. “You’ve made it clear every time I’ve seen you since you left, and if you think I don’t care that the times I’ve seen you have been few and far between you would be wrong.”
“That had nothing to do with you,” Stiles says, hand so tight on the newel the trim is biting into his skin. “I just had to get out of here, I had to get away, but I never wanted to get away from you.”
“And you expected I would be able to tell the difference?”
“I didn’t mean to make you think-“
“You didn’t seem to care much either way.”
“I don’t want to be here now,” Stiles rushes out, “but I don’t-I want you to be okay, I need to make sure you’re okay, I want to do that.”
“You used to,” his dad says. “You always used to.”
“I still do,” Stiles says, “I always did.” And that’s mostly true, though the distance had worried away at their relationship until it frayed, until it began to sour the way Stiles had felt all the other relationships in his life turning, and he had known he was pulling away from his father with the rest of his life, but he had been too angry and hurt to fix it, to even try.
“I want to be here for you,” he says. “I just don’t want to be here.”
“Why?” his dad asks, and Stiles shivers out a breath, because nobody ever has.
“No reason,” he says. “Just me being stupid. Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”
“Get you upstairs,” his dad says, but he clutches the banister all the way up, and Stiles’ hand hovers behind his back, just in case.
*
“Hungover?” his dad asks the next morning, as Stiles slings bacon on the grill.
“No,” Stiles says, “used to it,” then rethinks that answer and says, “Nah, don’t really get hangovers,” which is the same thing but less douchebaggy.
“This is something I’m becoming concerned about,” his dad says.
“No reason to,” Stiles says, starting the coffee. “I just go out a lot.”
“You don’t drink alone.”
“No, dad,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.
“Do you have a lot of friends?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, “more than I ever had here.”
Which is true, as far as it goes.
Stiles has a very entertaining life, and he’s always entertained when he drinks, so much more easily; and maybe that is why he does it so much: to break the tedium.
His dad grunts. “I’m glad.”
Stiles feels an unexpected pang at that, at the idea that he’d never really put in the effort required to convince his dad that he was okay, that he was happy, and he throws an extra strip of bacon on for his dad as recompense.
*
“How does my dad ever prosecute anybody?” Stiles asks, drowning in disorganised files and irregularly stapled documents when Derek brings him coffee midmorning.
“He has a ranking system,” Derek explains. “He does the paperwork he thinks there’s any chance he’ll need to use, which is not a lot.”
“I wondered why this was all such bullshit,” Stiles says, then casts a covert look at Derek’s uniform, his wry look. “Not that, ah-Jonathan Marks’ attempt to ride the Fullers’ dog home from the prom wasn’t the crime of the century.”
“Decade,” Derek says. “To qualify for century Snickerdoodle would have had to take the large dog crown last year, not just place.”
The dog’s name was Augustus, and Stiles’ mouth curves in pleasure before he can stop it. Derek echoes the smile back to him easily, and Stiles remembers being angry with him last night, angry that he’d learnt how to be happy again while Stiles was away, but now he’s looking at Derek’s smile and thinking of the way he’d felt later, on the porch, when he was closer to Derek than he’d been in years; mostly he’s wishing he’d had more to drink so his memory wasn’t quite so crystal-clear, because all he can think about is the courteous, comforting press of Derek’s thumbs into his hips, the shaky sweep of Derek’s breath over his face when he’d tilted his head back to look at him.
He wishes he’d had less to drink so he could’ve appreciated it more when it was happening.
His eyes are fixed blindly on the papers in his hand, because he can’t look at Derek with his cheeks burning like this.
“Making much progress?” Derek asks.
“Not really,” Stiles says. “But it doesn’t matter. Dad doesn’t need this done now; he just doesn’t want to have to do it himself.”
“Need any help?”
“No,” Stiles says, squinting suspiciously up at Derek. “Why are you offering?”
“No reason,” Derek says virtuously, then caves immediately. “I want you to teach me his system.”
“His system?”
“His ranking system. He won’t tell me how to do it, says he isn’t going to encourage me on my path to becoming an undisciplined layabout, but I want that system.”
“I don’t have it,” Stiles says, amused.
“He’d tell you, though,” Derek says. “And wouldn’t you like some help with this?”
“I’ll consider it,” Stiles says loftily, relieved to be regaining his equilibrium. “I’m going to need some more coffee as incentive. A lot more coffee. And also those orange-cranberry muffins when they have them and apple-cinnamon when they don’t.”
He isn’t expecting Derek to say, “I’ll see what I can do, Chief,” before vanishing back out into the hallway with a grin, and Stiles is left alone in the middle of the snowdrift, frozen and resentful, because he knows Derek won’t.
*
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