Chapter Text
"I got it!" Stiles screeched, barreling past his second father as he made a bid for the front door. "Watch the oven timer - don't let dinner burn - Fuckouch my TOE -Hello Peter!" He said, all in one breath as he threw the door open and leaned against the door frame in what might have been an attempt at a sexy pose if he wasn't sweating like a nervous piggy and breathing kind of funny. "You're right on time, please come in! I'm sorry for my parents in advance and I hope anything that happens tonight will not be held against me unless its like, you know, something totally awesome that won't make you think I'm a freak in which case great and I take full credit."
"Hello Stiles," Peter said, amusement and cockiness in his voice as he is ushered into the Stilinski-Finstock home. "Thank you for having me over Coach, Mr. Stilinski." He offered out his hands, which held a tinfoil wrapped pie that smelled like apples and cinnamon.
"A deal is a deal is a deal," Bobby said as John grabbed the pie from the teen before Stiles could, either to save it from ending up on the floor or to secure his own portion and not a "Stiles approved" sized slice. "Glad you could come anyway. Hope you brought your appetite and that which we agreed on."
"Yeah!" Stiles beamed at Peter, giving up on fighting his dad for possession of the pie. "I made lasagna and garlic bread and salad."
"Why Stiles, I didn't know you were so skilled in the kitchen," Peter said with an appreciative sniff. "Your father mentioned you would be cooking but I wasn't expecting a full course meal."
"Yeah yeah, flirting and complements all around," Bobby said, taking Stiles by the shoulders and steering him into the kitchen, Peter following dutifully behind. "I want my lasagna. Food first chatter later!"
"Fiiiiiiiine," Stiles rolled his eyes, but his smile was pleased and cheeks reddened by Peter's vocal appreciation. "You'll have to excuse Dad #1 and #2, they aren't used to company or any kind of small talk that isn't about guns or sports."
"Speaking of sports," John said, pulling out plates and forks. "Just how do you two know each other so well?" John asked, looking between his husband and the teen suspiciously. "Hale and Stiles I can understand. They used to go to the same school. But I thought Hale quit the basketball team a year before graduation and I wasn't aware Bobby had taught any of the senior classes." He served up the lasagna as Stiles put the bowl of salad in the center of the table, deliberately turning the serving tongs toward John.
"Oh you know," Bobby said, pulling up a plate and tucking a napkin into his t-shirt like a bib. "We spend a lot of time bonding during lacrosse practice. I keep kicking him out of the stands and he keeps slinking back to watch Stiles run around and get sweaty." He pointed his fork at the boys, who both leaned back with wary expressions. "Teenagers are disgusting bundles of raging hormones, but it's perfectly natural! Don't let the republicans tell you otherwise."
"Hey! Be nice to Peter," Stiles scolded, throwing a pile of napkins at Bobby. "You said he's doing you a favor. This doesn't sound very appreciative of his efforts for you."
John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for a few deep breaths before leveling Peter with a serious look that made Stiles wince and wiggle in his seat like he wanted to throw himself in front of the other teen like a human shield.
"You know, I might be retired from the force but I do, from time to time, enjoy a day out at the shooting range," John said, the eye contact with Peter never wavering as he stabbed the smallest portion of lettuce he could get away with. "I find it helps to keep up practical skills like marksmanship and thought exercises like how to hide a body so that no one will ever find it."
Stiles threw up his hands in despair. "That's it. If you can't be civil to Peter then no flavor for you!" Stiles made a grab for the pepper, which John had begun to liberally apply to his vinegar dressing in hopes of making the salad more interesting, almost managing to pull it from his father's hand before the man rallied and pulled back.
"Hey! Let go. This is my house and my pepper and I can act any way I damn well please." With a short scuffle, and a slap fight that Peter watched avidly while Bobby covered his plate in a protective slouch, the Stilinski men finally pulled apart with a mighty crash as the pepper flew in a black streak across the table.
"Crap," Stiles jerked back, face scrunching up once, twice, one really odd way, before he finally let out a pained sneeze that sent him hurtling to the ceiling, chair and dinner plate following him up in a magical wave.
John swore, making a grab for his floating son as Bobby just determinedly continued to eat, ignoring the now fully wolfed out Peter, who had been shocked into shifting and was now at a loss for what to do.
"Has this happened before?" Peter asked, panic slightly slurred due to fangs he was sheepishly retracting, along with his claws and a pair of impressive sideburns, as Stiles began swearing enough to match his father.
"Nope," Bobby said around a mouthful of lasagna. "Dishes and himself? On occasion, but never both at once never when he would notice?"
"You mean he's been levitating things, including himself, and he doesn't even know he's doing it?" Peter asked incredulously, ducking a bit to avoid taking a sneaker to the face and wincing as the kick stirred up more pepper, hurting his delicate nose.
"He is right here and would like some fucking help please!" Stiles shouted hysterically, making Peter wince and rub his sensitive ears. John had retreated to the kitchen closet and was grabbing a broom like he thought Stiles might be chased down like a bird that had accidentally flown indoors. 'Somebody do something before I float out the window like Aunt Marge!"
With a sigh Peter jumped, easily grabbing Stiles by the shoulder and bracing his knees on the chair, which sank under their combined weight, or because Stiles was calming down now that someone was successfully helping him. It was hard to tell with magic like this.
"Two minutes into dinner," Bobby said, having pulled a stopwatch out of his pocket and checking it. "I'm impressed. We didn't even get to eat before losing all control. That has to be a record, even with your werewolf family, right? I bet we're crazier than even you Hales." He was getting excited, competition stirring up his blood, but neither teen was paying him any mind, their eyes locked in a hazy staring contest as they remained pressed together on the chair, hands clasped in each other's shirts.
"Peter, come talk with me a moment," John said. It wasn't really a request. "Not you Bobby," he pointed meaningfully at his husband. "You stay down here with Stiles and both of you try to stay out of trouble while I figure out what our next step in this magical dance needs to be."
"Hey! Asking the Hales for info was my idea," Bobby complained. "Don't steal my informant!"
"Shouldn't I be up there with you?" Stiles asked, alarm and curiosity written all over his face. 'I'm the one who almost floated up to the stratosphere here. I feel like I should be in on this conversation. Also why are you asking Peter about magic and werewolves? Since when has that been a thing? I thought Derek was naturally that hairy, although I guess if there's like, people born as werewolves then that would be natural for them-"
"Upstairs Peter, if you please," John said, waving the teen up to the office and ignoring the verbal tidal wave coming from Stiles. "Eat your dinner, both of you. No eavesdropping."
"Ugh," Bobby sat back down, glared up at the stairs and then spitefully dragged John's plate over and began eating his lasagna too.
"What? Is that it?" Stiles asked him, flabbergasted. "We aren't even going to try and eavesdrop or spy on them? Even though we have a right to know what they're talking about?" He did a bunch of angry gestures before falling into his chair in a dramatic slump. "I never thought magic would mean embarrassing myself in front of Peter Hale at a family dinner. I always pictured more owls and shit. Maybe a cloak."
"No pets, owl or otherwise, until you learn to feed yourself three times a day," Bobby said, then pointed his fork at Stiles, who had perked up considerably. "AND properly bathe yourself and go to bed at a normal, human hour without supervision. You know, all these are just the basic things necessary to keeping anything alive and well. There's a reason I only interact with children as young as elementary school level. Little creatures that depend on you to survive are hard work."
Stiles snickered at that, but seemed to accept the argument as valid. "Still, it would have been awesome to get a Hogwarts letter instead of accidentally turning myself into a helium balloon at an already awkward meet the parents dinner." He sighed morosely.
"Oh I don't think you need to worry about that. If Peter is crazy enough to be attracted to you then I don't think anything will scare him off. Besides, did you see that schnozz on him when he went all wolfy? His nose looked like a Klingon's forehead."
"Yeah, what the heck is up with that? And he didn't even rip his shirt off. I thought that was like, wolfman 101. Disappointed!" The sudden screech caused a surprised thump from up in the office, but Bobby didn't even twitch. "Ugh. What do you think they're talking about up there?" Stiles stared at the ceiling like it would reveal all.
"Well, hopefully werewolves are at least somewhat familiar with real live magical boys and Peter has brought us some advice on how to stop you from shooting into space every time you sneeze or have a weird dream."
"Dream?" Stiles sat up on the spot, appalled. "How long have I been doing magic without knowing? Why didn't you guys tell me?"
Bobby sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking longingly at the half full tray of lasagna before rising with a groan. "Stiles, kiddo. We weren't sure if you knew and you weren't telling us at first. We were waiting for you to feel comfortable enough to tell us, and by the time we realized you had no idea what you were causing it was obvious that your magic had something to do with your emotions. We didn't want to rile you up without any way to get answers." He moved to clean up the sad remains of their dinner. If John or Peter wanted food they could reheat it. "Don't think we don't know how you get. You would have gone crazy trying to figure this out. It was better to find you some answers before bringing it up."
Stiles was dead silent for a whole minute, eyes downcast as he fiddled with the unused fork and napkin on the table in front of him. Finally he cleared his throat, still not looking up. "I think you should tell me. Things. You know. If it's about me, then it's, like-- it's like all those classes on consent, isn't it?" His voice cracked a bit and he ruthlessly cleared it again, squaring his shoulders. "If my body or my brain is doing something and I don't know about it then I want to know about it. It's my body. Or my uhh, magic. I guess."
"Awww fuck," Bobby set down the tupperware he had been filling and came around the table for a hug. "Get over here kid. I'm sorry. I swear we didn't mean it like that." He scooped up the teen in a bear hug, Stiles pushing his face into his second dad's shoulder with a sniffle. "I swear, next time we will tell you first. I'll even break out the old bible and make John swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth if that will make you feel better."
Stiles sniffed again. "It might help," he said, voice muffled. "But don't wear the wig. You know he doesn't take it seriously when you wear the justice of the peace wig."
"Hmmmm, if you say so." He gave the boy another squeeze before pulling back and slapping him on both shoulders. "If you help me with the dishes I promise to make sure John only eats one serving of pie. I'll even try to force some proper leftovers on him."
"Deal, as long as we let the pan soak overnight. I am not up for dealing with that level of physical exertion tonight." Stiles said, rubbing his palms aggressively over his face, giving his cheeks a couple hard slaps before bouncing off to the sink with forced cheer.
They had gotten just about everything from the day cleaned up before the sound of a door opening upstairs signaled the end of the super serious magic meeting. The two looked at each other before Stiles quickly shut off the sink, not even bothering to dry his hands before booking it towards the stairs, leaving Bobby fumbling with the last wet plate and cursing.
"Retired or not, don't think I can't have every officer in Beacon Hills on your ass in a heartbeat if you hurt my son in any way." John said, obviously on the tail end of an epic shovel talk as he finally descended the stairs. He descended slowly, his bad leg always needing extra effort to move down stairs safely.
"Alright," John said, giving Stiles the nod as he reached the bottom. "You can go make sure your boyfriend is in one piece. I've gotten all I need out of him."
Stiles didn't even bother with a response, just threw himself up the stairs, almost tripping and smacking his chin on the steps as he scrambled up.
"What's up, buttercup?" Bobby said, entering the living room with a wet dish and a towel in hand. "Where are the kids? Did Hale have anything helpful to say or did he just give you the same crap all those kids give about their heebs and jeebs?"
John groaned, reaching back to rub his back tiredly. "Something like that. He had general information, a few ideas as to what Stiles might be." John wrinkled his nose. "Apparently there are several...types of magic user Stiles might be. Anything from several levels of human magic users to actually inhuman blood that can only be confirmed or denied based on various weaknesses and family histories? He's going to bring us some books and get us in contact with his family's, and I can't believe I'm saying this, his family's druid."
"Well that sounds like all kinds of fun. Of course it can't just be an easy, straight answer." Bobby sighed, then winced as something above them thumped.
"Wait, is Stiles upstairs right now?" He said, dread pooling in his stomach.
John looked at his husband questioningly, but before he could say anything there was another thump, followed by an even louder groan.
It wasn't a groan of pain either.
"You just had to leave them alone, didn't you." Bobby said, shaking his head. He leveled a judgmental look at his husband as another thump, followed by a muffled gasp came from above them.
John looked up at the ceiling with a betrayed glare. "I thought I put the fear of god in that boy," he said, aggrieved. "He was petrified, I swear!"
It was times like this that Bobby was reminded of how innocent his husband was. For sure, he had seen serious shit while working as a cop, hell, he had almost died in the line of duty. But there were some things that showed just how pure and innocent his life had been compared to what Bobby had seen. What Bobby had survived.
"Oh honey," he cooed, patting the man's cheek lovingly. "I'm sure he was. But let me tell you, I've spent 13 years locked in a cage with these teenagers. 13 years of forced contact with hoards of sticky, lustful teenagers. Believe me, you could have had a gun to their nuts and they would still try to suck each other's faces off."
"Oh yeah, fuck."
Well that answered whether their kid was a screamer or not, Bobby thought regretfully.
John went white as a sheet as their son let loose a particularly wrecked sounding groan. Bobby sighed. Their kid always forgot the vents to his room connected with the living room.
"My baby..." John whimpered, head falling into his hands in despair.
Grabbing a pot and spoon out of the kitchen Bobby began banging them together as he yelled, "I'm coming up there! You two have ten seconds to be wearing all your clothes or I'm breaking out the STD slides!"