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Sheriff Stilinski curses. “Damn door,” Chris hears him mutter. The sheriff glances over his shoulder at Chris and smiles apologetically.
“The deadbolt always sticks. I’ve almost—,” The sheriff bumps the door with his shoulder and it swings open, bouncing loudly against the wall inside. “Got it,” he finishes. Chris snorts.
As Chris follows the sheriff inside, careful not to track blood anywhere that can’t be easily cleaned, he takes in the house. Pictures on the walls, mostly of Stiles growing up. One of Stiles with a pretty lady who must be his mom. Dust on the tops of the frames, but then, the sheriff is a busy man. Chris knows intimately how hard it is to balance out fighting the supernatural with a normal life. Once you’re in, you never really get out. But Chris, who was raised in the life, can’t imagine ever being normal the way the sheriff was.
Almost before Chris realizes he’s going to speak, he hears himself saying, “Do you regret it?”
“What was that?” the sheriff calls. “I’m in the kitchen.” Chris follows the sound of his voice and ends up in a homey, brightly lit kitchen, complete with yellow curtains in the window over the sink. The sheriff himself is rattling around in a lower cabinet. He makes a pleased noise and stands from his squat, holding up a first aid kit.
“What’s that for?”
The sheriff raises one eyebrow and says, “The cut on your right temple.” Chris touches his head and, sure enough, his fingers come away tacky with blood. The sheriff shoos Chris toward the kitchen table and pulls out a chair, then stares until Chris sits.
“Really, Sheriff—,”
“John,” the sheriff interrupts.
For a moment Chris doesn’t follow. “What?”
“Call me John. We just killed…something…together, so at least use my name.”
“A banshee,” Chris says absently.
“If you say so.” The sheriff pulls another chair to face Chris and sits heavily. “So tell me, do head wounds inflicted by banshees need any special,” John wiggles his fingers, “supernatural treatment?”
Chris, laughing, says, “Not that I know.”
“Great!” John claps his hands and digs through the first aid kit, coming up with an alcohol wipe, antiseptic cream, and even a butterfly bandage.
“It’s hardly even bleeding anymore. Don’t you think that’s a little overkill?”
“Maybe, but we don’t want that cut to scar and ruin your handsome face.” John smiles at Chris with a glint in his eye.
“Ah, yes,” Chris says with mock seriousness. “My handsome face. So kind of you to worry.”
John leans in and starts cleaning the cut, hesitant at first, but more firmly when he sees that Chris won’t twitch away. When he pulls back, Chris can see that the wipe is stained with blood and dirt.
John gets up and washes his hands at the sink, drying them roughly on a dishcloth. When he sits back down, he gathers some antiseptic on his finger and leans close to Chris’s face, peering at the cut. He gently runs his finger along Chris’s temple to smear on the ointment, and Chris shivers.
John unwraps the butterfly bandage and moves to put it on. He squints. Then he says, “I’m just going to…” and takes Chris’s chin in one hand, gently turning Chris more toward the light.
With John’s hand on his face, Chris feels a jolt in his stomach and a moment of wild impulse. He is so, so tempted to lean in, kiss John, use up some of the adrenaline left from the earlier hunt. This close, Chris can see the bit of grey at John’s temples, the flecks of brown in his green eyes, smile lines around John’s mouth. Almost like John can tell what Chris is thinking, he smiles and smoothes the bandage before moving away.
It’s not like it would be the first time, Chris rationalizes. Plenty of hunters form unconventional relationships with their brothers-in-arms. And it’s been almost three years since Victoria died. It’s time that Chris let her go.
“Drink?” John offers. “I have bourbon, scotch, and beer.”
“What kind of beer?” Chris asks.
-
Chris wakes up to warmth along his left side and a pounding ache in his head. He groans aloud, but goes silent when someone moves against his chest. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the morning light, Chris squints down the bed.
Sheriff Stilinski is asleep on Chris’s chest.
Chris closes his eyes for a moment, and then looks again. John is still there.
Chris shifts and gasps reflexively as he feels the sharp twinge of a night well spent. If there were any doubt in Chris’s mind that he and the sheriff got drunk last night and then had sex…well.
He carefully moves John’s arm away and worms out of the bed, gathering clothes along the way. After a moment of thought, he moves to the window and draws the curtains shut. Carrying his clothes into the hallway, Chris dresses efficiently and walks down the stairs. In the kitchen he finds his phone and his boots. Looking around to see if he’s left anything else, Chris catches sight of a notepad.
He starts a pot of coffee as he searches for a pen. Chris scrawls out his number and props the note against the coffee machine. When John comes downstairs, he’ll fine caffeine and a note that says in all caps, “CALL ME.”
-
Three days later, Chris is meeting with a young hunter who is passing through when his cell phone rings. He doesn’t recognize the number, and is about to ignore it, when he realizes: it could be John.
“I’m sorry, Andrew, I’ve got to take this. Excuse me.” Chris leaves the study and closes the doors behind him, then says, “Hello?”
“Chris? It’s John, uh, Sheriff Stilinski.” Chris smiles, feeling like he’s won something. John called him.
“John, hi. What can I do for you?” Chris hears John cough and realizes abruptly how that might have sounded. “I mean—,”
“Lunch?” John sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “I was thinking the diner over on eighth.”
“Lunch,” Chris says, relieved but strangely disappointed. Of course the sheriff isn’t calling in the middle of the day on Tuesday for a booty call. “Sure, lunch sounds good. Give me a half hour to wrap up what I’m doing?” That means meeting John at 12:15, give or take.
“Works for me. I’ll see you soon, Chris.”
It’s little wonder that Chris is distracted as he finishes talking to Andrew (plus, fairies? In Seattle? Sounds a little far-fetched), and he ends up hustling Andrew out of the house after only 20 minutes, citing a prior engagement.
Chris spends a minute wondering if he should worry about what to wear. Then he mentally shakes himself out of it. John is the sheriff, so he’ll almost certainly be in uniform, and it’s not like they’re going somewhere fancy. It’s a diner.
15 minutes later, Chris is maneuvering his SUV into a too-small parking spot when John taps on his window. Chris rolls it down.
“What seems to be the problem, officer?”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to write you a ticket. You’re five minutes late for our lunch date,” John says, smiling.
Chris tries to look contrite. “If I buy your lunch, will you let me off with a warning?”
“I think that’s a good compromise. Then I’ll feel okay about letting you off with a warning.”
Chris laughs and shuts the car door behind him, walking into the diner and holding the door for John. Their server seats them at a small red booth with a white tabletop and says to John, “Your usual, Sheriff?”
“You know, Amy, I think this time I’d like a real burger instead of tofu.”
Amy clicks her tongue and says, “You know Stiles wouldn’t like that.”
“Well, Stiles isn’t here to see. I’m a grown man, for god’s sake!”
Amy sighs and takes Chris’s order (a burger does sound good) before walking back to the kitchen.
Chris says, “So Stiles gets on your case about food?”
John groans. “What an understatement! He’s always nagging me to eat healthier, like I’m some sort of invalid. I’ve told Stiles a million times that I have to pass a physical every year, and that I wouldn’t still be Sheriff if I were unhealthy, but it’s like talking to a brick wall.”
“Why is he such a stickler?” Chris asks.
“Well, it’s less that he cares about eating healthy and more about his mom. She died when he was ten, y’know? Cancer.” Chris nods and John continues, “So ever since then, I think Stiles has been pretty scared to lose me too.”
“Makes sense,” Chris ventures. Amy resurfaces from the kitchen carrying two burgers and fries, and thumps them down on the table.
“Enjoy that,” she says to John threateningly. “It’s the only one you’ll get this month.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. Turning to Chris, he says, “Stiles even has the waitstaff watching me, it’s ridiculous. But now he’s away at school, he can’t always be breathing down my neck, so…” And then John takes a huge bite of his burger, moaning exaggeratedly as he chews. Chris knows he should be grossed out by this display, but that noise makes it difficult.
“Good?” Chris asks.
“The best,” John says through a mouthful of food.
Chris is unwillingly charmed, and grins as he digs in.
-
They continue like that for a while. Chris will go over to John’s house, or John will follow Chris home, especially after a successful hunt. They mostly end up at Chris’s house when they’re hurt because Chris is a hunter (and thus well-stocked and prepared for injuries), but also because John has some nosy neighbors, and it’s hard to reassure the general populace that no, really, it’s not all their blood.
Sometimes, though, they just hang out and watch a game, or go see a movie. Those nights, the sex is slower, less frantic.
October fades into November, and one morning, Chris wakes up feeling more content in John’s bed than he can remember being since before Victoria died, maybe even since they moved to Beacon Hills. He slips out of bed and borrows a pair of sweatpants. John is already at work, but Chris has nothing planned for a few more hours. He gives a cursory look around the bedroom for his shirt, then shrugs and goes downstairs without it.
He’s standing in front of the coffee machine, scratching idly at his stomach, when he hears a car door slam in front of the house. A minute later, before Chris can leave or even find his shirt, Stiles blows through the front door, followed by Derek Hale.
“Dad,” Stiles says, still facing away from Chris, “I didn’t think you’d be home. Where’s the—Oh.” Stiles has set down his bag and turned to the kitchen, where Chris is standing frozen. “Um. Does my dad know you’re here, Mr. Argent?”
Chris looks over Stiles’s shoulder and meets Derek’s eyes. Derek’s face is impassive, but Chris can see that he’s scenting the air and looking embarrassed. Shit.
Looking away from Derek, Chris says, “I think so, Stiles.”
Stiles chooses that moment to see the bite marks and hickeys on Chris’s shoulders and says, “Right. Um. Well, I am—honestly sort of speechless, uh…” He looks like he’s gearing up to keep going, but Derek rests a hand on his shoulder. Stiles glances back and Derek gives him a significant look. “So we’ll be going now,” Stiles finishes, “and have a good day!”
Stiles turns around abruptly and walks out the door. Chris nods gratefully to Derek, who nods back and leaves, closing the door firmly behind him.
Chris sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. Well, that could have gone better.
-
At 4 PM that same day (Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, of course Stiles was coming home) Chris hears his doorbell ring. No one uses his doorbell. Fellow hunters knock, John just comes in, and the post office has instructions to leave any packages on the doorstep. So it must be…
“Stiles,” Chris sighs, opening the door. “And Derek. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Hi, Mr. Argent,” Stiles says brightly. “Can we come in?”
Chris steps away from the door and gestures for them to follow, leading them not to the formal living room, but to the den that Chris himself favors. Chris settles in his favorite chair and watches Stiles and Derek.
Derek chooses to sit on a loveseat that gives a good view of both Chris and the door. Stiles perches briefly next to him, but is up and pacing again in under ten seconds.
“Mr. Argent—can I call you Chris?—what, exactly are you doing with my dad?”
“We’re friends,” Chris says cautiously. Derek snorts, and Stiles seems to agree.
“Friends,” Stiles says, “Right. Well, I don’t know if you know this but my dad doesn’t have many ‘friends’. He seems to trust you, god only knows why. I don’t want to see him hurt.” Stiles stares at Chris.
“Stiles, your father is human. He’s not in any danger from me.”
Stiles waves a hand impatiently. “Not what I meant. Anyway, I just want you to know, if you hurt him, you’ll regret it. Right, Derek?”
Derek grasps the back of Stiles’s shirt and pulls Stiles down to sit on the loveseat, then rests a proprietary hand on his knee. “Sheriff Stilinski has been like a father to me, the past year,” Derek says. “He’s as much a part of my pack as any of the wolves, or Stiles. Do you understand?”
Derek isn’t saying it in a particularly threatening tone of voice. He sounds almost friendly. Nonetheless, Chris can hear the implication in his words.
“I understand,” Chris says, feeling like maybe he doesn’t.
“Good, then we’ll get out of your hair.” Stiles pulls Derek to stand and adds, “By the way, you’re invited to Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. 6 o’clock, don’t be late.”
Chris walks them back to the door and ushers them out, saying, “Thank you, Stiles. That’s very kind.”
“Don’t mention it. But if you want to bring something, try red wine. My dad likes Bordeaux, and besides, it’s heart healthy.” With that, Stiles gets in Derek’s car, and they drive off.
Chris stands on the front step for a couple minutes, thinking. Eventually he wanders back inside. He sits patiently until 5 PM, when he knows that John should be getting home from work. Then he calls.
The telephone rings and rings, about to go to voicemail, when John picks up. “Hello?” He sounds harried.
“John. It’s Chris.”
“Oh, hey,” John says, voice softening. “What’s going on?”
“I saw Stiles and Derek today.”
John sighs. “Did they come to your house?” At Chris’s noise of assent, John says, “Yeah, I thought they might. Sorry about that. Stiles brought me lunch and interrogated me. I told him not to bother you, but…”
“But stubbornness runs in the family.” Chris smiles wryly.
“Did he say anything particularly awful?” John is clearly preparing himself for the worst.
“No, but he did invite me to dinner tomorrow.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good, I was meaning to do that anyway.”
“But why would Stiles invite me?” Chris asks. He’s getting a little frustrated the longer it takes him to understand.
“Chris. You’re the first person I’ve really dated since his mom died. Of course he wants to meet you, make sure you really care.”
Silence. Chris’s mind is running in circles.
“Chris?” John says tentatively. “You still there?”
He snaps abruptly back to the present. “I’m here. But I have to go—I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Definitely,” John says, “but are you okay?”
This whole time, they’ve been dating. Chris thought maybe it wasn’t serious for John, that it was a way to relieve tension with a friend. And Chris was okay with that, he was. But the idea of them being together, maybe for a long time…something slots into place inside Chris.
He takes a deep breath and says, “Honestly? I’m really, really good.”