FIC: Teen Wolf -- Cherrybomb (1/2)
Title: Cherrybomb (1/2)
Author: the_deep_magic
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 13,116
Warnings: angst, violent (nonsexual) fantasies, surveillance that could be seen as stalkerish behavior
Disclaimer: Not my toys; not my sandbox.
Summary: AU - delinquent!Stiles/cop!Derek Stiles is yanked up to his feet so fast that his world spins and his shoulder aches and he’s a second from screaming police brutality! when he gets a good look at the cop’s face. Holy shit. Stiles was just tackled to the ground by a fucking underwear model with a badge.
A/N: Inspired by this prompt on the kink meme. See the end for more author’s notes
Shit, shit, shit. Stiles is so totally fucked.
On the rare occasions he gets made, he’s usually chased by an overweight cop or a part-time mall security guard who only gives half a fuck in the first place - someone who gives up after a quarter mile when it’s obvious they’re never going to catch Stiles anyway and rationalize that he’s just not worth their time.
This guy is not a fat mall cop. This guy is a fucking Olympic athlete. And while Stiles has a slight edge when it comes to agility, in the obstacle-free alley in what passes for the pathetic “downtown” section of Beacon Hills, this guy is rapidly cutting Stiles’ significant head start down to nothing. If Stiles can just make it to the fence, he’ll probably be-
He doesn’t make it to the fence.
No, Stiles makes it face-first into the ground instead, his nose stopping mere centimeters above the concrete only because when homedude tackles him, he wraps an arm around Stiles’ chest first. An enormous arm that’s currently squeezing Stiles hard enough that he can feel the flex of every muscle. When Stiles tries to roll out of the grip, a broad, hard chest pins him to the ground and keeps him there.
“You’re not going anywhere, kid,” the guy growls in Stiles’ ear, and is it fucked up to be a little turned on by this? Because Stiles is a little turned on by this.
And he’s got every reason to be a perfect little shit about it. Since he can’t free himself from the guy’s grip, he arches up into it, rubbing his ass against the guy’s crotch. “I think that’s a little inappropriate, officer,” he tries to purr, though it comes out as more of a wheeze. “But I’m up for it if you are.”
The guy’s off him in a second, but Stiles is yanked up to his feet so fast that his world spins and his shoulder aches and he’s a second from screaming police brutality! when he gets a good look at the cop’s face.
Holy shit. Stiles was just tackled to the ground by a fucking underwear model with a badge.
So when the zip tie comes out and Stiles’ arms are yanked behind his back, he’s more than a little turned on by this.
&&&
Officer Derek “Nothing Comes Between Me and My Calvins” Hale is brand new to the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Office. He had been, until very recently, one of New York’s finest, in fact. Nobody seems to be saying much about him other than that, including why the hell he’d leave New York to come back to this shithole of a town.
Stiles finds all this out from a very loquacious transvestite (transgendered? Stiles isn’t certain of the proper nomenclature here, but he wants to be respectful) prostitute as they both wait at the station to get processed. Connie Lingus is quite impressed with Officer Hale, however, and she seems very regretful that he hasn’t been the one to bust her yet. Stiles assures her that there’s still time. This pleases Ms. Lingus greatly.
So when Hale comes out and yanks Stiles up by his still-aching arm without so much as a “stand up,” Connie shoots him a jealous pout and Stiles winks at her.
As Stiles gets dragged through the station, he hears variations on mumbles of “the Stilinski kid again,” which really isn’t fair, because he doesn’t actually get hauled in that often. He likes to think of himself as a rumor on the wind of the fringes of Beacon Hills’ depressingly small dark side.
Which is probably an overly romanticized way of being known for cherrybombing toilets, but whatever.
He’s been expanding his repertoire with small explosives lately. Garbage cans, light fixtures, most recently a streetlight. Which is what got him caught. Not actually rigging the thing up, but standing around grinning like an idiot when he triggered it remotely and it blew. This Hale guy just happened to be coming out of his favorite coffee place at the time and just happened to see the look on Stiles’ face, and Stiles probably wouldn’t even be here if he hadn’t run. Hale was in plainclothes, but he had a badge around his neck and Stiles panicked.
He’s not panicking now, though. Hale’s got nothing to definitively tie him to the exploding streetlight save for the remote in Stiles’ pocket, and that’s just a repurposed garage door opener whose only purpose is now in little pieces all over Third Street.
Hale slices through the zip tie with something Stiles doesn’t see, but must be frighteningly sharp. Then the guy shoves Stiles down into a chair, walks around his desk, and sits, ignoring Stiles in favor of picking up the folder in front of him. There’s a lot in that folder, but Stiles happens to know that “alleged” is the most frequent word in there, so if it’s intimidation Hale’s going for, it’s not going to work.
Stiles takes the opportunity to get a good look at fine, upstanding Officer Hale. The shape of his shoulders and chest are perfectly evident through his dark gray Henley, and those arms, fuck. New York must have infinitely higher standards of physical fitness, because most of the cops around here don’t look like they could do a single push-up. Hale looks like he could bench press an armored tank.
And he’d been wearing a leather jacket before, which is probably a good thing, because if Stiles had gotten a look at the shoulder holster under it, he’d probably have run toward Hale, tongue first. Speaking of, how would all that non-regulation stubble feel against Stiles’ tongue? Scratchy-good or scratchy-bad? Stiles is all about testing hypotheses, and not all of them involve black powder and public property.
Okay, Stiles needs to rein it in now before he has to reach down and adjust himself in his jeans. Time to get this show on the road. “Interesting reading, Officer Hale?”
Hale keeps reading for precisely 34 seconds - Stiles watches the ancient clock on the wall - before slapping the file closed and setting it on the desk. “Not particularly. High school senior with a tragic tale of misspent youth and wasted potential. It’s almost cliché.”
Stiles wasn’t expecting that, and he rankles a little, though he tries not to show it. Fucking cliché? “Really. You’ve seen someone melt a homecoming parade float with acetone? Allegedly, I mean.”
“It’s all the same. I’ve seen thousands of you. You think you’re hot shit, too smart for your parents, your teachers. Everyone. And you are. Someone just told you somewhere along the way that you were a fuck-up, and you believed them. So you decided to be the best fuck-up in town.”
Now they’re back in familiar territory. “That’s… that’s brilliant!” Stiles gasps. “You’ve analyzed me perfectly! I’ve seen the error of my ways and I shall repent.”
That doesn’t even get Hale to raise one of those distressingly thick eyebrows. “You think you’ve been careful? Or maybe just lucky? You haven’t. I’m going to tell you something that no one else here will tell you. Anywhere else, you’d have been arrested ten times over. You’d be in juvie. You’re blowing shit up in an era where blowing shit up gets adults sent to Guantanamo.”
Stiles laughs. “Really. So… basically you’re saying all your new co-workers are completely incompetent? Because I wouldn’t lead with that one at the Christmas party.”
“I’m saying all my new co-workers pity you.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me. They feel sorry for you. The town’s most decorated sheriff gets shot dead in on a simple domestic call, leaving behind a wife and a ten-year-old son. The wife, she has to work even longer hours to make ends meet. So naturally, that son’s going to get a little rambunctious. Act out a bit. Best to just let him get it out of his system.”
Stiles’ jaw is on the fucking floor. No one talks to him about his dad. That’s the one rule around here. Nothing Stiles has done has ever hurt anyone. Will ever hurt anyone. And no one talks about his dad. When Stiles finally finds his voice, it’s broken glass and rusted nails. “Fuck. You.”
Hale continues like Stiles hadn’t said a word. “But you’re running out of time to get it out of your system. Looks like you’ve got about… five months. Probably sounds like decades to you, but let me tell you, you pull shit like this the day you turn 18, they’re going to have to stop looking the other way.”
Stiles has said all he needs to say. Anything more would be redundant. But Hale keeps going.
“Do you even stop to think what this does to your mother, what she-”
Stiles is over the desk in a heartbeat, his fist connecting solidly with Derek’s jaw. And it’s not like Stiles has been in a lot of fights - he’s not that guy - but he’s landed a punch before, and it didn’t feel like slamming his knuckles into a brick wall. A stubbled brick wall. Jesus, he might have just broken a finger, and Hale didn’t even flinch.
So fuck it - Hale wants to fight dirty, Stiles will fight dirty. His fingernails aren’t long, but he claws at the cop’s face. Or he tries to. Hale has both of Stiles’ wrists locked together in one immensely broad hand, leaving Stiles sprawled humiliatingly on his stomach across the desk. When Stiles tries to squirm away, Hale just grabs the back of Stiles’ hoodie with his other hand and hauls him the rest of the way over the desk - paper and pens flying everywhere - like Stiles weighs nothing at all.
Hale falls back into the chair with ease, and the way he’s holding Stiles means that Stiles ends up in his goddamn lap, their chests almost pressed together. Stiles shoves back, and Derek - Officer fucking Hale - lets him, but just until Stiles is barely perched on the edge of Derek’s knees and leaning back against Derek’s side of the desk, Stiles’ wrists still solidly held in the guy’s iron grip.
Stiles swears he sees blue flash in Derek’s eyes, but it must be some weird effect of the flickering fluorescent bulb, because then they’re just intensely dark, focused on Stiles like nothing else exists or has ever existed.
“If you’re thinking I’m a total asshole, you’re right. I have no right to talk about your family, and I’ll let you punch me again if you want to.”
Derek abruptly lets go of Stiles’ wrists, and Stiles’ hand throbs at the very thought of punching Derek.
To his credit, Derek doesn’t smirk. “I won’t bring them up again. I will, however, be the asshole that makes sure you get treated just like any other little punk who goes around skipping school and destroying public property. Because that’s all you are to me until you prove otherwise.”
“You think that ‘Scared Straight’ shit is gonna work with me?” Stiles snaps, though his voice is about a dozen times as shaky as it should be.
This time, Derek does smirk. “I have my methods.” Then he shoves Stiles off his lap. “Maybe you are lucky. In New York, they could charge you as an adult starting at 16. This time, you’ll probably get off with a fine and community service.” He stands. “Someone here usually drive you home?”
Stiles nods, not trusting his voice.
“Too fucking bad. Phone’s right there.”
Even the call to his mom, the silent drive home, and her tears that start the moment the two of them get back to the house don’t stop Stiles from curling up in bed and jerking off to thoughts of Derek - Derek’s weight pressing him down, Derek’s stubble rubbing against his thighs - until his dick is almost as sore as his hand.
He really is a useless fuck-up.
&&&
Stiles goes to school when he needs to. He shows up for the quizzes and tests and does fine, which only proves the fact that everything in between is basically unnecessary.
Besides, everyone there is pathetic. It’s not like Stiles thinks of himself as Holden Caulfield or some shit like that, but everyone in the elaborate primate hierarchy that is high school treats him like he’s invisible anyway, so he doubts they even notice he’s gone. Scott would’ve - but Scott’s dad moved clear across the country when they were in middle school, got a high-priced lawyer, and somehow got full custody of Scott just to spite his mom. They Skype, but Stiles only gets to actually see Scott on two court-appointed weekends a year, at most.
His teachers treat him as if he’s invisible, too. Maybe they even wish he actually was, since they long ago gave up on him. When he’s in class, he’s forever fidgeting and asking questions (that he strongly suspects they don’t know the answers to), so everyone’s happier if Stiles just does the bare minimum to get by.
Stiles only dabbles in vandalism these days. It was a kick when he was younger, but now he realizes there are only three types of people who are into tagging: the true artists, the gangbangers, and the stupid kids who can’t think of anything more creative to do. Since Stiles is none of these (well, not the last one anymore), he doesn’t usually bother, but the town’s public library’s just been painted, and the large, blank back of the building just begs for it, and Stiles does love paying homage to the classics. He still hasn’t decided on the appropriate quote - not that 90% of the idiots in this town, even the ones who actually visit the library, will appreciate it. Philistines.
But he’s barely got the can of spray paint out of his back before he hears a voice behind him say, “Graffiti? Really?”
Okay, how the fuck did Derek - Officer Hale, Stiles has got to stop thinking of him as Derek - get behind him? Stiles isn’t stupid; he knows no one was around just seconds ago. But he’s not going to give Hale the satisfaction, so he just says, “Maybe you can help me out. I’m trying to decide between the pithier ‘So it goes’ or the lengthier ‘Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.’”
To his surprise, Derek looks thoughtful. “Pretty bleak choices there - a reminder of death or an actual epitaph. I was more of a fan of Cat’s Cradle, myself.”
“Really, and you’re calling me bleak?” All right, so the bastard knows his Vonnegut. So fucking what? “You following me now, Hale?” It’s been four days since the incident at the station, and Stiles wasn’t expecting to see Derek again anytime soon. Well, outside of his head.
“Heard from the truant officer that you weren’t at school today. Budding intellectual that you are, I thought you might be here.”
That’s bullshit, but it’s bullshit in sinfully tight jeans and a worn leather jacket that Stiles’ hands actually itch to touch. “Well, here I am. Ta-da.”
Derek swaggers - there’s no other word for it - over to Stiles and plucks the can from his hands. “Why don’t I take you back to school? No phone calls this time.”
“You think you’re doing me a favor?” Stiles asks, but he’s already following Derek around the building to the parking lot.
“Hold that thought,” Derek says, sounding far too amused. Then he holds out a key fob and presses a button, and the lights flash on a sleek black Camaro.
Holy shit. If Stiles puts up a struggle, will Derek pin him up against that thing? Bend him over the hood and put another zip tie around his wrists and grind his crotch against Stiles’ ass until-
Okay, that line of thought needs to stop right now while Derek still assumes Stiles is only drooling over the car. “Good to know our tax dollars are being spent so sensibly.”
That gets an outright laugh. “First of all, when you get a job and start paying taxes, then you can complain. Second, this is my car. I have a portable siren if I need it. Third, which do you think is more effective in a car chase - an early ‘90s Crown Vic or this?”
“Get into a lot of high-speed pursuits in Beacon Hills, do you?” Stiles snarks, but he’s already climbing into the hugely-impractical, sexy-as-fuck car. He doesn’t even care that his own Jeep’s parked at a gas station two blocks over.
“Not yet, but there’s always hope.”
The inside isn’t outfitted like a typical cruiser, but it’s got a radio, and a few moments after they pull out of the parking lot, Derek calls in his location. He mentions a “truant high school kid,” but not Stiles or the spray paint, so Stiles figures this whole thing must have just been to scare him, to trick him into thinking Derek’s always watching him so Stiles will behave.
Fat fucking chance.
They get to the school in ten minutes, because who the hell is going to tell Derek to obey the speed limit? Derek doesn’t say a word all the way there, and if he’s trying to get Stiles to spill about his horrible tragic childhood, it’s not working, because Stiles is too busy watching Derek’s hand on the gearshift. And trying to subtly check out the backseat, which - no, no way in hell are two grown men (well, one overgrown, gangly kid and a bodybuilder) going to be able to fit back there. It’s a damn shame.
But then Derek’s pulling up in front of the school, telling Stiles to get his ass in the building, using nothing but his eyebrows. Is that something they teach at the New York police academy? “You shouldn’t have,” Stiles says.
“You’re welcome.”
“No, I mean you really shouldn’t have. I’m just in time for chemistry. I could go in there and invent ice-nine and destroy the world.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Derek says.
Stiles rolls his eyes and heads up the steps. Great, fine, Derek’s proven his point - Stiles is just going to have to be more careful. No way is Derek catching him next time.
&&&
Except he totally does.
Usually before Stiles even does what he’s planning to do. He gets his stash of illegal fireworks confiscated when he’s setting up an impromptu light show behind the water tower. It’s pitch-black outside and Stiles lets out a very manly shriek when the beam of his small flashlight flashes on Derek’s face. Once again, Stiles hadn’t heard a thing.
“What the hell, man? Are you some kind of bomb-sniffing dog?”
Derek actually laughs at that, but he’s also packing up and carting off at least three years’ worth of pilfered pyrotechnics that are probably just going to rot in an evidence locker somewhere. Or worse, Derek’s going to stage his own fireworks show - just like Stiles is sure that most of the weed that gets confiscated in Beacon Hills somehow ends up in the pocket of that one officer who Stiles has never seen without a bag of Fritos in his hand.
Derek doesn’t always get there in time, but it seems like he’s always there. Stiles tries to sneak a copy of Skyrim under his jacket, and Derek’s the first one there when the alarms go off.
Derek takes a look at the game. “Huh. I had you pegged for an Assassin’s Creed kind of guy.”
“If I wanted to see American history being butchered, I’d go to school,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes to disguise his shock. He has a really hard time picturing Derek with an Xbox. “Plus: dragons.”
The manager decides not to press charges, though he makes Stiles actually buy the game, and fuck, there’s $60 down the drain. Not that Stiles didn’t want the damn thing in the first place, but it’s not like he can hold down a job, and as much as his mom works, they still have a hard time breaking even. What’s worse is the look on the manager’s face. Not anger. Anger, Stiles could deal with. For the first time, he’s paying attention, and he thinks he sees resignation, maybe even pity. It pisses him off.
But it turns out that was getting off easy, because Derek’s true to his word and files official reports whenever he catches Stiles doing something illegal. Most of it doesn’t stick, but he does get a few more fines - increasing amounts that his mom really can’t afford. And he can’t even get good and drunk without Derek hauling his ass in to spend the night in the holding cell at the station.
Stiles can’t figure out if it would be better or worse if Derek weren’t so fucking hot. Stiles has only ever seen him in plainclothes, but when he shows up in Stiles’ fantasies, half the time he’s in full uniform. And there are handcuffs. Hey, Stiles is totally allowed to be a walking cliché when a guy who looks like that keeps showing up in his life, frowning as though he’d like nothing more than to turn Stiles over his knee for a spanking.
Which, hey, that’s a good cliché, too.
But Stiles isn’t stupid - he knows the juvie court takes his record into account every time he’s charged with something, and his record is growing fast. They’re mostly just infractions, the occasional misdemeanor, and it all gets wiped clean when he turns 18… but then he’ll be charged as an adult. So he really, really needs Officer Hale off his back.
Or Officer Hale on his back. Either will do. Both would be awesome.
Stiles is actually pretty mad at himself that he didn’t think to do a simple Google search on the good officer right after they met. The most recent hits are news articles chronicling his heroics in New York. And they are pretty damn heroic: drug busts that brought down cartels, hostage situations that ended in shootouts, even a car chase through Brooklyn.
Even though Derek seemed to have joined the force soon after high school, his record is a little too impressive for someone his age - he can’t be more than 24. It seems he made a name for himself a little over two years ago by rescuing a kidnapped girl, and then somehow managed to get involved in every dangerous situation since then.
It appears like the NYPD figured that out, too. It’s hard to tell from the newspaper articles - which never have a good picture of Derek’s face, but there’s no mistaking the name or that body - but statements from witnesses or other cops usually seem to indicate that Derek wasn’t technically supposed to be wherever it was that shit went down. He just showed up out of nowhere and saved the day. And never managed to get seriously injured - at least, not from what Stiles reads.
There’s no way Derek could be actively involved in starting all those different types of crimes all over the city, setting himself up to be the hero. Well, without being some kind of major crime boss, which he obviously isn’t. Where would he find the time? But if Stiles can put it together and find it a little suspicious, he’s willing to bet Derek’s superiors did, too. Maybe that’s why he left New York. But why come to a tiny little place on the other side of the country like Beacon Hills?
Past the first few pages of Google results, Stiles gets his answer - Derek grew up here. Even went to Beacon Hills High School and played varsity baseball.
Until his entire family burned to death in their home. Only Derek and his older sister Laura survived.
Jesus. That was nine years ago, and Derek was just 15. Maybe that’s why no one at the station talks about him - they all already know. Stiles can’t remember it, of course, but he does remember his father occasionally referring to “that horrible fire.” Did Derek meet Stiles’ dad? He would’ve been involved in the investigation at the very least, even if he wasn’t actually at the scene.
Except he was, because there’s a grainy, black and white picture of Stiles’ dad draping a blanket over the shoulders of a boy whose face is turned away from the camera. There’s no caption, but the kid has to be Derek.
It makes Stiles furious. There’s not much that whips Stiles into an honest-to-god rage, but for some reason, this innocuous, decade-old photo make shim want to break something, hurt someone. Hurt Derek. Forget punching that brick wall of a face; Stiles imagines getting his fingers around Derek’s throat, squeezing and squeezing until Derek’s face turns red, his eyes bugging out in desperation…
It scares the hell out of Stiles, how strong the urge is, how vivid the fantasy - he has to look down to see that his hands are clenched painfully around the edge of his desk. He not only closes the tab, he deletes the browser history, as if that could wipe the image of his own father practically hugging Derek fucking Hale. It doesn’t matter that Derek was just a kid at the time. It doesn’t even matter that Derek had just lost not just one, but eleven members of his family. All that matters is Stiles’ dead father comforting the guy who’s currently making Stiles’ life a living hell.
Stiles doesn’t even try to be sneaky. He ditches school the next day, driving his impossible-to-miss blue Jeep too fast through town, out to the edge of the woods where there’s an old abandoned car in a ditch. It’s been there for years, and Stiles has been saving it for something good. He’s been trying to get his hands on some thermite, but a few gallons of gasoline are going to have to do.
He’s just finished dumping the gas and trailing a line of black powder to a safe(ish) distance when the Camaro pulls up and Derek gets out, looking stupidly hot as usual. Stiles fists his hands at his sides and waits for Derek to speak first. After a few long moments, he asks, “So, what’s the illegal science project of the day? Gonna try to bust out the windows with sound waves?”
Stiles doesn’t have to say a word, because the wind, which had been blowing away from them, suddenly stilled, and Stiles could tell Derek caught the smell the gasoline even before Stiles did.
If he hadn’t been specifically looking for it, Stiles might not have seen the way Derek’s eyes widen slightly, a muscle in his jaw twitching. But Stiles is watching, and he sees that he’s found just the right nerve.
“Stiles,” Derek says slowly, “We’re right on the edge of the woods. And with this wind, if even a spark-”
“Oh, that’s right,” Stiles says sweetly. “I forgot. You’re the expert on fire.”
And then he lights a match.
This time Derek’s eyes do turn an icy blue - Stiles is sure of it - but he has no time at all to process it because the match is blown out and he’s face down on the grass with an arm twisted painfully behind him. This time, Derek’s full weight isn’t on him, but Derek’s knee is pressing into his lower back, right into his kidney, hard enough to make tears spring to Stiles’ eyes. Whatever, it just makes it easier for him to twist the knife.
“So I’m you’re little pet project, huh? Thought you’d play the hero again by stepping in to save the sheriff’s little boy from himself?”
“That’s not-”
But Stiles has no intention of letting Derek talk. “When were you going to have us bond over our tragic pasts? You want to throw my dad’s death in my fact, tell me it’s made me into the fuck-up I am today? Well, let’s talk about your little hero complex, which I’m guessing has something to do with the death of your entire family.”
“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek growls, his voice more animal than human, and though his knee lets up a little on Stiles’ back, all Stiles can see is that picture of his dad, hand on young Derek’s shoulder like he’s his own son.
“You want to know what I think? I think you blame yourself. They never did find out what happened, did they? All they know is that it was a chemical fire. Do you blame yourself because it really was you? Is that why you want to save everyone else, a guilty conscience? Why you want to save me?”
Derek roars - Stiles has never heard a sound like that in his whole life - and it feels like he flings himself away from Stiles, leaving Stiles’ face still in the dirt.
When Stiles gets up, slowly, he’s a little surprised to see Derek still standing there, staring at him like he’s filth. “You want to ruin your life? Fucking fine with me.”
“It’s none of your goddamn business what I do with my life!” Stiles yells, shocked at the volume of his own voice.
Hale nods once, jaw so tight he looks like he’s too furious to speak, as if he could actually glare Stiles to death. Finally, though, he stalks over, rips the box of matches from Stiles’ hand, and then makes him turn out his pockets. Wordlessly, he searches Stiles’ backpack and the Jeep’s glove compartment, taking away a lighter he finds there. Stiles isn’t sure it’s legal for Derek to search his car like this, but Stiles is actually panting with rage, and there’s nothing for Derek to find, anyway. He just wants Derek gone. Out of his life for good.
When Derek pockets the matches and the lighter and goes back to the Camaro, Stiles is pretty sure he’s going to get his wish. Though of course, Hale has to get in a parting shot. “You think you’re only hurting yourself, but you’re wrong. You’ve still got somebody left to hurt.”
Just when Stiles thought it wasn’t physically possible to get any angrier, Derek shuts himself in the Camaro and guns the engine so that he can’t even hear the raw, bloody scream by the time it finally makes its way out of Stiles’ mouth.
Stiles has to sit in the Jeep for a full ten minutes before his hands stop shaking enough for him to drive. Even then, he has to take it grandma-slow, because his reflexes for doing things like stopping at red lights seem to have disappeared completely. Miraculously, he makes it back home.
At first, he’s surprised to find the house empty. Then he realizes it’s barely noon - of course, his mom’s still at work. Even so, once he gets upstairs to his bedroom and vomits bile into the trash can, he holds a pillow to his face as he keeps screaming and screaming.
&&&
The next time Stiles opens his eyes, he hears the front door open. He looks at the clock - 5:30. His mom’s home, and at a decent hour, too. At some point, he must have either fallen asleep or passed out. Either way, his face is now crusted with the dried remnants of snot and tears.
He stumbles to the bathroom and the face that stares back at him in the mirror looks about 12 years old. Only he knows he didn’t look so pathetic and empty at 12. That was just before Scott left, just before he bought his first dozen cherrybombs from a high school kid. It would be another two months before he would work up the courage to use one on his neighbor’s mailbox, before he felt his first rush from the simple act of doing something he wasn’t supposed to, something dangerous.
His mom had been furious. When had that stopped? When had she realized that Stiles wasn’t worth the anger?
As Stiles washes his face, he realizes that’s not a rhetorical question. He actually wants to know the answer, even if it hurts. There must have been some point when the scales tipped and he went from “good kid with problems” to “problem kid.”
The walk downstairs feels like trudging through muck, but it’s nothing compared to the moment his mom sees his face. She drops the mail - just drops it, right there on the floor - and gapes. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
There are a thousand things that Stiles means to say, ask, beg - but all that comes out is a weak “Mom.”
She’s there in an instant, arms around Stiles, a hand rubbing across his back. It takes a dozen choked breaths before he can say, “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so, so sorry.”
She just holds him tighter and he realizes he can’t even remember the last time they hugged. “I love you so much,” she says, and it’s like a knife to his gut. “Whatever’s happened, I love you. Nothing you can do will ever change that.”
“I know,” he sobs, tears starting to fall again as the words pour out, jumbled and nearly unbearable. “And I didn’t- Not this time. I almost, but I didn’t. But then I kind of… did? I’m sorry for… for being me. I’m just sorry.”
She pulls back to look at him, putting a hand on his cheek. He’s been taller than her since he was 14, but she can still pin him to the spot with a single look. “Never apologize for who you are. Only for what you do.”
“Then I’m sorry for everything. All the stupid shit I do.”
She doesn’t even admonish him for the swear word, just pulls him close again and whispers, “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I just-I haven’t known how to talk to you for so long. I’ve been so afraid of saying the wrong thing that I haven’t said anything. Not even how much I love you.”
“You say that sometimes.”
“But do you believe it?”
Stiles doesn’t know how to answer that. He’s always sort of known that his mom loves him, because good mothers love their children, and she’s a good mother. She works so hard and always gives Stiles more than he deserves. But she doesn’t know the things he’s done. She knows that he skips school sometimes and that he gets in trouble. If she knew the details… Who could love that?
“Mom, you don’t know.”
“What don’t I know?”
Stiles takes a deep breath. “All the things I’ve-”
“Blown up? Stolen? Spray-painted penises on? Though the way I hear it, you’ve long moved past your penis graffiti stage.”
Stiles’ arms and his jaw go immediately slack, all rational thought gone, because a) his mom knows about his unofficial criminal record, and b) his mom just said “penis.” Twice. “You know?”
“Sweetie, I didn’t stop having friends in the sheriff’s office after your father… after he was killed. I have lunch with Janice all the time.”
Janice is the ancient receptionist that Stiles blows kisses to whenever he’s brought to the station. Suddenly, something slots into place in his brain and he feels incredibly childish for not having known: his mom has a life. She doesn’t just work and cook and fret about Stiles. She has friends she goes to lunch with while Stiles is out destroying things. “But… if you knew…”
Now Stiles’ mom looks away, flushing with shame, and Stiles just keeps finding lower and lower emotional depths to sink to. “That’s why I need to apologize. After all those therapists didn’t work, after you were kicked off the lacrosse team, I didn’t know what to do. I thought anything I said would make it worse, make you want to rebel even more. You weren’t hurting anyone and you were still managing to pass your classes, if only barely, so I guess I thought… I thought you just needed to get the anger out of your system.”
And there it is - almost the exact words Derek had used the day they met. “I think…” Stiles starts, his throat desert-dry. “I think it might have finally worked its way out.”
Stiles’ mom looks alarmed, but she doesn’t let go of his arms. “I know I’ve never said this before, but you’ve been really brave today, so… I want you to tell me. Everything. I won’t… well, I can’t promise I won’t get angry, but I need to know.”
Stiles nods, and he’s surprised to find that he does want to talk. “There’s… there’s this cop. Officer Hale.”
“Derek Hale?”
“You know about him?”
“Honey, every woman - and a good number of the men - working for or around the sheriff’s office knows about Derek Hale. I didn’t know you knew about Derek Hale, though.” She looks suddenly suspicious. “You two aren’t-”
“No, nothing like that!” Stiles yelps. Not outside my head, he doesn’t add. There’s another talk he needs to have with his mom, but that definitely needs to wait for another day. “He’s just been… looking out for me, I guess? He said everyone on the force was treating me differently because… because of Dad, and he wasn’t going to do that. So he’s been, like, trying to stop me from doing stuff. And making sure I get in trouble if I actually do it.”
“I see,” his mom says evenly. “That explains the fines.”
Stiles soldiers on into the worst of it. “But I didn’t know until yesterday about the fire. I mean, I sort of remember Dad talking about a fire, but I didn’t know it was the Hales who… I didn’t know it was Derek’s family.”
Stiles’ mom nods. “It was awful. Your dad was one of the first ones on the scene, but there was nothing he could do. He was there when Derek got home from school and saw the fire. Derek was… he must have been about your age then, maybe a little younger. Your father just felt terrible for him and his sister, but especially Derek. He kept saying how horrible it would be if it were his own- Oh.”
And Stiles doesn’t even have to say there was this picture or it’s not fair or that should have been me because his mom just knows, somehow. Maybe it’s a mom thing, or maybe it’s a Mrs. Stilinski thing - Stiles really should have been paying better attention all this time.
“I kind of… baited him today,” Stiles says to the floor, because he can’t look his mom in the eye. “And I said some stuff… some really terrible stuff. On purpose.”
“Well, then you’ll apologize for it.”
That makes Stiles look up in shock. “Mom!”
“Exactly. It’s time for me to start being a mom. And you don’t have to tell me what you said, because I know exactly how sharp that tongue of yours can be, but you will apologize to Officer Hale.”
“Mom, I…” Stiles feels a hot flush start to rise up his neck. “I don’t think I can look him in the face again. Ever. Also, he has a gun.”
“There’s this fancy new invention I believe you’re aware of, since you have one in your back pocket. It’s called the telephone. I’m told nearly everyone has one these days.”
The hint of a smile playing at her mouth finally makes Stiles’ heart begin to descend from where it had lodged in his throat. “I don’t know, I was thinking more along the lines of a telegram. Or the Pony Express. Are there still carrier pigeons?”
The smile breaks full across her face, but her eyes are unwavering. “Joke about it all you want, as long as you do it. And Janine can tell me whether or not she’s patched you through.”
Fuck, she’s actually really good at this “mom” thing. Why that’s what finally makes Stiles’ eyes well with tears, he doesn’t know, but he does put his arms around her again and hold her tight. “I love you, too. I know I’ve been a really bad son, but I love you.”
“You’ve never been a bad son. I’ll admit I’m biased, but I’m also the only one qualified to make that call. You’re too smart by half, you’re angry and you’re lonely and you’re in pain, but you’re not bad. You never were.”
Stiles buries his stupid, watery smile against his mom’s hair. “So you don’t think I’m a fuck-up?”
“No, but don’t think I won’t wash your mouth out with soap, young man. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
Continue to part two.