Characters: Sheriff Noah Stilinski, Derek Hale, Allison Argent, Chris and Victoria Argent, and Gerard Argent, Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, as well as Deucalion and the other Alpha Pack members, Tara Graeme and other deputies of the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Office (BHSO), and some original characters because Beacon County apparently has over 500,000 people living in it.
Sequel to Look Inside Your Mind. If you haven't read it, Look Inside Your Mind diverges from canon at the beginning of 1.11 (Formality). Instead of driving away, Allison tells the sheriff that Kate has Derek in the dungeon under the old Hale house (because Kate was torturing a sentient being and loving it and most people think that's Not a Good Thing).
Contains: Multiple POV, canon-typical violence, canon typical racial/sexual/species intolerance. Events from Seasons 1 through 3a as they fit my story. Stilinski feels, Argent dysfunction, and Scott as the perfect boyfriend.
Note: Because Sheriff Stilinski is the alpha, certain things don't happen—like biting a bunch of teenagers to form a pack. No Kanima; no Matt. No Erica and Boyd being kidnapped (and killed). Peter doesn't get revived and Lydia doesn't find out she's a Banshee. (At least not in this fic.)
Beta-ed, as ever, by Alecto_Nyx. Arigato.
Relationships: Allison/Scott, Victoria/Chris, Lydia/Aiden (background), past Lydia/Jackson (background)
Tags: Violence, Mild swearing, Multiple POV, Canon-typical violence, Canon-typical intolerance, Kidnapping, Violence against a minor, BAMF!Sheriff Stilinski, werewolf!Sheriff Stilinski, alpha!Sheriff Stilinski, Alpha Pack, Peter Hale is dead (really dead), Kate Argent is alive, omega!Derek Hale, AU-canon divergence, AU-S1-alternate ending, Allison makes a different call, Stilinski hugs, Sheriff Stilinski finds out, Scott's the perfect boyfriend, depressed!Derek, broody!Derek, hurt!Derek, hurt!Aiden, Character death, evil!Gerard, Original characters (minor), Life goes on
Beginnings Mean Something Else Ended
Although it was nice to no longer creak when he got out of his armchair, Noah Stilinski wasn't convinced that being a werewolf had any other real benefits. The hospital's coffee tasted even worse than it had before (something he would've bet money on as being impossible). Fast food tasted absolutely foul (but not as bad as the hospital's coffee). He apparently had a built-in lie detector that wouldn't stand up in court, and he was going to allow his deputies to lie on their official reports so they wouldn't be taken to Eichen House as insane.
Fangs formed in his mouth, sharp, pointy, and appearing from absolutely nowhere. He breathed and thought of fresh-mown grass until he could force the sideburns back to wherever the hell they came from. He was meditating! He was goddamned meditating, so the Elvis sideburns and T-rex teeth wouldn't pop into existence when he had his force incident interview his week.
Per regulations, they were bringing in a couple of investigators from outside the county to look into the shooting of Peter Hale. Even if the sheriff knew them (which he probably would), they would have nothing invested in keeping Noah's secret. They were coming, as required, to make sure the killing had been justified and by the book.
'By the book'. He nearly laughed. Only if the book was by Stephen King.
He went back to breathing and visualizing the shit out of the fresh-mown lawn. He pictured Stiles running the small push-mower over it the way he'd done since he was a pre-teen. Scott, following with a rake to catch the bits that missed the bag. Sometimes the cuttings actually stayed in the bag, but more often they'd ended up thrown around in mock battle until he came out and put his foot down and both Stiles and Scott raked with embarrassed fervor.
Scott… His son's best friend, his brother in all but DNA, that he'd known since the boys were seven. Scott, who was also a werewolf and had been since January.
For three months, Stiles and Scott had known there was something inhuman stalking people in his county and they hadn't told him. They'd out-and-out lied to him.
His claws and fangs sprang out.
"Damn it!" The words were slurred. His control was terrible. He gave up on the useless meditation and went to change into his uniform. He was on administrative leave, so no patrols, but there was still paperwork. He was nearly caught up with everything, which hadn't happened since just before his swearing-in ceremony in 2006. Every time he thought of his empty 'to-do hopefully sometime' pile, he couldn't help but smile.
Even as he felt the smile stretch his lips, Noah realized that his fangs were gone. He lifted his hand and he had his fingernails back. He rubbed his cheek and his forehead, and the weird hair had also disappeared.
Obviously, reports and crime statistics were more efficient than grass and trees in helping him keep control over this thing that had happened to him. That was good. He had to be in control, had to be the voice of authority and reason for this meeting.
Most of the downtown deputies had been off-site during the attack at the station, so they hadn't seen Peter Hale in his red-eyed, furry, hugeness toss people around like basketballs. They hadn't seen Peter Hale hold Kate Argent prisoner with claws to her neck. However, give them a little—eyes unnaturally red, had shrugged off gunfire—and most of the officers' theories had gone to drugs (next favorite: space aliens, but only in jest). Noah had let the talk wash over and around him in the hospital waiting room. All he'd said was that the force incident investigators wouldn't be interested in speculation.
Then Kate had announced at her arraignment that werewolves were real, that hunters existed, and everyone should be "fucking thankful" that people like her were willing to step up and keep the world safe.
The chatter in the office had redoubled, and the deputies that had been present for Hale's attack were hounded for details. The number of weird side-eyed looks he'd received had tripled, and he knew he couldn't put off the talk forever.
Noah had always believed the truth, no matter how embarrassing or fantastic, was the best option in any official situation. It was easier to remember, there was no worry about what you'd told to whom, and it was harder to get tripped up on the stand. It was morally and legally right, and it was just plain better.
Except now.
Allow them to lie? He laughed at himself. Hell, he was going to encourage them.
-o0o-
It was over.
He was truly alone.
He'd been so caught up in the hunt for Laura's killer and dealing with McCall—trying to deal with McCall—that this was the first chance he'd had to let himself... that he'd let himself know he was alone. The last Hale.
He was omega.
He gave himself a year. Tops.
-o0o-
Allison wasn't too proud to admit that she was sneaking around her own home. She just couldn't handle any more drama. She didn't want to.
The lawyer— the expensive, exclusive lawyer her parents had called in favors to obtain—had submitted Kate's statement as evidence of her mental imbalance and need for psychiatric care rather than incarceration. Kate had fired him, doubled-down on her statement that werewolves were real, and no different from rabid raccoons, and pled straight-up not guilty. She'd also re-opened her throat wound and nearly bled to death in the courtroom.
It had been wonderfully dramatic, so instead of dismissing Kate as a loon, the national press had decided to treat it as a mental health talking point. They were still gathered around Beacon Hills like crows at a roadside diner.
At first, she'd felt guilty for being Kate's relation, but now… Now she felt kind of angry. She hadn't shot or tortured anyone, and she didn't support her aunt's racist garbage, so there was no way she was staying home from the Winter Formal. Jackson hadn't backed out, (though she wouldn't have blamed him) and if he was willing to face the gossip, then she could do no less.
Besides, Lydia still owed her a dress, and Allison meant to fully collect on that debt. She just had to get out of the house.
Her dad had gotten a phone call from his father this morning, and apparently, Grandpa Gerard had advice on organizing his daughter's defense, which made it sound like a military strategy rather than a need to hire a different lawyer (and a psychologist or three). He'd also said he was coming to Beacon Hills.
Dad didn't want him here, but Mom had already said yes. To say that her dad wasn't happy was like saying whales were kinda big. And now her parents were shouting in whispers at each other (which they'd been doing quite often since Kate's arrest. She'd heard enough of their "discussions" to learn that Gerard thought Kate didn't deserve to go to jail for what she had done. And Mom agreed!
Like, what the hell? People were dead because of Kate. Lots of people.
Allison didn't want Kate to get the death penalty or anything, but she'd needed to be stopped. It was what she'd decided when she'd told Sheriff Stilinski about Kate torturing Derek, and Allison still believed it.
To top it all off, school was horrible. Allison was used to standing out as the new kid, but this…
There had been reporters camped out across the street from the school. They'd talked to anyone who stopped long enough, including kids she'd never even shared a class, never spoken to, let alone hung out with. Inside school… Ugh!
The only bright spot was Scott.
Well, Lydia too. And Stiles.
Even Jackson a little, but mostly Scott.
None of them asked if Kate "had really done it" or if she thought werewolves were real, and they didn't act like being crazy was contagious, (which made her want to scream that Kate wasn't crazy.)
Jackson had looked at her a little differently. Nothing rude or creepy, like some of the other kids, but more like he thought she knew some secret (which she did, of course) and he wanted in on it. Still, he hadn't backed out of taking her to the formal on Friday, so she gave him a pass on the weird behavior, but...
She really wanted to go with Scott.
He'd come up to her in the hall and offered to, you know, just let her talk if she wanted to. When she didn't want to talk, he'd kept everyone else away. And then he brought her an ice cream cup from the cafeteria! It was just so supportive, and kind and… and normal in a goofy teenage way, and she needed that. She needed someone around her who was ordinary.
Allison couldn't remember why she'd broken up with him...
Unfortunately, she was stuck going with Jackson, and going to a formal dance with Jackson Whittemore (of THE Whittemore's) meant getting a proper dress. Getting a proper dress meant leaving the house without being seen by the reporters at the end of their street (easy), and getting past her parents, who were once again having a "discussion" in the other room, (not easy). Mostly because she wasn't actually going to sneak past them—that would be cruel, but she didn't want them to have time to stop her either.
"I'm off," she yelled once she figured she was close enough to the garage door to escape with little fuss.
Her mom popped into the foyer like a ninja. "Where are you off to?"
Allison forced her spine not to fold—she wasn't doing anything wrong. "Dress shopping with Lydia. The winter formal on Friday?" she said with fake brightness.
"You're still going?" Great, she thought. Now her dad had joined the interrogation.
"A bunch of us are going together." Her father didn't look convinced. "Lydia thinks it'll be a good idea," she said with a shrug.
Her father rolled his eyes. "Oh well. If a sixteen-year-old thinks it's a good idea…"
Allison braced herself for being told no. No, she couldn't go to the dance. No, she couldn't go with Lydia today. No, she couldn't go to school, couldn't live a normal life.
"No. Lydia's right," Victoria said and shocked Allison's mind into silence. "Attending the school dance is a logical and efficient way to state that we're innocent of Kate's crimes and that we're not slinking away in the night like cowards."
"You make it sound like a military campaign," Allison protested.
Her mother just raised an eyebrow and Allison had a blazing new understanding of her childhood: her mother treated everything as a campaign. She always had. It was why she'd inspected Allison's elementary classrooms, and why she'd insisted on going into change rooms with her, and explaining escape routes from every place they'd ever gone. It was as if, at any moment, she thought she'd be forced to decide between attack or retreat.
Her mother was like an apocalyptic doomsayer. With knives.
Oh god. How many people had her mother killed because they weren't entirely human?
"Do you need the car?" her mother asked, voice calm and firm. She was always calm and firm.
Allison shook her head, numb with the weight of all she now understood about her parents.
Her father was filled with active concern now that the shopping trip had been approved. Allison had to assure him she didn't need his credit card. She didn't need (or want) his big, bulletproof SUV, and she didn't want (or need) a couple of his... not friends. Co-workers? Cohort? They took orders from her father, so maybe minions was the best term. She didn't want any of his minions tagging along either.
"We're just going to the mall, jeez! They already have security."
"Mall cops," Dad muttered and both her parents sneered.
At least he was done being helpful. Allison took advantage and slipped out the side door.
Allison stared along the side of the house at the line of reporters at the end of the block. They were held back by flimsy wooden barriers and Dad's much less flimsy security people. If she stuck a toe onto the front lawn there would be pictures posted within minutes. It wouldn't last. Allison knew the next big story would eventually happen somewhere else and all the national reporters would be off and running, but until that happened, she and her family were the bugs under the microscope.
However, she wasn't going out the front.
There were some advantages to living in a modern suburb with its close-packed houses and lack of alleys. When she slipped out the side door, she hopped over their fence into the Fasal's back yard. She strolled along the bricked path to the Fasal's street, and then it was a casual stroll to the end of the block where Lydia was waiting in her car, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. A low bump of bass provided a slow rhythm, and Allison felt her heartbeat smooth out to match.
Allison took a moment to tidy her clothes, brushing out flakes of fence paint and pulling down her skirt. She took a deep breath, pushed a smile onto her face, and went out to join her friend.
-o0o-
Chris Argent resisted the impulse to chew his lip. It was a childhood habit that, according to his father, he should've grown out of years ago. His father had despised all nervous gestures as negative commentary on his parenting.
Privately, Chris thought his father was right for once: Chris's nervous ticks did reflect badly on his father's parenting ability. He tried not to be like his father when it came to rearing Allison, so he couldn't blame anyone else that she'd taken Kate's arrest so hard. The two of them had been more like sisters than niece and aunt, and her arrest had shaken Allison. What had done the most damage, though, was knowing Kate had seduced a minor. It was another thing Kate had essentially admitted at her arraignment.
Allison had sat at the table and pointed out that most people called child abusers "monsters", and what Kate had done to Derek Hale qualified as child abuse. She'd argued that Kate's actions made her the monster, not Derek.
When the news was filled with stories of teachers being arrested for having sex with their students, why had they been surprised that Allison was applying that label to Kate?
He'd suggested to Victoria that they move to a hotel. Staying at one would cut down on the number of paparazzi able to hang outside their front door, and their daughter wouldn't have had to jump the neighbor's fence like a thief just to go shopping with a friend.
Victoria had rejected the suggestion. They had too many weapons and secrets in the house to leave it empty, so he had to watch his daughter suffer in the aftermath of his sister's bad decisions.
Not that Victoria disagreed with Kate, not completely. She disagreed with Kate's recklessness, but not the motive behind it. She was furious that Kate's actions endangered them all, but not with the actions themselves.
She was far more ruthless than Chris was sometimes comfortable with, but at least she loved Allison and only wanted what was best for their only child. It was why she'd agreed to Allison dropping archery. It had gone against centuries of tradition. It allowed for the possibility that Allison wouldn't be a Hunter. It was "not how things were done" in hunting families. Yet Victoria had done that. For Allison.
Which led him to his next major concern: Gerard's impact on Allison.
He understood why Gerard was coming, and there was no argument that could deny their father the right to be close to his only daughter. However, that didn't mean Gerard should stay here, in his home, with his family. Forget politeness or clan solidarity, he'd argued. The man was a liar and a manipulator. He never did anything, said anything, if it didn't bring him some kind of reward. When he married Chris's mother he took the Argent name, thinking it would make him some kind of top dog in the hunting community. But the Argents were matrilineal and he'd become merely Anna Argent's husband.
Chris didn't know if his father had ever tried to be an Argent, if he'd ever believed in the Code. He'd certainly pretended to in front of his wife and her sister Elizabeth—the head of the U.S. branch of the Argent Clan. Gerard had said the words, but Chris thought he'd always remained a Mather, and now, Chris suspected he'd raised Kate as one, too.
Mathers believed that violence was inherent to any "Godless Creature" (their capitalization, not his), and the only way to protect the world was to be proactive—to kill first and regret nothing. The exact argument Kate had used at her arraignment.
Victoria had also been born a Mather, and she showed some of that same ruthlessness when it came to hunting, but she also loved being in charge of their small family. When Allison had asked to stop her archery, Victoria had agreed. They'd discussed it, she'd thought about it, and then she'd made the decision. Then she'd stood up to her uncles, and Gerard, and all her male relatives. t had been impressive, and Chris had never loved her more than he had at that moment.
It brought him back to the decision he wished she'd make now: send Gerard to a hotel, instead of having him in their house. There was no reason that Gerard couldn't stay with his team at one of the hotels around town. Sure, none of them were rated higher than 4-stars, but they didn't charge by the hour either.
It was a discussion he had lost to Victoria.
He wished Victoria could see how toxic Gerard actually was, but she couldn't. She didn't particularly like Gerard, but the Mather clan made a thing about respecting your elders. Or maybe she was willing to go along with it because she hadn't forgotten there was an unknown beta out there somewhere, and Kate's people had also been arrested so they were short on manpower. Maybe it was about showing a solid front to the press. He didn't know why she'd agreed to host Gerard during his stay, but she had.
There were times Chris wanted to take over the decision-making for fear that Victoria would violate the Code, but he didn't do it. He couldn't.
He would argue with Victoria, point out flaws in her logic. He would stall and distract, but he would not disobey. She'd ordered him to harry Derek Hale to find out the name of the alpha who'd taken over Beacon Hills, and Chris had done that. She'd told him to harass Jackson Whittemore because he might be the second beta. He'd done it, despite his skepticism. He'd done it because he was an Argent.
Between his mother's training and then his aunt's, he was fully aware of the weight of the history and traditions attached to being an Argent. Their name meant something more than brutish prejudice and violence (unlike the witch-hunting Mathers).
He was proud to be an Argent—to carry that weight—so he was surprised by how much he didn't want any of it to fall on Allison.
Allison was intelligent, competent, and physically fit, which made her perfect for the role of leader. She was also kind, empathetic and open with her emotions, and those qualities did not. They made her a wonderful human being though. Someone Chris was proud to know. Someone he'd fought to protect when it looked like she would take a different path, away from the fighting and killing.
Now she knew. Knew what they were. Knew their true heritage and she was upset. Upset, confused and vulnerable.
And Gerard—that cold, son of a bitch—wanted to be in the same house as her...
Chris stopped staring out the window at the fence and went to argue with his wife some more.
-o0o-
It took a lot for Sheriff Stilinski to stand in front of his people in the ruins of the station to discuss the events surrounding Kate Argent's arrest and Peter Hale's death—to stand before them and ask for their judgment.
None of the rural officers had been around when Peter attacked. None of them had seen what Peter was, so it was just his people from the city office: the ones who'd been there, who'd seen him get attacked, who'd been attacked themselves.
On the drive over, he'd continually debated the wisdom of explaining anything to his people, but cops were just as fond of juicy gossip as anybody else, and the sheriff was sure the story had become more lurid with each telling. Now he was standing in front of a bunch of cops and telling them they'd imagined none of the craziness.
Only 40 officers and staff, out of a possible 800. Easy.
"… you can talk to whoever you think will help you deal with it, but they'll have no reason to believe that you aren't crazy or drugged," he said. Tara and Newton nodded their heads. Lassiter might've been nodding too, but his movement also might've been a side-effect of the nerve damage he'd suffered from being thrown over the front desk. Whatever the reason, it was nice to think he had Lassiter's support. Noah could already tell it wasn't universal.
"What did happen, Sheriff?"
Case-in-point: Ty Janowski. Janowski had been on traffic patrol when Peter Hale had ripped through the office. He'd come in after the fact, after Peter's dead body reverted to human. He had no first-hand reason to believe whatever tales were being told. However, more relevant to his current belligerence was his attitude. Two years in and Janowski still wanted police work to be CSI: Miami, with the slo-mo and the big reveals
Noah knew Janowski had applied for positions in L.A., San Francisco, Las Vegas and Houston, sure that all he needed to shine was a bigger audience. Right now, all he had was an audience of 32, but he was making the most of it.
"How long have you believed in monsters, Sheriff?"
Janowski's tone might have been belligerent, but his posture said betrayed, and his stance was echoed in nearly a third of the people in the room. Astiago, who'd been so solid at Noah's back in the cave, looked both worried and uncomfortable. The other two-thirds of his staff had on their best 'unimpressed cop' faces, meaning judgment withheld.
Augustin Trejo, his oldest and most senior deputy, the one Noah had done his ride-along with nearly 14 years ago, was doing origami like he always did at staff meetings, except he was folding wolves instead of ravens. It made the sheriff hope that Gus had already decided in his favor, and thinking that made it easier to say what needed to be said. He took a breath. "For those who weren't here that night, this is what happened."
The sheriff told them nearly everything—finding Derek being tortured in the dungeon, Kate's arrest, his suspicions about her involvement in the Hale fire. Peter Hale's dramatic entrance, the fight. He didn't mention Allison's part in it. After all, he'd promised her.
By the time he got to the end, his throat was rather sore. "Peter Hale, in the form of a beast, attacked this station with the intent of killing Kate Argent. Possibly in revenge for the arson deaths of his family."
Lieutenant Jason Bungalon was the leader of the county SWAT Team and their lead hostage negotiator. He was neutral about everything until he wasn't because that was his job. Right now, he used that same talk-the-crazy-person-down-from-the-ledge neutrality when he said, "He bit you."
Noah's shoulder throbbed even though the wound was long gone. "Yes, he did." And damn him for that.
"And he was a werewolf." This time it was Tara Graeme asking the question. Her tone was also neutral, except Tara was never neutral unless she didn't want to commit. She was his Chief Deputy. If she turned on him...
"Unfortunately, it's the only explanation that fits." Noah shifted his weight, still surprised at the lack of ache from his hips and knees. Heart disease, arthritis, bursitis—so many things he was now, apparently, immune to.
Yay?
"So that means you're a werewolf." Astiago's voice was quiet, bleak. She was a devout Catholic, Noah remembered, and it was unlikely the church had anything good to say about lycanthropes.
"All indications..." He stopped, looked at the people gathered in front of him. They were cops—detectives, deputies, and peace officers. Even his civilian support personnel were police in attitude. None of them would have good things to say about lycanthropy. It was a myth, something only the crazy or deluded bought into. Now here he was, about to ask them—a room full of cops—to believe in werewolves. To believe in him. To lie for him…
His stomach knotted, his mouth dried up, and his palms started to sweat. This was harder than asking Claudia to marry him
He took a breath. "Would it help if I said the stereotype is wrong? That, just like people, werewolves can be good, bad and everything in between?"
"You really believe you're a werewolf!"
That was Cordova. He'd been at the dungeon when Peter attacked, helping to process the scene. Something Haigh was more than quick to point out as he jumped to the sheriff's defense. When Janowski added his doubts to Cordova's, Lassiter and Newman added their shouts to Haigh's. If Stilinski didn't step in, it was going to turn into a brawl.
"Hey!" he tried a couple times. They ignored him and that pissed him off. "That's enough!" His voice almost rumbled which was cool, but more impressive was everyone shutting up and chilling down.
He raised his left hand and showed them his claws. When he spoke, fangs slurred his speech. "Right now I can't control them very well. They come out when I get annoyed." He looked pointedly around the room.
The silence became thick. Hands hovered near weapons.
Trejo snorted. "Don't get him angry," he said. "You wouldn't like him when he's angry." It was enough to get most of them smiling. A few even laughed in nervous appreciation.
Janowski didn't join in. "You think this is a joke?"
Gus shrugged still folding his origami wolf. "I always did like the Hulk."
"So, you're okay letting a monster patrol our streets."
Tara and a couple others protested, but Gus just gave another shrug. "Sheriff's not a monster until he does something monstrous. And considering how long I've worked with the man, I'm betting that'll happen never."
"But he's dangerous." That was Astiago.
Wanda LeVey, the senior civilian officer who conspired with Tara to keep them all organized, gave a short laugh. "You're all dangerous. You all carry guns and mace and Tasers."
Janowski sneered. "We're cops—"
Wanda sneered right back. "So was the guy who shot Bernard Bailey. And how about the guys who beat the crap out of Rodney King?"
"Wanda," Tara said, soothing and warning both.
Wanda didn't stop. "I can go on. There's lots more." Voice and posture dared someone to contradict her. Nobody did.
The sheriff lifted his hand to get their attention back. He noted his claws were gone (hoped his sideburns were gone too). "Anybody can be dangerous in the right circumstances. If you don't know that, then we haven't trained you right." There was a smattering of awkward agreement. "Besides, we're not talking about the world. We're talking about here—Beacon Hills. Which has always been weird." There were a couple hesitant nods. Gus just kept folding his wolves.
Noah placed his hands on his service belt, reassured by its familiar feel. "You are allowed to have whatever opinion you like about me being a werewolf, but I couldn't let any of you go back out there blind. I couldn't let you patrol the streets and answer calls, when something like this—" He forced his claws back out. "—could be waiting for you. I am looking at ways to add or alter our equipment to protect against attacks by … non-humans—"
"That's going to be fun to budget," Tara said, unimpressed.
Noah gave her an apologetic shrug. "Something else you should know: apparently, Beacon Hills is, actually, a beacon for the supernatural." Noah ignored skeptical snorts. "Jakob Haale's diary says he was 'drawn here'—right here. Jacob Hale brought his whole werewolf family with him." There were a couple startled looks, followed by thoughtful frowns. He was happy to see Bungalon and Astiago wearing them.
"Yeah," he said. "Werewolves were living here, peacefully, for over 150 years." Again, there were some thoughtful looks.
"Now, anybody who doesn't want to work here, knowing they're at risk from 'animal' attacks, can talk to me about it. Or go to Tara or Gus, if that's easier," he said. "You can resign. You can transfer out. You can take some vacation or go to one of our staff therapists. This is a big adjustment for all of us."
Lassiter was the first to speak up. "I'm sssss... Sssst... I'm not moving." Poor Tim. Permanent desk duty unless something healed up abnormally well, (and damn Derek Hale for mentioning that was something an alpha's bite could do). Noah shook the thought away. It was early days yet. Lassiter could heal up fine on his own—no intervention required.
Lassiter's statement was followed by Tara Graeme's. Deputy Haigh, Detective Newman and Lieutenant Bungalon were next. Wanda, Rita and Pete—all the civilian officers present—said they were good with it. ("You already growl.") Then it went around the room. Most everyone said they were okay with the sheriff's new alternate shape—although Stilinski thought a couple only said yes because everyone else did—until there were only six deputies left. Gus hadn't said anything, but then, he didn't need to. Stilinski looked at Cordova who squirmed. "I gotta think about it, Sheriff," he said half-pleading, half-embarrassed. "I can't wrap my head around it."
Stilinski nodded, accepting. Cordova was a science guy through-and-through. Two plus two was four and Bigfoot wasn't real, except maybe now it was. To be honest, the sheriff knew exactly how Cordova felt.
All eyes turned to Astiago.
Three years on the force, and she was turning into a good cop. She remembered faces. She remembered histories and rumors. And she was kind. Need a nervous witness coaxed into talking? Get Astiago. Got a suspect feeling guilty but unwilling to confess? Astiago. Small traumatized child? Astiago.
Right now she looked like someone had lit a firework under her seat.
"You need time to think about it, too?" he asked her. She nodded gratefully.
Janowski pushed away from the wall. "Oh, come on, Tigger! What's to think about? He's a fucking werewolf."
Astiago turned to glare at Janowski. "I like my job, okay? And I like this town. So I need to think about it."
Before Janowski could respond, their half-broken front door made a distinctive crunchy sound. It was a bit of a process to open since it had only one working hinge, and that one screeched like the wail of the damned run through a dub-step modulator. It made a good replacement for the cheap electronic chime that had been in place since the station was built in the 80s. But it had been seven days. It should've been fixed already.
He looked at Wanda, brows up in question. Her chin lifted. She was on it; she'd explain later.
Janelle Lassiter stuck her head in. "I'm sorry, but I have to get Tim back to the hospital." Janelle was a doctor, which was the only reason her brother was allowed out. She'd been kind enough not to try to force her way into their meeting, but even her tolerance was limited.
The meeting broke up with a reminder that any of his people could talk to either Tara, Gus, or Wanda if they didn't want to talk to him. They could even go to Bob Garnsley over at the courthouse, though he'd refused to come to this meeting citing 'too much work'. Truth was, Garnsley was angling to become sheriff in next year's election. Noah briefly wondered if any of the people he'd talked to today would take the tale to Garnsley, and what Garnsley would do about it. Then he pushed the thought away. He had something more important on his mind.
He waved his senior people to follow him into his office. Gus jiggled his coffee cup, so Noah gathered Tara and Wanda into his office.
"What's with the door?"
"Waiting on parts. It was installed ten years ago?"
He laughed. "More like fifteen."
"Yeah." Wanda nodded. "They don't have those in stock, anymore."
Noah sighed. The station was old. Built in the 80s, it had been expanded, remodeled, and features had been cobbled onto it, but it was still old. Talk of building a new one—expedited after 9/11—had stopped after the financial crash of 2008. The city's investments had disappeared just as everyone else's had.
"Thanks, Wanda," he said. "Remind them that we have assault rifles in our vault, and whatever other dangerous things are still on the premises."
She gave him a look indicating that she hardly needed the reminder, before leaving. He and Tara Graeme reviewed their personnel while they waited for Gus to get his refill, which probably included listening to whoever had cornered him by the coffee machine.
"Lopez will probably go, but he doesn't like the job anyway," Tara said, resting her cast-covered arm on his desk. The sheriff agreed with her assessment. Police work had always been just a part of Lopez's plan to get into law school.
"Astiago?" he asked. Tara paused. Her head tilt was non-committal. "Damn it," he muttered in response. Astiago's transfer would be easy enough: her grandmother lived near Barstow and the sheriff there was looking for people. A simple phone call and a letter of recommendation and Astiago would be in. He'd be sorry to see her go.
Gus finally walked in before they could get to Janowski, but that was okay. The sheriff already knew the man wasn't staying.
"So, the supernatural is real," Gus said. "So much about Beacon Hills makes more sense, now."
"It does," Noah said, his tone wry but easy. "So let's speak of our instances of phenomenal, institutional blindness."
"How much have we missed or dismissed because the only workable explanation was unbelievable?" Tara said. She grabbed the ruler from his desk, but he took it back before she could push it under her cast to scratch whatever itch had developed.
"Exactly," Noah responded as he put his ruler in his desk drawer. "Gus, I want you to go back over the cold cases. Look at them with the understanding that the bogey man is out there—"
"Which ones?" Gus asked. "Vampires and bigfoot and ghosts?"
"Until we know for sure..." Noah gave him a helpless shrug. "We take it one step at a time. And a review of our open cases is the first step."
"Missing persons," Gus suggested. "Like, maybe a monster dragged them off into the woods on the way to grandmother's house?" He shot Tara slyly amused look.
Tara ignored the attempt at a joke. "Or maybe someone got bit or changed or otherwise freaked themselves out, and took off scared, leaving their family behind to file a missing person report."
"That." Stilinski pointed a finger at them. "That is exactly what I want you looking into," he said. "Find me somebody whose family is missing them."
"And if the missing person is a monster? Cave dwelling, meat-eating monster?" The sheriff didn't really have an answer to that except he was a now bad-ass monster too, and could be trusted to take out any horror movie monsters in his jurisdiction.
His senior deputies argued with him a bit longer, but even as he acknowledged the naive optimism of his comment, Stilinski had to believe that not all the monsters were monstrous. Derek Hale certainly wasn't. (Grumpy and depressed, yes; evil, no).
Once his two senior deputies left, he raided the break room for coffee (and chocolate chip muffins—yes!) to fuel the next major task on his schedule: paperwork.
The arrest of Kate Argent and her minions, the attack on the station, Lassiter's injury, plus the officer-involved fatalities here at the station... Individually, they were a helluva lot of paperwork. Combined it was more like a shit-ton.
Peter Hale's death added some even odder challenges, even though the autopsy hadn't revealed the presence of any drugs that would explain how a supposedly catatonic burn patient had left his hospital room and just ripped through five experienced officers. How he'd shrugged off bullet after bullet, but been killed with a simple knife.
Kate Argent, on the advice of her lawyers (or ignoring the advice of her lawyers—it was hard to tell) had stated at her arraignment that all the Hales had been werewolves, meaning Derek Hale was a werewolf, so everything Kate had done had been pro-active self-defense and in defense of humanity. It could've been the set up for an insanity plea, but she hadn't said anything about Pete or the sheriffbeing werewolves, and that kind of made Noah suspicious.
Still, nothing he could do about Kate Argent now. She was in the hands of the lawyers and psychologists.