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They had him surrounded. The slap of beat-up boots against the cement as he ran across the rooftop was drowned out by the rain and sirens. He jumped over the break between buildings, rolling and sliding in the water. His wet hoodie was useless against the downpour soaking him to the bone. He could feel their sights set on him as a booming voice rose over the din.
“FREEZE AND PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD”
Tch. Typical police warning. Did they really think he would give up after going through all that? Like hell. He skidded to a precarious stop at the edge of the rooftop. Hm, a lovely drop with nice dark water at the bottom. With his luck it probably had sharks and shit waiting to eat him. Sharks could live in rivers, right? He turned slowly to face the hoard of uniformed men and women, all of whom had their guns trained on him. He wasn’t that dangerous, was he? They were giving him too much credit. Honestly, he was actually flattered.
“PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD MR. STILINSKI”
Stiles did raise his hands, slowly so that he wouldn’t startle the rookies, and stuck them out in front of him. The first and second fingers of his right hand pointed toward the officers on the rooftop with him, his thumb straight up in the air. His left hand gripped the finger gun below the two-fingered barrel. Stiles heard laughter as he sighted his fingers on the moron with the megaphone. He’d thought he recognized Alpha Hale. Douchebag.
“THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING. PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD”
He grinned devilishly, making sure only the teeth and lips showed from under his hood. That ought to freak out Hale’s newer ‘weres. After a moment, he tilted his head to look Hale straight in his red eyes and said clearly, “Bang.”
He jumped as the rooftop blew.
Stiles screamed the whole way down. He was on fire, okay? That tended to freak healthy people out. The scream that didn’t happen was cut off abruptly as he landed feet first in the dark probably-full-of-deadly-things water. He didn’t even wait for himself to stop falling before he was kicking frantically toward the sewer opening in the bay. Gods, could this get any more cliché? His lungs were aching with the effort by the time he reached a shallow stretch of pipe.
As soon as his head breached the surface, his com squawked to life. “Stiles!? Stiles, are you okay!? Holy shit that was a great explosion. Allison, did you see-!?”
“Yes, Greenburg, I saw it. Stiles, are you good?”
Instead of answering his senior officer Stiles addressed their demolition and tech expert. “Greenburg, you better start praying that I don’t make it out of this alive cause when I get back to base I’m gonna steal Allison’s stick of mountain ash – the big one, you know? – I’m gonna wrap it in wolfsbane, roll it in mistletoe, and then I’m gonna shove it straight up your-”
“Put your hands up.”
Stiles stopped. He stopped walking, stopped talking, stopped breathing. His heart might’ve also stopped doing that whole beating thing.
The voice came from behind him, where the exit to the street was, “I am a ‘were officer of Beacon Hills PD.” Stiles loved the civilian protection laws; let’s make our officers state their species for the friendly criminals, that way they’ll know precisely how to incapacitate them. “Put your hands on your head.”
“Don’t you get tired of saying the same thing, like, all the time?”
“Don’t you get tired of stealing, vandalizing, and terrorizing, like, all the time?”
Stiles grinned. Ooh, a sass-tastic officer. How fun. “Nope.” In one practised motion he pulled out his own gun (with wolfsbane bullets, duh) and rolled to dodge the shot the guy had already let off. Got to anticipate those werewolf reflexes. He had his gun trained on the officer before he could let off another. “Oh shit.” Holy Mary mother of curly fries. He caught a baby Hale.
“Stiles? Stiles, what’s going on?” Stiles tuned back into the constant chatter of Stiles, Stiles, what the fuck is happening Stiles? going on in his ear.
“Um, I have a problem.” Stiles eyed Hale Junior up and down. “I got a baby Hale with his gun on me.”
“Which one is it?”
“Put your weapon down and put your hands on your head.” Baby Hale said again. He was pretty damn hot. ‘Damn fine’ pretty much described the entire Hale pack though so he probably shouldn’t tell Allison that.
“The one with the mad eyebrows.” Said eyebrows twitched in what was probably annoyance.
Greenburg piped up, “That’d be Derek Hale, third in line for Alpha.”
Stiles wiggled his own brows. “Ooh, we got a celebrity.” Derek frowned even harder if that was possible.
“Put. Your weapon. Down.”
“I think I’m pissing him off.” He could practically hear Allison roll her eyes.
“Of course, you are. Get out of there and back to base ASAP.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Stiles fell to the ground. Derek shot the sewer wall that only moments before had Stiles’ shoulder blocking it. Aw, no kill shots, that was nice of him. Stiles dove for Derek’s legs. He barely made them budge, but he did manage to stick the needle into the dude’s thigh. And may he just say, bless those thighs.
“What the-” Derek stumbled against the wall, less from Stiles’ diving and more from the nonlethal wolfsbane concoction seeping through his veins. “What the fuck did you-”
“Nothing lethal. Promise.” Stiles got up and brushed off his jeans in vain. “You’ll be down but not out.” He looked over Derek again, “What the hell were you doing in the sewers when half the Beacon Hills PD is on the roof?” Unsurprisingly Derek didn’t answer. “In any case.” He took out his marker, took Derek’s hand and signed his name. “You should totally call me when I’m not running for my life.” He kissed his hand like a gentleman, winked like a thief, and made off with Derek’s wallet.
---
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“Colonel Martin, you’re looking ravishing as ever.” Stiles plastered on his best smile in the face of Lydia’s glare. She was standing in the centre of a domed concrete room with people swarming back and forth between the tunnels that connected the central hub to the rest of their underground base. He stopped just in front of her, ignoring the frantic shaking of Scott’s head in the command room behind Lydia’s back. Allison had her head in her hands, and Finstock was actually doing work instead of yelling for once. A private lingered nervously near Lydia’s elbow. The poor guy was probably trying to get her to sign off on something. Man, had he picked a bad time.
“You needlessly risked yourself–”
“Hey, it’s not my fault Greenburg’s charges malfunctioned. Everything was going, and did go, perfectly.”
“My shoe will go perfectly down your throat if you ever interrupt me again,” Lydia said sweetly.
Stiles swallowed, “Noted.”
She sighed, and snatched the pad and pen from the private, “Stiles, you’re our best field operative.” The private ran for the hills as soon as the pad was back in his hands. Stiles was almost sure he peed himself. “You’ve got a ninety-eight per cent mission success rate, and consequently you’re the only member of Division that the Hales not only know by face but also by name.”
Something cruel and slick curled in his gut “It’s not like I’ve got anyone to protect, Colonel.” Stiles bared his teeth, a habit he probably picked up from Scott.
Lydia’s impeccably lined eyes narrowed. “You’ve got yourself,” she said lowly, stalking closer to him, so their faces were inches apart. “And if you think for one second there aren’t a dozen people waiting for you to come back you’re more idiotic than I thought.”
Stiles relaxed, the last of his guard from the mission coming down at her firm but not unkind tone, “Gee, Lyds, you always know how to make a guy feel loved.” Despite the flippant words, his tone was soft. Stiles kind of wanted to hug her, but even when they’d dated she hadn’t been a fan of PDA.
“Go take a shower, you stink.” Plus, he still smelled like the sewers.
“Love you too.”
She rolled her eyes as she walked away, a cluster of personnel scattering like pigeons in her wake. Stiles made his own way to command so he could debrief and finally head to bed. Or maybe to the dining hall. Or the speakeasy.
“Greenburg, show yourself, so I can kill you.”
Greenburg’s laugh sounded from the speakers, “Not a chance, Stiles. I like my orifices mountain ash, mistletoe, and wolfsbane free. Especially the one you were threatening.”
“Coward,” Stiles said, poking a speaker angrily.
“Don’t take it out on the tech dude!” it squawked.
“I’m going to find you someday, Greenburg, and when that day comes you’re going–”
Several voices from around the room and even some passersby chimed in, “To regret ever breaking into Finstock’s email in the first place.”
Stiles couldn’t help the grin that split his face, “What, am I repeating myself?”
“Almost every day. Welcome back, dude.” Scott extracted himself from where he was obviously hiding from Lydia’s wrath to clap him on the shoulder “Nice exit by the way. Very dramatic.”
“Greenburg’s fault, not mine!” Stiles gestured at the dozens of screens Greenburg was operating from wherever he was. Paranoid freak. Although, was it paranoid if they really were after you?
“Not the explosion, Stiles. Derek Hale.”
“Oh,” Stiles blinked, one hand swinging back down to his side and the other going to the back of his neck to rake through the hair finally growing out from his buzzcut. He remembered a moment later to reach into his wet and rather smelly pocket and pull out Hale’s wallet.
Scott’s eyebrows winged up, and he cocked his head, “Is that his wallet? Why’d you take that? Another trophy?”
“I don’t know. I guess. It’s not like Hale can’t get another one.” Stiles shrugged, fingering the wallet open.
Scott twisted his head around to try and get the words right side up on the ID Stiles slid out, “Derek S Hale. Wonder what the S stands for.”
“Probably something stupid like Samson or Shelby,” Stiles frowned down at the card.
“Simon, after his father.”
“Shut up, Greenburg.” Scott and Stiles said together.
Allison giggled from where she was organizing the next hundred missions or so. “Are you going to come debrief anytime soon, Stiles? Or should I assume you didn’t manage to get the data? Should I send Mason?”
“Now you’re just being insulting.” Stiles pouted, sliding the wallet and ID back into his pocket. Instead, he extracted the USB from the other one and handed it over. “I have placed information vital to the survival of the Rebellion into the memory systems of this R2 unit.” It’s funny because the drive really was in the shape of R2. “Please Obi-Wan Kanobi, you’re my only hope.” Greenberg laughed.
Allison rolled her eyes but smiled fondly, “Come on, Princess Leia, let’s find out how to bring down the Death Star.”
Stiles’ face melted into an expression of admiration, “You are wonderful. Does Scott ever tell you that?”
“Not often, but actions speak louder than words.” Wolf whistles (ha) from a number of the terminals rang out inside command. Scott’s cheeks might’ve turned red, but it could’ve been the crappy lighting.
“Back to work!” Finstock barked, scaring a terminal worker into spilling her hot coffee all over herself.
Several hours and a shower later, Stiles fell into bed. If he fell asleep now, he’d get at least eight hours of sleep before he needed to be back in command researching his next target. Instead, he stared at the worn black wallet sitting innocuously on his desk where he’d thrown it before tossing his pants in the laundry chute.
Why would a Hale have a worn wallet? They were the richest ‘weres in the Beacon Hills territory, especially since Peter came into power. They could’ve afforded a new leather wallet every thirty seconds if they’d really wanted one. And why had Derek Hale been in the sewers when his uncle and the rest of the police force were busy chasing Stiles through the alleyways and up to the rooftops of the riverside district?
Stiles heaved a breath before rolling out of his comfy bed and over to the desk. He emptied it onto the tabletop; ID, a couple of bills (which he took), four photos, and a few contact cards. Who carried contact cards anymore? What a dork. Stiles zeroed in on the pictures.
All of them were of Derek and his family. The Hales were a pretty photogenic bunch when they weren’t pointing guns and ruining people’s lives. There was a picture of a teenage Derek with his sisters at a dining room table. Derek was glaring at the camera, eyebrows drawn into an impressive scowl. At the same time, the younger of them mushed his lips into a smile. He was wearing a spectacularly ugly Christmas sweater and a ‘Bah Humbug’ Santa hat. The rest of his face was blotted out by the glare of his eyes (no pun intended), but both girls had their eyes closed. The older one was clutching her side in laughter. Two toddlers were in the background falling all over each other and a dog.
The second picture took Stiles’ breath away. Derek was downright beaming at the camera while his mother and father hugged him. Talia Hale was just as beautiful as her children. Derek was wearing a cap and gown, so Stiles assumed it was his college graduation since the Beacon Hills High School colours were white and crimson. All three sets of eyes were squeezed shut, but the happiness on their faces was so obvious it made Stiles ache for his father. Stiles squinted at the fine print on the certificate Derek was holding.
He had a teaching degree.
What the hell was he doing in law enforcement?
The third picture reminded Stiles of the before-picture in a holiday series. The one where no one knew the timer is finished, so they were still getting into position, the parents yelling over the chaos for the kids to just sit still, damn it! It must have been just before the fire because Talia and Simon were still there and trying to hold down a set of twins. The girl had no shoes, and both she and the boy had their claws out. Peter Hale had his arm around a woman with wild black hair. He was a sight to behold when he wasn’t a maniacal dictator. They both had a hand on a twin from the second set, two girls this time.
Stiles moved on to the last picture, and his heart clenched in guilt.
Because it was apparent, there wasn’t another copy of this. It was one of those old Polaroids. Talia and Simon Hale were wrapped in layers and layers of clothing. Talia’s eyes were scrunched in laughter at something that had long since died with them, and Simon’s smile was so sweet and loving it was embarrassing to look at. Simon’s eyes weren’t closed or reflecting the camera’s lights in this one, and both of them looked so much younger than any of the old newspaper clippings Stiles had seen. The background was all snow with a little bit of forest. Simon had some snow in his hair.
Derek and his father had the same smile.
Stiles thought of the one strip of photos he had of both of his parents, back when they’d just met. Claudia was laughing her ass off as his Dad tried to figure out how the photo booth worked. If someone stole it, he’d probably track the asshole down and make him suffer.
It sounded like a lot for a photo, but when it was all you had? It was worth it.
Stiles stared at the photo of the dead couple longer than necessary. Finally, he let out a growl that would make Scott proud before getting up and grabbing a hoodie.
“He’s going to make me regret this.”
The Hale house was in the preserve, the heart of enemy territory. After Talia Hale died, Peter had gone a little nuts on security. There was no way Stiles would be able to get in and out undetected. Maybe if this had been a sanctioned mission and he had the full backing of the Division, but no one even knew he was outside the base. If he tried to break in alone, he’d be caught or killed on sight depending on how vindictive Peter was feeling at the time.
Luckily, Derek Hale didn’t live at the house with his uncle.
He owned a creepy loft in the creepy part of town.
He also wasn’t home.
Stiles spent the hour before he heard Derek on the landing going through the guy’s tragic collection of movies. No DC movies. At all. Derek Hale was either a serial killer or an uncultured dog. He did have the Star Trek movies. Even the newest one, which Stiles hadn’t been able to go see for obvious reasons. He hadn’t had the time to get Greenburg to illegally download it yet for movie night. Stiles was considering stealing it and just leaving the wallet when he heard keys jangling outside the door.
Stiles jumped away from the DVDs like a guilty child. He fell onto the couch instead.
Derek wouldn’t have smelled him; Stiles kept an amulet on him whenever he went out to hide his scent. (It wasn’t, unfortunately, powerful enough to mask the smell of sewage earlier that night but Stiles had scrubbed that away already). Stiles couldn’t do anything about his heartbeat though, not for very long at least, so Derek shouldn’t have been so surprised by the sight of Stiles relaxing on his couch.
“Dude, you gotta invest in some better locks or some runes or something. This is pathetic. It’s like you wanted me to break in. Oh, and pay attention? Your ears are good for something, you know. Gods.”
The sight of him had Stiles suddenly nostalgiac for the early mornings when his dad would stop by the all-night grocery store after his shift. Derek stared at him for a whole minute before dropping his grocery bags to the floor and slowly going for his piece. “I don’t think anyone wants you in their house.”
Stiles winced dramatically, “Ouch, that hurts. Don’t bother drawing that. I just came to return this.” He plopped the wallet, sans the money he’d liberated earlier, onto the coffee table as he stood. “I figured you’d want it back.”
Derek’s eyes flicked between the photos and Stiles. His hand still hadn’t relaxed from where it was poised over his holster. “Since when does Beacon Hills’ most wanted return the things he’s stolen. It’s not like it’s the worst thing you’ve done.”
“Speaking of crimes I may or may not have committed,” Stiles lounged against the bookcase with all the movies, “What were you doing in the sewers? Not exactly a favourite hangout for ‘weres.”
He could see the muscles in Derek’s jaw work, “I was under orders to patrol possible escape routes.”
Stiles didn’t believe that for a second. “Yeah, sure, because the first thing anyone thinks when a suspect is running around on rooftops is ‘huh, maybe he’ll swing by the sewer system on his way out.’” He laughed and turned back to the DVDs, “You have to get better movies. The Notebook? Are you serious? My commanding officer watches that crap, I’m forced to sit through it every time we throw a pity party.”
“It was – why am I still talking to you?”
“My charming personality?” Stiles struck a pose against the shelves. “And come on, look how adorable I am.” Derek just glowered. Stiles rolled his eyes and wandered over the breakfast counter. There were a few books and magazines spread out. “Can I ask you another thing?”
“What.” Derek ground out; punctuation obviously ignored in favour of utter loathing.
“Why would a teacher become a police officer?” Derek’s breath left him audibly. Stiles held his gaze still wondering why the hell he wasn’t hightailing it out of there and back to base. He’d returned the photos, he’d taunted the cute cop, time to go Stiles! But he didn’t jump out the window and into the night Batman-style, instead, he sat there, staring at this really, really hot man and imagining him in a sweater and glasses. Would he have been a high school teacher? A college professor? Or maybe he worked with little kids. Why leave something like that behind? Stiles knew why he’d had to leave his own schooling behind. Derek’s reason was probably the same. Dead family. Revenge. Etcetera. After a minute of angry glaring on Derek’s part and curious staring on his, Stiles blinked and shifted his focus to his scuffed shoes. “I, uh, I was going to be an Emissary. I even got into Deaton’s school before it was closed down.”
Derek’s ‘grr’ face changed into one of confusion and Stiles understood. They were the same questions he got every time. Why hadn’t he stayed? Emissaries were protected by the Hales. Especially young ones, just learning how to use their connection to the land. Well, Stiles would rather be hunted down like a criminal than being kept safe in a cage. Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek and picked up a Reader’s Digest. He flipped through it aimlessly while Derek watched him.
Stiles was about to sigh and steal a few magazines before slipping out when the werewolf spoke, “The next in line to be Alpha shouldn’t be a high school English teacher.” That sounded an awful lot like he was parroting something someone had told him.
Stiles snorted, “So what, they should be in the line of fire? Yeah, that’s smart.” Derek didn’t answer, but the sound of rustling plastic bags spoke volumes. Derek passed Stiles to start putting things away in the kitchen. “You seem way too chill with a supposed terrorist in your home. Do you normally have people breaking into your apartment?”
“I wasn’t going to let my groceries melt,” Derek said evenly as he turned away to shove things in the fridge and onto shelves.
That wasn’t an answer, but Stiles got distracted. The laugh that erupted from him couldn’t be helped, “You like butterscotch blondie ice cream? I totally had you pegged for the straight-up vanilla kind of guy.”
“I can guarantee I’m not a vanilla kind of guy.”
The moment those words hit Stiles's eardrums, his brain stuttered. Derek obviously realized what he’d just said too because his back tensed up as he slid the ice cream into the freezer. Stiles ignored all the alarms and klaxons going off in the logical side of his brain, “But can you prove that?” Please say yes, dear gods, please say yes.
After pushing celery into the bottom right drawer, Derek turned to lean against the counter beside the fridge. “I won’t be proving it to a man wanted for terrorism, conspiracy, theft, and vandalism.”
Stiles groaned, thunking his head down on the countertop, “You know, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that? And it was only a little bit of vandalism! It wasn’t even permanent, and I have never hurt anyone, whether they deserved it or not.” He peeked at Derek, grinning, “Which one was your favourite?”
“I don’t have a favourite.” Derek spat.
“Really? Cause I like the one where I replaced all of Peter’s billboard quotes with ‘I’m a racist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot’. But I have to admit it was all my CO’s idea. We’d just got done watching 9 to 5, have you ever seen that? Work of art. These three humans team up against their Alpha werewolf boss. Super funny.”
“I’ve seen it,” Derek grunted. Stiles beamed and perched his chin in his hands, staring expectantly. Derek growled. “It’s my sister’s favourite movie.”
Stiles manic grin softened, “Yeah? Cora’s? Or one of the younger kids? If it’s one of the younger kids you need to show them some Whedon dude, that should always be a kid’s favourite – at least once. I’d say Firefly. We Browncoats know what’s up.” Derek snorted. Stiles counted it as a win. “What? What’s your issue with Firefly? Who has an issue with Firefly?”
“It just figures the terrorist would consider himself a Browncoat.” Derek had the sexiest smirk Stiles had ever seen. And he knew sexy smirks; he dated Lydia.
His mouth watered, “Well if I’m any Browncoat, I’m totally Zoe. She rocked.” Derek’s lips might have curled in an honest smile. “Let me guess Jane was your favourite character? Or Mal?”
“Kaylee,” Derek said, then froze.
Stiles ignored his inner freak out that he was chatting with a Hale about TV shows because he was sure Derek was having the same one right about now. Except replace Hale with terrorist. Alleged terrorist. “Seriously? The perpetually cheerful mechanic? You literally couldn’t have picked someone least like you. Although, I guess it’s something to work toward. You could start with a smile? Or maybe just say ‘shiny’?”
Derek glared at him. But what else is new?
“Although I guess I can see it,” Stiles cocked his head, “Kaylee’s one true fault is that she’s intrinsically incapable of letting down her loved ones and if she does…” Stiles watched Derek’s jaw tighten and eyes flash. He didn’t say anything. Stiles filed that away for later and headed for the window. “Well, I guess this conversation is over. Next time I’ll show up with better movies. Maybe we can curb your unfortunate taste in romantic comedies.” Stiles blew a kiss to the statue that was Derek Hale and slipped out the window before Derek could say another word.
Which meant he was long gone when Derek pulled a black flip phone from his pocket and held down two.
“Hey, Isaac. Put the Sheriff on. His son just paid me a visit.”