Chapter Text
Beacon Hills doesn’t have much of a werewolf population, so when a family of them move to town, it sets the rumour mill into overdrive.
It’s part of Sheriff John Stilinski’s job to welcome them, a distasteful practice hammered into place by fearful humans needing to wave around a reminder of guns and law enforcement. He knows he’s wearing his chagrin on his face, but the family Alpha, Mrs. Talia Hale, is a gracious woman. She invites him in with a warm smile and offer of coffee, gesturing to a seat in the living room while she busies herself in the kitchen.
While he waits, a small boy no older than four stops in the doorway beside John’s chair, staring at him with wide, green eyes that are filling with tears as if John just ran over his puppy.
“Hey, kiddo,” John tries. “What’s-”
But the boy’s face screws up, his mouth opening in a silent wail, and John flounders as the boy throws his arms around his neck and buries his face in his throat. He starts to sob, great, racking cries, and John tries to pull away in his bewilderment, but the boy just scrambles into his lap and clings tighter.
Talia hurries in with a tray, setting it on the coffee table before reaching out.
“Derek, honey, what’s wrong?” she asks, trying to pry him into her own arms, but he’s become an octopus, too strong for John to help her with.
“He’s m-mine,” Derek is sobbing. “H-He’s mine.”
“What do you mean, honey? What do you mean he’s-” Talia’s own eyes widen as she and John stare at each other and he’s sure his expression must be mirroring her growing horror.
“Oh no. No no no no no. That’s not- There must be some mistake. We can’t be- My wife-”
“H-He’s- He’s old,” Derek wails through his hiccups, and at any other time, John might bristle at the observation, but this is not that time. Not when a four-year-old is deciding he’s his- his-
“Derek. Derek, are you sure?” Talia is asking.
Derek nods, smearing his tearstained cheeks against John’s throat, and he’s ready to plead with Talia to get him off, but her concerned gaze has turned thoughtful.
“Sheriff, I apologise for being so forward but...”
Before John can ask for clarification, she leans closer and takes a deep breath through her nose. She smiles.
“You have a son.”
John thinks of little Stiles at home with Claudia, how he’d burped him earlier that morning before leaving for work. He looks down at his chest, his shoulder where Stiles had rested, at Derek’s dark-haired head.
Stiles, barely three months old, destined for a werewolf mate.
How the hell is he supposed to explain this to Claudia?
He barely notices Talia coaxing Derek away with the news - (“He’s not m-mine?” “No, honey. I don’t think so.”) - staring instead at the tray and two mugs of coffee Talia had brought in from the kitchen.
“You don’t happen to have anything stronger?”