Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Derek Hale adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit, the dim glow of the Manhattan skyline casting long shadows across the polished mahogany of the penthouse suite. Across from him, Stiles Stilinski lounged in an armchair, twirling a knife between his fingers with the ease of a man who had long since mastered the art of the blade.

"You know," Stiles mused, cocking his head toward Derek, "most dads take their kids to soccer practice, maybe help with math homework. We, on the other hand, are scheduling hits between PTA meetings."

Derek sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Eli has a science fair next week. I told him I'd help. And for the record, it's earth science."

The door clicked open, and Peter Hale strolled in, all smirks and expensive cologne, followed closely by Chris Argent. The contrast between them never ceased to amuse Stiles: Peter, all indulgent elegance, and Chris, the definition of military precision.

"We have a problem," Peter announced, tossing a folder onto the table. "Someone is sniffing around close to our…activities."

Stiles froze, his easygoing demeanor vanishing. "What?"

Chris crossed his arms. "Your dad’s looking into some missing persons. They tie back to us."

"Okay, first of all, let’s not call them ‘missing persons.’ That’s misleading. They were very much accounted for when we—"

"Stiles," Derek cut in, his voice warning.

Stiles exhaled. "Right. Right. My dad’s poking around. Fantastic. How do we make him stop without, you know, making him permanently stop?"

Talia Hale, ever the composed matriarch, entered the room with Laura on her heels. Talia took one glance at the tense group before setting down her cup of tea with a measured sigh. "We don’t touch John Stilinski. That’s not negotiable."

"Wasn't suggesting we would," Stiles said quickly. "I just need to redirect him. Maybe give him a different trail to follow."

Laura leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You sure you can handle that? It’s your dad."

"I’ve been lying to him since I was sixteen. I can handle it."

Derek ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts elsewhere. "We need to be careful. Eli’s starting to notice things. I don’t want him involved in this world."

"Agreed," Chris said. "Your son deserves better."

Peter rolled his eyes. "We all know what line of work we’re in. Trying to shield him from it forever is unrealistic."

"He’s ten, Peter," Derek snapped. "I don’t want him growing up thinking this is normal."

Stiles leaned forward. "Alright. We compartmentalize better. We do our jobs cleanly and keep our home lives separate. We keep Eli safe, keep my dad oblivious, and maybe—just maybe—keep ourselves out of prison. Sound good?"

Talia gave a slow nod. "I expect professionalism. If we can’t handle this properly, we walk away. Understood?"

Silence settled in before Derek gave a curt nod. "Understood."

Stiles stretched, cracking his neck. "Alright. Who’s hungry? I say we grab pizza before heading home to our kid. It’s family night, after all."

Derek sighed, but there was a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Fine. But we’re not going to that place you like."

"Blasphemy," Stiles gasped. "That place is the best."

As they left the penthouse, Peter and Chris exchanged a knowing look. The life they lived wasn’t built for longevity, but somehow, against all odds, Derek and Stiles had made it work. Professionals in the field, killers in the shadows, and, most importantly, dads just trying to raise a kid in the middle of it all.

---

The sound of Eli’s laughter filled their Brooklyn townhouse as Derek and Stiles stepped inside, the smell of takeout pizza mixing with the faint scent of gun oil—an unavoidable part of their lives.

"Dad! Papa!" Eli ran into Derek’s arms first, then Stiles’, eyes bright with excitement. "Did you bring the extra cheese pizza?"

"Of course," Stiles said, ruffling Eli’s curls. "What kind of monsters do you think we are?"

Eli gave him a knowing look. "The kind that make people disappear."

Derek and Stiles froze.

"Who told you that?" Derek asked carefully.

Eli grinned. "Uncle Peter said it when he picked me up from school last week. Said you guys were ‘professionals.’" He air-quoted the word.

Stiles groaned. "I’m going to kill Peter. And not in the fun way."

Derek crouched to Eli’s level. "Listen, buddy. You know how some people have very... unique jobs? Ours is like that. But you don’t need to worry about."

Eli nodded, clearly unconvinced but willing to let it go for now. "Okay. But if I ever need someone to disappear, can I call you guys?"

Stiles clapped a hand over his heart. "Oh my god, that’s both adorable and deeply concerning."

Derek sighed. "We’ll talk about this later. For now, pizza."

Eli beamed, grabbing a slice. "Deal!"

---

Later that night, after Eli was in bed, Derek and Stiles stormed into Peter’s apartment unannounced.

"Do you have a death wish?" Stiles demanded, slamming the door behind him. "What the hell were you thinking telling Eli about our job?"

Peter, lounging on his leather couch with a glass of whiskey, barely glanced at them. "Oh, come on. The kid's sharp. He was going to figure it out eventually."

Derek’s fists clenched. "He’s ten, Peter. He’s supposed to worry about video games, not whether his dads have body counts."

Peter sipped his drink. "Better he hears it from family than from someone else."

Stiles let out a bitter laugh. "Oh yeah, because you’re such a great role model. You don’t get to decide what Eli knows and when. That’s our call."

Peter sighed, setting his glass down. "Look, I didn’t tell him everything. Just enough to make him ask questions. If you want him ignorant forever, good luck with that."

Derek’s glare was lethal. "Stay away from him. If you so much as hint at this again, I swear—"

Peter held up his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. No need for threats. Just remember, you can’t protect him from everything."

"We’ll see about that," Stiles muttered as they left.

---

A week later, Derek and Stiles sat in their usual booth at a quiet Italian restaurant, reviewing their latest contract. The moment Stiles saw the name, he cursed under his breath.

"Tell me this is a joke."

Derek frowned. "What?"

Stiles slid the file toward him. "Our next target is Nathan Clarke. Eli’s classmate’s dad."

Derek stiffened. He knew the name well. Nathan’s son, Simon, was one of Eli’s best friends. They’d had sleepovers and birthday parties. He’d shaken this man’s hand at school functions.

"We can’t do this," Derek muttered. "Not with Eli involved."

"Agreed," Stiles said. "But walking away from a contract isn’t exactly in our job description. We need another way out."

Derek closed the folder, jaw tight. "We find out who ordered the hit. And we make sure Nathan Clarke disappears another way. Without a bullet in his head."

Stiles smirked. "I like the way you think, Hale. Time to break the rules."

---

The next morning, Stiles and Derek tracked down the contractor who had put out the hit on Nathan Clarke. Their usual informant, a jittery accountant-turned-middleman named Leo, was waiting for them in a dimly lit parking garage.

"You two don’t usually question contracts," Leo said nervously, shifting from foot to foot.

"This one’s different," Stiles said. "Who ordered it?"

Leo hesitated. "I don’t know—"

Derek grabbed him by the collar and pushed him against a car. "Try again."

Leo swallowed hard. "Okay! Okay! I don’t know the full details, but the order came from a higher-up in the Calavera family. Apparently, Clarke has been messing with their money."

Stiles exchanged a look with Derek. "So, if we make it look like Clarke skipped town, they might call off the hit."

Derek released Leo with a slight shove. "Tell them he’s dead. We’ll handle the rest."

Leo nodded rapidly, and the two walked away, already formulating a plan.

---

Later that night, after Derek distracted Stiles and Eli with a video game, Derek found his mother in her study, flipping through a thick leather-bound ledger. He shut the door behind him, and Talia glanced up, immediately noting the tension in his stance.

"Nathan Clarke and the Calavera family," Derek said without preamble. "I need your help."

Talia sighed, closing the ledger. "The Calaveras are dangerous, Derek. If they think you’ve interfered with one of their assets, they won’t hesitate to retaliate."

"I know," Derek admitted. "That’s why I need to be smart about this." To forestall what he knew his mother would say, he added, "Stiles and I have already talked about it, and frankly his 'plan' wasn't viable. I understand that we need to make them believe Clarke is dead while keeping him alive, and I know that if anyone can help with that, it’s you."

Talia studied him for a long moment before nodding. "We’ll need resources. A convincing body. Proper documentation. And a solid alibi for you, Stiles and possibly Peter."

Derek exhaled, relieved. "I knew you’d have a plan."

Talia’s lips quirked into a small smile. "Of course, darling. Now, let’s get to work."

She gestured for him to sit as she retrieved a hidden file from her desk. "I have connections in the morgue. We can arrange for a body that matches Clarke’s general description. With some modifications, it will be unrecognizable. The Calaveras will buy it."

Derek nodded. "And the documentation?"

"Already in motion. I anticipated this might become a problem." Talia’s expression turned calculating. "I’ll also make sure word spreads through the right channels. By the time we’re done, Nathan Clarke will cease to exist."

Derek sighed in relief. As much as he and Stiles were their own people, sometimes it's best to turn to someone more calculating and level-headed, like his mother.

Chapter Text

John Stilinski sat in his dimly lit office, staring at a corkboard littered with missing person reports, crime scene photos, and red string linking names that shouldn't be connected. Something wasn’t adding up.

He’d always known New York had its fair share of criminals, but this—this was different. A pattern of disappearances, all leading back to whispers of a group known only as "The Professionals." No one had a real name, no concrete evidence. Just ghost stories told in hushed voices.

And now, those whispers were creeping closer to home.

He rubbed his temples, looking at one particular photo—an image of a man last seen outside a Midtown high-rise. The same high-rise where, according to a source, Derek Hale had an office.

John exhaled sharply. His gut twisted. He didn’t want to believe it. Not about Stiles. Not about Derek. But the pieces were lining up too neatly to ignore.

Pulling his phone from his desk, he hesitated before dialing. When the line clicked, he kept his voice steady. "Parrish, I need you to do me a favor. Dig into the Hales. Quietly. And don’t tell Stiles. Not yet."

As he hung up, he looked back at the board. The truth was there, waiting to be uncovered. And he wasn’t sure he was ready for what he might find.

---

He had been waiting for days. The longer Jordan took to return his call, the more John’s gut told him he wouldn’t like what he heard.

When his phone finally rang, John snatched it up instantly. "Tell me you’ve got something."

Jordan sighed on the other end. "John, you don’t want to hear this."

"Try me."

"The Hales... they’ve got connections all over. The kind of people who don’t exist on paper. Offshore accounts, properties under shell corporations. And there’s a name that keeps popping up alongside theirs: Stiles."

John’s grip on the phone tightened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, your son isn’t just involved with Derek Hale. He’s part of it. Whatever it is. And from what I can gather? They’re not just businessmen. They’re ghosts. The kind that make problems disappear."

John exhaled slowly, eyes dark. "Then I need to bring my boy home before it’s too late."

Jordan hesitated. "Be careful, John. You might not like the son you find."

---

John barely had time to set his phone down before the door to his office swung open. Peter Hale strolled in, his usual smirk firmly in place. "Digging into my family, John? That’s not very neighborly."

John straightened, his jaw tightening. "Funny. I thought you didn’t believe in family loyalty."

Peter chuckled. "Oh, I do. That’s why I’m here—to remind you that your little investigation is stepping into dangerous territory. You won’t like what you find."

John leaned forward. "And what exactly am I supposed to do? Ignore the bodies piling up? Let my son stay tangled up in your mess?"

Peter’s smirk faded slightly. "Walk away, John. Before you force me to make a choice neither of us will enjoy."

John’s eyes narrowed. "Is that a threat?"

Peter gave a slow, deliberate smile. "It’s professional courtesy."

---

It was weeks later, and John was still shaken up over the surprise visit from Peter Hale. In that time, another person had gone missing, but this time there seemed to be a new player in the mix. A family he’d heard of but never paid much attention to because they were out of the country. Maybe Stiles and the Hales had been wrongly accused and he should be looking at the Calavera family.

John sat in his office, nursing a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. The folder in front of him was thick, filled with surveillance photos, reports, and a name that kept surfacing — Eli Hale.

A knock at his door pulled his attention away. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and Jordan was out of the office. Steeling himself, he called out for the person to come in and he looked up to see an old contact, a private investigator he had worked with in the past. The man gave him a grim nod before tossing another folder onto the desk.

"You’re not gonna like what’s in there, John."

Frowning, John flipped it open. The first thing he saw was a birth certificate. His eyes zeroed in on the listed parents.

Derek Hale. Stiles Stilinski.

His breath caught, hands gripping the paper tightly. "What the hell…"

"Eli Hale is your grandson, John," the investigator said. "Your son and Derek Hale? They’re his parents."

John felt like the ground had just been yanked out from under him. He had been piecing together connections between Stiles and the Hale family, but he never imagined—

He swallowed hard, staring at a surveillance photo of Eli walking between Stiles and Derek, hand in each of theirs, looking up at them with trust and admiration.

He had a grandson. And no one had told him.

His heart pounded. He needed answers, and he was going to get them one way or another.

---

The Reckoning

The Hales executed their plan flawlessly. Nathan Clarke’s death had been faked with meticulous precision—a staged body, falsified reports, and the perfect amount of chaos to sell the illusion. The Calavera family bought it, at least for a while.

But then they didn’t.

The moment they uncovered the truth, the retaliation was swift and brutal.

Stiles' phone vibrated as he poured himself a drink. A message flashed across the screen:

We have your dad.

His breath caught. Then, another text followed, and a photo was attached. John Stilinski, bound, bruised, and unconscious.

Stiles' glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor.

Peter and Derek rushed over. "What happened?"

Stiles shoved the phone into Derek’s face and it darkened instantly.

Peter, who was looking over Derek’s shoulder, exhaled through his nose. "Well. Looks like the Calaveras just signed their death warrant."

Stiles’ voice was ice-cold. “Send Eli to Toronto with Isaac. We’re ending this.”

Derek nodded. "For good."