Chapter Text
One of the things Stiles knows he’s going to miss most once he’s left home is the ability to make sure his father is eating properly. He supposes that there are some deep-seated psychological issues involved in this that he might want to address some day. Until that day, however, he’s content to wave to Sandy and then march down the hallway of the police station to drop a brown paper bag on his desk. “You forgot this,” he says to his father, who’s leafing through a folder full of papers. “My feelings are hurt.”
Sheriff Stilinski doesn’t even look up. “Do I at least get peanut butter with those awful celery sticks?”
“I’ll have you know that there is no celery in this lunch whatsoever,” Stiles says, smug.
Now he does look up, slow and suspicious. “What is in it?”
“A sandwich. And a bag of chips. Okay, they’re those baked Sun Chips that you hate, but still, they are chips and I feel as though I should get some credit for that.”
Tom considers this from all angles and decides that it’s covered in mouse traps. “So, your grandmother called this morning.”
“Yeah?” Stiles asks. He doesn’t have to ask which one. His mother’s mother died when she was a little girl, so he only has one grandmother. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” He leans back and away from his desk for a few moments, then slaps the folder shut to shield it from prying eyes before he continues, resuming his semi-relaxed posture. “They’ve bought an RV and are planning a road trip.”
“Oh, that sounds like fun,” Stiles says, with a note of confusion in his voice, like he’s not exactly sure why they’re having this conversation.
“One of their first stops is going to be to come visit us,” Tom says. After a pause, he adds, “No, we can’t make it to Mexico.”
“Mexi . . .” Stiles stares at him, face blank of expression for a few moments as it sinks in. “Grandma and Grandpa are coming here? To Beacon Hills? Home of all that is supernatural and bizarre? They’re coming here?”
“Yep. In their RV. To our house. Here. In Beacon Hills.”
For once, Stiles is speechless. His mouth moves soundlessly for a few moments before he blurts out, “Why?!”
“Because we haven’t seen each other in a while, Stiles. Because . . . your hair is longer and my mother cut hers off and they’re getting older, and . . .” Tom waves a hand in despair. “And God has it out for us.”
“Gee, you know what else has changed since the last time they were here?” Stiles asks in exasperation, letting his eyes flare crimson. “I can think of a few things!”
“I don’t think we’ll be telling them about that part, kid.” Tom sits up and starts swatting at Stiles with the file.
“Why don’t we just go visit them?” Stiles asks. “You know, you and me and not a pack of werewolves, like we did last time?”
“Because now they live in an RV.”
“Well – ” Stiles sputters. “Why did you tell them it was okay?”
“Stiles, son, explain to me the familial relationship of the people involved in this situation,” Tom says, making a circular motion with his fingers.
“Yes, okay, they’re your parents, but, but you could have come up with some excuse, like, the bubonic plague or constant tectonic shifts or the fact that I still haven’t mastered those weird traditional cabbage rolls that make you gag and I can’t pronounce the name of, or anything other than, ‘sure, come visit the town where things are always trying to kill us’!”
His father holds up a hand and unfolds a finger with each counter-point he makes, mimicking his mother’s accent. “There’s a cure for that now, Tom.” The next finger goes up. “We lived in San Francisco twenty years, we aren’t afraid of earthquakes.” Another finger. “If Przemysław is still having trouble with traditional Polish dishes, he clearly needs help with them.” Last but not least. “Son, are you trying to make excuses? What are you trying to hide? Don’t forget we raised you!”
Stiles chokes and gags and dramatically falls to the floor, knocking over a chair on his way by. “Oh God – powers weakening – Kryptonite has been deployed – alpha down, repeat, alpha down – ”
Sheriff Stilinski stands up, braces his hands on the desk, and leans over it to peer at where Stiles is writhing on the floor. “Does this mean I can use your real first name any time you’re being a pain in the ass and then just drag you around by your shirt?”
“Wow, Dad, rude,” Stiles says, popping back up like a jack-in-the-box. “You don’t dare. Do you know why you don’t dare? Because Przemysław was some famous Polish king. And Lydia is bound to know that. So unless you want a detailed lesson on thirteenth century Polish politics . . .”
“I might be willing to put up with it if I got the joy of calling your bluff.” Tom sits back down and pulls out his sandwich.
Stiles makes a face at him. “Okay, well . . . as long as I have some notice, I’ll figure something out. The pack might just have to do without me for a week or so.”
“I don’t think they’ll have to do without you completely. You are allowed to have friends. And a boyfriend. Which would be the easiest way to explain Derek.”
“Yeah, I . . . hope that won’t be a problem,” Stiles says, wincing. “Anyway, you’re giving the pack way too much credit for being able to act normal. You know what Logan said about us this past autumn? That we sniffed our food before we ate it. Plus we’re all . . . touchy-feely. And I think it’d be easier to just not be around each other than to try to curb that behavior.”
“No, it’s not going to be a problem. Derek, I mean.” His parents might be old-fashioned about some things, but were fairly progressive on most social issues. “Maybe we could practice. I could watch out for things that give you away,” he suggests, knowing that no one will be happy if Stiles has to cut off contact with the pack, even if it’s only for a few days.
“Maybe.” Stiles gives a sigh. “I’ll talk to the others and see what they think.”
“Let me know,” he says. He takes a bite of his sandwich. His mouth stops moving after the third chew.
Stiles shoots to his feet. “Okay! So, I’m gonna go – ”
Sheriff Stilinski points to Stiles with a jabbing finger, and then points down at the chair. The message is clear. Sit, or the real name will make a reappearance. He chews. He swallows. Stiles sits. “Stiles, what in god’s name are you trying to feed me?”
“It’s a sandwich,” Stiles says, slowly and carefully.
“Filled with . . . what is this?” He’s identified the vegetables. Carrots, cucumber, all very par for the course.
“Tofu,” Stiles says brightly. “Roasted tofu. I had some leftover after I was making stir-fry for Mac.”
“Okay.” Tom puts on his reasonable tone. “Why is it in my sandwich and not her sandwich?”
With a smug look on his face, Stiles says, “Tofu has been proven to lower cholesterol and lower the risk of cancer. It’s a great source of calcium and vitamin E – ”
“Not in my case. Do you know why?”
Stiles gives him a suspicious look. “Why?”
“Because,” he says, rising from his chair and heading for the door to the office, “it gives me no choice but to head towards the vending machine and buy a bag of normal chips to have as an alternative lunch.”
“Whoa, whoa, I put chips in your lunch,” Stiles says, hastening to block his way out of the office.
“No. You put those weird baked pieces of cardboard in my lunch.” Tom edges around his son, using his larger body mass to his advantage. “Which I was willing to put up with, with a minimum of complaining, token complaining really, while I was getting real sandwiches.” He squeezes out into the hallway. “Now all bets are off.”
Stiles grabs him by the elbow. “Those are real sandwiches, anything with two pieces of bread and a filling is a sandwich, look it up.”
Tom marches forward, towing Stiles along. “There’s a difference between a dictionary meaning and a colloquial meaning. A real sandwich has meat in it. Or eggs. I would accept eggs.”
“Tofu is a good source of protein, and, and I put avocado on it, you like avocado.”
“I do like avocado,” he acknowledges. “I also like it with turkey, which I know is on the approved meats list.”
Stiles makes a face. “Yeah, but . . . who the fuck else is going to eat all this tofu?”
“Mac?” he asks.
“She’s told me if I put any more tofu on her plate, she’ll riot,” Stiles says. “No chips, Dad, come onnnnnn, I’ll bring you a turkey sandwich or something.”
Tom gives the vending machine a mournful look, like he knew it in a past life. “Let’s go to Jimmy John’s. We can negotiate my sandwich on the way.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Sheriff Stilinski arrives home from his shift early, around four PM, wishing that his work for the day was over. Unfortunately, a lot has happened since the ill-fated sandwich, and he’s absolutely sure that the next hour or so is going to be the worst of the day. He takes off his gun and puts it away in the safe before moving on to the living room to find Stiles.
The pack has gotten so large that it’s rare to find them all in one place anywhere except the den. There just isn’t room for them to all crash in the Stilinski living room anymore. That doesn’t stop them from trying occasionally, and today is one of those days. That means there are teenagers everywhere, and it’s loud and chaotic. Isaac, Boyd and Erica are clustered around the television, playing video games. Scott and Allison are sort of watching, but mostly just canoodling on the sofa. Danny and Mac are in a corner with one of their laptops, quibbling over some computer-related thing that Stilinski knows would go over his head. The others are doing their homework, Lydia occasionally reminding everyone that they’re being altogether too loud as she tutors Jake through his chemistry while doing her own calculus. Surprisingly, Stiles is doing his homework as well, while Derek is sitting on the floor with his cheek resting against Stiles’ calf, sketching.
“Hi, Papa Stilinski,” ten different voices chorus, with one “hey Dad” thrown in for good measure.
“Hey, kids,” he says, and smiles, seeing them all crammed into the living room, cheerful and happy. He remembers vividly that only a few years ago, Scott was the only other teenager to ever grace the inside of their home. It’s noisy and messy, but it’s nice. He likes this.
Then he remembers why he’s home early. “Derek, I need to borrow your head rest for a bit.”
Both Stiles and Derek look up. Several of the others look over as well, sensing subtle shifts in Sheriff Stilinski’s scent and heart rate that indicate something is up. Stiles pops up from his chair without waiting for Derek to say anything. “Sure,” he says.
Tom heads out to the back deck with Stiles on his heels, making sure the door is shut behind them. It’s possible that one of the wolves could overhear them, but they’d have to put in effort, and going outside is a tacit request for privacy, so they won’t. He sits down at the patio table and glances up at Stiles. Under normal circumstances, he would ask Stiles to sit down, but generally speaking, Stiles needs to move. Even under the best circumstances, he’s fidgety. “It’s about one of the others,” he says, figuring it’s best to put that out in front. “But given that werewolf packs aren’t the rest of the world, I thought I should talk to you first.”
“Great.” Stiles huffs out a breath. “Just get it over with,” he adds, with a flapping hand gesture.
Sheriff Stilinski nods once. “Isaac’s father was found dead today.”
“Oh, geez.” Stiles bites his lip. “Okay. Uh. Do you have any idea who killed him?”
“As far as we can tell, no one and nothing. He was found collapsed in his living room. No struggle, no violence, no sign of forced entry. Nothing was taken and nothing was out of place. It looks like he probably had a heart attack or something.”
“Well, he was a pretty high-stress guy.” Stiles vigorously rubs both hands over the back of his head. “Okay. The fact that my brain skipped straight to murder probably means . . . that I’ve lived my life. Never mind. Ugh. Poor Isaac.”
“Yeah. Because he still loves his dad. Do you want to be here when I tell him?”
“I think I should be,” Stiles says. He really has no idea how Isaac will react to this news, but he knows that he’ll need comforting, one way or another. “I might not understand Isaac’s relationship with his dad, but . . . I know what it’s like to lose a parent, so . . . I’ll go get him.”
He jogs back inside, and Isaac looks up from the television when Stiles calls his name. He blinks once. “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it. I was framed.”
“Yes, Derek has framed all of us several times, it’s an art thing,” Stiles says, completely unable to resist the stupid pun. Everyone in the pack groans. “C’mon, my dad doesn’t bite, he’s not the werewolf here.”
Isaac nods and climbs to his feet, handing the game controller off to Boyd. “That’s not making me any less worried,” he says, but follows Stiles anyway. Stiles starts to shut the door into the house behind them, but then changes his mind, leaving it ajar. Isaac won’t notice, and it’ll be easier for everyone if the others ‘overhear’ this conversation, so Isaac won’t have to talk about it.
Sheriff Stilinski looks up as Isaac nervously sinks into the chair across from him. Beacon Hills is a small enough town that it’s not often that he has to break news about the death of a loved one, but it never gets any easier. He knows that the best thing to do is to say it as simply as possible. Complicating things only confuses them. “Isaac,” he says, as Stiles leans against the railing a few feet away, not crowding them. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your father is dead.”
Isaac just stares blankly at the sheriff for a moment, then looks down, his palms rubbing nervously over his thighs. He looks back up. “I’m sorry, what?” He licks his lips a little and then adds hastily, “Not . . . that I didn’t hear you or, uh, or understand, but uh, what?”
“I can’t give you a lot of detail right now,” Tom says gently. “His body was found this morning. He was due at the cemetery and didn’t show, so . . . it looks like he probably had a heart attack or a stroke, there are a lot of possibilities right now, and we’ll know more after the autopsy, which is scheduled for tomorrow morning. But there wasn’t any evidence of foul play, so it was probably natural causes.”
Isaac nods and sniffles, then rubs the knuckles of one hand under his eye and then his nose before nodding again. “Okay.”
“I’ll keep you posted as soon as I hear something,” Tom says, reaching over the table to give Isaac’s shoulder a firm squeeze.
Another nod. “Thanks,” he says, and stands slowly.
Now Stiles is at his elbow. “I know ‘are you okay’ is a stupid question, so, you know . . . is there anything I can do? Anything you want to do? That would help?”
“I don’t know what would help,” Isaac says. “Can we just go . . . go back in? Maybe watch a movie?”
Stiles can tell that Isaac desperately wants to bury himself in the comfort of pack right now. “Sure,” he says, getting a hand on Isaac’s elbow both to comfort and to steady him as they head back inside. He looks over his shoulder at his father and gives him a reassuring, ‘I’ve got this’ nod as they head inside. The rest of the pack is all sitting in some uneasy silence, having heard the basics and not knowing what to say.
Isaac just starts grabbing random people on his way to the sofa so he has people to curl up with. He doesn’t seem to notice or care who. It doesn’t seem like picking out the movie or even watching it are high on his list of priorities either. Stiles goes over to the shelf of DVDs and skims quickly for something stupid and funny with no parental problems. (One wouldn’t think it would be a problem, and yet, Disney movies would be an extremely bad idea right now. The Lion King would be the worst.) “Leave some room for me over there,” he says to the pack, grabbing Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Isaac nods and takes up a small space, knees pulled up underneath his chin and arms around his shins. If people squish him in, all the better.
~ ~ ~ ~
They all wind up sleeping in a pile in the Stilinski living room, because nobody wants to move once they’ve gotten comfortable. They order Chinese food for dinner. Stiles has discovered that Jake has an amazing talent for organization, and he’s quickly been deemed the pack secretary. Whereas before it would have taken them half an hour to figure out what to order, Jake has everything saved into his phone and can place an order in under two minutes. Stiles is thinking about all the ways this skill might serve them well in the future. It’s a shame, he thinks, that Henry and Rose were so set on turning him into a fighter. He would be an excellent hunter – just not in the way they wanted him to be.
Stiles is glad he managed to get some solid sleep, since it’s probably going to be a long day. Isaac is still obviously upset about his father’s death, and Stiles wants to stay near him as much as possible. That’s a little awkward, since they only share two classes, but he can make an effort. He can try to at least intercept him in the halls between each class just to check on him.
“I’ll be fine,” Isaac tells him.
“Of course you will be,” Stiles says. “See you in fifty-two minutes.”
Isaac rolls his eyes a little but doesn’t protest, and even waits outside the class afterwards so Stiles can catch up with him. Their next class is together, and then he heads off to French while Stiles goes to his history class. Allison and Boyd can keep him company there.
He has to stop at his locker to grab what he needs for calculus, but he still finds Isaac standing outside the French classroom, chatting with Allison. They have their next class together, along with Scott and Danny, and it’s just down the hall. Just as he reaches them, he hears a voice shout, “Hey, Stilinski!” and he turns, Derek automatically moving between him and whatever might be a threat.
But it isn’t a threat, it’s just a classmate, Matt Daehler. He snaps a quick photograph of Stiles and probably gets a great expression of confusion on his face. Isaac, behind him, ducks his head so he won’t lens flare the camera to death. “What was that for, asshole?” Stiles asks, laughing. “Aren’t you yearbook guys done taking your candids yet?”
“Two more weeks until deadline,” Matt says. “I’ve got to get a few more of you two, McCall, and Mahealani for the lacrosse spread. Missed you last semester.”
“Right,” Stiles says. “Everyone missed us.”
Matt just rolls his eyes a little, then says to Isaac, “Heard about your dad, man. Sorry.”
“Yeah,” Isaac says, and then adds, “Thanks.”
“You know, since it’s the off-season, the yearbook staff could use some help,” Matt adds. “There’s always a lot of last minute stuff to get, with the prom and that kind of thing. I’d, uh, I’d ask you, Allison, but you’ll be busy, right? Since you’re a shoo-in for prom queen.”
Allison blushes prettily and says, “No, don’t even say that! Everyone knows it’ll be Lydia.”
“Geez, in that case I should run for prom king just so she doesn’t get stuck with Jackson,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.
Allison laughs. “She won’t mind. Even though they broke up over two years ago, she’s still always figured that they’d be prom king and queen together.”
Since Jackson and Lydia are on better terms than they used to be, in that they’re actually speaking to one another again, Stiles supposes that it isn’t his place to interfere. Lydia can take care of herself, that much is true. And Stiles has no actual desire to be prom anything. He’ll go, of course, and he’ll take Erica as his date, or maybe he’ll go stag and let Boyd and Isaac escort Erica, or hell, maybe he’ll get Derek to put on a tuxedo and go with him. That might be entertaining, if only to see the look on his classmates’ faces.
“So how about it?” Matt says. “Yearbook staff? Allison?”
“Sorry, I wouldn’t have time,” she says.
“I could maybe help out,” Isaac says. “I hate running track while Finstock shouts at us anyway. I don’t know one end of a camera from another, but there’s probably something I could do.”
“Cool. Catch you after school?” Matt asks, glancing up as the warning bell rings.
“Sure,” Isaac says, and they head off to their next class.
“Do you two know each other?” Stiles asks curiously. He’s seen Matt around, but he’s always just been one of those faces in a crowd. They’ve rarely been in classes together, and don’t do any of the same extra-curriculars, so they’ve always run in different circles.
“We were friends in elementary school and the first year or so of junior high,” Isaac says. “We both liked comic books. But we just sort of lost touch with each other. He used to come over a lot, but I think my dad scared him, and I wasn’t allowed over to other people’s houses, so . . .”
“He’s a little . . .” Allison’s obviously searching for a tactful word. “Overzealous.”
“Is that your way of saying that you’ll mace him if he keeps hitting on you?” Stiles asks, amused. It’s more-than-common knowledge that Scott and Allison are an item in the most committed of ways. They’re probably going to be in that yearbook as ‘most likely to produce beautiful babies together’. No one has bothered to try to flirt with Allison in the last year and a half.
“His concept of boundaries could use a little work,” Allison agrees, waving over her shoulder as she heads to class.
“She’s right, but . . .” Isaac shrugs. “I don’t know. Matt was my friend. And he’s kind of a loner. Like, you know, the rest of us.”
“Well, do your yearbook stuff, have him over some time,” Stiles says. “Maybe he’ll make a good fit.”
~ ~ ~ ~