*** Okay-- so yes, I loved Teen Wolf and I really loved Sterek, but I haven't watched it this season. I have it all taped, but, you know… sometimes you just fall in a pothole and can't get out, and when Stiles saw Derek Hale's initials on the library shelf, that was where I fell. But I still have a fondness for the possibilities of the early seasons, so that's where I'm writing from. From what I can see, the fandoms have pretty much given up on the writing as a whole anyway-- the canon is shit, but the fanfic is terrific, so let's go where the writing is!
Or where it's fun to write, in this case. This is Sterek/Eureka crossover, which means we've got two blond sheriffs with two wayward teenagers, and a whole lot of drinking to do.
Oi! Sometimes John Stilinski just had to get the fuck out of town.
"But Dad!" Stiles whined. "You were going to be here for dinner!"
He sounded patently insincere.
"You don't want me for dinner," John retorted. "You have no desire to have me here at all."
"Sure I do! You know, Scott's coming, Lydia's coming--"
"Derek's coming," John said dryly, pulling his leather jacket on over his button down shirt. He felt naked, really, without his uniform or uniform jacket, but he was leaving Parrish in charge, so he didn't need it. He hoped.
"Yeah, well, he comes… over, sometimes."
John groaned. "Yes, son, I'm sure he comes… over sometimes--"
Stiles scrubbed at his dark hair. "Well, you know, since we all graduated from college, we sort of, you know, me and him, we've got shit in common."
"Like both having broken up with your girlfriends, Stiles. I know. I'm not senile." Neither was he stupid. He was well aware that Stiles's other friends left long before Derek Hale did.
As in, Derek Hale had snuck out of his son's window on several occasions right before dawn.
Which was yet another reason John Stilinski really needed a night out. "You guys cook popcorn or pop each other's corn hole or whatever, and I'll be home in the morning, okay?"
Stiles looked truly disgusted. "Oh my God, Dad!"
"Look, just tell him he doesn't have to sneak out, okay? If he's in my kitchen in his boxer shorts making breakfast tomorrow, I'm not going to have a coronary."
And look-- the classic Stilinski blush, right to the roots of his hair. "He's… well, he's not even supposed to be in Beacon Hills, dad. He and Scott-- they've barely reached detente with the other packs and--"
"Are there bodies I need to worry about, son?"
"Then please, for the love of God, let me go somewhere not the hell mouth where I can have a drink."
"Yeah. Sure, Dad. Drive safe. You know, don't drink and--"
"Stiles, I'll stay. I'll stay, we can watch cartoons, and I will tell Derek about the time you and Scott went running naked around the neighborhood screaming about bedbugs biting off your wieners, okay?"
"And I think you're late for that drink!" Stiles responded brightly.
"I think I am."
John ruffled his son's hair in exasperated affection and managed to escape from his own home. God. One lousy drink-- was that too much to ask?
* * *
He saw the bar set back deep in the woods, and wondered--usually he just kept driving to Placerville, because there were a couple of places there that he enjoyed, but this one was a little closer. He had his cell phone clipped to his belt, and well… after mentioning the werewolves, he just didn't want to go too far.
He took the turnout and parked with the rest of the cars--the really high end cars, which was odd-- in the turnout. He'd go in, have a scotch, look at the other adults drinking their scotch, and maybe talk to a pretty woman. It was all he asked for in an evening.
That and to not have to pretend he wasn't hearing his son getting banged in the room next to his. He really needed that in his evening. He needed it so bad he could hardly breathe.
He pushed through the door and looked around uneasily. Frankly, he'd be more comfortable with werewolves and ninjas or something--this clientele looked particularly swanky. He spotted the bar, though, and toward the end, a guy a lot like him. Fortyish, blond, creases from living in his eyes and around his mouth-- but turned up creases. Like he smiled.
Well, hell-- no women, but then, John hadn't been hoping for a hook-up or bust, really. Company, that's all he wanted.
He pulled up near the guy-- not so much in his space but in his orbit-- and ordered a scotch from the big guy with the curly hair who seemed to be stressing about every detail.
"And what kind of scotch would you like? We have several oak barrel brands, some with a cinnamon under taste, the kind that's pressed from the wood itself, some--"
Oh God. "Johnny Walker?" he pleaded. "Red or black or gold or…"
"Give him what I've got," the other fortyish guy said dryly. "Don't stress-- he just wants what I do."
"Yeah," the barkeep said deferentially. "Sure thing, Jack."
The bartender disappeared--apparently the plain stuff was kept in the back, and John offered his thanks.
"I, you know, not my place," he said, shrugging sheepishly. "Strange bar customs, right?"
The guy turned and winked, his blue eyes particularly arresting in his homely/handsome face. "I get it--but this is a Eureka establishment--you've heard of us?"
"Oh hell." Of course he had. The Feds-- Scott's father included-- kept threatening to make Beacon Hills property of the Eureka people if Stilinski couldn't keep a handle on the body count. "John Stilinski-- Beacon Hills Sheriff." He extended his hand only to have it engulfed and caged by the other guy's.
"Jack Carter--Eureka Sheriff. You guys send us some of the weirdest shit."
"You think so?" John asked. "Cause that shit's our every fucking day in Beacon Hills."
Carter could have gotten mad, but he let out a good-natured snort. "Yeah-- well, yesterday they reversed gravity in Eureka. Again. Man, I thought I'd come get a drink right now before I had to suck it through a straw in my nose."
At that moment the bartender returned with a bottle of Johnny Walker Gold and two shot glasses. He poured up the shots and shoved them both at the men.
John picked his up with relief. "Oh thank you thank you thank you," he breathed, smelling the alcohol just to make sure it was there. "Here's to… not having your son possessed by a Kitsune this year," he said, remembering seven years before like it was yesterday."
"Oh God-- we heard about that," Carter said, surprising him. "Here's to not having your wife's first husband come back from the dead and having her choose him over you."
"Oh no! That's not a perk!" John sympathized. "Salaud!"
They both downed the drinks quickly, and John let the liquid burn through him. Carter signaled for another pour.
"I miss them," Carter said when the barkeep had left, and John understood that these shots were for nursing and not for pounding. Good idea.
"Yeah," John muttered. "I bet you do. I still miss my wife. Dating just hasn't--"
"Not the same."
"No. It's depressing. My son is getting more action than I am."
"My daughter just got married--to another genius. They're going to have babies who are smarter than me when they're born!"
"Oh, ouch!" Poor guy-- John thought his life was bad. Well, it did have it's downsides. "My son is getting banged by a werewolf as we speak," he confessed, and its was rewarding to have Carter wince.
"Oh that's too bad. But, you know--I've seen the jacket on that Hale kid. He's not bad looking."
John had to laugh. "I'm saying-- I've been a ladies man all my life, but I didn't bat an eyelash when I realized what they were dong. Could convert the dead."
Next to him Carter let out a wounded sound and then pounded back his drink. "Oh," he said softly.
"What?" John actually looked at him.
"Nothing. You know. Just… was nice, for a minute. Having an equal. Having a friend."
"But we were…" Carter met his eyes frankly, and John flushed. "Oh," he said, getting it. He downed his drink and sat for a moment, letting the rush of the alcohol burn through his body. He reached into his wallet and threw down a couple of bills, then looked back at Carter, who was looking away in embarrassment. "So," he said, tapping Carter's elbow to get his attention.
"Yeah?" Carter looked back, resignation slumping his shoulders.
"You, uh, want to see a werewolf in his boxer shorts, cooking bacon?"
Carter's smile twitched, and John had a moment to hope he'd see the whole thing in the course of the night, because it had the capacity to light up that homely handsome face and make it beautiful. He leaned over and spoke in John's ear, his breath tickling the fine hairs there and shivering a surprise shot of desire right down his spine. "I'd rather see you without your boxers, eating sausage."
John smiled, but rested his hand on Carter's thigh. "That's a terrible metaphor," he said.
"But a really pretty picture."
They met eyes then, and John Stilinski knew exactly what Jack Carter wanted, and although he'd never had that for breakfast before, he was pretty sure it couldn't hurt to try.
* * *
"Stiles," Derek mumbled in his ear. "Wake up."
"Because there's someone downstairs, cooking breakfast."
Stiles yawned and stretched, making double sure his door was shut. He'd only barely managed to convince Derek he could stay around this time. "Yeah, so? Probably Dad."
"Well, yeah. But I think he's brought someone home with him."
Stiles listened, but he wasn't a werewolf, and wishing to become a werewolf or a were coyote or a were fox or a were-ever had not gotten any closer to making it so.
"Oh," he said, smiling. "That's awesome. I mean, you know--go dad!"
Derek was doing that thing with his eyebrows that indicated he could hear/smell/taste something that Stiles could not. "Stiles, do you have any idea who your dad was seeing last night?"
Stiles slid out of bed and started fishing for his boxer shorts. He bent over right in front of Derek and let out a little yelp when Derek slid his hand right down Stiles's crack to cup his balls. "Do you want round four?" he asked.
Derek tugged him backwards by the balls, and as Stiles sat down, Derek moved his arm super quick to catch him. "I always want another round," he growled in Stiles's ear. What followed was a sweet, quick fuck into the mattress, Stiles holding the pillow in front of his mouth to muffle his screams. When they finally ventured downstairs, both of them in sweats and shirtless, the sound of cooking had been replaced by the sound of two voices-- male--talking what sounded like Sheriff shop over coffee.
Stiles and Derek rounded the corner, and there was his dad--and his Dad's long lost cousin or something--both of them with the same law-enforcement hunch over their coffee, and the same crinkles in the corners of their eyes.
"So I'm telling you," the other guy was saying, "We had to force him to reconstitute like half the town, because he was sure someone had stolen his proton mathingigig. It was infuriating, and by the time he realized that ray gun was just firing off by itself, there was like, two of us left to go around and fix everyone."
"OH my God," Stiles's father laughed. Both of them paused and turned toward Stiles and Derek, and Stiles tried to shut his mouth. They were both wearing white boxer shorts. And nothing else.
"Derek! Glad you could stay this time," Mr. Stilinski said, a sincere smile on his face and not the fake one that didn't reach his eyes that Stiles had been afraid of.
"Thank you for not chasing me with your shotgun," Derek said politely. "Coffee Stiles?"
"Dad!" Stiles said after a moment, "Dad! You're… you and your… your--"
"This is Jack Carter," Mr. Stilinski said, talking to him slowly, like he was still a child.
"He's in his underwear!" Stiles wailed.
"And you're banging a werewolf, now come sit down and have breakfast."
Stiles gaped like a fish, and Derek shoved coffee in his hands. "What did you think?" he asked softly. "YOur dad would be single forever?"
Jack Carter looked at Stiles and winked. "I've heard a lot about you," he said after a moment. "Your dad says you're looking for a job, but you've got too many physics degrees to know what to do with yourself."
"Yeah, so?" His dad ahd gotten laid. The same way Stiles had gotten laid. That was a thing that was going to burn it's way in Stiles's brain until it fell through the gray matter and hit occipital lobe.
"Have you ever heard of a town called Eureka?" Jack Carter asked, and Stiles and Derek both sucked in a breath.
"Tell me more?" Stiles said, a little stunned.
Suddenly, Jack Carter was far more interesting than his underwear, and Stiles had a lot more on his plate than a horny werewolf.
And a dad who left the house at least once a week for companionship.
And two sheriffs in the kitchen in their boxer shorts, which Stiles would never ask about again.