Work Text:
Stiles feels giddy as he signs the paperwork, but he doesn’t let it show. He’s a professional - graduated top of his class - and he can look the part.
They asked him if he wanted a drink and the options were cucumber water or cappuccino. They’ve got orchids on their desks. It’s fancy shit.
Things have been going really well recently. Last week, he saw Scott’s shitbag dad at a conference. “Stiles?” he had sneered. “Special Agent Stilinski,” Stiles had corrected. The look on his face!
When Stiles is done with the stack of very cryptic, very exciting non-disclosure agreements, they move him into yet another room for assignment briefing. It takes all of Stiles’s self-control not to let his knee bounce as he waits.
A woman with a buzzcut and a stylishly oversized suit jacket sits across from him holding two folders. She flips through the NDAs he just completed before setting that folder aside. “Special Agent Stilinski, thank you for conditionally accepting our offer. As outlined in the agreement here, you have five days to officially accept or reject the position once you’ve been briefed.” She lifts the second folder. It doesn’t have CLASSIFIED stamped in red across it, but it might as well. Stiles schools his expression to make sure he’s not smiling, even though he’s so excited he might burst. “Take your time to read through these documents. As supervisory special agent and head of this department, I am here to answer any questions you may have.” She slides the folder across the table.
“Thank you,” Stiles replies. He takes a breath and opens it to the first page.
Federal Bureau of Investigation
Department of Supernatural Intelligence & Security
Strategic Intelligence Assessment and Data on Lycanthropy
Stiles can’t help but laugh a little.
“I assure you, special agent, this is no joke.”
“No - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just already knew about werewolves.”
“Oh. Even better.”
He stops trying to read and talk at the same time. “Wait, you didn’t know that? I assumed that’s why I was chosen.”
“Happy coincidence,” she replies.
Stiles reads through the report. The FBI knows a lot, but some of their information is inaccurate or outdated. Also, they don’t even know about kanimas or banshees. Once he’s done with the background information, he flips to the assignment brief.
It’s a murder investigation. The prime suspect is a werewolf only five years older than Stiles, and he’s accused of killing a forty-year-old woman. The location of the crime? Stiles’s hometown, Beacon Hills. The report documents difficulties with interrogating the suspect because the werewolf is Deaf. He’s refusing to put anything in writing, even to communicate with the defense counsel provided to him. It’s clear why Stiles was selected for this job.
“I’m not an interpreter,” he says as politely as possible.
“Our records indicate you are fluent in American Sign Language.”
“Yeah, my mom was Deaf and my dad’s a CODA, but that doesn’t mean -” Stiles sighs. He’s been having this conversation since he was five years old and asked to sit in on parent-teacher interviews when his dad was working. “I guess I’m just wondering… are you offering me a job as an interpreter or as an FBI agent?”
The woman shrugs. “Two birds, one stone. Listen. This is a very small, very exclusive department, Special Agent Stilinski. We need an agent stationed in Beacon Hills; it’s a small city but the supernatural crime rates are unparalleled. You can communicate with this man and his surviving family members. You know the area, you know the people. And, as you just told me moments ago, you’re already familiar with this population. At the end of the day, it’s your decision. We have a list of promising - although less qualified - candidates, but you’re our first choice for the job.” Her phone chimes. She glances at the screen, then stands. “Read through the file as many times as you need in order to memorize it. No notes, electronic or otherwise, are permitted in the field.”
The door clicks shut. Stiles flips back to the investigation report. The werewolf glares up at him through the mugshot. He’s most likely a murderer. But something about his history - the family fire, vandalized vehicles, suicide attempts - makes Stiles pause. There’s a bigger picture here. He returns to the intelligence report and begins to highlight incorrect or missing information that the FBI has on the supernatural world.
He’s going to request a cork board and some coloured string for his new office.
***
Stiles calls in a favour to the Beacon Hills Police Department. So, when he knocks on his dad’s office door a few weeks later, the Sheriff is completely surprised to see him. “Stiles, what are you doing here?” His dad gives the best hugs. He seems to squeeze him harder the longer he’s been away. “I’m happy to see you, son, but let’s catch up at lunch, okay? An FBI agent is going to be here soon to set up an office for the next six months or so.”
“Oh, so they could be here any minute?” Stiles hears Shauna laugh from the front desk.
“Yeah. God, I hope it’s not McCall again. My blood pressure can’t take it.”
Stiles nods sympathetically. “Yeah. Or what if they’re, like, a super new grad, fresh out of the program with next to no experience.”
“Yeah, maybe.” The Sheriff sits back at his desk and moves a few papers into piles.
Stiles glances through the glass at Parrish and signs HOPELESS. The deputy snorts. He turns back to his dad. “It would be so annoying if they came in like fifteen minutes late and started talking to you wearing their fancy dress shirt and their cool new badge.” His dad looks up at him with a frown. “They’re probably…an Aries.” Realization starts to dawn. Stiles smiles. “They probably have ADHD, I dunno -” The Sheriff cuts him off by standing.
“Shut up, Stiles, are you serious?”
Stiles signs, “MY OFFICE WHERE?” Parrish and a few others cheer. Sheriff Stilinski helps him get set up in the room across the hall.
***
Stiles is on his computer searching for nearby two-bedroom apartments when the FBI’s lawyer knocks on his office door. “Come in,” he calls. He sends a link over to Scott for him to check over and then closes the laptop. “I’m Stiles. Nice to meet you.”
“Braeden.” She shakes his hand. Stiles doesn’t know if that’s her first or last name. She’s very beautiful, very serious and very smart. They discuss the case and go over talking points for the suspect. They will be meeting him at his apartment later this afternoon. Braeden has been set up with a room at the Beacon Hills Motel. Stiles gives her some recommendations for restaurants.
“The benefit of being a local,” he adds with a wink. They’ve wrapped up the professional part of the conversation, so he doesn’t see any harm in a bit of flirting.
Braeden does not reciprocate. “Thank you. I’ll see you at my client’s apartment, 3:15 sharp.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Stiles salutes, attempting to breeze through the sting of rejection. He’s used to it by now. He knows he’s good looking. He had a bit of a ‘hoe phase’ (as his friend Danny called it) in his university downtime, figuring out what he liked, exploring with men and women and everyone in between. But, for some reason, he has difficulty maintaining a connection past one or two dates.
“Tell you what,” Danny had told him after a night out. “If we’re both single by forty, we’ll get married.”
“Deal,” Stiles had replied. They hooked up that night, to ‘test it out’. But Danny has been in a happy relationship with his childhood best friend (and Stiles’s childhood bully), Jackson, for a few years now, so Stiles will just have to wait and see.
Braeden and Stiles meet up at the suspect’s address. It’s a relatively new building near the edge of town. They get buzzed in and Stiles admires the view as they exit the elevator. He wants to give his dad some space and feel like a real adult. Stiles and Scott have been negotiating location and rent priorities for a few weeks now. This is on his mind, so as soon as the man opens his door to greet them, Stiles asks in ASL about apartments for rent instead of introducing himself.
Derek Hale frowns at him. “WHAT?” He signs.
“FORGET. FORGET. I TRY AGAIN. HI, MY NAME STILES. HER NAME BRAEDEN. WE FROM FBI.”
“YOU LAWYER?”
“NO. SHE LAWYER.”
“YOU…?” Derek points, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
“FBI SPECIAL AGENT.” Stiles then adds reluctantly, “INTERPRETER. KIND OF.”
“KIND OF?” Derek repeats the sign. His eyebrows are always questioning, always grumpy and impatient. He has a short beard and his shirt stretches tight over strong arms and prominent pecs. He’s so hot. Stiles has difficulty focusing on the task at hand (God, his hands ).
“CODA.”
Derek nods.
“Um,” Braeden interrupts. “Are we good?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. He’s always been shit at speaking and signing at the same time, so he just gestures at the door. “Can we come in?” Derek leads the way into his condo. It’s a beautiful open-concept space with a wall of windows, but Derek hasn’t done very much with it in terms of furnishing. He has a bed, a bookshelf, a couch, and that’s pretty much it.
“YOU MOVE HERE WHEN?”
“4…5 MONTH BEFORE.”
“FURNITURE NONE?”
Derek blushes a little, his face still angry, but that just seems to be its resting state. “M-I-N-I-M-A-L-I-S-T” he fingerspells. Stiles laughs. He hopes the guy is not guilty of killing someone. Stiles suspects that he’s innocent, but for reasons beyond the fact that he’s handsome. Stiles has some integrity, after all.
Derek gets three glasses from the cupboard (that has, like, two bowls and one plate in it), fills them with water and sits in the chair next to the couch.
“Okay.” Braeden must have some experience with interpreters (or she’s just competent and respectful) because she talks directly to Derek rather than looking at Stiles as he signs. Derek’s green eyes watch Stiles mostly, but glance over to her in the pauses. “Tell me what happened.”
It’s a horrible story. Chris Argent had separated from his family due to ‘moral conflicts’ years ago and Stiles is beginning to understand why. Ten years ago, the Hale family lived peacefully on a preserve in a neighbouring town. Kate Argent, Chris’s sister and Allison’s aunt, had groomed and assaulted Derek when he was fifteen years old. Then, she used the information she gathered from him to trap and burn his entire family in their house. For what crime? Just being a family of born werewolves. Kate had fled to Canada and then recently returned. When Derek heard she was in Beacon Hills, he came to warn the werewolf packs here about her, about what she was capable of. Kate shot Derek and then tortured him. He killed her in his escape.
“Sounds like self-defense to me,” Stiles says. Braeden’s eyes shine with the same rage he feels in his ribcage. They reassure Derek they will do everything they can to clear him of any charges. He seems surprised by their intensity and cautiously hopeful. Stiles wants to see him smile one day.
***
It’s difficult to complete a trial when most of the case details are classified to everyone outside of a very small department. Also, it would be difficult to get Derek a jury of his peers. In general, the government lets packs go through with their own justice, whatever it looks like, as long as no human civilians get hurt. Kate Argent was no human civilian.
Stiles spends most of his work time briefing the FBI and advocating for more law enforcement of hunters. Stiles and Braeden are drafting a proposal involving abolishing werewolf hunting in lieu of community rehabilitation of feral werewolves. Stiles is reaching out to different packs in the area to start discussions about justice and reconciliation.
Officially, Kate Argent died from an animal attack. Mountain lion, to be exact. There are no wolves in Beacon Hills.
Stiles delivers the news to Derek in person, along with a latte. It’s been a few weeks and Stiles has been frequenting every nearby gym in the hope of seeing him again. No dice.
Derek is somehow more handsome than Stiles remembered.
“COFFEE WHY?” Derek signs around the cup.
Stiles tells Derek he deserves better than instant coffee. Unlike Braeden, Derek doesn’t outright reject his flirting. He turns away, but Stiles sees the smile hidden behind the cup as he takes a sip. They sit like they did before, Stiles on the couch and Derek across from him.
“YOU BRING ME TO JAIL?”
Stiles shakes his head. “YOU FREE.” He sends his arms out slowly, dramatically, and Derek huffs. “WE CELEBRATE.”
Derek replies no, even though Stiles’s expression had not made it a question. “HI, BARTENDER,” Derek greets an invisible, theoretical person. “YOU GIVE ME DRINK FREE. WHY? I KILL SOMEONE, YES, BUT NOT IMPRISONED.”
Stiles laughs, probably too much, but it’s unexpected for Derek to make a joke. He was probably nervous before and relieved now. Stiles likes him even more when he’s not fearing for his life.
“YOUR PACK WHERE?” Stiles asks.
Derek frowns. He repeats the sign Stiles had used for PACK, basically the same sign as for CLUSTER. “NOT P-A-C-K,” he clarifies through finger spelling. Derek shows him a new sign, one that looks like WOLF-FAMILY. “P-A-C-K.”
Stiles nods then asks again, this time with the correct sign.
“MOST DEAD,” Derek replies. “MY SISTER LIVE NEW YORK. MY UNCLE, HE BITE YOUR FRIEND.” The next sign is unfamiliar but Stiles understands it to be BLESSED+WOLF+LEADER. True Alpha. Huh.
“YOU KNOW SCOTT?”
“NO.”
“NOT REBUILD PACK? AFTER YOUR FAMILY…”
“NO.”
“YOU WANT MEET SCOTT’S PACK?”
“…OK.”
***
Derek gets along well with Malia. She’s blunt and honest and she seems comforted by the structure of typing messages back and forth. Also, it turns out she’s technically Derek’s cousin.
Peter Hale hasn’t been around much since Scott took away his alpha spark. Stiles asked Derek about their relationship and Derek said Peter was always a little manipulative and off-putting. He was the only hearing member of the family and seemed bitter about being “left out”. Stiles asked if Derek would want to see him again. Derek didn’t answer.
Lydia flirts with Derek. She likes muscular men who need to go to therapy. Stiles can’t help but feel a little relieved and hopeful when Derek doesn’t flirt back.
The other werewolves don’t hit it off well. Scott comes across as defensive; Liam is confused and doesn’t know how to communicate with a Deaf person; and Isaac has been strange around Stiles since Allison’s death.
“Scott,” Stiles says with a smile and a warning look, “why don’t you ask Derek for some advice?”
“Why should I? He’s not an alpha. He doesn’t even have a pack.”
Stiles grabs his friend’s shirt and moves to haul him away from the man in question (who can definitely read lips well enough along with Scott’s judgemental body language). Scott pushes him away forcefully. He always gets testy the night before a full moon.
Derek steps forward and puts his hand between them, eyebrows furrowed more than usual. Scott digs his phone out of his pocket, types, and shoves the screen at Derek. The notes app reads: DON’t TELL ME WHAT TO DO.
Derek snatches Scott’s phone out of his hand, ignoring the alpha’s protest. Have some respect for your beta, he types back.
“Stiles?” Scott points. “He’s not my beta. He’s human.”
Derek types one more message then hands the phone back. Exactly. Don’t push him so hard.
Derek walks away and Stiles follows him, giving Scott some space to cool off. “YOUR PACK KNOW NOTHING,” Derek says.
Stiles shrugs. “WHEN PETER BITE SCOTT WE TEENAGERS. NO WEREWOLF TEACHER, NO BOOKS. WE TRY.”
Derek seems a little more sympathetic after that. But he loses it when he finds out the weres have been chaining themselves up every full moon. Apparently that’s only for really young or really violent wolves. But it’s totally manageable when you have the right strategies and techniques. Scott reluctantly accepts Derek’s help.
***
“YOUR SIGN-NAME WHAT?” Derek asks over lunch. Unlike Braeden, Derek actually accepted his offer of showing him around to local spots.
Stiles licks salt off his fingers before replying. Derek makes a face. Stiles’s mom gave him his sign-name when he was little. It’s a combination of the sign for ‘mischievous’ and an M for his real first name. No one calls him Mieczyslaw anymore and no one has used the sign in years. It feels strangely nice to use it.
“DEVIL?” Derek asks.
“M-I-S-C-H-I-E-F,” Stiles corrects. A subtle distinction, all about the facial expression.
“M WHY? NOT S?”
Stiles shakes his head and fingerspells his Polish name. Derek nods. “HAPPY I NOT SPEAK.” Stiles laughs.
“YOURS?”
Derek’s sign-name is close to his teeth. Apparently, he had trouble keeping his fangs under control when he was a kid.
“CUTE,” Stiles says when the story is done. He’s surprised when Derek doesn’t roll his eyes or dismiss him. He seems lost in thought. Stiles feels it across the table. He tells Derek about his Mom.
Derek doesn’t say sorry. He asks for her name.
“C-L-A-U-D-I-A.”
“BEAUTIFUL.”
“YOUR MOM?”
“T-A-L-I-A.”
For a moment, Stiles imagines how things could have been if the Hales lived in Beacon Hills instead of the town over. Their moms probably would have been good friends. Stiles raises his glass of Dr Pepper. Derek touches their glasses together with a small smile.
Stiles’s crush becomes less about Derek’s biceps and more about him.
…it’s still a lot about his biceps, though.
***
Derek isn’t the most consistent when it comes to texting. Stiles suspects he leaves his phone somewhere and forgets about it for most of the day while he reads and goes for walks and does push-ups or whatever.
But he hasn’t responded to any of Stiles’s messages all day and that’s unusual, even for him. Stiles is worried.
text me back so I know you’re not dead, he types and then deletes the text. Derek might be on a hot date.
Stiles puts his phone on his desk and tries to get back to work. It’s almost 8pm and he’s the only one at the station. He has to finish the latest draft of the proposal or Braeden is going to kill him. But his Adderall wore off about an hour ago and even the pressure of the immediate deadline isn’t working for his focus. He scrubs his eyes.
“Tough day?”
Stiles looks up. There’s an old man in his office doorway staring at him with intense, cold eyes. He looks vaguely familiar, but Stiles can’t remember why. “How did you get in here?” He locked the doors when his dad left to start supper.
“Aren’t you meant to serve the public?” The stranger speaks with a halting clarity that makes him sound like a villain in a play.
“Kind of,” Stiles stands up, palming his phone as he leans on the desk. “How can I help you, sir?” He tries to enter his password without drawing attention to his hand at his side, hoping the view of his phone is blocked by the desk.
“I’d like to report someone,” the old man says, approaching slowly, “for an obstruction of justice.”
“That‘s not really my jurisdiction.”
“Oh, but it is, Special Agent Stilinski. You made it your jurisdiction when you covered up my daughter’s murder and let a beast roam free. But you didn’t stop there, did you?”
Stiles risks a glance down enough to open the phone app. He doesn’t know whose name he presses before dropping his phone into his open desk drawer. The man is right in front of him now. He reaches for Stiles’s laptop. Stiles closes it. “That’s classified,” he says. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. The station is closed for the night.”
The old man sneers and lunges forward. Stiles grabs his arm without thinking and manages to twist the taser out of his grasp before it can make contact. But the old man is surprisingly strong and fast. His other arm shoots forward and lands a punch to Stiles’s stomach. Stiles crumples forward unwillingly and attempts to move away, but the man gets a hand on the back of his head and slams Stiles’s face into the edge of the desk.
Stiles can’t see or think beyond the pain. His mouth fills with blood from his broken nose. The last thing he hears is the staccato static of the taser charging back up.
***
Stiles wakes up with a pounding headache. His face feels as though it’s been split apart like an orange and his shoulders burn. He’s tied by the wrists to some sort of fence. Someone is yelling.
Stiles peels open his eyelids to see two familiar faces. The old man, Gerard Argent - Kate Argent’s father and notoriously cruel werewolf hunter - and Derek Hale. Derek is strung up like Stiles with his arms above his head. Argent is snarling at him.
“Your family deserved what they got, you beast. I won’t let you take apart everything we’ve worked for to keep humanity safe - hundreds of years before you were even born.”
Derek is frowning, glaring at Argent’s spitting mouth. There’s dried blood on his bare chest and staining his jeans, but there are no visible injuries. Stiles does not have the benefit of werewolf healing. He places his feet on the cement floor and hopes that feeling will return to his hands.
Stiles speaks with a dry tongue. “He can’t hear you.”
Argent turns to him and Derek follows his gaze. Stiles chooses to focus on Derek and smiles crookedly. The werewolf has a new type of fear in his eyes. He’s worried for Stiles. That’s nice.
“Special Agent Stilinski.”
“Gerard Argent.”
Argent sneers. “You know who I am.”
“I never forget a pretty face.” Stiles flexes his fingers as sharp, tingling sensation returns to his hands. “Hey, if you want me to interpret your evil monologue, you’re going to have to cut these zip ties.”
“I’m well aware he cannot hear me. I know more about him than you do. I know his deceased mother’s maiden name. I know the address of the office building in New York City where his sister works. Moreover, I know everything there is to know about you, Stiles .” Argent grabs Stiles’s blood-soaked tie and twists it so that it tightens around his neck. Beside them, Derek growls low in his chest. “I know the wedding date of your Deaf mother and your hearing father.”
“He’s a CODA.”
Argent shakes him and the fence rattles. “I know that too, you brat.”
“Wow, you know about the bratting? You’ve done a lot of research.” By the expression on his face before he slaps him, Stiles suspects old Gerard actually doesn’t know everything.
Stiles has lived through worse. He’s been possessed, he’s killed someone in self defense, and he nearly died at least a dozen times before he reached adulthood. But he can’t take a beating like his supernatural friends. Stiles suspects Scott has forgotten what it was like to fight for breath, to be sent reeling after a big hit. If Argent activates the electrical charge attached to this fence, Stiles might actually die.
Stiles spits blood onto the concrete floor. Some of it slides down his chin and neck to soak into his ruined white shirt. “So what’s the big, evil plan?”
Argent doesn’t monologue. He turns around and goes up the stairs, leaving Stiles and Derek alone in the basement.
Derek huffs and pulls on his restraints. It rattles the fence but doesn’t do much else. “S-I-L-V-E-R?” Stiles fingerspells with tingling fingers. Derek glances up and nods.
They breathe together for a moment. Derek doesn’t stop staring at Stiles’s bloodstained shirt, his bruised and broken face. Stiles shrugs. Derek doesn’t seem comforted. His face scrunches up like when he’s playing a video game - frustrated and lost.
The power goes out. It’s completely dark except for a slice of moonlight peeking through a small window above them. Derek growls again.
Footsteps stamp down the stairs accompanied by wheezing breaths. Gerard Argent and his probably cancer-filled lungs. A breaker box clatters open followed by swearing and then sudden light.
Braeden is standing behind Gerard Argent, holding a gun to the back of his white head. “Give me one good reason not to shoot you right now,” she commands. Stiles is so grateful he could cry. His fumbled phone call in his desk drawer got through to a kick-ass friend with military experience.
Argent turns around slowly. His eyes are wide and his hands are shaking. “I don’t know what’s going on. I was just sent to get the breaker. Please, I have grandkids.”
Braeden grimaces. “I know who you are, Argent. And your grandkid is dead.” Stiles can’t help but flinch.
Stiles is too late in warning Braeden how spry this old man is. All he can do is watch as Gerard swipes at her arm, sending her shot wide into the wall, and disarms her. The gun skids across the floor toward the fence.
Braeden gets the upper hand and sends the man sprawling on his back. Stiles shouts to her. “Six o’clock!” He kicks the gun behind her at the same time as she turns.
A few seconds is all Gerard Argent needs. But he doesn’t attack Braeden. Instead, he lunges toward the power switch. Distantly, Stiles hears a roaring howl and a gunshot as electricity rips through him. Tension like he’s about to snap. Then, nothing.
***
Stiles wakes to the scraping touch of cheap cotton, the smell of disinfectant, and the beeping-whirring-clicking sound of machines. He’s unwillingly sent to a drifting place of nightmares where his mom is dying a stranger to him; he’s trapped in his mind while his body oversees a hospital massacre; he’s been sedated in Eichen House solitary confinement; he’s sitting on a bench in a train station for days ( weeks? years? ), trapped and forgotten.
He can’t see. He can’t breathe. There’s pain across his body and his arms are tangled in wires or ropes or something. Someone is shouting. Maybe it’s him.
Then warm hands envelop his and begin moving. It takes multiple repetitions for his brain to catch up and focus on the motion - his arms crossed on his chest and rotating out over and over.
SAFE.
It takes a long time for his vision to clear and his breath to settle. Stiles looks up into Derek’s concerned green eyes and clutches his hands closer, sinking into his pillow. The nurses surrounding them seem to relax. After adjusting all the needles and tubes snaking around him, they leave the room.
“SORRY,” Stiles signs. Derek shakes his head sharply, almost affronted.
“MY FAULT,” Derek replies. “YOU HURT. YOUR HEART STOP. I KILL YOU.” His pretty mouth is twisted and his hands are shaking through the signs.
“NO. MY FAULT.” Stiles tells Derek about the proposal that he’s been working on for the FBI, about how it would condemn not only Argent but his entire social network to punishment for what they’ve done to innocent werewolves. The hunters must have had a mole in the Department of Supernatural Intelligence & Security who gave away Stiles’s whereabouts. Stiles was planning on telling Derek about it once the proposal had been accepted.
Derek is still, watching his face so carefully. “YOU DO THAT FOR ME?”
Stiles nods, too tired to walk around the truth. “AND YOUR FAMILY.”
Derek seems overwhelmed. He lifts his hands to respond, but Stiles reaches out and gently holds them. Derek glances up, then, his green eyes bright. Stiles doesn’t want to second-guess the feelings he sees there. He pulls the werewolf forward and kisses him.
Derek kisses back immediately, like he’s starving for it. His hands slip from Stiles’s and land carefully on his chest, over his hammering heart, tracing the base of his throat. Stiles palms Derek’s stubbled jaw and kisses his lips gently, over and over. His other hand settles on Derek’s warm back where he feels the air push out of his chest. They rest their foreheads together and just breathe. Stiles tangles his fingers in Derek’s soft hair.
“Oh. Alright.” A familiar, gruff voice says.
Stiles pulls away and Derek copies him. Sheriff Stilinski stands in the doorway wearing his rumpled uniform and holding two paper coffee cups. “Hey, Dad.”
The sheriff walks into the room and hands Derek one of the cups. He sits on the other side of the hospital bed. He switches to ASL. It’s nice to sign with him again. “YOU DATE HOW LONG?” The sheriff asks.
“Uh,” Stiles hesitates and glances over. One kiss doesn’t have to mean anything.
Derek answers, “MAYBE…TWO MINUTE.”
The Stilinskis laugh. Stiles can’t help but reach over and touch Derek, smoothing the shoulder of his wrinkled shirt. Derek takes a sip of coffee and smiles over the rim of the cup. Derek is obviously still worried about Stiles and so is his dad, but they don’t make a big, scary deal out of it. Stiles has a rough time in hospitals as it is.
Melissa visits after her shift is done and places a kiss on Stiles’s forehead that makes him feel both embarrassed and emotional. Scott, Liam, Isaac, and Malia tumble into the room as a pack unit and do basically everything but clamber onto the bed with him.
Stiles hopes his nose heals with a badass, intimidating scar and not just in a silly angle. He suspects Derek won’t mind either way.
***
Peter Hale always causes trouble.
Seeing his uncle again is tough for Derek. Even after dating for a year, Stiles still doesn’t know exactly how to read him, how to comfort him best. Stiles fumbles and mostly fails but his attempts weaken Derek’s walls enough for him to lend a guiding hand. They always end up on the same side.
Peter got someone pregnant. Then, she got killed. Derek and Stiles cry for her, cry for the baby. Another boy without a mother. All he has is the name she gave him - Eli.
Peter runs away from his problems, like always.
The baby stays with foster parents for a few months while child services looks for relatives who can take him in. They can’t find anyone.
Eli fails multiple hearing tests. Eli passes his Deaf test, Talia Hale would have said.
Derek and Stiles file for adoption.
“Are you sure, kid?” The Sheriff asks. He wasn’t expecting to be a grandfather so soon - if at all. And Stiles and Derek haven’t been dating for very long.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, and he means it. “This isn’t for us, you know? It’s not something we’re doing to make us something we’re not or rush into something. We both want to take care of him and we can help each other with that. If Derek and I end up being together forever, that’s great. But…we want to be his parents forever, no matter what. It just feels right, Dad.”
“I’m proud of you.”
Noah, Melissa, and the rest of the pack help Stiles and Derek make it through the newborn stage. Sleepless and cranky, endlessly adjusting, they still work together well.
***
Raising a kid is tough, especially when that kid grows fangs and claws during temper tantrums. Reliably, it’s Aunt Malia who can always calm him down.
“When are you going to tell him about Peter?” Scott asks. Malia and Eli are curled up on the couch together, taking turns tapping on each other’s noses, ears, knees, etc. “Won’t it be strange for him to find out his aunt is his sister? And his dad is his…cousin?”
“Yeah, probably.” Stiles says, too tired to get into a big talk about chosen family. They all know it. They live it. “It’s not really covered in the parenting books, you know?”
“You don’t have any parenting books.”
“Bitch, you know I hyperfixated on infant care. It’s all online.” Stiles pours more coffee into his travel mug. “Don’t even get me started. I’ll tear apart your attachment style in a second.”
“You’re a psychologist now?”
“Watch out, daddy issues, you have no idea what you’re starting.”
“Oh yeah?” Scott stands from the table and pushes his shoulders back. He’s always been terrible at hiding the smile on his face.
Stiles puts his mug down and gets ready to tussle, but he’s stopped by something wrapping around his neck and keeping him in place. “Hey!” he chokes.
Derek turns him around by the shoulders. He had used Stiles’s tie to lasso him away from the play fight. Derek ties the knot with sure, steady hands, then signs, “YOU LATE FOR WORK.”
“I NEED -”
Derek holds up a pill between his fingers. Stiles grins and opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue. Derek gives him his Adderall with a kiss.
“Ew,” Scott complains.
Stiles flips off his best friend fondly and then moves to the living room. “Hey,” he says, flicking the lights on and off until Eli looks up. “LOVE YOU,” he signs. “BYE.” Eli’s bottom lip juts out and wobbles. “NO NO NO,” Stiles protests, shaking his head, but it’s too late. Eli begins to cry.
“You couldn’t just sneak out,” Malia scolds.
“No, I couldn’t! That’s somehow worse.” Stiles scoops up his toddler and bounces him a little. Eli stops crying when he sees that his dad isn’t leaving. Except he still definitely has to go.
Derek rolls his eyes and retrieves the stroller from the closet. “WE WALK WITH YOU. NOW. COME.”
Stiles hands Eli over to Derek with a grateful and slightly guilty smile. Derek does all up all the straps so Eli is happily and safely buckled into the stroller. His werewolf reflexes come in handy when Malia throws him a pair of little socks from the other room.
They walk to the police station together. Stiles usually pushes the stroller because Derek likes to keep an eye on Eli and be ready for any dangers. Stiles would make a joke about his overprotective wolf instincts but it’s probably just overprotective dad instincts. Stiles feels the same way.
He couldn’t have imagined this life when he graduated from high school. He thought he was going to leave Beacon Hills and all its trauma behind. Instead, he’s found comfort in his home, his pack. He’s found love where there was loss, safety where there was danger.
Stiles kisses his boyfriend and waves goodbye to their son. Eli doesn’t cry this time because he’s happy to be outside. He probably knows that he and Derek will get to run around the park soon. Stiles hurries into the station. Sheriff Stilinski is standing by his office door, scowling at him with a familiar, fond disappointment.
Some things never change.