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"Beacon County Sheriff’s Department," a gruff voice answers.
Stiles stops and looks at the phone in surprise, still bouncing Hannah on one hip. That…is definitely not his dad. Fuck. He must have accidentally called the station instead of his dad’s personal line. Again.
"Uhm. Hi," he says lamely.
There’s a pregnant pause before the voice on the other end says, “Hello.”
"Can you patch me through to Sheriff Stilinski?" he tries. He doesn’t immediately recognize the voice, but there’s a good chance he’s met whoever it is at least once.
Another pause. “Is this an emergency?”
Yes, Stiles wants to say, but he’s not exactly sure how to justify needing his dad’s patented diaper rash remedy as an emergency. Hannah’s rash isn’t even that bad, but Scott’s been calling him every half hour to ask him to check on it, and drop totally unsubtle hints about how his mom said the sheriff might be able to help.
"Kind of," he settles on. "Uh. What’s your name?"
There’s a huff, like the guy on the other end is losing his patience, which, rude. “My name is Deputy Hale. What’s the problem, sir?”
God. Damn. Of course, Stiles would call his dad about fucking diaper rash and end up talking to the hottest deputy on the force. Possibly the hottest human being in Beacon Hills, or maybe even the world.
There is no way Stiles can tell him why he called. You cannot be sexy and talk about diaper rash. It just can’t happen.
Hannah chooses that moment to start fussing again and Stiles pins the phone between his ear and shoulder, reaching down to grab her favorite stuffed giraffe from her crib and dance it in front of her face before she can work herself up any more.
"Is that a baby?" Derek asks, suddenly sounding alert and more than a little suspicious.
Stiles rolls his eyes, exasperated—can clearly picture the way his eyebrows are furrowing. “Yes, it’s a baby. Chill out, I swear this isn’t, like, a ransom call or anything.”
He cringes as soon as the words are out of his mouth, opens his mouth to backtrack, but the deputy is already sharply asking—
"What did you say your name was?"
"Stiles!" he squeaks out. "I’m Stiles! Stiles Stilinski? I’m, I swear to you I’m not a kidnapper, I just need to talk to my dad! We’ve actually met before, I don’t know if you remember, it was at the company picnic. You glared at me because I dropped a hot dog on your shoe!" He looks at Hannah in a panic, trying to telepathically tell her to shut him the fuck up—why is he telling the hot dog story?! That was the most embarrassing moment of his 22 years of living—but she just blinks up at him angelically and chews on the giraffe’s tail.
"Um—" Derek says and Stiles blurts out: "I have diaper rash!" and then promptly wants to kill himself.
There’s a long moment of awful, terrible silence, where Stiles can’t do anything but stand there in complete horror.
"My mom used oatmeal," Derek says suddenly and then there’s a click and a beep and his dad’s answering the phone.
"Beacon County Sheriff’s Department."
Stiles seriously considers hanging up, but the wine is seeping further and further into his carpet with every second wasted, so: “You wouldn’t happen to know how to get red stains out of carpet would you?”
"Excuse me?" Derek asks, clearly taken aback.
"Stains? Carpet? I’m gonna get in so much trouble if this doesn’t come out—can you patch me through to the sheriff?"
Derek splutters wordlessly for a second and Stiles actually groans and slaps a hand to his own forehead.
"Fuck, fuck—this is Stiles again, if you couldn’t tell. Sheriff’s son. Still not sure if you know who I am because I definitely waved at you last time I was at the station and you just stared at me—"
"I know who you are," Derek tells him, sounding winded.
"—I am absolutely 100% not trying to clean up blood, I spilled wine everywhere and—”
"Try club soda and salt," Derek tells him, voice suddenly smooth and commanding. Fuck. That’s his cop voice. That’s his take charge of the situation voice. Stiles doesn’t even have time to fully appreciate it because he’s scrambling across the room to find a bottle.
By the time he gets back to the phone, Derek’s already connected him with his father.
"Beacon Country Sheriff’s Department."
God fucking damn it.
There’s a shocked silence and Stiles’s heart drops to his stomach. “Shit. Did I say that out loud?” he groans plaintively.
"Stiles?" Deputy Hale asks cautiously, and even though Stiles feels a flush of pleasure from the fact that Derek recognizes his voice now, he’s mostly still miserable.
"Dude, I am seriously so sorry. Apparently, I just need to delete the station number from my phone.”
"Need to talk to your dad again?" Derek asks.
"Yeah," Stiles says, rubbing a hand through his hair. "He forgot to give me the number for a grass supplier."
"A grass supplier," Derek repeats.
"Yeah, you know. One who supplies grass to those in need of it." He sighs, looks out the window at his barren backyard. "I need a few bags of it. Maybe just some big squares. Does grass come in squares?"
"Um," Derek says. "I don’t. Your dad was—?”
"Oh my God,” Stiles interrupts, mouth dropping open. “I didn’t mean—this sounds—I’m redoing my backyard and I need grass.”
"Oh—"
"Like actual grass! I’m not starting a marijuana farm, or like meeting a drug dealer, I. Seriously. This is just—why does this keep happening to me?"
It’s quiet on the other end of the line, save for a few weird noises that Stiles can’t exactly place through his haze of humiliation—but then it clicks. Derek is laughingat him.
"Are you—do you think this is funny?” he demands, and Derek snorts. Stiles finds it extremely strange because he’s never even seen the guy crack a smile. He bets it’s a beautiful sight. “This is so embarrassing, I can’t believe you’re laughing.”
"Do you do this on purpose?" Derek asks him and Stiles buries his face in his hands.
"No," he groans. "No, I don’t know why this always happens to me. I promise I’m not actually a criminal.”
"I didn’t think you were," Derek tells him. And then: "I figured you didn’t actually have a diaper rash either." It almost sounds like he’s teasing. Stiles can’t handle this.
"Oh God, don’t remind me. I can’t believe I actually said that. That was not my finest moment.”
"Was it worse than the hot dog incident?" Derek asks and—
"You do remember that,” he sighs. Derek makes an amused noise of affirmation. “Well. Just one more thing to add to my list of utter humiliation.”
"Don’t be humiliated. I think it’s cute."
“Cute?” Stiles squeaks, sure he must’ve misheard. “You think it’s cute?”
There’s a pause and then Derek’s stilted answer of: “Yes. But. That’s probably only because I think you’re cute.”
"You think I’m cute?” Stiles repeats, voice going up another octave.
"I. Um." He clears his throat uncomfortably and Stiles melts. "Yes." There’s another awkward pause while Stiles tries to get his mouth working again. "And I like your voice."
"That’s convenient," he breathes. "Because I like your voice too. I—I wouldn’t say you’re cute exactly, but you’re definitely attractive. In a scary, rugged, sort of way."
"I can be cute," Derek says petulantly.
"I doubt that."
"I’ll prove it."
"Over dinner?" Stiles asks hopefully, heart going a mile a minute. He cannot believe this is seriously happening to him.
"Sure," Derek agrees. Stiles punches the air. "Um. Can I call you later? On a real phone, where our calls aren’t being monitored?"
"Oh, shit," Stiles says, laughing kind of hysterically. "I forgot about that. Are you going to get fired?"
"I doubt it," Derek says cheekily. "I have an in with the Sheriff now."
"I should’ve known you only wanted me for my father," he sighs dramatically. "It happens to me all the time."
"I wouldn’t do that," Derek says, suddenly serious. Stiles flushes embarrassingly. "But I really do have to go. I’ll send your call through."
"Yeah, sure," Stiles says. "Promise to wear your uniform on our date, Deputy?"
"What the hell?" his father answers and Stiles panics and hangs up the phone.