#damn right derek looks great in a deputy uniform

[endlesstalesofwonder]

Speeding Along

So here I was, watching the YouTube, and this prompt just landed in my lap and I couldn’t not do anything with it. C’mon.

“A friend once set me up on a blind date. I wasn’t in a great mood because I had received a traffic ticket a few hours before. My day got worse when my blind date turned out to be the cop who gave me the ticket. #WorstFirstDate”

Stiles always thought he was given the worst luck in the world, sucking out all the misfortune out of his friends and family so he could suffer for them. At least, that’s how he decided to view it for the entirety of his twenty-four years. The past week had been fine, bearable. That only meant some serious shit was going to go down and he didn’t know when.

He checked his messages before climbing into his jeep. The office building towered over him, casting a looming shadow over him as though he didn’t already have enough dread pooling between his shoulders.

Turning on the car, it was immediately flooded with the strumming of Stay Home by Self. The irony of the universe was never so careless. Maybe he should just camp out in his office. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He was barely getting onto the freeway when the shrieking ring of his Bluetooth stereo signaled a call. It took a moment for the system to shift, displaying the slow rolling familiar digits of the only woman he would never not answer.

“You’re going. That’s final.”

Stiles restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Whenever he did, the woman always had the uncanny ability to tell that he was doing it. “Hello, Lydia. I’m great. How are you?”

“Hi, Stiles,” she huffed. Like her, Stiles could tell whenever she flipped her hair when she was frustrated. “You never answered my texts.”

“I figured my silence was enough of an answer.”

“Stiles!” The stereo did not like the idea of his name being shrieked through the cheap system, rattling and warping the sound out of proportion before settling back with the soft rippling of static from Lydia’s surroundings. “You’re going out.”

The man sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose to relieve the pressure there. It never helped, but the habit stuck after watching it on tv when he was young. Stupid television idols.

Lydia had gotten into the frame of mind that Stiles had become Single-Desperate-and-Alone. And his only defense was that he was not desperate — just tired of looking and waiting. He’d been on several blind dates, ranging from no good to awkward to very, very bad. The last date ended with being sneezed in the face after suggesting that they should not go on another date. Now, he was afraid of getting within arm’s distance of any human being.

“What if I don’t even like the guy?” What if he doesn’t like me? What if he’s a couch slob? What if all he has to wear is a single pair of acid washed jeans and mesh tee that had THE MAN bedazzled onto the back? “I don’t think I could deal with that kind of rejection.”

“Stop being melodramatic.”

Stiles pulled off of the Interstate and onto one of the side roads that lead to the main road back into town. It was supposed to be a secret short-cut around the interstate traffic, but now all navigation directed people towards this road. Damn internet. “Will it get me out of this date?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t stop.”

“This is ridiculous. If you don’t like him — and I’m sure you will —” Stiles sighed. That’s what she’d said about the others as well. “Then this will be the last time I meddle.”

“No more meddling in my love life?” A soft grunt came through the speakers. “I need to hear it.”

“Yes.” Stiles turned onto the main road, familiar trees flanking him on either side. The town sign should be nearby, closer if he pushed the limits.

“Meddling being any kind of date, blind or otherwise…”

“Yes.”

Welcome to Beacon Hills, the main said read as Stiles passed it, though the words were blurred. He just wanted to go home and get this to-be-horrible-date over with.

“Or mysteriously running into someone in the street because someone pushed them…”

“That was one time. Fine.”

“Then we have an agreement.” Then, as though striking a match into light, red and blue lights alternated behind him. “Fuck. Fuck! Fuckity-Fuck-Shit-Dammit—”

“Stiles?”

“I’ll call you back.” He hung up on her, pulling over onto the side of the road, then turned off the car. Another string of swears bubbled up in his throat and stayed there as the officer approached.

He rested his head back against the seat, cool and collected. This was not his first time being pulled over, not even one of the first dozen. By now, Stiles had perfected the art of ticket skimming.

The officer approached his passenger window, to avoid the onslaught of traffic feeding into the town at this time — none. Stiles, begrudgingly, rolled down the window in question as the man bent over just slightly to accommodate his height. Jesus. “You were going 54 in a 40. Do you have anything to say?”

All Stiles could process was the fact that the man was the epitome of dirty, sexy cop: fitted uniform, dark everything — scruff, hair, eyebrows that peaked out from the equally dark reflective ray bands — “I’m dyslexic?”

“Oh?” That stupid eyebrow on his stupid face crooked upwards in nothing other than pure amusement. Shit. “So you think you were going 45 in a 40.”

“... Yes.” No.

“That’s still speeding. License and registration.”

Mentally, his eyes narrowed. He dug through the black hole of a glove box and pulled out his registration that he tucked into what he called the Jeep Bible (key: manual). Then ruffled through his wallet for his license. The man took the items as Stiles found them, walking back to his car as Stiles tried to make him explode with his mind. If only.

It didn’t take long, which was also a bad sign. He had gotten tickets before that took longer because the officer was lenient enough to grant other, lesser offenses than the whopping three-hundred-plus speeding ticket. This man was testing his perfected art.

The ticket was stated as the regular three-hundred and sixty and his wallet tensed at the idea of being emptied. Again. The officer went through the readings like he was supposed to: memorized, mechanical, and purely professional. Then, the man said his goodbyes and left.

“Thanks, asshole,” he muttered, taking a glance at the signed name at the bottom of the ticket. He’d burn the name into his memory if it meant never having to see the man again. Knowing his audience, he took his time to pull off the side of the road and cautiously — it was tempting not to just peel out of there — drive back to his apartment.

Deputy Hale. Stiles hated him.

Once he got back to his apartment, he had all of ten seconds alone before his phone burst out into a blaze of chirps and rings. Lydia Martin.

He picked up, despite the dampened mood. “What?”

“What? What, he asks.” The roar of traffic picked up in the background. She was traveling somewhere. He could even hear the click of her heels. “How about you tell me what just happened?”

“I got a ticket for speeding. No big deal.”

A horn honked, and Stiles couldn’t tell if it was from the phone or from outside. “Good! I hear that going out is the perfect thing to fix that.”

“Listen, Lyds. I’m not in the mood for a date, certainly not now.” A knock sounded on the door. Add another tally to the series of bad timings, Universe. “Hold on.”

Stiles opened the door, ready to unleash the fear of God onto the person who would even dare approach his door despite the No Solicitor sign — and Lydia stood at the door with one hand on her hip and the other hanging up the phone call.

“Don’t call me Lyds,” she snapped, then let herself in.

“Come in, why don’t you.”

She stopped in the living room, spinning on her heel to rake her eyes over his body. “The shirt needs to go. The pants might work, with the right top. The shoes can stay.”

“I’m not going out.”

“We made a deal.” Lydia, ever the Goddess, crossed her hands over her chest. It was all business then. “I suppose that means I can continue to meddle in your life. Your neighbor isn’t seeing anyone lately, maybe they can —”

“How do you even — Fine. Fine!” That was all she needed. She flew into his bedroom and pulled a shirt he didn’t even know existed and threw it in his face. Whatever made her stay out of his love life, it was worth a dinner.

Stiles couldn’t sit still for the life of him. He rearranged the silverware before readjusting the positions of the cups and finally gave up. He buried himself in the sea of dished on the menu.

There were thirteen ways to get out of the restaurant. The first would be to go out the front door, but that would run the risk of potentially showing his blind date that he was trying to sneak out. The windows were not an option because they were beginning to draw the drapes shut and getting through that thick of fabric was a no go in any capacity. The kitchens would be open, but the number of sharp objects that could get in the way were higher than his chances of getting out without being banned —

“I’m looking for table 19,” someone asked the front table. That was Stiles’ table. His blind date. A familiar voice.

Stiles looked up from his menu and nearly choked on a lung, burying his head back behind the plastic before the man saw him. “Fuck me.”

The footsteps grew closer and closer, and Stiles’ was able to make out the size of the shoe — no longer the department-issued boots — “Do you need help reading those numbers, or are you fine?”

Motherfucker. Stiles looked up and met Deputy Hale’s mischievous green eyes. “Is that how this is going to go?”

The man slid effortlessly into the chair opposite him. It was a jarring difference, seeing him in both his uniform and street clothes in a manner of hours. Something in Stiles wanted to relax, but his undeniable grudge didn’t.

“Did you really think that was going to work?”

Stiles lowered his gaze back to the menu, none of the words meaning anything to him. “Yeah, actually.”

The man made a low snort, as though biting back a smile — or laugh — that would no doubt make Stiles threw out any poor judgment he’d made in the past few hours.

Silence settled between them, and Stiles, ever the conversationalist — according to his date with Jensen — didn’t know what to do with it. He fumbled with the straw left in his drink and finally bit the bullet.

“I’m not sure I can go out with a man who knows my driving record.”

The man smirked, leaning his arms on the table but not to divide the space between them. “You’re welcome to see mine, but there’s nothing there.”

“Wow,” Stiles drawled, and the Deputy held out his hands like what-can-you-do? “Wow!”

Finally, he laughed. Stiles couldn’t help joining in. The sound of it was infectious, necessary. Despite the poor start, he’d never felt so light.

“Let’s start over.” A hand crossed over the open space of the table between them. “Derek. Hale.”

“Stiles, not — yeah.” Derek’s eyebrow rose. No doubt he had read his legal name and thought to not issue the ticket — it had worked all of four times before — and yet, here they were. Derek Hale was an enigma. He met his hand with his own. “Stiles Stilinski. It’s nice to meet you.”

The waitress came over not long after their restart. It was easy. To fill the silence. Their conversations blended seamlessly through various stages and recounts of their youth. It was a blessing that neither of them had brought up the —

“You may want to slow down.” Stiles paused, the fork full of food just within his mouth’s grip. Derek was smirking, the bastard, and he knew what he was going to say before he even said it. “I wouldn’t want to give you another ticket.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes and ate the damn food anyways. “Ha. Ha. Very funny. I don’t go speeding through everything, you know. You were just… lucky.”

“Oh?” Derek leaned forward again, and Stiles leaned slightly to meet him. “You’ll have to show me then.”

“What?”

“Something you don’t go speeding through.”

Jesus Christ. Stiles was eating. He leaned back, his face no doubt the same shade as the spaghetti he was rather enjoying and now the meatballs were just taunting him — He relaxed. “Maybe later.”

Derek took his water, meeting Stiles’ gaze over the rim. “I look forward to it.”

When Stiles let himself back into his apartment, Lydia had made herself very comfortable by the size of the blanket nest built to accommodate his four-person couch. It was rather impressive.

The screen froze, paused. She turned away from the screen, the light illuminating in a way that would only describe her as having a halo. “How’d it go?”

He shrugged. She opened her mouth to go off, probably to say something about the inability of men to get their head out of their ass — Jason was never a good fit for Stiles anyways — but Stiles stopped her. “We made another date.”

“Oh,” she drew out, settling back into her nest with nothing other than content and satisfaction in her everything. “Told you so.”

“Mmm. Move over.” She obliged, but only barely. He was only granted a fraction of the comfort she had made for herself, clearly raiding everything from the linen cupboard to his own bed. “What are we watching?”

She rolled her eyes, turning on the show with no additional information or even the title. He stayed quiet, watching and waiting for silence to ask his questions. It didn’t matter. An officer walked into the scene, trying to solve a murder of some kind, and he only saw a dark-haired beauty with green eyes.

He pulled out his phone and sent a single message: See you soon.

Derek Hale: See you.

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 19 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

Sorry, no energy to do edits, so still un-edited. I will try to go over it when I can.

Thanks for reading.

On AO3

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The room Derek is supposed to stay in still smells of vomit. Now he’s also supposed to share it with Isaac because Isaac’s house is a crime scene, because Isaac’s dad is dead.

“Are you sad?” Derek asks Isaac. He shrugs.

“I miss the way my dad used to be, but it was so long ago that I think I don’t really recall how he used to be.”

“How did he used to be?” Derek has a giant bag of popcorn Boyd bought him on the way back from the hospital when Erica reminded them that Derek was supposed to be putting on weight. He offers some to Isaac, but he declines.

“When I was really little, my mom and dad would take my brother and me on day trips. We went to fairs and parks. We did a lot of cool things. And then my mom got sick and my dad got mean.”

“Why did you still live with him?” Derek asks, thinking of the one uncle who had nearly beat his wife to death. His mother had stopped it even though it was her own brother—not his uncle Peter. Wasn’t there someone for Isaac?

Isaac shrugs again. “Every time I had the finances to move out, my dad would take them. I could have a jar under my bed or a savings account. My dad always took it.”

“Why did you move in with Erica and Boyd?”

“They were going through their foster parent training and trying to get Erica’s epilepsy under control. They didn’t have resources to help me.” Isaac leans back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with a blank expression. “They still don’t really. I mean, Erica’s in a trial for her meds but there’s still a copay on that. At least they’re done with the classes. But they still run the only shelter in the city limits.”

“What happens to you now?”

“I don’t know. Stiles promised to help me find my mom’s will, if it existed. I could get the house and the money from my dad’s accounts.” Isaac sits up. “If that happens, then I’m going to pay Boyd and Erica back. They could have the house—it’s so much larger than this one—and most of the money if I get it. They can do so much good with it.”

“Would Stiles help us too?” Derek asks. “Our family had money. The hunters might have taken it though.”

“I’m sure he would. Do you want me to ask him?”

“Please.”

Erica knocks on the door. “Sheriff Stilinski is coming over in a few minutes.” She pins Derek with an assessing look. “He wants to talk to you and your sisters, Derek.”

“What about?” Isaac asks.

Erica shrugs. “He didn’t say. Come on, both of you. We’re having an early supper today.”

On cue, Derek’s stomach gurgled. He’s already put on five pounds since coming back to California. He’s also been eating almost constantly for the past few hours. His healing is working much better today, and he hasn’t had any stomachaches so far. It’s a great improvement over yesterday.

John joins them just as Erica sets a plate heaped with mashed potatoes and gravy in front of Derek. He has a dark blue quilted bag slung over one shoulder.

“Perfect timing!” he declares as he shoves the bag at Boyd and presses a quick kiss to Erica’s cheek. Boyd and Isaac also get kisses.

So do, surprisingly, Laura, Cora, and Derek.

John sinks onto a hastily produced chair between Cora and Laura, groaning as his weight shifts off his feet. A plate is placed before him. “Go ahead,” he tells Boyd. “Open the bag.”

Boyd unzips the bag, and Derek freezes, mouth watering almost instantly. Steaks. John brought steaks. Perfectly cooked, still hot steaks.

Erica laughs at the hopeful expressions on their faces, wiping Cora’s chin with a napkin. She hands one to Derek. “You’re drooling, hon.”

Boyd works his way around the table, thumping two big steaks on top of Derek’s potatoes. His sisters each get three while the humans take one apiece, but Derek doesn’t care. He has plenty of food now. No one is being deprived.

He waits for Boyd to sit down again, but Boyd is busy pouring milk and juice. Erica seems just as un-inclined to eat too, busy making small talk with John.

Derek tugs her sleeve. “Can I eat now?” he asks. She nods, turning back to John.

Derek focuses on cleaning his plate, just as happy to pick up the steaks and tear them apart with his hands as he is that Isaac refills his potatoes when he pauses in chewing meat to lick his plate.

Once everyone has finished their first servings, the werewolves already on seconds and thirds, John leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach.

“I have a proposal,” he announces. “I’d like to adopt you.”

Cora drops her fork. “Why?” she demands before Laura can shush her.

“Well,” John says, scratching the back of his head while he chooses his words, “my wife and I always planned to have more children, but it never worked out. I still want to have children again. I want to be useful again.”

“Would we have to call you dad?” Cora asks, still eying John with distrust.

“No. You would call me whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“What about Laura? She’s too old to be adopted.”

John’s face turns sad even as he smiles fondly at Cora. “You are never too old to find family,” he says. “My wife was adopted when she was twenty-five. We’d been married three years at that point.”

Laura reaches across John to clap a hand over Cora’s mouth. “What about Peter? What happens with him?”

“The investigation is on-going, and I’m definitely not involved, but if Peter manages to not be sent to trial for murder, then I suppose you’d be given the choice to live with him. If he beats the murder rap.”

“Does the Sheriff’s Department know about werewolves?” Derek asks. He thinks they don’t. Stiles hadn’t.

“Collectively? No,” John confirms. “Individually, possibly. No one there now was there when I was. Lahey emptied the ranks and filled them with people he trusted. I’m not sure how Parrish and Stiles managed to be hired.”

Derek scrapes a few more bites of potato and gravy into the center of his plate. He speaks without looking up. “If the people killed are determined not to have been killed by Peter, will he go free?”

John sighs. “Peter admitted, in front of witnesses, that he killed Sheriff Lahey. If those witnesses—” he looks to Erica with a severe frown –“choose to come forward, then it’s very likely that he’ll at least go to trial. No court worth anything will place children with a suspected murderer.”

“Your son is just as much a witness as I am,” Erica snaps. “And he has an obligation to uphold the law. I’d look at him first if any witnesses come forward.”

“John,” Boyd says, “I know you mean well, but you’re still a stranger. Get to know them better before you try adopting them. Let them become accustomed to you first.”

John blinks. “Yes, you’re right,” he finally says after a long pause. “Is there anything I can do right now that would be helpful?”

“You can help me study for my J.E.D.,” Laura suggests.

“Your jed?” Erica asks. “Do you mean your G.E.D.?”

Laura shrugs. “What’s the difference?”

“G.E.D. stands for general education development,” John explains. “I’d be delighted to help you study for it.”

“Can you help us too?” Cora takes John’s second steak, daring him to reclaim it.

“Yes, I can, Cora.” John smiles. “I look forward to it.”

Boyd collects everyone’s plates, setting them in the sink to be washed later. “Is everyone done eating now?” he asks.

Derek is full so he doesn’t ask for more food, but both Cora and Laura accept fourth and fifth helpings.

Erica touches John’s shoulder while Boyd sets out pie and ice cream. “We might need help too.” She looks at Laura and then jerks her head back.

Laura’s annoyance tickles Derek’s nose. Her eyes glow, on the edge of red. “When Cora and I were taken,” she spits, stabbing at her pie, “I was raped damn near every day. Most of the time, I lost whatever baby was conceived. All but one of them. She’s still in New York with the hunters.”

John sits in stunned silence, tears in his eyes.

“We don’t have the resources to go out there and find her,” Erica explains.

“Stop,” John says, putting his hand over Laura’s, squeezing briefly and then pulling back. “Of course I’ll help. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you—any of you.”

Quietly, Laura says, “Thank you.” Then she stands up and marches outside to sit on the porch.

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Sonya holds up one finger, on the phone with someone. Stiles waits patiently. Beacon Hills is small but busy. He can understand people calling the courthouse with their inane questions. Finally, though, Sonya is able to hang up.

“What can I help you with today, Deputy?”

Sonya is his dad’s age. It’s weird to have her address him by his title. Then again, Stiles still thinks it’s strange to go into establishments even without his uniform and immediately be called “Sir.” Some days he feels like an imposter in his skin, and other days he revels in the thrill it gives him to be respected.

“I need to see about getting a record.”

“A record of what?”

“A will.”

“Whose will?”

Stiles checks his notes. “Camilla Lahey née Rosen.” He checks them again. “Can you see if her husband, Michael Lahey, had a will too?”

“Are you making the inquiry or are you doing it on someone else’s behalf?”

“I’m making it on behalf of their son, Isaac Lahey.”

“Give me a moment,” Sonya says, typing on her computer.

Stiles drums his fingers on the counter in front of him, studying the clutter accumulated around Sonya. He’s trying to memorize the pattern of the mandala picture taped to the front of her desk when he realizes that she’s been trying to get his attention.

“Sorry.” The apology is arbitrary. Sonya only cares because he’s wasting the precious time she has.

“I found the wills. They’re on the printer, if you’ll follow me.”

She leads him down a long hallway past a few closed offices, signs denoting that the occupants will be back in a month.

Thanksgiving, Stiles thinks. Poor Sonya.

Sonya stops at a behemoth of a machine, plucking the still-warm pages from it as if it will bite her. She efficiently taps the edges together and then sticks them into another part of the machine for it to staple them.

She pauses before she hands them to him. “Are you sure you’re supposed to collect these?”

“Listen, Michael Lahey systemically abused his son in order to control him. I need these wills for Isaac’s sake. I’m not going to look at or read them-put them in a sealed envelope for all I care. These are Isaac’s, but with the investigation going on, it looks suspicious if he asks for them himself. I’m just the middle man.”

Sonya still looks conflicted but she lets the papers go, although she does follow Stiles’ advice and stick them into a Manila envelope, taping over the flap and initialing it.

The relief on her face is evident when Stiles, without checking the durability of the seal, tucks the envelope into a briefcase he brought for this purpose. He thanks her and heads back to his vehicle.

His radio crackles right as he turns the key in the ignition.

“Unit 5, what’s your 20?”

“This is Unit 5. I’m out by the south side of courthouse. What’s going on?”

“We have reports of a 10-79 out in the preserve. Called in by a couple of hikers.”

“Aw shit,” Stiles groans. To Marie he says, “I’m on my way. Anyone else responding?”

“Just you for now, Stiles. Be careful. Whatever caused it could still be there.”

Stiles doesn’t think so. He thinks whatever killed the dead body in the preserve is cooling its heels in the lockup.

He thinks that this is Alan Deaton and that Peter got his revenge.

The whole drive into the preserve, Stiles thinks of the Hales. Of Laura battle weary and still fighting. Of meek Cora who seems afraid to draw attention to herself. Of Derek, tiny, underweight, scrappy. If he were in Peter’s shoes and knew who’d killed his family and hurt those kids, Stiles knows he would do the same things as Peter. Maybe worse. He thinks there wouldn’t have been enough pieces left to find.

Stiles finds the hikers first. A young couple several grades below him at school. Twenty-seven to his thirty-two.

“It’s just up ahead,” Jason Moellers says.

Trish Jenkins nods, adding, “It’s like a wild animal got a hold of it.”

Trish works with tigers at a zoo nearby. Stiles asks her, “Did you recognize the marks it made?”

“No. I mean, maybe?” She sighs. “It was like if a bear and a mountain lion merged to maul.”

Stiles points down the trail toward his car. “There will be other deputies coming. I want you to head back to the start of the trail. Thank you for your cooperation.” He waits until they’re out of sight before he heads deeper into the brush. He finds the body impaled on a low-hanging branch.

It’s not Deaton.

White male, about the same age as Sheriff Lahey, late fifties, early sixties, tall, stocky. Throat ripped out and chest flayed open. Clothing torn to shreds, leaves and debris lining the more superficial wounds like he was chased out here.

Stiles backs away, feeling queasy. He’s positive now that Peter Hale did this. He needs to find out this man’s connection to the Hale fire.

“Who are you?” he asks rhetorically as he grabs his radio. “What did you do?”

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MP, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19