Chapter Text
Stiles whipped his car into the Stilinski driveway and hopped out. He made a beeline for the front door while fiddling with his phone. He had spent his last class of the day mapping out coffee shops on the road between Beacon Hills and Eureka because taking a road trip and getting caught short of caffeine was just irresponsible. As he made his way from the driveway to the front door, he was perusing places to eat near the theater in Eureka for the trip tomorrow. He had just pulled up the menu of a promising shawarma restaurant in Eureka as he stepped through the door. He threw his backpack on the floor as usual.
“Hey, dad,” he yelled, coming through the door, assuming his father would either be upstairs or in his study.
“Hello, Stiles,” his father answered from his chair in the living room, just a few feet away.
Stiles looked up with a smile that quickly went slack. His father sat in his recliner; Derek sat on the sofa. Wait. Derek. On the sofa. In his house. Both were looking at him. His stomach lurched. He slowly lowered his phone.
Struggling to maintain at least a little composure, Stiles said, “Hey...Derek. What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Stiles,” Derek said evenly.
“What...are you doing here?” he repeated uncertainly.
“Derek dropped by to have a little chat with me,” his father said, his face unreadable.
“Really?” Stiles hedged, “What about?” Stiles had a sinking feeling.
“We were just talking about this trip you have planned for tomorrow. I don’t believe you mentioned that.”
“Oh, the trip?” Stiles palmed the back of his neck. ”Uh right, the trip. I, uh, didn’t mention that? Huh, I guess it just slipped my mind.” Stiles eyed his father warily, trying to assess the damage. He couldn’t tell exactly how much trouble he was in. ”You’re sure I didn’t mention that?” Stiles tried.
“It seems to me,” the sheriff said casually, “that you mentioned spending all day at Scott’s tomorrow. Something about a Halo marathon.”
“Yeah?” Stiles was failing miserably at covering.
“Yes,” his father said succinctly, going in for the kill.
“Oh right, the marathon. Right. Yeah, that got canceled. Scott, um, had some things to do.” Stiles was struggling mightily to get his groove back. ”Yeah, you know Scott, some paper that’s due Monday and he hasn’t done anything on it yet. So yeah, he’s definitely tied up tomorrow.” Stiles knew he wasn’t pulling this off very well, but Stilinskis aren’t quitters. ”And since Scott was busy and Derek needed some company on the drive, I figured I’d tag along. Right, Derek?”
Stiles looked beseechingly at Derek, who raised a single eyebrow but didn’t say a thing. Thanks, buddy.
“You know, it’s a long drive to Eureka and we wouldn’t want Derek falling asleep at the wheel or anything,” Stiles prattled on, pissed at Derek for not jumping in and helping bail him out. ”So kind of a win-win, what with you working all day tomorrow and me otherwise on my own. It’s really kind of lucky that things turned out the way they did, don’t ya think, Dad? I was reading the other day that something like forty percent of single-car accidents are caused by drivers falling asleep. Wouldn’t want that to happen to Derek here, would we? Safety first, like you’re always saying. And you know, we’ll be back early. Before dark, right Derek? So it’s all good. Glad it worked out like this. It takes a village to...go to a movie. Or, well, you get the idea.” Even Stiles was willing to admit that this was not going well. Maybe it was time for some forthrightness, something he generally reserved only for emergencies. “So...you’re good with the trip, Dad? No objections on your part, I assume, since you wouldn’t want to endanger Derek’s life by making him drive all alone with nothing but his thoughts for company.”
Stiles’ father -- and Derek, the traitor -- remained silent. The sheriff’s gaze stayed locked on Stiles. ”I think maybe Derek would like something to drink, wouldn’t you, Derek?” his father said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Derek started to say something, but the sheriff cut him off. ”Yes, that’s what I thought. Stiles, why don’t you get Derek a soda? I think I’ll have a beer.”
“Right. Sure. You bet, Dad. Derek, can you give me a hand in the kitchen?”
“No, Derek and I aren’t quite finished with our talk. You go get things started. We’ll be there in a minute.” His father was using his I’ve-got-you-now voice. Stiles hated that voice.
“Um. Sure,” Stiles said, not at all sure. ”I’ll just be…out here…in the kitchen. So. Yeah. Kitchen,” he finished weakly as he slunk to the other room.
He tried to eavesdrop on what the two of them were saying, but all he could catch were some murmurs. His dad was doing most of the talking but Derek was speaking occasionally, also in low tones. Damn them both!
At last, the sheriff made his way into the kitchen with an arm slung over Derek’s shoulders. Derek looked almost cowed. Decidedly un-alpha-like.
The bottle of beer and glass of soda sat on the kitchen table, waiting for them. They sat down and his father leaned back, taking a long slug of his beer and hooking one elbow on the back of the chair. Derek sat very straight in his chair, took a sip of his soda, and put the glass back down.
Stiles had had enough. ”All right, Dad, you’ve had your fun. So what’s the verdict? Do I get to go or not?”
His dad looked at Stiles with the slightest smile. ”I think Derek and I have come to an understanding.” The sheriff cut his eyes toward Derek. ”Would you say that’s right, Derek?”
Derek nodded slightly, “Yes, sir.”
Stiles was finding this meek version of Derek unsettling.
“There you go, Stiles,” his father smiled smugly. ”Derek took a novel approach to this. Honesty. You should try it sometime.”
His father hoisted himself out of the chair and ambled back toward the living room. ”If you boys will excuse me, I think there’s a game on TV that’s about to start.”
Stiles did not like the self-satisfied spring in his father’s step, but he mostly just felt relief as he collapsed into the closest kitchen chair.
Sounds of a baseball game drifted in from the living room. Stiles noted that the volume was lower than his father usually kept it. Great, he was trying to listen in on their conversation.
Stiles looked over at Derek. ”What the hell were you thinking?” he began in a furious whisper. Derek started to speak but Stiles cut him off. ”Oh it’s fine,” Stiles dismissed. “Rookie mistake. I’m just glad it worked out. But Jesus, Derek, if you want to know how to handle my father, give me a heads up and I’ll give you some pointers. That man,” he made a vague gesture toward the living room, “is wily.”
Derek looked at Stiles. ”Wily? He’s just looking out for you –”
“Oh, never mind,” Stiles was still rattled from the whole situation. ”So we’re still set? Tomorrow at ten?”
“Yes, Stiles, we’re set.” Derek’s eyes softened a little, his eyebrows relaxing a fraction from his chronic frowny-brows. He seemed to remember himself and uttered, “Idiot.” But Stiles thought there was a little warmth there. Maybe. There could be. Derek’s eyes shifted to his glass, as if uncomfortable. He took another sip and set the glass down.
With that, Derek stood up and headed to the living room, Stiles trailing behind. Derek made his way toward the door but stopped to look at the game that had just gotten underway. Derek exchanged a few words with the sheriff about the game and baseball in general, talking stats and drafts and other unfathomably arcane things about the game. How the hell does Derek know anything about baseball? Stiles drifted a bit and may have pictured Derek in a baseball uniform, with those tight white pants and the muscles and the showering afterward and….” Okay, just stop. Damn this ADD and overactive imagination. Damn Derek Hale and his ridiculously tight jeans and baseball knowledge.
This Derek-Dad bonding was getting far too cozy for Stiles’ taste and he certainly didn’t need to be popping a boner with his dad right here. He needed Derek out of the house yesterday. Who knew what kind of damage Derek had already wrought by showing up here? Stiles was still having trouble wrapping his mind around the idea of Derek and his father sitting and talking about anything. And he was pretty sure baseball was not the topic of discussion before he showed up. Stiles did his best to shoo Derek toward the door, but werewolves do not shoo easily.
At last, Derek said his goodbyes to the sheriff and stepped outside. On the porch, Derek turned and looked like he was going to say something to Stiles, but Stiles shut the door firmly with a quick “See ya.” He breathed a sigh of relief, his back against the door.
Stiles hovered in the living room, waiting to see if the shit was really going to hit the fan now that Derek was gone. After a few minutes, his father glanced up at him. ”Stiles?”
“Dad,” Stiles rejoined.
“Anything you want to add?” his father asked, still looking far too smug for Stiles’ liking.
“No, Dad.” He paused. ”So...we’re all good here? No post-visit lectures. Just. That’s it?”
“Lectures?” his dad asked. “Are you needing a lecture, Son?” Oh, this man was milking it. ”A lecture about lying to me? Or about planning out-of-town trips without asking me? Or about trusting me with...whatever you need to trust me with?”
Stiles’ mouth opened to reply, but nothing came to him. ”No, Dad, I think I’m good.”
His father eyed him for a moment. ”Stiles, it’s getting close to dinner time. Shall we order something?”
“What?” Stiles started. Wow, he was more on edge than he’d even realized.
“Yeah, dinner, of course. I could make something, but yeah, if you want to order out, that’s fine.”
“Hey,” his father said magnanimously, “it’s Friday night. I think pizza’s in order. Whaddaya say, Stiles?”
“Pizza,” Stiles was still unnerved, but was starting to relax. ”Sure, pizza. Veggie or veggie deluxe? It’s Friday night, like you said.” Stiles made his way to the stack of take-out menus they kept by the phone, “What’ll it be?”
“Hmm,” his father seemed to ponder the question. ”I think I’m in the mood for something a little more substantial tonight,” he said, taking another swig of beer.
“Okay,” Stiles said. ”So deluxe, then?”
“I think the meat lover’s super-deluxe sounds about right,” his father said. “Large,” he added.
“The meat –” Stiles looked horrified. ”Dad, you can’t –” Stiles hesitated, realizing what game his father was playing. ”You bastard!” Stiles blurted out.
“Stiles, language,” his father said mildly. ”Now, did you want to order or did you want me to?”
Stiles furrowed his brow, looking at his father. ”Stiles?” his father asked again, all innocence, a smug smile tugging at his mouth.
“I’ll do it,” Stiles snapped, turning back toward the phone and muttering as his father turned the volume up on the television.
“What’s that, Stiles? I didn’t catch that last bit,” his father purred.
“Nothing,” Stiles bit back what he wanted to say and slouched into the chair by the phone. As Stiles was placed on hold, he couldn’t help a grudging admiration for his father. Stiles wasn’t used to being outmaneuvered like this.
He blamed Derek for all of it. And yes, there would be words about this.
Turning back to the thought of the inevitable high-cholesterol pizza, he sighed. He was going to have to insist on salads all week. With kale. Even Stiles didn’t like kale.
Derek Hale was going to have to do some serious explaining about what all this had been about.