Work Text:
The first day is the hardest. That’s what Stiles’ dad always told him about becoming a deputy.
“You have to remember everyone’s name, keep track of your equipment, remember your training, and then, on top of all that, you’re expected to remember your own name. It’s a lot to ask from one man,” he’d always joked, usually while Stiles was riding along in the cruiser, window down and wind blowing through his buzzed hair.
“What about the second day?” Stiles used to ask. One time both of his front teeth were missing and a small lisp accompanied the question.
“Well, everyday has something new. You just have to keep up with it all.” He’d ruffle Stiles’ hair and send him on his way to Clifford Elementary School with a good luck and a packed lunch.
That’s always stuck with Stiles. Even now, as Parrish gives him a completely unnecessary tour of the building, which is really just standard protocol, Stiles thinks about how he already knows everyone’s name, how he already has an advantage over every other new deputy because of his upbringing. He thinks about how, honestly, all he really wants to forget is his awful first name.
“You’re on desk duty today, since your assigned mentor had to call off last minute,” Jordan tells him regretfully. “Everyone has been looking forward to you joining the force for a while, especially the Sheriff, but hey, tomorrow will be here soon enough.”
“Thanks, Jordan,” Stiles replies.
“I’ll be on the desk with you to start. Sprained my ankle two weeks ago and it’s my last day on desk duty. Fuckin’ finally, if you ask me,” Jordan says with a laugh.
Someone clears their throat from the doorway. “Language, Deputy Parrish,” John says, strolling into the room with about thirty files in his arms.
“Sheriff Stilinski,” Stiles greets. He grins at his dad.
“Deputy Stilinski,” John responds. He looks unbelievably proud and there’s a sudden lump in Stiles’ throat. “Glad you could join us.”
Stiles swallows and says, “Glad to be here, sir.”
John nods, smiles, and promptly shoves all thirty files in Stiles’ hands. “Good, because desk duty includes filing these for your Sheriff before noon. Think you’re up for it?”
“I guess I better be,” Stiles sighs. He smiles at his dad before Jordan steers him towards the reception desk.
The first three hours are long. Stiles files the files, then refiles them, then comes up with an entirely new, color-coded system in the first two. After he color-codes them, he begins double checking his alphabetization before someone rings the bell from the desk. Jordan must’ve taken a break without informing an oblivious Stiles. Stiles, sitting under a desk drawer and back hunched enough to make him sore, jerks upward out of reflex and then slams his head onto the filing cabinet drawer.
“Oh, shit, oh my god,” Stiles swears under his breath.
He gets off of the floor and rubs his head. Fully prepared to be annoyed, he looks towards the person standing behind the desk and is immediately floored. He’s gorgeous. Dark hair paired with dark stubble and tanned skin, all wrapped up in a suit jacket that’s unbuttoned. That button-down really isn’t hiding any muscle; the dude’s ripped. Stiles would be jealous if he weren’t fresh out of the academy and also toned quite well. In his defense, his body is just not built to harbor so much muscle mass, like this guy’s. And oh god, those eyes.
His tie clip is the Targaryen house sigil. Stiles is in love.
“Uh,” Stiles says, before he shakes his head and gets his wits about him. “How can I help you, sir?”
“You’re new here,” the guy says. It’s not a question.
It puts Stiles on the defensive. He huffs. “Your point?”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that, just that I’ve never seen you before and I definitely would’ve remembered you,” he replies. When Stiles raises an eyebrow, he coughs. “Well, I don’t mean like that I just–– I remember faces well.”
“Okay,” Stiles says, drawing out the first syllable. “It’s my first day, so yeah, I’m new here. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see my client.” When Stiles doesn’t respond, he continues. “I’m Derek Hale, from the public defender’s office.”
“Oh,” Stiles says, disappointment swelling in his chest. He’s really, really hot and seems just as flustered as Stiles is (seriously, Derek needs some looser pants; his hips look too good to be true in those), but he can’t sleep with a public defender. They’re not playing for the same team here. Or well, Derek seems to be pretty interested in Stiles, given how he’s also blushing and eyeing Stiles. So maybe they are playing for the same team. Even if they are playing for the same team in that respect, they’re in two different games. Stiles lets go of the fantasies that bombarded him when he first laid eyes on Derek and sits down at the computer.
“Name of client?” Stiles asks. When Derek tells him, he types in the familiar name. The file lists Derek as his defense lawyer and Stiles nods, pressing down on the button nestled on his walkie-talkie. “Jordan, Derek Hale’s here to see Ferguson.”
A moment later, Jordan’s voice rings through the device. “Roger. I’m taking him to room two. Take Hale there.”
“Gotcha,” Stiles replies. He stands and picks up a set of keys, unsure if he’ll need them or not. Better not to embarrass himself now.
“So, what’s your name?” Derek asks as Stiles waves him forward.
“Stiles Stilinski, at your service,” Stiles says cheekily. He glances back at Derek and tries to hide it, but it looks like Derek caught him. He offers Stiles a small smile and Stiles has to look away before he does something stupid like ask him out to get coffee. Absurd.
“Stilinski as in Sheriff Stilinski?”
“My dad,” Stiles says. When he turns down the hallway of interrogation rooms, Jordan is standing at number two. “Hey,” Stiles says when he gets there.
“He’s all yours,” Jordan tells Derek. “We’ll check in on you in thirty minutes, yeah?”
“Better make it fifteen,” Derek says dryly. “Especially after last time.” Stiles looks between the two of them, but decides not to ask. Derek opens the door and nods at Stiles before it promptly closes behind such a nice ass. Derek is a hell of a specimen. He could model. Actually, he should model.
“So you’ve met Derek,” Jordan says. They start walking back to the front desk. He winks at Stiles. “I was hoping you’d meet him, but I wasn’t sure if he’d be in today. Hot, huh?”
“Shut up, Parrish,” Stiles grunts.
“Oh, I’m Parrish now?” he laughs. “If I weren’t very in love with Lydia, I’d hit that.”
Stiles, with a grimace, shakes his head. “He’s on a different team.”
“Derek?” Jordan asks. “I thought he was bisexual. Did I read that wrong?”
Stiles’ cheeks burn. There’s no way Jordan will understand the awful baseball metaphor that ran through his head earlier. “Never mind. It won’t happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s a public defender. He’s pretty much against everything we do here. I just don’t want to get mixed up in something complicated on literally my first day of work. It’s my first day. I have to make a good impression. Oh my god, I haven’t even been with my mentor yet. What if I mess up?”
“Stiles,” Jordan says, in his deputy voice. “You’re going to be fine. You’ve grown up with law enforcement and you had some of the highest scores of your graduating class at the academy. You got offered a job with the LAPD, but you came here. You got this, don’t worry,” Jordan tells him. He hits his back with a flat palm and looks over at the filing cabinet. “And even if you can’t get the hang of field work, you’ve forever made it easier on us with this new system.”
“Thanks, Jordan,” Stiles tells him. He means it sarcastically, but somehow it comes out sounding more sincere than he likes. Dammit.
“And hey, this thing with Derek––“
“Not talking about it,” Stiles says. “There’s nothing to talk about. He’s attractive and most likely way too good for me, end of discussion.”
“Fine, fine.” They hear a shout that sounds like it’s from the interrogation room hallway and Stiles is on his feet in an instant, reflexes always his best weapon, even if he’s not particularly graceful.
He flings open interrogation room two and sees Derek with a bloody nose and Ferguson cuffed to the table. When he swivels and sees Stiles, he starts frantically shaking his head. “He threatened me, I swear!”
“Fucking hell,” Derek says, touching the blood dripping from his nose, close to ruining his suit.
“I’ll handle this,” comes the firm voice from behind Stiles. He steps out of the doorway and lets his dad walk into the room. The man balks, sitting down in his seat again. “Parrish, check the cams.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stiles grabs Derek’s elbow with gentle fingers. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.” When Stiles gets him to the employee restroom, he asks, “What happened?”
“Head-butted me,” Derek says gruffly. “Started to get real quiet, leaned in. Next thing I knew I was on the floor.”
Stiles pats the counter. “Sit.” While Derek hoists himself up, Stiles goes under the sink and gets the first aid kit. “Take off your jacket, wouldn’t want it ruined. Have you ever had a broken nose?”
Derek strips off the jacket, revealing beautiful forearms hidden only by the button-down. Stiles would be salivating if Derek wasn’t covered in blood. “No.”
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Can you pinch the bridge of your nose for me?” When Derek complies with only a slight wince, Stiles nods. He peers at Derek’s nose. “I don’t think it’s broken.” He hands him a wad of toilet paper, which Derek presses to his nostrils without hesitation.
“Small blessings,” Derek mutters. With a tiny smile, Stiles instructs Derek to tilt his head up. Stiles steps between Derek’s legs so he can get a better view. He works in silence for a while, cleaning the blood off of Derek’s upper lip and around his nose, which is still tender judging by the winces if Stiles gets too close to the bridge. He even gets the small trickle that managed to run down his chin to his neck. Derek has a gorgeous neck. Stiles wants to kiss it.
“Something you learned at the academy?” Derek asks after a few moments of silence.
“They teach basic first aid,” Stiles replies. “But I picked up a lot from being the most accident prone teenager ever. You have no idea how many times I’ve given myself bruises and bloody noses. Once I had a black eye that I actually got from a door. No one believed me.”
Derek laughs, but lets out a soft groan shortly after. He sighs, “So in your professional experience, am I going to have a black eye in the morning?”
Stiles grips his chin and peers at him. In mock sincerity, he says, “I think two.”
“Ass,” Derek teases.
“Hey, this ass is the one fixing you.” With a step back, Stiles nods. “You’re good to go. Take some toilet paper with you in case it starts bleeding again, but you should be fine. I even managed to save your shirt.”
“My hero,” Derek deadpans. He slides off of the countertop and grins at Stiles. “Can I take you out to coffee? My treat, since you've managed to save such a priceless shirt.”
“Oh,” Stiles says. He bites his lip. He can already see Derek’s face falling and it hurts his chest. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Right,” Derek says. He clears his throat and straightens his tie. “Well, I better get back to the office.”
Stiles nods and says, “Yeah.” He’ll never admit that his voice breaks. Derek looks up when it does, but he doesn’t comment.
“Nice meeting you,” Derek says, before he’s striding out of the bathroom and Stiles can’t even whole-heartedly admire his ass.
“You too,” Stiles whispers, but he’s already gone.
***
The first week with his mentor is cautiously quiet. They officially meet on the first day, but Stiles has known Chelsea since he was ten and she was a new recruit. Chelsea––“That’s Officer Deta to you”–– drives the cruiser most of the time, but lets him take over one day when she wants to just take a drive on the backroads. They even share a cigarette on a cliff overlooking all of Beacon Hills, which neither of them will ever tell the Sheriff.
“So, heard you rejected a guy on your first day. Tough luck, kid,” Chelsea says. She looks over at him and he sighs.
“I really didn’t want to.”
“Then why did you?”
“He’s a public defender. I didn’t want to get involved in his cases and didn’t want him involved in mine. It’s just easier to not get involved from the start.”
“Derek?” Chelsea asks. When Stiles nods, she whistles. “Jane from IT has been trying to ask him out for two years, but she’s too shy. I think she finally got over him though.”
“Oh," Stiles says. “So he’s popular at the station?”
“I guess. Listen, Stiles. You made a good choice, very responsible. That was a very professional thing to do and your dad would be proud.”
“I’m sensing a but.”
“But you’re also dumb as hell. You’re a deputy, yeah, but you're also a man outside the job. I know everyone tells you it’s a twenty-four seven kind of job, but we all have personal lives. You two would’ve just had to really lay down some boundaries in the very beginning, but that’s okay.”
“It’s too late now,” Stiles says, bleak. “He probably hates me now.”
“Maybe,” Chelsea replies. Her radio starts blaring about a domestic violence report and she tells them that they’ll be right there. Stiles reaches up to the dash and flips the lights and sirens on.
The drive there is quick. It’s Stiles’ first real call. He steps out of the cruiser and slams the door. He can hear screaming inside the house, which looks fairly nice on the outside. It’s not dilapidated at all, which surprises him a little, admittedly.
Stiles walks up the pathway behind Chelsea and she knocks loudly on the door. “Sheriff’s department! Open up.” The screaming inside abruptly stops and then there’s a gunshot.
“Oh my god,” Stiles breathes. He pulls out his gun and yells, “Open the door.” There’s another gunshot and suddenly a hole blows through the wood of the door, beside Stiles’ stomach. He flinches away and Chelsea starts yelling into her radio.
“Officer Stilinski and I are being shot at, we’re entering the house.”
“Affirmative, Officer Deta,” Jordan’s crisp voice says, distorted with radio waves. “Sending backup. The Sheriff and Officer Cellone are seven minutes away.”
“Roger that,” Chelsea says. She motions at Stiles and, when the doorknob is firmly locked, he kicks the door in. Suddenly, everything is much more real. They see a woman lying on the floor, surrounded by blood. Chelsea moves towards her, while Stiles sticks to her back, sweeping the room with his eyes for the shooter. Chelsea stoops down and shakes the woman. She groans and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief.
“Ma’am, I’m Officer Deta, can you hear me?” she asks. Stiles takes another step into the kitchen and suddenly a baseball bat is coming towards his face. He yells and throws an arm out, stopping it with his hand but definitely breaking his pinky finger.
The bat falls to the floor and he gets a good look at his attacker. Middle-aged man, greying at the temples. Slightly overweight. A gun in his hand. Stiles points his own gun back at the man and says, “Put the gun down.”
“Why?” the guys spits. “I’m going to jail forever, might as well make it worth it.” Stiles hears him click off the safety. His hands are shaking. Stiles’ pinky throbs.
“Sir, put the gun down,” Stiles repeats, voice calm. He can hear Chelsea giving a rapid-fire report to Jordan of everything that’s happening.
He turns to Chelsea. “Tell your fucking Sheriff that if he steps foot in this house I’m blowing his son’s fucking brains out.”
“Sir––“ Stiles interrupts, but the guy shoots at his feet. Stiles jerks back, but doesn’t feel any pain.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls. “You see her? She’s fucking mine, okay? Mine to hit, so I don’t give a fuck who you think you are, upholding a law created by some liberal asshole. A woman’s place is behind her husband. She couldn’t see that.”
“Drop your weapon,” Stiles says, still holding his. It’s firmly trained on the man, his hands steady. When he doesn’t, Stiles says again, “Drop your weapon.”
“You’re really fucking annoying,” he says. He shoots, but not at Stiles. Chelsea gasps and when Stiles looks over, she’s holding her shoulder.
Stiles breathes deeply and says one last time, “Sir, drop your weapon.” When he waves back around to face Stiles, but doesn’t drop the gun, Stiles fires off two quick shots. The man’s body jerks back with each shot, twice in quick succession, and then he falls. Stiles only took out a leg and a shoulder, so he should be fine. He rushes towards the man to confiscate his pistol and cuff him, but the man is out cold, unconscious as soon as the bullets hit him.
Like a flash, Stiles is beside Chelsea. He presses the button on his radio. “This is Officer Stilinski, requesting an ambulance. Officer Deta has been shot and we have a battered woman here.” Jordan’s voice replies, informing Stiles that there’s an ambulance on the way.
“Chelsea?” Stiles asks, falling to his knees at her side.
She looks up at him, eyes glassy. “That’s Officer Deta to you.” Stiles gags on his laughter.
“There’s an ambulance on the way,” Stiles tells her. His hands are hovering, never quite touching her body. He doesn’t know what to do. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Stiles,” she hisses. “Apply pressure to the wound.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he chokes out. His words are sticking in his throat. “Chels––“
“I’ve been shot before, kid. I’m going to be fine. You’re going into shock. You need to keep a level head until someone gets here.”
And like that, help arrives in the form of his father.
***
Stiles is perched in the back of an ambulance, blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a bottle of water clutched tightly in his hands. Chelsea’s already been driven to the hospital, with assurances that she’ll be fine from both his father and the paramedics. Several officers have already praised Stiles for his bravery and quick thinking, but he doesn’t feel like a hero. He feels like someone who just had to shoot another human being. He knew that eventually this would happen, but he thought that maybe he’d have some damn experience first.
“Hey,” a soft voice says. Stiles looks up and sees Derek standing in front of him. Derek has a tentative smile written on his face and Stiles nods in response. It doesn’t feel appropriate to smile right now. His stomach is churning.
“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, genuinely curious.
“Came to check in on everyone,” Derek says. Stiles flinches and looks away. Derek’s going to defend the guy, if he lives. Oh god, Stiles might’ve killed someone.
“Oh.”
“Are you all right?” Derek asks. He takes another cautious step forward and Stiles is just too tired to fight him right now.
“Broken pinky, but I’ll manage.” Stiles looks away. “Chelsea got the worst of it. And that poor woman.”
“Mrs. Grimstone, yes. She’s also in the hospital, but expected to make a full recovery, physically if not emotionally. Officer Deta will also be all right. Mr. Grimstone, however, may not make it.”
“I’m not discussing business with you,” Stiles snaps. “You’re not on my team.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look if you’re here for evidence, go get it. Or come get it at the station tomorrow, everything will be more concrete then. And we can’t press charges until the guy is aware anyway, so––“
“Stiles,” Derek interrupts. “I came to see if you were okay. I was at the station with Jordan when he was dispatching officers to you. I heard everything.”
Stiles flushes red and looks down at his hands, twisting around and around the Aquafina label. “I figured you were taking his case.”
“No, and besides, if I did, I think it’s pretty clear that he did it,” Derek says dryly. Despite himself, a laugh forces its way out of Stiles’ mouth. He almost regrets it, but then Derek offers him a smile and it makes his hysterics worth it.
“Yeah, I’d say so,” Stiles mutters. He looks back down at his hands and when the beat of silence lasts too long, he says, “Look, I’m sorry about turning you down. I really wanted to say yes, but I was worried about our jobs interfering.”
Derek doesn’t say anything for a moment and when Stiles looks back up his expression is one of unbearable fondness. Stiles could cry. Actually, he’s been on the verge of crying for thirty minutes now, he might really cry.
“That makes sense,” Derek offers.
“Sorry,” Stiles repeats.
A paramedic interrupts their conversation to shine a light in Stiles’ eyes. She peers at him for a few seconds before she says, “You’re going to be okay, Officer Stilinski. The Sheriff wanted me to let you know that you’re free to go. Also, I’m recommending you take tomorrow off. Go home and get some rest. Properly hydrate yourself and eat carbohydrate rich foods. If you start feeling worse, go to the hospital immediately. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Stiles responds.
“Good. I don’t want you driving. Can someone give you a ride?”
Derek clears his throat. “I can drive him home, if that’s okay with him.”
She looks back to Stiles for confirmation and in an act of uncertainty, Stiles nods. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
“All right, Officer Stilinski. Thank you for protecting that woman,” she says before walking to the front of the ambulance. Stiles slides out of the back and when his feet hit the ground, he stumbles a little. Derek’s hands are on him immediately, resting on his waist and lower back to steady him.
“I’m okay,” Stiles assures him. He puts the blanket back in the ambulance and lets Derek steer him towards his car.
“Your father is already back at the station. I’m sure he’ll call you later,” Derek tells Stiles. Stiles allows himself to be manhandled all the way to a big Toyota parked on the sidewalk. The hand Derek has on his back sears through his clothing, the one warm thing Stiles can feel.
“Derek,” Stiles says, with false urgency. When Derek looks at him, Stiles says, “You’re parked too close to a fire hydrant. I should give you a ticket.” With that, Derek laughs, a full laugh that almost startles Stiles with its truthfulness. Stiles smiles for the first time in the last hour and a half.
“Get in the damn car, you deputy.” Derek opens the passenger door for him and Stiles clambers in, Derek’s hand on him the entire time. Stiles watches Derek walk around his vehicle with quiet awe. Derek’s such a great guy. Stiles is barely coherent and they’ve met once, yet Derek is being so helpful and understanding.
When Derek gets in the driver’s side, Stiles says, “I need your license plate number to write out that ticket.”
“You’re such an ass,” Derek says with a grin on his lips. He starts the car and Stiles gives him directions to his apartment on the edge of town. It’s nothing special, but it’s home. When Derek parks beside the correct building, Stiles feels significantly better. He gets out of the car and plans on waving goodbye to Derek, but he’s already on the sidewalk beside Stiles.
“I can get up okay,” Stiles assures him.
“I know, I just want to make sure,” Derek says. Stiles ushers him up to the second floor and down to the third door on the right. His hands are still shaky enough that he can’t really get the key in the door, so Derek gently takes over, getting the keys from Stiles’ fingers with ease. He pushes Stiles through the door and locks it after them.
“Go shower,” Derek commands. “You need it.”
“Are you saying I stink?” Stiles whines.
With a huff, Derek replies, “I’m saying you have blood on you. Go shower.”
***
When Stiles emerges, Derek’s standing at the stove. His jacket is hanging on one of the two chairs Stiles has sitting by the island that serves as a desk, a work table, and a kitchen table. Stiles’ hair is still wet and he’s in his Academy sweatpants. With a shock, he realizes Derek is cooking. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, showing off his glorious forearms. The tie and top two buttons are undone, revealing collarbones Stiles wants to lick. Derek is proving to be an effective distraction from the day’s trauma.
“I rummaged through your cabinets. Is mac ’n’ cheese okay?” Derek asks, motioning to the box of Kraft sitting beside the pot. “She said carb heavy so–“
“You’re cooking for me,” Stiles says dumbly. Something feels tight in his chest.
Derek steps away from his stove. “I’m sorry, I just thought–“
“No, no! It’s fine!” Stiles almost shouts. When Derek just blinks back at him, he bites his lip and somehow doesn’t make a huge fool out of himself. “I was just surprised.”
“I just thought you’d be a little stressed out right now,” Derek supplies, dumping the packet of powdered orange cheese into the pot. “Go sit down and I’ll be over in a second.”
“I have to get something in my room,” Stiles says, brilliant idea suddenly popping into his mind. “One second.”
He walks down the short hallway and opens the door to his room. When he manages to unroll his uniform pants out of the ball he left them in, sitting pathetically on his bedroom floor, he finds his pad with all of his blank tickets. He fills one out for Derek being “secretly cute” and then writes in the fine to be a date of his choice. For good measure, Stiles writes his number underneath his sloppy handwriting.
When he gets back in the kitchen, Derek is looking away from his jacket, talking on the phone with someone, so Stiles slides it in his jacket pocket with surprising stealth. He takes his seat and bites into the mac ’n’ cheese. It’s better than usual because Stiles didn’t have to make it.
“Thank you, Sheriff. I’ll let him know.” Derek ends the call and looks at Stiles. “He’s alive and stable. He’s agreed to give a written confession.”
“Oh thank God,” Stiles says. He relaxes against his chair and Derek takes the seat opposite him, digging in to his own bowl. They eat in a comfortable silence, Stiles wolfing his down and Derek watching him with amusement playing on his lips.
When they’re both done, Stiles carries the bowls over to the sink and Derek gets his jacket back on, getting ready to leave. Stiles hates to see those forearms disappear, but he’s sure he’ll have plenty of chances to see them in the future.
“Drive safe,” Stiles tells him. “Thanks again. I really appreciate it.”
“Feeling better?” Derek asks.
“Definitely,” Stiles responds. “I could probably go into work tomorrow, but I won’t!” he adds hastily when Derek’s expression looks disapproving.
“See you later then,” Derek says. He smiles again and Stiles opens the door for him. Derek walks out and wow, still a great view.
“Check your pocket later,” Stiles says, then closes the door.
***
Derek (10:11): A date of my choice? I think I’d like to take you out to dinner Friday night. How does that sound?
Stiles (10:13): Perfect!