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The morning after he got shot by an arrow, Stiles woke up feeling a lot more cheerful than he would have expected.
"So this is going to make for one hell of a college entrance essay," he said when Scott and his father came in. They exchanged startled looks, and he grinned. "Too soon?"
"Stiles," said his father, "you -- Scott's told me a few things, and you -- "
"I'm all right," said Stiles quickly. "The arrow didn't hit any vital organs, they cleaned out all the splinters, no signs of infection. I'm going to be out of here in a couple of days. It's fine."
"I told him everything," said Scott.
Stiles blinked. "About the -- " He gestured with his hand vaguely, not sure how to mime "werewolf business" without being obvious.
"Yes, Stiles," said his father. "About the werewolves. And I'm still trying to get my head around it, even though Scott's showed me some things that were truly disturbing to see. And apparently Melissa's known about this for a year?"
"I didn't tell her, exactly," said Scott, apologetically. "She just sort of -- saw me. You were unconscious at the time, or you would have seen it too."
The Sheriff looked from Stiles to Scott and back again. "Exactly how many unsolved murders in the Beacon County police district are down to werewolves?"
"Twenty-three," said Stiles. "That's if you count murders indirectly connected to werewolf business, like that whole thing with Matt Daehler."
Scott's face scrunched up and his eyes widened at the same time. Stiles loved that face; it made him look like a startled puppy. "You've been keeping a count?"
Stiles shrugged with his good shoulder. "Some of those are cold cases. Nothing to do with you or... any of our friends. Just old murders with some oddly specific loose ends that spell 'werewolf' if you know what to look for."
"As soon as you've recovered, we're going to go over some of those old cases, and you're going to tell me everything you know. I'm -- " The Sheriff shook his head. "I don't know what to feel, son. I'm relieved that you're not dead. I'm scared to think that you came so close. I'm kind of pissed that you've been keeping this from me, and it..." He sighed, and Stiles felt an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with the arrow. "It hurts to think that you've been dealing with this by yourself."
"I haven't been by myself," Stiles mumbled. "I had Scott, and... other people. It's not even really happening to me, you know, I'm just along for the ride."
"You don't get to say it's not happening to you when being 'along for the ride' means taking an arrow to the chest! Stiles, you -- you should have told me. You should have told me a long time ago."
Stiles blinked, clenched his jaw, then carefully, deliberately relaxed it. It was all right. It was going to be all right. His father knew, and there was no need to lie or to hide any more. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders, and a tension he'd been carrying around for months loosened.
"I know," he said. "I know I should have told you, Dad, and I wanted to, but I -- I was trying to protect you."
His father's face crumpled. "Oh, son. That's not how it's supposed to work."
Stiles felt a tear leaking out of his left eye, and he let it fall. "Scott, can you give us a minute?"
"Sure," said Scott, withdrawing from the room so quickly that Stiles got the feeling he had been looking for an excuse to leave for a while.
As soon as the door had closed, Stiles' father opened his mouth to speak, and Stiles shushed him and said, at normal volume, "No eavesdropping, Scott, I mean it."
"He mentioned something about enhanced senses," said his father. "Does that mean -- what does that mean?"
"He can hear people's heartbeats," said Stiles. "He can listen in on conversations happening across the street. It's pretty awesome, actually. If he knows somebody well enough, he can tell when they're lying."
"Like a polygraph," said his father, nodding thoughtfully. His expression sharpened. "Don't try to distract me, Stiles. This... business... I know Scott is your best friend, and under normal circumstances I wouldn't dream of separating you, but... you don't have to help him. You don't have to be involved."
"Are you kidding me?" Stiles yelped. "Dad, even if he wasn't my best friend, this -- 'business', if we're going to call it that, is one of the best things that's ever happened to me! And I'm saying that the day after I got shot in the chest with an arrow, so what does that tell you?"
"It tells me your judgment is impaired," his father snapped, "and maybe I should get the doctor to lower your painkiller dosage. No," he added immediately, holding a hand up, "that's not fair. If I -- If there's a good side to this, I haven't seen it. So... show me. Or, tell me, I guess."
Stiles took a deep breath, and started to talk. Two minutes in, his father sat down. Five minutes in, he held his hand up and said "Hold on. Say that again, I want to take some notes," and took out a notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket. After fifteen minutes, Stiles was running out of positive things he could say without sounding like a psychopath; he was uncomfortably aware that he already sounded like a crazed thrillseeker, which wasn't really reassuring his father at all.
He was also uncomfortably aware that by avoiding any mention of Derek, he was leaving massive, gaping holes in the stories he was telling. But he couldn't talk about Derek until he'd had a chance to talk to Derek. Just because Scott had told the Sheriff about the existence of werewolves didn't mean Derek would be happy having his whole history made public.
Besides, before he had blacked out from the pain the night before, Stiles remembered Derek lifting him from the ground, carrying him with faltering steps to the hospital. Unleashing the Sheriff on him without warning would be no way to say thank you.
"Well," said his father when he finally fell silent, "you've had quite a year."
Stiles wanted to make a crack about the Stilinski family's gift for understatement, but before he could put the words together, Derek appeared in the doorway of the room, the look on his face telling Stiles that he'd been listening in for a while.
His father caught the direction of Stiles' gaze and glanced over his shoulder. "Derek," he said, standing up. "Stiles has been telling me some things. You're... you're one of them, aren't you? A... werewolf." His mouth twisted as he said the word, as if he still hadn't quite accepted it was a real thing, relevant to his own life.
Derek nodded. "You understand why I didn't tell you before."
"Can't say it would have helped your case when you were a murder suspect," said Stiles' father, nodding, and he gestured towards Derek with the hand that was holding the notepad. "I'm going to have to talk to you, now that I know."
Derek's eyes flicked over towards Stiles. Stiles tried to communicate with his eyes that he had every sympathy for Derek's incredibly awkward position, but there was nothing anyone could do to stop his father from being a police officer, and that he couldn't be bribed or intimidated into abandoning his duties. Even if Stiles wanted to, which he didn't.
It was a complicated thought to convey with a single glance, but the gist of the message must have come across, because when Derek's eyes met the Sheriff's, what he said was "I can't tell you everything. Our kind have kept hidden for a reason."
"I understand that," said the Sheriff, "I do. But you've got to understand -- it's my job to protect people. I can't do that if there are... people like you running around causing havoc, and I don't even know about it."
"Due respect, Sheriff," said Derek, "it's not always people like me who cause the havoc. Sometimes we're the ones putting a stop to it."
"Even more reason we should share information. Pool our resources. Scott said you're... kind of a leader?"
"An Alpha. Yes."
The Sheriff pointed to his badge. "Well, I'm kind of a leader too. And as one leader to another, we should talk."
A nurse came in and gave all three of them a stern look. "Time to rest now, Stiles," she said, and his father nodded and bent down to kiss Stiles on the forehead. "I'm on your side, kiddo," he whispered. "Don't forget that."
Tears filled his eyes, and Stiles blinked them away. "I know," he said, his voice hoarse and quiet.
He would have given his right arm for werewolf hearing just then, as his father and Derek left his room talking in low voices about... Jesus, some sort of werewolf-law enforcement cooperation pact, if he knew his father. It was the best possible outcome, and now that it looked like it was happening for real, it amazed him that he hadn't thought about it before.
He drifted off to sleep thinking about the logistics of informal law enforcement support and whether, if his dad was going to be the Commissioner Gordon to Derek's Batman, that would make him Batgirl or Oracle-without-the-paralysis. (And where did Scott fit into that scheme? He'd be Superman, probably. He had that savior-complex thing going on, plus he'd look really good with a spitcurl.)
When he woke up, Derek was sitting by his bed, staring into space. "Hey," said Stiles, easing his way to a half-upright position. It hurt, a little; the painkillers were wearing off. Derek leapt up and adjusted the pillows so he could sit up without straining himself. "Thanks," he said. "How'd it go? I mean, the talk with my dad."
Derek sat down again and shrugged. "Scott wasn't there, so we couldn't settle anything. I told him a few things. We're going to have a real meeting in a few days, when you're out of this place. Everyone'll be there."
"Including me?"
Derek nodded. "If you want. You could still walk away from all this. I think your father would like that."
"He's not the boss of me!"
Derek tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Nobody is the boss of you, Stiles."
He said it with a rueful tone, but he was smiling, looking at Stiles as if seeing him alive was the only thing in the world he needed. It was a look that made Stiles' heart throb painfully in his chest.
Stiles picked up his courage with both hands and spoke. "You, uh, you carried me here last night. Didn't you?"
Derek nodded, his smile fading.
"Well. Thanks. That's -- I can't even begin to say -- "
"I stopped breathing," said Derek.
"What?"
Derek's eyes were very close, all of a sudden, his hand hovering over the place on Stiles' hospital gown where the dressing made it lumpy. "I saw the arrow sticking out of you and I... stopped breathing," he said. He frowned a little, and lowered his eyes, as if he were seeing the arrow all over again. "But then I heard your heart beating -- "
He fell silent, and Stiles could feel his heart kicking into overdrive. "Can you hear it now?" he said.
Derek's eyes flew up, startled, to meet his.
Stiles licked his lips. "That isn't fear," he said. "I haven't been afraid of you for a long time."
The hand hovering over his wound rose up and touched his cheek, and Stiles drew in a ragged breath before echoing the gesture, reaching out to touch Derek's temple, his cheekbone, the line of his jaw. Derek's eyes slid closed, and his lips parted. "Stiles -- Stiles, I -- "
Stiles' eyes dropped to Derek's lips; they were red and wet. "If you don't kiss me right now," he said, "I think I'm going to have a heart attack."
Derek let out a breath, a soft huff, not a laugh but something close to it, and then he was closing the last few inches of space between them and pressing their lips together.
Finally, Stiles thought, sliding his hand back through Derek's hair, finally, finally, finally.
It was a slow kiss, warm and sweet, as if they had all the time in the world. Derek's other hand came up so that he was cupping both Stiles' cheeks, holding him gently like something fragile, something precious, and it was Derek who broke the kiss, pulling back just far enough to look in Stiles' eyes. There was such openness in his gaze, such vast tenderness, that it took Stiles' breath away. "God, you're beautiful," he said, and it wasn't what he meant to say, but it was still true.
Derek laughed softly and kissed him again, a soft press of lips that was over much too soon. "I have to go," he said. "I have things I need to take care of." He stood up, one hand lingering on Stiles' face. "And you need to rest."
"Yeah," said Stiles, yawning. "You'll come back, right?"
Derek nodded, his hands going into his pockets as he walked backwards out of the room, keeping eye contact all the way, even as Stiles' eyes slid closed again.