Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/961627.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Papa_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale/
      Stiles_Stilinski, Agent_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Scott_McCall, Papa_McCall, Peter_Hale,
      Lydia_Martin, Agent_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Canon, Canon_Compliant, Angst, Dark, Phone_Sex, Pre-Slash, Age
      Difference, Implied/Referenced_Abuse, Daddy_Kink
  Series:
      Part 3 of Starts_with_"F",_Ends_with_"U"
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-10 Words: 9127
****** Wish you were the one that got away ******
by RemainNameless
Summary
     sequel to "Wanna break you down so badly" and "You hollow out my
     hungry eyes"
     Less than two months after Stiles ends things with Rafa, Scott's
     bitten by a werewolf. There's no way Stiles could've known that it
     would start a chain of events that would make their paths cross yet
     again.
     Or, less dramatically: the events of canon and beyond!
Notes
     Okay y'all. If you didn't read the first two parts, I recommend it
     because this whole thing will seem really fucking weird.
     Now for the rest of y'all: whether you consider the events of the
     last two parts abusive or not, Stiles reacts in that way, so there's
     some talk about it, some self-victim-blaming, and that kind of thing.
     Physical, emotional, sexual, all of it. So there's some possibly
     triggery language just FYI.
     ANDDDD FYI the Sterek and Steter aren't like explicit. They're just
     undertones atm.
See the end of the work for more notes
Before he leaves Jess’, he’s got a text from Rafa’s number. Have you cooled off
yet? I had plans for us for breakfast.
Stiles looks at it, sends back Fuck you.
Don’t be such a child comes a minute later.
One sentence at a time, propelled by his anger, he sends I thought you liked
it. You thinking of how you’re going to punish me? I bet you’re fucking hard
right now aren’t you? Fuck off.
Are you done yet? Rafa sends. 
Yep. With you. Don’t fucking text me again.
He blocks the number, too, just so he knows he can’t, in a moment of weakness,
go crawling back. So he never has to think of Rafa again.
 
Of course it's not that fucking easy.
 
Stiles’ dad tells him he’s going to give Jess a hard time when he sees the buzz
cut, but Stiles is pretty sure he doesn’t do anything about it. 
Scott says it looks good and rubs his head for a week, says he feels like a
puppy, and Stiles grins in a way he hopes reaches his eyes. It’s not Scott’s
fault Stiles feels sick when he looks at him. If he just ignores it for long
enough, it’ll go away.
He spends a lot of time not thinking about things.
Scott’s a good distraction if only because he’s Stiles’ only distraction. And
he seems thrilled every time Stiles asks him if he wants to practice for the
upcoming lacrosse tryouts in January, right after the break. It helps the
convoluted knot in Stiles’ gut loosen when their together until Stiles can look
at Scott and just see Scott. 
But Stiles seeks out distractions. 
His dad thinks his ADD is getting worse. Asks if he wants to see Dr. Ellis
again, maybe talk about adjusting his prescription. There’s a difference
between willful distraction and distractibility, but he goes anyway, ups his
prescription to the actual adult dose. At least for the first couple weeks he
can’t really jerk off anymore. Well, he can, but it gets so hard to get off
that he just doesn’t even try. That helps. Even if he’s very strict about his
fantasies these days. Always Lydia Martin.
She’s a great distraction. He comes up with a five-year plan to woo her and
tells Scott all about it. Scott’s supportive and good, enough to make Stiles
think it could actually work, that he’s actually good enough for her. 
But he can only talk and think about her for so many hours in the day before it
gets repetitive, so he takes to listening to his dad’s police scanner. It
pisses him off, but learning the codes and imagining what’s going on at the
scene is plenty time consuming. If he comes off as little obsessed with
following in his dad’s footsteps, well, that’s not the worst thing. 
No, the worst thing comes when he hears about a body, a freaking dead body, in
the woods the night before the spring semester starts and decides to drag Scott
out to find it. 
It turns out that the best thing for distraction is figuring out your best
friend is a werewolf. It’s also probably the worst thing for his guilt. Because
it’s his fault that Scott got bitten, ten-fold, but something else happens that
throws an interesting kink into the works. 
It’s the middle of the day and Scott’s scrabbling around dead leaves for his
inhaler and this guy walks up out of freaking nowhere. 
Something about him churns up all sorts of unwanted feelings, something about
the cut of his jaw from a distance and the way he fills out his jeans. And then
when Stiles really looks at his face, it’s like a slap. He recognizes the guy
at once: Derek Hale. 
Last time Stiles saw him, he’d been young. It was a while after his mom died,
not long after Scott’s dad left (don’t think about it, don’t think about it),
and he’d been in the station, waiting for his dad to finish work so they could
grab dinner, and he’d seen this kid. Older, by a bit, but he’d looked so young,
and more than that, he’d looked like his whole world had fallen down around his
big ears. It had scared Stiles, been too familiar, but the thing about it is
that in this moment, staring at a grown-up Derek Hale, Stiles realizes that
faces don’t change enough in a decade to be unrecognizable. They just don’t. 
For a second, Hale looks at him and Stiles feels fear like an icepick to his
stomach, hoping he’s not looking at Stiles with anything near want, like he
always does when men too old to go to high school with him stare. But it’s
fine. Hale’s eyes move over him and there’s no danger of history repeating.
He tosses Scott’s inhaler at him easily and Stiles maybe stares too long when
he walks away. 
 
The next time Stiles sees him, he’s got stubble on his face, enough to make
Stiles shiver, and he’s being ducked into a police cruiser. Watching feels
almost like catharsis, even though it’s wrong. Stiles pretends that this
tableau wasn’t the part of the reason he tipped his dad off. 
But when he climbs into the cruiser, he realizes that Derek’s eyes are pale
green, not brown. They make his face look open in a way that he’s not
expecting, and Stiles is more afraid of Derek the man than Derek the monster. 
That is, until he sees that Derek the man is not so much a man at all. He’s a
boy in a man’s clothes who shoves a bone saw into Stiles’ hands when he’s
afraid of death. And maybe he has a man’s body, the kind of body that lights
the twin aches of jealousy and lust in Stiles’ stomach, but there’s a very
small, scared child in his eyes, a child with too-big ears and his whole world
at his feet. Every time Stiles sees him, he sees that kid, wants to wrap him in
a blanket and give him a hot mug of something that’ll save him.
And then Derek’s dead. And Stiles doesn’t get to think about it because he has
to be afraid now. Because Scott wants to kill him sometimes, and there’s always
this split-second where he thinks it’s because Scott knows what he did. When
Scott kisses Lydia, it’s because he knows why Stiles wants her. 
But Derek’s not really dead, and one day he shoves Stiles against his bedroom
door, and it’s the first time in maybe a long time that Stiles isn’t actively
afraid of something. The child in a leather jacket with his fists bunched
against Stiles’ chest backs down at the threat of his father, and there’s
something comforting in the aggression on his face. Because the expressions on
people’s faces rarely reflect what’s inside of them, and this aggressive
posturing is just that. A front. If it were real, his face would betray
nothing, but Derek’s not a threat. 
His abs, on the other hand, well, Stiles ogles him vicariously through Danny
because he’s not going to officially come out yet. Not when he can’t be sure of
what he’s hoping to find when his eyes linger on men. 
The thing about Derek is that Stiles forgets he isn’t harmless. Gets a bruise
on his forehead for it. Derek’s not harmless and Stiles wants to know why. Fear
is easy for him to spot, a takes one to know one sort of thing, and Stiles
wants to know why Derek has to slam his head into a steering wheel to stop
being afraid of him. Why he was afraid in the first place. And he thinks you
know what that was for as he walks into the hospital, sees Derek going along
with it when Stiles has him undress, and he tucks it away to chew on later. 
It turns into a mess after that.
Scott’s struggling, focused on Allison in a way that Stiles envies because it’s
innocent. And there’s Lydia, and he knows that if she were to spare him a
thought, it would be pity. When she looks at him, she broadcasts what she
thinks of him: boring, loser, geeky, virgin, obsessed with her. He wonders what
she’d think if he told her the truth, but he gets the feeling she’d look down
on him for his failure where Rafa was concerned. She could bring a man to his
knees. 
She does, though, doesn’t she? She brings him right to his knees with too much
blood on her party dress and a monster above her. A monster who’d looked at him
the first time and said you must be Stiles in a way that’d made him have a hard
time breathing. 
Peter Hale is more monster than man, and the man that he was, Stiles feels
instinctively, was not a good one. The way he looks at Stiles is hungry in too
many ways. Power, blood, revenge, sex, fear. Stiles feels it in the burn of his
skin and the careless way Peter hurts him. He’s not the type to settle on just
one thing he wants, needs everything all at once. 
With Peter’s breath against his wrist, Stiles trembles in a way he’d hoped he
never would again. Half of it’s misplaced lust, and he’s not sure if Rafa
conditioned him to confuse it with fear or if he’d been like that before.
Looking at him, Stiles knows that Peter would push hard enough to show him his
limits, even if he’d force his way through them. There’s something to be
learned from him, but it would be a hard lesson. One he might not survive.
Stiles has learned the difference between things he wants and things he should
let himself have, so he tells Peter no. 
Helping kill him doesn’t feel like an exorcism or a victory. It doesn’t feel
like anything. 
He’s just starting to realize that, just getting hit with it when Derek turns
around and says I’m the alpha now. 
Stiles knows at once that this is not a good development. Derek’s smile doesn’t
quite fit him right, like it’s been tailored to fit someone else, and he
carries himself with a sort of swagger that doesn’t hide the boy inside.
He holds it up, this I’m the alpha, like a shield, like a prepared excuse. Like
he knows that the moment will come when he needs to point at it and say that
it’s not his fault. Stiles isn’t quite sure what he’s afraid is coming yet
until just Isaac becomes Erica becomes Erica and Boyd becomes Erica and Boyd
and oops Jackson too. 
And he’s so sharp around Stiles. It’s a head rush. He’s a walking defense
mechanism and every time he proves it, Stiles wants to sit him down and figure
it out, why his default towards Stiles is anger and intimidation, which in the
language of boyhood means it’s really fear. 
He gets his chance to distract himself with the Derek Hale enigma in the
swimming pool when he’s supposed to be making his dad proud on the field. 
There’s something about the way Derek can go from threatening him one second to
pushing him out of harm’s way the next and assume not only that Stiles wouldn’t
notice but that he only considers Derek’s life valuable to the extent that it
might save his own. No, Stiles’ reasons for keeping him alive might not be
noble, not in the sense that something as silly as true love is noble, but
they’re not malevolent. But they talk, enough that Stiles can see that Derek is
vaguely intelligent, that he has a vague long-term plan for dealing with the
fucking lizard monster trying to kill them, but Stiles can spot the trouble in
it: he’s assuming that either Jackson or Lydia has not been somehow corrupted.
That their human self is untainted, has good intentions.
People don’t, as a general rule. 
But the interesting thing about Derek is that he assumes, whole-heartedly and
with not even an edge of doubt, that Stiles will leave him to die if he doesn’t
need him, that the only reason he hasn’t is that Stiles does need him. So
Stiles proves the former assumption wrong by disproving the latter. 
He doesn’t intend to go down with Derek, but it’s instinct. And Scott saves
them anyway, so it’s a moot point.
But before his clothes are dry, when even he can tell that he reeks of
chlorine, it all clicks. He catches it, realizes that Derek had been operating
on the assumption that Stiles had thought him a killer by nature. His eyes show
it, wide like a child’s, and it’s apt, Stiles thinks, that they look grey in
the thin light. Because this is Derek seeing Stiles’ grey space, and with less
hesitation than he should show, Stiles lets him.
Of course, Derek decides to try killing Lydia without sufficient evidence, like
maybe he’d rather be the ruthless killer than the scared child, but he doesn’t
understand that it’s the posturing that betrays his youth. That people can see
that it’s posturing. Or at least Stiles can. 
And then it’s all his dad. It’s his dad losing his job over Stiles, losing the
last thing he has left because of Stiles, yet another thing that Stiles has
taken from him. It’s his dad yelling at him and throwing a bottle, and Stiles
is thankful that even his worst fears can’t comprehend the idea of his dad
knowing about Rafa. But his dad is trying to fill the space between them with
whiskey and disappointment and it’s too real. How’s he supposed to react to
that?
Later, when he’s still shaking from it, trying to show his dad that Matt, who’s
given Stiles the creeps from the start (it’s something to do with the camera,
something about how people photograph the secrets they want to keep, the things
they want to own, and something in his face, how it shifts like murky waters)
is some kind of killer, and his dad won’t even listen to him. Doesn’t trust
Stiles to tell the truth even in this. 
It’s not like he can blame his dad for trusting Scott over him, but it’s like a
slap. And part of it is this twisted thing he doesn’t want to think of, where
his and Scott’s dads choose each other’s kids over their own, but he feels sick
for thinking of it.
But Derek’s there. That’s not surprising or remarkable in itself, but what is
is what he does. Derek has stopped fighting him, it seems. Stiles knows the
difference between bickering and fighting, and there’s no force behind it. And
then he does the surprising thing and protects Stiles. Protects his dad.
They’re going to have to sit down and have a talk about how that means they’re
friends now, but there’s no time for it. There’s too much going wrong and he
can’t breathe under the weight of all of it.
When Gerard takes him, Stiles first realizes the difference between a blow
meant to hurt and one only meant to make a little pain. An old man beats the
crap out of him and he won’t forget it, won’t forget seeing Boyd and Erica
strung up and shaking. They stick with him more than anything.
 
Lydia will never love him, and he’s known that from the start, but each time he
sees it, it hurts a little different. She comes to him at the wrong time is the
thing. He’s barely more than edges, cracked under the weight of everything, and
she’s there. 
She looks like his mom.
Maybe it’s part of her particular enigma, that she looks like her, that the
reason Stiles knows strawberry blonde from red is because his mother taught him
with strands of her own hair, but when everyone starts looking like a walking
corpse to him, she the one that makes him break. She’s already died once. He
can’t go through that again. No one should have to lose someone twice. 
She’s angry at him for it, sees the wrong kind of love. Or maybe the right
kind, since he’s spent so long trying to project it, but it’s not what he means
here. He means that he’s afraid that no one is safe anymore. 
When she chooses Jackson, as she’s always choosing Jackson, it still hurts.
It’ll always hurt. Stiles might not love her the way she should be loved, but
he sure as hell could do a better job. She deserves it, deserves someone nice
and brave and strong. Someone like his father. Which is maybe why he’d wanted
her in the first place, to give his parents another shot, but Stiles is not his
dad. He’ll never be his dad. 
It’s that as much as her that makes him break. 
It’s the realization that he’s not going to have a simple, easy future like his
parents. Or like they did, before the cancer. He’s not going to have that. 
She’s still beautiful to him the way his mother was, still looks like hope,
like his ideal of beauty was set when he was small. There’s no way to tell her
that that doesn’t seem creepy, but he thinks she knows. That he’s not in love
with an abstraction but an ideal. 
 
He doesn’t know how to explain it to Scott, either, so he just doesn’t. It’s
easier that way. 
 
To stop himself from worrying about it, he goes to Derek, asks if Boyd and
Erica need anything, considering. The blank look he gets is telling, and twenty
minutes later, they’re at the Argents and Derek’s got Chris against the wall,
asking where they are. Stiles spots Allison at the top of the stairs, a box
labeled Guest Bedroom balance on the bannister. Her shoulders hang heavily. 
Once they find out that Chris had let Boyd and Erica go, Derek’s hell-bent on
finding them. He’s convinced that they would have gone looking for him after
being injured, that it’s a pack instinct, but he doesn’t find them in any of
the usual haunts. Stiles feels a sort of responsibility for them since he
couldn’t get them out, and Derek lets him tag along sometimes. When they go out
to the old house, he sees the mark on the front door, and Derek hesitates for a
moment before filling him in. 
It’s obvious, then, that they’ve been captured as pawns. Which means that to
find them, they need to find the alpha pack. 
 
Derek moves almost as soon as Stiles suggests it, doesn’t say it out loud, but
Stiles knows he doesn’t feel safe in the rail station. Boyd and Erica know
where it is, which means the alphas probably do, too. 
 
Scott’s on a self-improvement kick, and he says he likes hanging out with
Stiles, but he’s just being nice. He needs space, solitude, for whatever he’s
trying to do. It’s fine. It doesn’t change anything between them except that
Stiles ends up helping Derek a lot more. And he doesn’t exactly tell Scott.
It’s not an easy thing to explain, and he’s busy. There’s no reason to bother
him with it. It’s not like it means anything. 
Sometimes, it means something. But only when he and Derek are alone. They act
different alone. Derek doesn’t have much in the way of furniture, so more often
than not, they end up sitting against his headboard with books around them,
trying to find a way to track or find Boyd and Erica or the alphas, something.
If they fall asleep like that, they never talk about it. There’s no reason to.
They have an understanding that they know each other through their guilt and
it’s self-preservation, really, that they don’t talk about it. 
But it’s different with others there. 
If Isaac comes over, Derek tells Stiles to leave almost immediately. Never
explains why. 
If it’s Peter, the way they move around each other is different. Derek keeps
more space between them, wears his face differently. Protection. Stiles makes a
case for killing Peter again, but Derek’s worried that if they do, they’ll
realize just after that they need him to find the alphas. But he’s very clear,
when Peter’s around, that Stiles is there as little more than a research
slave. 
Peter’s eyes are bright when they land on him. “Such a waste of potential,” he
says, and Stiles waits just enough time for it not to seem like cause and
effect before leaving. Whatever he wants from Stiles isn’t something he’s
willing to give. 
And then there’s Scott. Stiles doesn’t say anything, but Derek does his best to
act like the summer never happened. His words are sharper and he’s more
physical, but Stiles thinks Scott knows. Something about the way he looks
between them, realizes that Stiles knows about the alpha pack. (Stiles is going
to kill Derek for only painting one side of the goddamn door. When he gets
around to it.)
Heather is the first time he really lies about his sexual experience, and he’s
surprised at how easy it comes. In some sense, it’s not a lie at all. He’s
never penetrated anyone, doesn’t have the first clue really about what to do
with a girl, not more than he’s gathered from porn. He feels like a virgin in a
lot of ways, and he can convince himself that the rest is all some weird dream,
like he fell asleep watching a disturbing movie and put himself in it. But then
she’s gone and he has no idea what to do about it.
When they figure out where Boyd and Erica are, they don’t even get a chance to
celebrate. They’ll do that after, when they know they’re safe. But Stiles can
feel Derek’s relief when he grabs his wrist, can see it in the smoothness of
his face even though Peter’s not ten yards away.
Stiles isn’t hurt that Derek doesn’t want him possibly dying to save Boyd and
Erica, but he’s hurt that he doesn’t get to be there. That he’s left alone with
Peter. Peter, who’s starting to figure out that he and Derek have some sort of
friendship. A connection. His eyes are always moving over them, and when
they’re alone, Stiles isn’t sure if Peter wants him because he’s Derek’s or if
it’s something else. Not that he’s really Derek’s. They haven’t talked about
it, the way they linger on each other, and they may never. The timing is off
and they both know it. The lines tying them to other people are in the way. And
maybe it’s just too much. Stiles has enough trouble handling his own guilt;
what’s he supposed to do with Derek’s? That’s too heavy.
But he doesn’t get to worry about it much because Heather’s dead and Stiles
uses feigned panic to cover up a lie to Scott, because it’s not like he can
tell Scott he’s safe, that he doesn't fit the criteria for a virgin sacrifice.
It’s not like he could get away with not telling him who, so he lies. It’s too
easy, really.
 
And then Derek dies again. This time, Stiles isn’t there. He can’t bring
himself to go find the body, not that he really has the time, what with the
cross country meet. Scott’s trauma, the wound and the guilt, make for enough
distraction that he doesn’t have to think Derek’s dead. He throws it around
without letting himself feel the impact of it. He doesn’t have time to grieve,
so he just doesn’t. The Stilinski men are good for that. 
Scott’s falling apart, though. There’s too much for him to hold together, and
Stiles can’t hold him together. Maybe it’s the gasoline fumes, but when he
looks at Scott in the scrubby light of the road flare, he sees the future. That
one day, he’s not going to be enough. One day, Stiles won’t be able to pull him
back from the edge. 
It makes him sick to think about it. There’s too much out of his control. He
can’t hold onto everyone, keep them all safe. Failed with Derek, after all.
 
Only Derek’s not fucking dead. Apparently, he was just fucking their English
teacher. Well, Stiles isn’t mad at her. It has nothing to do with her and
everything to do with Derek and his inability to pick up a fucking phone. And
maybe a little bit to do with the fact that he went to someone else, someone
not-Stiles, even though Stiles was miles away. It’s a stupid, petty anger, so
he pushes it down, shoves it away and locks it up somewhere dark in him. 
It dissipates when he sees Derek, though. Sees him on his knees, water soaking
into his jeans, with his bloody hands. Stiles doesn’t even see Boyd at first,
not until he’s halfway to Derek, and then he stops. 
Cora’s holding Boyd and Derek looks like he’s lost the last thing he ever had.
Maybe he shouldn’t in front of these people, but he touches Derek’s shoulder,
squeezes, because he shouldn’t be alone for this. He’s not alone, and Stiles
won’t leave him. He needs Derek to know that, even if he’s not quite sure why.
The weight of what he’s feeling catches up to him. 
Of course, Derek runs before Stiles can say anything to him. Just gets the fuck
out, leaves him with Peter and Cora and something without a name to turn over
in his hands. It looks like pity at first, but he’s starting to think it’s
empathy, that there’s a difference between the two. 
He wants to find Derek, but Stiles knows what it’s like to want to be alone and
there’s shit going on at the school. Lydia can’t help, and it pisses him off
because he thinks she should, but it doesn’t always work like that. And he’s
trying to explain it all to his dad, but of course he doesn’t believe Stiles.
That gets him, hollows out a place in his gut, because now he’s starting to
wonder if his dad would have believed him about Rafa, or if he’d think Stiles
was just bullshitting for attention. But then Lydia’s in trouble and his dad is
gone and it’s Ms. Blake, like the universe isn’t done shitting all over him and
Derek and everyone else. 
To add to that, he and Scott have to tell Derek about her. He hopes, not for
the first time, that Derek doesn’t love her. But he might, going by the denial
in the square of his jaw. Agrees to see what she says when confronted with it,
though, and that’s at least something, even though Stiles is about to throttle
him or maybe himself for not just trusting him.
Stiles can pinpoint the exact second Derek believes him, even if his face is
blurry because Stiles is halfway to crying. Because if she has Derek, then
they’re fucked, can’t find his dad, and that’s all he cares about right now. 
But Derek believes him, and that’s a good thing for all of a couple seconds.
Then Derek shuts down after that, like he’s realized that he woke up in a pile
of shit and there’s no getting out. Like he’s forgotten that that’s how his
life works. Which he needs to fucking get over because Stiles’ dad is possibly
dead, and he’s not even supposed to be involved in the first place, but it’s
probably Stiles’ fault, so everyone else’s problems can just sit the fuck down
and wait their turn.
He yells.
It’s not very productive or mature, but he’s fucking done with people telling
him what to do or feel or think. Derek of all people should know better than to
get between Stiles and saving his dad by teaming up with his fucking ritual-
sacrificing English-teaching werewolf-boning kidnapper.
Maybe he especially shouldn’t throw Kate in Derek’s face. Maybe Stiles knows
that if someone did that to him with Rafa, he might actually kill them. That
there are some bad decisions that you don’t need anyone’s help hating yourself
for. But Stiles’ empathy doesn’t stand a chance against his fear of losing a
second parent because of choices he made. Nothing stands a chance against that.
It looks like Derek maybe understands that, too, and sometime, he’ll thank
Derek properly for not fighting back, for not letting his anger escalate to the
point that Stiles might hurt someone. But not until his dad is safe.
And then it happens. 
Scott walks away. Scott leaves him behind. He has his reasons, sure, but all
Stiles sees is him walking away. 
It might be his fault. It’s probably his fault. Scott probably knows, somehow.
Probably suspects, instinctively. Knows that Stiles is a shitty friend, that he
deserves to be left with nothing. 
Except Derek, maybe. Because Derek’s alive and needs him. Needs Stiles to get
him the fuck out before the cops swarm because they will, inevitably, after all
the shit that’s gone down at the hospital in the past couple hours. It’s
probably the closest to a thank you Stiles will ever be able to give him.
 
So Stiles sits tight and waits for the cops to come. He can handle anyone from
the Sheriff’s department, knows most of them by name, even the new hires after
what happened with Matt in March. And one of them does come to him, Deputy
Barker (Stiles smiles to himself over the great joke potential almost every
time he sees her) and tells him that it’s officially an FBI issue now. That an
agent is going to need to talk to him, that he’s on his way, just got caught up
in the hurricane. 
More and more FBI agents, forensics people, come in, and Stiles waits, for
almost an hour. It gives him time to prepare what he’s going to say: he was in
the elevators the whole time, didn’t see anything, doesn’t know anything.
Simple. 
 
He’s staring at his hands when he hears the doors open, and when he looks up,
for just a second, he can hear the roar of an ocean crashing down on him.
Of course.
He knew Rafa used to work in law enforcement with his dad. Not like he’d stop.
No, he had to fucking go and join the FBI. Explains the handcuffs, at least. 
And he looks so fucking pleased when he first sets his eyes on Stiles. Fuck. 
Because his dad getting kidnapped and possibly, considering that a second
sacrifice has been taken, murdered isn’t enough shit to pile on him. Of course
the only possible person who could make any of this worse would show up. Of
course there’s no escaping him. It’s like Stiles is trapped in his orbit. 
He just stands in front of Stiles with his hands in his pockets, asks him
stupid, stupid questions about his dad, stuff that’s none of his fucking
business and has nothing to do with the fact that he’s missing. He stands
there, and Stiles doesn’t think anyone else would notice it, but his hips are
just a little further forward than his natural posture, like he’s enjoying
where Stiles’ face is, like he wants Stiles to know that if these people
weren’t surrounding them, his zipper would already be down. 
And when Stiles tries to tell him to fuck off, he fucking grins. It’s a game to
him. Stiles is a fucking toy to him. Something fun to play with, wind him up
and watch him go. 
The thing is, Rafa has no right to talk about his dad. They don’t even fucking
compare. He can try to make Stiles’ dad look like a fuck-up, but he did the
best he could and he stayed. He’ll beat Rafa out any day. 
 
But when Chris Argent is taken, that’s it. If she has the final sacrifice,
there’s not even a chance that his dad is going to be alive by the time Stiles
can find him, and he can’t fucking handle it. 
He blanks out most of the panic attack, but he remembers Lydia’s lips on his.
The shock of being in control of himself again. It’s good thinking on her part,
and he tells her that, but something in her falters. That’s when he realizes
that Lydia Martin’s just kissed him and all he can think to say about it is
that was smart, and they were both expecting a little more from him on the
subject. Maybe even a try for a second kiss. But it’s not the right time and it
just wasn’t that kind of kiss. It felt final to him.
He doesn’t get to think about it for long, though, because they’ve got a lead,
Morell, who, of course, is fucking missing. But then Stiles realizes it’s the
nemeton, and he’s about to take Lydia with him to tell Derek and Peter when
Stiles sees Rafa. 
If he’s at the school, with other agents, this is business. That’s something,
at least. 
Lydia goes when he tells her, and Rafa takes him to an empty classroom. For a
moment, Stiles sees himself being pressed against the chalkboard or bent over
the desk, but Rafa doesn’t lock the door. Keeps a little distance. 
It’s worse, actually, that he doesn’t bring it up. He brings up Stiles’ dad too
fucking much, but he doesn’t say anything about them, and it makes Stiles edgy,
nervous. This means he doesn’t know when it’s coming. When Rafa will inevitably
find him and corner him and wear him down again.
Only it’s not going to happen again. 
Stiles doesn’t want him, definitely doesn’t need him, and he’s already got way
too much to worry about.
Rafa talks like Stiles is deliberately hiding information about his dad, and he
is, but not in the way Rafa’s implying. Never like that. They’re not kidnappers
or murderers, the group of them.
Deaton saves him just before the fact that his dad is probably dead fully
catches up with him and he says something stupid because Rafa said I don’t want
you to be alone, and for a moment there, it felt like he really cares. But
that’s a stupid trap to fall into. What he wants is Stiles’ body and that’s it,
that’s all he cares about. If Rafa even still wants him anymore. Maybe he
doesn’t. Maybe Stiles is seeing what he expects to see, maybe he took Stiles’
big no to heart. 
On the way to the clinic, Deaton asks him if he knows where he can find
something to remind him of his dad. The crumpled Sheriff’s star is in his
pocket, has been since Jennifer took him. The edges are sharp, but Stiles
handles it gently so he doesn’t cut himself. 
An hour later, he’s stepping into a tub of water so cold his balls retract into
his spleen, and as he forces himself to sit, he looks at Scott. Knows that they
might not both come back. Stiles wants to tell him that he loves him, that
he’ll always be Stiles’ best friend, that he’s sorry, that he never meant to be
who he is. But all that comes out is your dad’s in town. Can’t even finish it,
can’t tell him the truth. Maybe it’s for the best this way.
He can feel his body slowing down, the tightness in his joints growing until he
can’t bend his fingers anymore, the icy water turning warm and pleasant. 
When Lydia’s hands settle on his shoulders and push him under, he’s not sure if
he wants to come back.
 
Finding the nemeton feels like a hollow victory. 
He can feel the fear cold around his heart because he hasn’t found his dad yet,
needs to find his dad. Until he’s looking at his father, can grab his shoulders
and feel that he’s real and alive, it’s not over. 
Deaton called it a darkness, what would find him, but it’s not, not really.
It’s knowledge. Knowledge tinged with both despair and apathy. 
His father is probably dead. He can’t change that fact. And he can’t even
muster the rage to yell about it, so he doesn’t. All he does is drive. 
But he can’t even fucking do that, apparently, because he comes to with a
blinding headache and a wrecked Jeep. Leaning down to find the bat he keeps in
the back seat makes it feel like his brain is going to push out of his skull,
but his fingers close around the base and he runs into the woods. It’s a
tunnel-vision kind of thing, but a feeling. He locks in on the nemeton and lets
his body chase itself there.
What he finds is the ground collapsing under the orange umbral glow of the
moon, and voices, so he digs, finds a way in. There’s a supporting beam about
to collapse and he only just manages to jam his bat under it to keep it from
falling.
A voice says something next to him and that’s his dad. He’s alive. 
Stiles isn’t sure if he cries or not, but he knows he hugs his dad for too
long, convincing himself that he’s real. He is, though, he’s alive and
relatively unharmed, and that’s probably the best thing that’s happened to him
in a month. In a year. 
When he calls Scott, it sounds like he’s okay and he doesn’t say that Derek’s
died again, so everyone’s okay. For the first time in a long time. 
 
As soon as he and his dad walk into the house, his dad hugs him again, a little
too tight.
“I should have believed you,” he says, and Stiles shakes his head into his
shoulder, tries not to cry. 
“I should’ve told you sooner. I’m sorry I lied about everything,” he says, and
that’s all he can get out before his throat chokes up. His dad holds him and
lets him cry into his jacket, lets him get it out. He’s not sure if his dad
cries, too, but he doesn’t want to know. More of a guilt thing than an issue
with showing weakness. 
When he gets upstairs, his window is open. It wasn’t the last time he was in
the room. He’s not sure what that means, who’s going to jump out at him. He
sits on top of the covers for a long time before he falls asleep.
 
Scott wants to talk about it, their near-death experience, or whatever they’re
calling it. He says it feels like there’s something wrong and terrible inside
of him, and Stiles says he feels it too, but the thing is, he doesn’t feel any
different. 
There are dreams that he has, dark dreams and sex dreams and blood dreams, and
not all of them are new. Most of them aren't. But when he’s awake, he thinks he
feels the same. It's the same low-grade terror that's been buzzing beneath the
surface for months. Why would it go away?
 
Derek leaves. Stiles isn’t precisely sure when because he doesn’t say goodbye.
Doesn’t tell anyone if he’s coming back. Stiles only sends him one text, right
when he finds out. 
Don’t forget to come back.
There’s no response.
 
“You don’t have to deal with this alone,” Scott tells him one afternoon. 
Stiles smiles, not too wide. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
 
His dad has questions, always has questions. He doesn’t want the sparknotes
version Stiles gave him over his chess set. Never all at once, though. Stiles
suspects he’s getting information from other sources as well. But he’ll be
pouring a bowl of cereal while his dad works on his coffee, and he’ll ask
something random. 
“So, Derek killed Peter but now Peter’s helping Derek?”
“Jackson is definitely not a lizard anymore?”
“Where did Cora come from?”
“You didn’t really spend your summer with Scott?”
“When’s Derek coming back again?”
Stiles doesn’t really have answers, but he’s honest. He tells what he knows.
It’s the best he can do. 
 
Scott tells him that his dad’s making a pathetic attempt at being part of his
life again. 
“That sucks, dude,” Stiles says, not letting himself worry about what that
means for how long he’s going to be in town. 
“Yeah, he’s staying at some lame-ass motel, though, because my mom won’t let
him stay in the house. Thank God. Such a dick.”
Stiles doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say about Scott’s dad in a normal
universe so he keeps his mouth shut.
 
The first text comes less than a week after the major shitshow. Unknown number.
Super 8. Rm 232.
That’s it, and that’s all Stiles needs to know who it is. He doesn’t text back,
but he doesn’t block the number either. There’s a chance he might need it, and
maybe Rafa will give him evidence to use against him. It’s possible. Stiles
wouldn’t exactly call him careless, but he decides to look back through their
old texts.
No pictures with Rafa’s face. Nothing indicative of who he is. But plenty
explicit. Who knows if he used his real phone or bought a cheap disposable one,
but it’s something, at least. If Stiles made an accusation, someone would have
to at least look into it. Not that he’ll be making any accusations any time
soon. Because it would go through his dad, and since his dad seems to be into
believing him these days, it’s possible Rafa would end up dead or very
suspiciously missing. Because he’s not just an older man, he’s the older man
his dad used to trade off on babysitting with. Conclusions would be drawn. 
The gross thing about it all is that rereading the texts has him half hard in a
matter of seconds. It’s been almost a year since the last time he read them,
and at the time, he’d had his dick in hand, so it makes sense that this is what
his response is like, but it makes his skin crawl.
This is delicate. 
If he responds, he’s encouraging more. That could be used against him if he
ever tries to go to anyone with this. 
Which means he needs to decide if he’s ever going to go to anyone with this. 
He can never tell his dad. That’s off the table. Not even because he’s not sure
Rafa will survive it because he’s not trying to protect Rafa or anything. It’s
a shame thing, really. Because Stiles went up to him, left his number, went to
his apartment twice. He has no excuse, really. It was consensual, that’s the
problem. 
He still feels like shit about it. 
The thing about it is that the only reason to text back is to do it again. He
knows that even if he tries to tell Rafa off, it’s not real. If he were really
against it, he just wouldn’t make contact. It would be stupid, playing at being
upset when he wants it. He’s not going to do that.
But the fact of the matter is that Stiles hasn’t gotten laid since, hasn’t come
that hard since, even with four fingers jammed up his ass. If Rafa tries to
fuck him again, he’ll only be able to hold out for so long.
Only there’s Scott to worry about, isn’t there? He wouldn’t understand anyof
it, would get it less than Stiles himself does, if he found out. Which he’s
never going to do. Scott will never know. Stiles would probably rather be dead
than know that he knows. It’s just not an option. But he’s pretty sure it’s
hard to hide who you’re fucking from a werewolf, especially one he sees every
day. 
So he and Rafa can’t do it again. Not up for consideration. Good. It’s settled.
Well, they can’t fuck. Probably can’t exchange bodily fluids of any kind. Or
get too close, can’t touch, not really because scent soaks in, doesn’t it? So
that’s out.  
But they both have phones, don’t they?
No. 
He’s not going to do this again. 
Rafa’s Scott’s dad. 
And a fucking FBI agent. 
It’s off the table completely. Not up for consideration. 
Only now that Stiles knows he can have it, can fuck something that isn’t his
own hand, he’s buzzing with it. He’s sixteen and he knows what it’s like now.
Knows how fucking good it can feel. And it’s right there, at the fucking Super
8, probably waiting for him on a shitty queen-sized bed. 
No, Rafa’s not the only person in the world with a dick. He’s not the only
person who can give Stiles what he wants. All he needs is a willing dude.
There’ve got to be plenty out there. 
He could go to the Jungle, but then he might run into someone he knows. And
he’d need a wingman, and Scott could be great for that. Or he could not-so-
subtly say that he thinks Stiles should lose it to someone he knows better.
Because he thinks Stiles is a virgin. Which means Stiles has to keep that up. 
It’s not like he has another wingman. Isaac is a hard no because Stiles is on
Team Scott and bros don’t get it on with exes without getting the okay first.
The okay that Scott would have given him, and has, but it’s polite to talk it
out first. He and Scott agreed on that at the end of eighth grade, when they
thought going to high school would automatically get them girlfriends. So
Isaac’s out, and that leaves who? Danny’s with Ethan, so it would probably be
the two of them, and Stiles isn’t cool with being a third wheel. And they’re
probably not cool with him being their third wheel. Danny’s just not really his
bro and, well, Ethan is kind of on Stiles’ shit list for now. Kinda happens
when you use another guy to kill someone he cares about. 
There isn’t really anyone left. Hell, maybe he’d bother Derek about it, see if
he could convince him, but that would be weird. The idea of it just doesn’t
feel right. 
Who else does he even know who would possibly go to a gay club?
Not Peter.
(Maybe Peter? But Stiles doesn’t doubt that he’d be petty enough to cockblock
him. To what ends? Well, Stiles is pretty sure he wouldn’t make it through the
night un-groped. Maybe more than that. But he’s not going to fuck Peter.
Horrible decision in so many ways. And he doesn’t want to make fucking his
friends’ family members a thing for him. Even if friend is a weird word to use
for Derek. And even if Derek’s gone. Might not be coming back. No one fucking
knows.)
Peter isn’t on the table. Nowhere near the table. He’s never even seen the
table. 
Not Peter, but someone attractive, maybe a little more experienced than a high
schooler, maybe someone who can hold him down…
He’s not going to fuck anyone’s dad. Even though, well...it’s not like no one’s
noticed that, say, Chris Argent is objectively good-looking and the whole air
of danger’s kind of a turn on. But he’s not going to be into people’s dads.
Surrogate dads count, too. He makes that executive decision before he can start
thinking too hard about Deaton, pretending he wants to know a little more about
the whole emissary thing so he can get in close...No. He’s not going to go down
this road. It’s not like he wants to, anyway, it’s not like he spends all his
time thinking about it. 
It’s Rafa’s fault, really. The fact that he’s here, it’s making Stiles think
about things he wouldn’t. And it’s not just him, it’s the combination of him
and the fact that there’s no immediate danger anymore and the fact that
whenever he talks to Scott it feels like he’s pretending to be himself and the
fact that he doesn’t have anyone to just shoot the shit with, forget the rest
of the world for a little while. 
There’s a hole in him, a void, and he wants to plug it up with his fingers or
shove something he hates in it. Wants to fill it, and it feels like fucking
might do that. Or at least let him stop thinking about it. 
He misses it, not thinking.
It’s better, sure, now that his dad knows and Scott’s an alpha and Jennifer’s
dead and Deucalion’s fucked off somewhere and Gerard is supposedly part of the
vanilla pudding crown. But now he feels like he’s jumping at shadows, and he’s
not better, his stress level is still exactly the same, it’s just that now he
doesn’t have anything to pin it on. There’s no justifiable reason to think that
he’s going to wake up to his house burning around him or come home to find his
dad mauled in the living room, no reason to think the dreams will be real.
They’re not, and it’s not like after months of having them, they’re suddenly
more terrifying, but sometimes he sees blood out of the corner of his eye.
Sometimes he sees something glowing in the dark, just for an instant. 
And it doesn’t stop. It’s always there, right at the edge of his vision before
he blinks, and he just needs to get out of his fear for a moment or two.
He hears the dial tone before he really realizes what he’s doing, and he
doesn’t really have time to panic because Rafa picks up right after the first
ring.
“I didn’t think you were one for calling.”
Hearing his voice, Stiles does panic, at least until he remembers that his dad
is at werewolf PTA and he’s alone. 
“Are you just going to sit there and breathe heavily, or was there a point to
this?” There’s a sharpness to his voice that makes Stiles rise to it. 
“Bet you’d jerk off to it if I did.” 
There’s a faint snort. “So it’s that kind of call, is it?”
“I don’t think I know what you mean,” Stiles tells him, if only because he’s
not really sure why he called. 
“You want me to fuck you, but you don’tlikethat you do, so you’re going to play
coy and pretend you’re above it all and hope I talk you off.” Stiles grits his
teeth while Rafa sighs on the other end. “Don’t think I don’t know you, Stiles.
Don’t ever think that.” 
“We can’t,” Stiles says. “It’s too dangerous.” 
“You can’t even say it, can you? Are you really that afraid of admitting to
what you want?”
Stiles bites his tongue, lets the pain ground him. “We can’t fuck,” he repeats.
“It’s not going to happen.”
“Cautious boy,” Rafa says softly, and the warmth of it makes Stiles shiver. “I
bet you hate it. I bet you finger yourself raw, and it’s never quite enough, is
it?” With effort, Stiles forces himself to keep his hand above his waistband,
won’t touch himself, won’t allow it. But God, his dick is pretty much obsessed
with Rafa. His voice is like a fucking hair-trigger.
“You’re one to talk. You find a better ass in the city? Or is it just not the
same when they didn’t grow up with your son?”
Rafa laughs. “I like you like this. With a little bite. You should come over.”
“I told you, it isn’t going to happen,” Stiles repeats. “I’m not some poor kid
with a missing dad anymore. I don’t need someone to stay with, Mister Concerned
FBI Agent.” 
“I would’ve fucked you in that room if I thought I could get away with it.
Would’ve sent you back into the hall with come soaking your jeans, kept your
underwear in my pocket so you would have to come back for them later.” 
“You’re a fucking psycho, you know that?” He means it, but he’s palming his
cock through his jeans, trying to tell himself it doesn’t count as jerking
off. 
“Maybe I’d pull you out of class later, shove your pants down and fuck you in
the middle of the hall. Make you get me off fast before class was over and
everyone could see how desperate you are to be filled.” 
Yeah, he gives up the no-jerking-off fight. It’s a losing battle anyway. 
“Or maybe I want you on your knees. Maybe I want to fuck your mouth, hold you
down on my cock until I can feel it in your throat. So your voice goes rough
after, wanna hear you try to come up with an excuse when your dad asks you why
it sounds like you gargled gravel. Bet he’s gonna wonder why those lips of
yours are so red. Got a fucking perfect mouth, you know that?” 
Stiles whines, cock spitting precome all over his hand, hates himself for it,
so he says, “Really? You think I’m that easy? You think you can tell me I have
a nice mouth and I’ll bend over for you anywhere you want? Pretty fucking
arrogant, I’d say.”
“Hard-to-get doesn’t suit you, kiddo,” Rafa tells him, and Stiles can hear a
smile in it, wants to punch him for that. “You know I’ll get you off. Love how
easy it is to make you come. Bet you could get off with just my tongue in you,
open you up, get you so wet—” Stiles bites his hand, trying to hold back a
whimper because fuck, he’s close, it’s sick but so good. “Don’t hold back,
baby, come on. Let Daddy hear you. Moan for me like I’m licking your sweet,
pretty little hole.” 
Rafa stops like he knows, somehow, knows that’s all it takes, knows Stiles is
shooting all over his hand and shirt, head thrown back. Maybe he does moan.
Just a little. 
“Fuck, you sound so good.” Stiles jerks another trickle of come out of his dick
while Rafa groans into his ear. Hearing him breathe, it feels like touching
him, like being pressed tight against his body. He craves it as much as he
hates it. 
“I’m not doing any more than this,” Stiles tells him, purposefully harshing his
afterglow. “You can text me, but that’s it. Don’t talk to me.”
Rafa tuts. “Oh, but Mr. Stilinski, I’m afraid I’ll have questions for you about
this case.Why do I have the feeling you know far more than you’re letting on?”
Stiles hangs up.
He swears he can hear Rafa’s laugh anyway, hears it in his head even after he
turns out the lights.
End Notes
     mooooore to come y'all
     (ps i give probably too many updates on my tumblr so if u want u can
     keep up with dat shit and also i like talking to people even if i
     kind of suck at it and if u want to go anon to talk about this story
     in particular i am totally cool with it yo)
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