SMOKESTACK LIGHTNIN'

The Sheriff is dead. Stiles comes back to Beacon Hills after seven years for the funeral to sort things out. It turns out he has more things to deal with than his fathers old house.

His dad was dead.

Melissa McCall had called him early Thursday morning from the hospital and cried and told him. A deputy had found him on the kitchen floor, and that was that. The hospital was too far off, and heart attacks were nasty things. He had been declared dead on arrival. It had been quick, at least. Stiles thanked her for calling, and said that he'd be there as soon as he could. It all only registered as facts, something to be considered and planned for, but not at an emotional level.

The funeral was to be held in back in Beacon Hills on the coming Saturday. The funeral home had already set up everything and hashed out the details with Mrs. McCall. Stiles was infinitely grateful for that. She had made sure that his dad was going to his final rest beside his wife, finally together again. He had wanted it that way, Stiles knew that.

He called his office and told them that he'd be taking the next week off because of a death in the family, and then called the local travel agency to book himself a ticket, telling the nice lady on the telephone to just get him on the next flight to California, price be damned. He packed a weeks worth of clothes and called a cab to take him to Newark Airport. Then he sat down on his bed and stared at the ceiling for a long while. He didn't cry. He couldn't. Not yet.

Stiles came back to Beacon Hills on Friday night. He got a rental at the airport and drove the three hour-long drive. The radio was stuck on a station that only played cheesy hits from the 1990's, but it was better than silence.

It was eerie to come back after all those years. When he drove through the town he found that it was exactly as he remembered it, with only these small details changed. Shops had changed names and moved, but the buildings remained the same. It was kind of like walking into a dream, where some things were just plain wrong, but you couldn't exactly put your finger on what it was.

He set up at a motel by the highway, down by the lake. There was no way he would be sleeping in his father's house. Stiles hadn't had a panic attack since he was a seventeen and had found a very dead bear in the garden, but he was pretty sure he would have something of the sort if he went back there. It was way too soon. He hadn't set his foot in the house for seven years and he could imagine how the smell, all the stuff and the big vast hole that his dad had left after him would overwhelm him completely. He knew that he had to go back there in a couple of days, but for the moment a motel would do just fine.

He paid the grubby man in the reception for a room to stay the entire week. The man scratched himself under his dirty wife beater and smelled like he had an aversion to showers. Stiles briefly wondered if he had been put there on purpose to scare of possible customers.

"Don't you go overdosing on heroin in that room, boy. I ain't cleaning those carpets one more goddamned time. And no fuckin' bananas, you hear me?" the man told him begrudgingly as he handed him the key, and Stiles did his best to nod in agreement.

The best word to describe the room was 'plaid'. Said carpet, the bedspread and even the lamps were all in plaid fabrics. And while the patterns were very well matched, the colors were not. There was a horrifying clash of green, brown, orange and purple going on. He imagined Lydia screeching and clawing her eyes out at the mere sight.

Stiles dumped his bag on the bed and washed up thoroughly. Travelling by airplane was quick and efficient and all that, but it still creeped him out. It was not about being in a small metal container travelling at high speed thousands of meters up in the air that did it for him. He had read about the way they recycled the air, and his vivid imagination had quickly come up with all sorts of bacteria that would cling to his skin. He did not wonder were killer influenzas came from anymore. He knew.

After climbing out of the shower and putting on fresh clothes, he went out. Stiles still couldn't stand being in a confined space all alone. He'd go all ADHD on his ass, and that was the last thing he needed right then. Things were horrible enough as they were. No need for him to go batshit too. Anything to escape the plaid little room of horror.

Beacon Hills bathed in the soft light of sunset. There were hoards of young drunk people outside clubs and bars, some of which he thought he recognized. He saw coach Flintstock hitting on some way, way too young girls, but ducked before he was spotted. The music was loud and there was a giddy smell of beer on the air.

Stiles walked into a small café that still was open. The waitress was vaguely familiar, and he thought that maybe they had been at school together. She had badly dyed pink hair and was kind of cute in a dorky sort of way, and if he'd been in a better mood he'd probably have flirted shamelessly with her. She was totally his type. Instead he ordered a coffee and a sandwich with cheese and ham, and sat down in a corner where he could look out at the street and all the people. The sandwich was wonderful.

He hadn't spoken to anyone from the pack since he left. Well. He had sent texts and emails to Scott at Christmas a few times, because it would just be rude not to do that. He was practically family, after all. He'd had a few reports from Scott on how everyone was doing, but it was fragmentary at best and hardly better than stalking them on Facebook.

An official looking car pulled up outside the café, and a deputy stepped out of it. The dorky waitress waved at him as he sauntered up to the cashier's. The man was terribly familiar, even after seven years. He sniffed the air like a dog and Stiles felt like laughing out loud.

"Stiles," the man breathed heavily without even turning around.

"Ah, Deputy Hale, I presume! Way to go, dude! I never pegged you to be an officer of the law. How the hell did you swing that? You didn't bribe my dad to get the uniform, did you?"

Except from the change of profession, Derek Hale had remained pretty much the same over the years, he concluded from the first look. Being in his thirties looked good on him. He still had that dark looming thing going on, even if it wasn't as effective in combination with his uniform. Blood stained T-shirts and torn up leatherjackets really went better with that attitude. But he still managed to look positively frightening as he made his way to the table Stiles was sitting at.

"You're back," Derek stated and sat down on the opposite side of the table.

"Yeah. Funeral's tomorrow. Gotta straighten some things up." He really really didn't want to discuss family tragedies in public places. Especially not with Derek Hale, even if he allegedly was the grand master of family tragedies. "You're coming, right?"

"Yes, of course," he said and watched intensely as Stiles sipped at his coffee and unceremoniously finished off the last of his sandwich. "You're staying at the motel down by the lake. Why?"

"How did you…? Aw, I have missed you and your annoying superhuman abilities. Do you smell their particular brand of soap on me or what?"

"Answer me. Why?"

"Wow, man. You're really one for casual small talk, aren't you?" said Stiles. He felt cornered. Did Derek really need to bring that up, couldn't he just have smelled it on him or something? "Couldn't cope with going back to dad's house. How's that any of your business, anyways? Hell, don't make me all emotional. I've just come back, and there's all this…Derek, totally not cool!" he stumbled on.

"You could stay at my house," Derek deadpanned.

"Nope, no thanks, no burnt out Hale Mansions for me. I don't want to be an inconvenience anyway. You probably have enough with your career and trying to maintain your little pack. I know for a fact that Scott hasn't become smarter with age."

There was an awkward silence. Stiles wanted to ask a thousand things, but he was pretty sure that Derek's frown meant that it was the last thing he wanted. Stiles sort of opened his mouth to speak a couple of times, before just blurting out the most obvious question that came to mind.

"How is everybody, by the way?" he asked. "I haven't exactly been in touch, as you might know. You're obviously doing okay. And I hear Scott's become veterinarian for real, working for Deaton and all..."

Derek gave him a cold look that told Stiles that he'd have to drag the information out of him. That look went very well with his newly attained deputy persona. But Stiles figured that it served him right for being gone for seven years.

"Come on, how's Isaac? And Erica, has she outgrown her bitchiness yet?"

"Ask them yourself."

"Well, I guess I have to," said Stiles and sighed with frustration.

The cute pink haired waitress appeared at Derek's elbow and placed a disposable cup in front of him.

"There you go! Coffee, black, no sugar — as usual!" She smiled hugely at them both and patted Derek on the shoulder. Stiles could do nothing but smile back, admiring her courage to technically pet the big bad wolf, even if she probably did it unknowingly. Derek mumbled a 'thank you' and the girl disappeared again.

"You should come and stay at my house," Derek said when the waitress had gone. "We've renovated. There is a guestroom."

"No thanks, I'll pass. I'm staying at the motel. It's closer to town and my dad's house, and I'll have to start cleaning that up as soon as possible. The motel is fine. It's only for a few days, it's nothing. It's not like I can't afford it. Perk of having a real job, I guess."

Derek went silent and got a look that wasn't exactly sad, because he probably couldn't do that expression, but Stiles felt like he had kicked someone's puppy. Weird.

"But, I mean, I could totally swing by later. I'll be here for a week, you know. Gotta clear out the house and things like that. I'm probably going to need some help. "

He had forgotten about talking with Derek. The Derek that featured in most of his memories was standoffish and violently grumpy, and was nothing like the man sitting before him. No one was bleeding so far, no one had been thrown against a wall, and Derek had actually expressed concerns for his wellbeing. And invited him to stay over at his place not once, but twice. It was verging on absurd, and Stiles tried to figure out if the man had changed radically or if his own memories had been horrendously distorted with time. He suspected that it was an equal mix of both. If Stiles could have smiled at that particular moment, he would. It was nice to be back, but he felt hollow and numb and an attempted smile would just be artificial and wrong.

Derek started to shift uncomfortably and glance at the big fake-antique clock on the wall.

"I should get back to work. I'm taking the late shift."

"Well, then I won't detain you any longer. Friday nights can be adventurous! Get back to your duties, officer!" Derek rose and backed away, the hot coffee cup gingerly balanced in his left hand. Before walking out of the café, he turned one last time. There was a world of hurt in his eyes.

"I'm sorry about your father," he said, just loud enough for Stiles to hear it.

"I know," he whispered back.

(Title by my homeboy Howlin' Wolf, as it seemed appropriate. Part one of four. Read, enjoy, and pretty please — review!)