Fandom: Teen Wolf (duh.)
Chapters: 1/2
Pairings(Romantic or otherwise): Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski/Sheriff Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski/Scott McCall
Words: 2,697
Summary: Trouble finds Stiles in the form of an arrest warrant that has been put out on him after his fingerprints, blood and/or Jeep had been seen/found at five different homocide crime scenes.
Inspired by: This gorgeous fucking post. *creys* kaciart . tumblr post/ 32175 367540 (I have permission from the artist to write this fic. The idea and art is hers/his(?) and I only take credit for being allowed to take the basic idea and roll with it.)
Fic Written by: Sarah Elizabeth (actual name), whatinthehellisastiles (tumblr), With My Head In The Clouds ( )

Derek looked up from where he was breaking apart old wooden boards for firewood that had been lying around the warehouse as the door opened overhead and the thump-thud-duh-dump of a familiar heartbeat met his ears. Actually it had met his ears about six miles ago, but he would never admit that it was so ingrained into his heart that he'd recognize it anywhere if he just listened hard enough. The boy slouched down the stairs lazily, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, but when he looked up Derek could see the inner turmoil in his beautiful whiskey gold brown eyes. Derek arched an eyebrow in question, standing up straight and wiping his hands over the dirty not-white-anymore wifebeater.

Stiles pulled a boxy black walkie-talkie from his pocket in answer, pressing the button on the side with his thumb and allowing the tinny voice to fill the large empty space between them.

"Blue Jeep wrangler has been found on the side of interstate five…apparently abandoned…no trace of suspect…proceed with caution…suspect is thought to be armed and dangerous." The voice of the dispatcher was shaky and uncertain. Stiles released his thumb and tucked the now silent device back in his pocket.

"I'm a wanted fugitive. There's a warrant out for my arrest that my dad will have to serve me when he finds me. Because he doesn't know anything about the fucking Alpha pack and that they're the ones behind all this not me!" Stiles had tried to keep calm but somewhere between his first and last words his voice had risen to a shout, face burning red with anger. But just as soon as the fury had spiked, it died down again. "Please, Derek," he pleaded. "Please just let me tell him. He can keep a secret, he can! Plus it might even benefit the pack to have someone on the force in the know so he can help. I mean, God, even Melissa knows now."

"That couldn't be helped. She was there that night in the station, Stiles."

"SO WAS MY DAD!" Stiles was back to yelling, tears pricking his eyes. "So was my dad Derek and he coulda been fucking killed. He deserves to know what's going on. He deserves to know what he needs to protect people from, okay? Just…just let me tell him and at least give him some wolfsbane bullets or something to-"

"To what, Stiles?" Derek shouted. "To go after me and your best friend and your classmates? Hm? How do you think that's gonna end? Melissa had to be okay with it because Scott is a wolf but you aren't. Your dad doesn't have to accept us; his only link to us is you and he could take you and run because he thinks he's protecting you. And maybe he would be."

Stiles stared Derek down, eyes brimming with tears. "So what I'm just supposed to go turn myself in? Derek, my fingerprints, Jeep, and blood have been found at five different murder sites and I'm seventeen now. Do you know what that means? That means I can and will be tried as an adult and probably given the death sentence when I'm proved guilty."

At least it looked like Derek flinched a bit at that, but he shook his head. "No, we're leaving - all of us. Scott, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Melissa, and you and I. We're going to move up and settle in the northeast somewhere. Probably Nova Sco- why are you shaking your head at me? It's the only thing that makes any sense, Stiles!"

"NO," Stiles yelled, voice breaking as the tears fell freely. "No. I'm not just going to…to run, Derek. I won't do that to him; I won't do that to my dad. I'm all he has left anymore, okay? He already lost my mom, I'm not going to let him lose me too…at least not without knowing what happened to me."

"So what then?"

Stiles stared at him desperately, searching those pale green eyes for something but obviously coming up empty. Derek watched as the younger man drew all his strength, scrubbing the tears from his cheeks, squaring his shoulders and standing up ramrod straight. Derek expected another argument, another yelling match that Stiles wouldn't win this time; that he'd be forced to submit to under the Alpha's command. But instead the human spun on his heel and took the stairs slowly.

"Where are you going, Stiles?" Derek demanded, staring up at where Stiles had paused at the narrow platform by the door. Stiles didn't even turn his head.

"I'm going to turn myself in." His voice didn't even shake before his firm steps grew fainter and fainter.

Stiles took the scenic route home on foot, mostly through the woods, trying to keep out of sight of anyone looking for him. When he got to his house none of the lights were on and the cruiser wasn't in the driveway.

Comfortable in the fate he'd chosen he stuck his key in the lock and twisted, the faint sound of pins and tumblers turning before it clicked open. The door swung open with finality and Stiles knew it was the last time he'd walk through it. He closed it softly behind him and he didn't bother locking it as he took a final stroll through the dark rooms. He lingered in his bedroom, running his hands over everything and crouching to pull a shoebox from the back of his closet.

He hadn't opened it since he had put everything inside and shoved it away to be forgotten - only those things never really were forgotten were they?

He dusted it off and pulled the lid open. Inside were the last few things that he actually treasured in his life; things that were from a time when everything was simple and even when it wasn't it came with warm feminine hugs, wide smiles, and caramel filled apple cider cookies.

First he pulled out the handmade pencil holder he'd made in kindergarten, all lopsided and messy and just godawful ugly as shit. He ran his fingers over the indentations and the messy engraving in the side, Happy Mother's Day! Except the 'r' was backwards and he'd forgotten a 'p' in happy. Then he took out the faded white handkerchief with the faded yellow flowers and lace trim and embroidered letter G. He ran his fingers over it as tears fell. He took out several other small things, leaving the best for last. He pulled out the letter gingerly; just a few fragile baby blue pages that were the last words that Genevieve Stilinski had ever written; the last thing she had left for her only son to remember her by. He unfolded the pages and stared at the loopy, shaky cursive; ran his fingers over the faint impression marks left there. He clutched them in his chest, falling onto the floor and letting himself sob finally.

He'd always known, deep down, that he'd die for these wolves since the day he figured out what Scott really was. Of course, he also figured it would've been with more glory, at the hand of some cold blooded killer and that his death would mean life for somebody else; though of course it did mean life for somebody else, for a lot of somebody elses. He'd always known he would protect those goddamn fucking wolves til the day he died. He just hadn't expected to have to choose to do it, to walk into it knowingly, without a gun to anyone's head. As it were, he was walking to his death now, surely. The evidence would somehow link him to all of the murders and he'd give no protest; hell, he'd write and sign the fucking confession.

He picked himself up, tucked everything back into the box and pushed it back into his closet before sitting down at his desk. He pulled out some paper from his printer and picked up a pen to write his letters. He wrote one to Scott first; it wasn't very long, but it was everything he'd ever wanted to say to him. How sorry he was that he'd dragged Scott out that night and brought this on him, on them, on everyone; how thankful he was to have Scott as a best friend when no one else would be; how much he loved Scott for everything he'd done for Stiles.

He wrote one for each of the betas next, even Jackson and Lydia and Allison. Then he wrote one for Derek. He told Derek how even when he was a Sourwolf, Stiles liked him; how special his smiles were and that he should do it more often; not to be too hard on the pack as this would be hard enough already; not to feel guilty about it because if Stiles really wanted he could tell his father but he wouldn't and this was his choice, no one else's; that no one was going to hurt him again, not ever, not like Kate and Peter had because the people left cared about him and would protect him to the death; he ended with the words he'd tried to find words for since they'd first met and Stiles had known he was done for. I love you, Derek Hale. Remember that. It was all he had left to give them all, besides his life.

Stiles walked carefully back down the stairs and out the back door into the small backyard. He climbed up the ladder that consisted of half-rotten planks nailed to the large oak up to the tree house that the Sheriff had helped Scott and Stiles build after Mr. McCall had left on the Never Ending Beer Run. He hid the letters in the secret compartment he and Scott had constructed in the floor when they were eight so their parents would never find the things they'd snuck out. Stiles knew the wolves would follow his scent here and Scott would know where to look.

He walked back through the house to the front porch, turned on his cell phone and dialed 911.

"911, what's your emergency?" the dispatcher asked, sounding worn out and tired.

"I'd like to report a sighting of Stiles Stilinski on the front porch of the Stilinski residence," Stiles said as he sat himself down on the first step just like he had with his mother in the fall evenings like this one.

"Are you sure it was him?" she asked, sounding torn, like she really hoped it wasn't.

"I'm positive," he assured her.

"How do you know?"

"Because…" he took a deep breath. "Because I'm him."

He hung up before she could say anything. It wasn't long before the sirens could be heard in the distance. He set his cell phone aside, folded his fingers together and hung them between his legs while he watched the stars in the navy blue cloudless sky. Lights flashed at the end of the streets and the number of sirens blaring was alarming. He wasn't carrying a weapon or a bomb or even a safety pin. It was just him in his khaki jeans and vneck shirt and plaid button down over it. His phone sat next to him and his pockets were empty.

He wasn't surprised that it was the Sheriff's car that was heading the brigade. Stiles knew his dad would want to handle it, would give Stiles a chance to explain and tell the truth and prove his innocence, because "Stiles couldn't hurt a fly, John! You can't take him hunting!" The beautiful soprano voice entered his thoughts unbidden, but he didn't push it away like he had so many times before to stave off the pain. His time was going to be limited - days, weeks, months. Who knew how long he had to replay every good memory he'd ever had? Including those that hurt the most to remember.

His father got out of the squad car and it pained Stiles to see how cautious his father was, waving away his deputies whose hands hovered over their side arms uncertainly.

"Are you armed Stiles?" the Sheriff asked slowly, face pained.

Stiles snorted, standing up on the second step. He dropped his hands to pull out his empty pockets but as soon as he made a move for them the deputies' guns were out and aimed at his head. He rolled his eyes and held his arms up. "Of course, I'm not dad. You won't even let me carry pepper spray because of that one time I accidentally sprayed Billy Stevens in the face with it on the playground when I was twelve," he retorted as the Sheriff patted him down with a pinched, broken look on his face.

"What happened, Stiles?" John asked his son as he waved his deputies away again. They lowered their weapons to point at the ground and kept their distance.

Stiles just shrugged. "Shit happens," he offered lamely, wincing at the only words he had to give his father in thanks for the last seventeen years of his life.

"Did you kill those people?" the Sheriff asked, searching his son's face. Stiles stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head. "Do you know who did?" Stiles' face became desperate, pleading with his father not to make him answer it. "Stiles, just tell me. You can trust me. You know you can trust me."

Stiles nodded his head, biting his lip as tears sprang to his eyes. "I know, dad, I know I can," he assured him brokenly, tears spilling.

There was a slight scuffle and Stiles' glance flicked up to see Deputy Roberts holding Scott back behind one of the squad cars before flicking back to his dad.

"Then just tell me, son. Just tell me who did it," John begged.

"I can't, dad, I can't," Stiles cried, shaking his head furiously. He held his wrists together and out, looking away. "Just arrest me, dad. You have to."

"Stiles-"

"Just do it, dad, just do it," Stiles insisted, stumbling down the final two steps to stand firmly in front of his father, shoulders squared once more. They were only about five feet from the back door to the cruiser.

John Stilinski stared at his son, tears on both of their cheeks and two pairs of eyes rimmed in red. "You have the right to remain silent," John told him, voice cracking as he slipped the silver cuffs on Stiles' wrists gently, closing them just tight enough that Stiles couldn't get out of them but not tight enough to hurt.

Stiles nearly broke when his dad finished reading him his rights, placing a hand on the back of his head, in the same place where he used to rub his hair soothingly when his mom was in the hospital, and then when he had panic attacks, and then when he got good grades, and made the lacrosse team, and just did anything that was good; how it used to mean comfort and love and I'm proud of you. But now that hand was there to protect Stiles' head from injury as his father helped him into the back seat of the squad car.

"Why can't you just trust me with this, Stiles?" the Sheriff whispered brokenly.

"I can trust you dad," Stiles whispered back and the door slammed shut. "I'm just trying to protect you."

Stiles leaned his head against the glass as they pulled out of the driveway. He met Scott's eyes as they passed but Scott didn't seem too troubled, the bastard. Stiles closed his eyes then - against the tears, against the town flashing past him, against the look his father would be wearing in the rear view mirror. He focused on a face far away, a face that he hadn't seen in so long and that he would soon be met with once again. A white smile and pale brown curls and whiskey brown eyes invaded his lids and he could have sworn he smelt the faint scent of sunflowers and caramel apple cider cookies as he was whisked away to his fate.

Reviews are greatly appreciated.

There is another chapter coming, so please don't hang me just yet.

-Sarah