CHAPTER III: FUNERAL AND BOOZE
The next day Stiles rised early. He dressed in his best suit, but to his dismay he found that the shirt he had brought was wrinkly. The black tie he neatly folded in his pocket. He took his time in front of the mirror, carding his hair back with his fingers and shaving properly, just like his dad had taught him to all those years ago.
Scott had not been kidding when he said that they'd all come pick him up. At eleven sharp the entire pack, sans alpha, turned up on the parking lot outside his window. They were solemn and quiet, all in black suits and dresses. They went to the cemetery together. Isaac insisted on riding in Stiles' rental, while the others shared the Camaro, Jackson's Porsche and Mrs. McCall's anonymous piece-of-shit car. They kept almost completely silent all the way from the motel to the cemetery. Stiles was oddly grateful for that.
The service was beautiful. They had kept it small. There were all his dad's buddies from the office, Melissa McCall and the pack. The sheriff had wanted a traditional Christian burial as all the Stilinskis before him, but Stiles had pulled the priest aside and explained just what would happen to him if he even mentioned the words "sin" or "seek forgiveness". Just because the sheriff had been a religious man, didn't mean that his son believed or wanted to hear the whole Christian shtick. He might or might not have implied the existence of werewolves. It had worked, and Stiles did not regret a single word he had said to the poor, traumatized priest.
Derek showed up late and stood in the back, keeping an eye on both his colleagues and his pack. Stiles couldn't help but to notice how astoundingly well he looked in formal wear. Three-day stubble and murderous eyes aside, he looked downright presentable in a suit.
They listened to the very short speech the priest made, sang Amazing Grace and then watched as the coffin was slowly lowered into the ground. Stiles didn't cry.
They went to a bar afterwards, all of them. There's nothing quite like a dark lager after a funeral. It's like liquid catharsis.
They sat down at the biggest table they could find and Boyd ordered drinks for them. Melissa McCall and Derek sat down with some of his colleagues and had the first round with them before she went home and he rejoined his pack. They drank in silence for a while. It was not awkward in any way, they were just in some sort of daze, like they had witnessed something that was not real, something unthinkable.
"You know, I've gotten quite used to not being in mortal danger or in constant risk of being chewed up by supernatural beings," Stiles blurted out. "It's really nice. I mean, when was the last time you went to bed and did not automatically check for monsters under the bed?"
Erica giggled into her beer. She had reason to. The last few years had made the monsters under her bed had very real, and her being an actual werewolf herself didn't make it better at all.
"Aw, Stiles has gotten soft! Do you think you'll survive a week in Beacon Hills with that attitude? What have you been up to anyway?" she asked.
"What haven't I done? Where do you want me to start?"
"Yeah, well, what about you tell us everything? It's your punishment for vanishing on us like that."
"Everything you say? Do you even know what you are asking for? You'll be here until next Christmas if you get me going."
"Everything, Stiles. I meant it. Isaac's gonna piss his pants if you hold out on us any longer."
"Sure thing, lady. Do you want me to tell it in alphabetical or chronological order? Hm, I'm thinking alphabetical, actually. Advanced mathematics, Alabama, a chick named Alice, Amish people, arson…"
"Stiles. I suddenly remember why I haven't missed you that much," Boyd interrupted.
"Alice was a total bitch though. You would have liked her, Erica. But okay then. Short, boring version. Chronological order. Engineering at NYU, then I got a job in New Jersey, where I also live nowadays, for your information. I'm no longer Stiles the monster hunter slash werewolf sitter, I am Stiles the IT guy, which is totally awesome. I have a life expectancy over twenty-seven years again."
"Dude, you must be awesome at computers and stuff! Look, I have this Playstation that crashed a while ago, maybe you could, you know…?"
"Scott! What the fuck? You're going to talk about work?" whined Isaac.
"So, what are we going to talk about then, Mr. Appropriate?" Stiles found that he liked the older Isaac more and more. He wouldn't have minded talking about Scott's broken PS, because who can shut up about their greatest passions in life?, but he saw Isaac's point.
"Did you know that I almost got arrested for a DUI like four years ago?" Isaac continued. "I was completely sober, but it was during a full moon and things got a bit crazy. Derek was away at the time. The Sheriff kept it off the records, and in exchange I had to come over to his place and cook him dinner once. He knew I was alone, my dad gone, and all that. I ended up making us dinner six times instead. Your dad was a really great man."
"Yeah, I know," Stiles said and smiled.
As the night drew on, the deputies dropped off, one by one coming by to solemnly shake hands with Stiles and slap Derek brotherly on the shoulder. Some of them even bought them rounds before they left, as tokens of their loyalty to his father, to their Sheriff.
"Man, I should have come back to Beacon Hills earlier. I've meant to for years, but there has always been something that got in the way. I have really missed you guys. I guess I have ever since I left, but I didn't realize how much until now," Stiles said. His voice felt slurry as he spoke.
"Aw, Stiles, cutiepie, you still say the sweetest things when you're drunk," Erica cooed. "Don't barf all over your shoes, boyscout. I think you've had enough of free booze for tonight."
Stiles looked up at her, and the world was spinning. He felt tendrils of nausea clutching at his guts, but apart from that he was good. A quiet voice of reason told him that if he took that last shot of whiskey, he wouldn't be.
"You have a point," he agreed. "Okay, I'll give up now. I'm going back to my place, I'm gonna sleep."
The pack rose and took turns at hugging him. Drunkenly Stiles thought that now he would really smell like pack again. No showers in the world could get the stink of wolf out of him for at least a couple of days. It was a nice thought.
"Hey man, I'll swing by sometime to check up on you," Scott promised when it was his turn for a hug.
Stiles stumbled out of the bar, still struggling with his suit jacket. It was cold outside. It was still September, but nights could get really cold. Stiles shivered and tugged his jacket closer, wishing he had brought something else to wear. Derek followed him to his car.
"You shouldn't drive," the werewolf told him. "You're drunk."
"Yessir!" Stiles said and made a mock salute. "Hell, you're right. I'll take a walk. I'll come get the car tomorrow. If it gets stolen, I'm blaming you, Deputy Hale."
"I'll give you a ride. I mean, I could give you a ride, if you want to? Do you want to go to the motel or to my house?"
If it had been any other night, Stiles would have teased Derek about being such a nervous little girl. Alpha Hale did not ask nicely if he could do stuff for people. Alpha Hale told people what to do, whether they liked it or not.
"No, it's okay. I'll walk. I'm not that drunk."
"I'll walk with you," Derek offered.
"No, seriously, I can find my way. I grew up in this town too, remember? And I think I could use some time alone right about now," he said and started walking. Derek nodded silently, but stubbornly padded after him.
"Dude, I meant it. I can take care of myself. Go home."
"You shouldn't walk by yourself. There have been sightings of goblins lately."
"Goblins? Are you kidding me? That's like the lamest excuse ever. And I think I might be able to defend myself against small green men. I'm pretty sure I can outrun them. If not, I have it coming. Darwinism for the win, bro!"
Derek nodded again, but continued to shadow him. They didn't talk much the rest of the way. Stiles sputtered questions at him now and again, and Derek replied with as few words as he could get away with. It wasn't really a long walk, but in the dark it took them almost an hour to get to the motel. At some point Stiles had stopped feeling his fingers, and he cursed himself for not bringing a warmer jacket. He had forgotten how California could get so fucking cold when you least expected it. When they at last found the right door, unlocking it proved to be hard while being slightly drunk and very frozen. His fingers had stopped communicating and was waiting for better, warmer times, but finally he managed to master the keycard.
"Since you've followed me all the way here, why don't you come on in. Your little wolflings would probably gut me if I let you freeze to death on my doorstep. I've got whiskey if you want to…"
Derek complied without a word and sneaked in through the open door. He stood in the middle of the room and looked oddly disoriented. It was probably all the plaid. It was getting to Stiles as well, but in his case it might have been the alcohol too.
"Why, ain't you just the sweetest puppy tonight? Following me around at the heels, making sure I'm as safe as can be?" Stiles said with the cutest southern twang he could muster. He opened his suitcase and pulled out the promised bottle of Jack Daniels.
"Do you think this will be enough to get you hammered? I will need some of it, but hey, I do have a head start. And for once, lack of lycanthropy is an advantage." He threw the bottle at Derek, who caught it perfectly with his left hand. He unscrewed it and took a long good swig at it, gulping it down like water.
"Whoa there, soldier! I told you to save some for me."
He stole the bottle back from Derek, sipped contemptuously from it and sat down on the horrible plaid bed. The werewolf didn't mind him stealing the bottle back, and didn't as much as growl at the action which would have easily earned him a good long growl a couple of years earlier.
"Stiles. I was the one who found your father," Derek blurted out. His voice was hoarse. "I was going to pick him up and get to the office, and…there was nothing I could do. I'm…"
"Shit, Derek, I didn't know." It hit Stiles in the stomach like a pile of bricks.
"I tried to help him, to make it…He asked after you."
Stiles flopped back down at the mangy bed. He should have been there for his father in his last moments. It should have been him.
Stiles teared up, he couldn't keep it together anymore. It had finally gotten to him. It was real. His father was dead. He was gone. They would never banter over breakfast again. No more pizza nights in front of the TV, no more figuring out cold cases for the sheriff's office. If Stiles ever had kids, they would never get to meet their grandfather. His father was dead. Gone.
Even the concept of it was surreal. His father was dead.
The mattress dipped beside him, and suddenly a warm body held him, stroked his hair. He cried like he hadn't done since his mother died, sobbing and letting the tears flow freely until they would dry out.
Derek gripped tightly at his shoulders, pulled at him until they could get no closer. Derek kissed him and he didn't mind. It was a sloppy kiss, swollen lips tasting of salt and alcohol and wolf. It was a good kiss. It was exactly what he needed.
They fumbled at each other for a while, mostly just hands running down with increasing desperation and holding, gripping, at anything. Clothes became redundant. Every time skin made contact with skin there was a gasp, and Stiles honestly didn't know if it was him or Derek who made the noises.
Derek freed himself just enough to pull off his shirt. His six-pack wasn't like bubble wrap just waiting to be popped anymore, but he was still definitely rocking the Photoshopped look. He had gained a little bit of weight, and Stiles blamed the deputy work for that. It sat well on him, anyway. It wasn't like Derek was twenty-five any more.
Stiles was, though. Twenty-five. It didn't matter how much he worked out, he didn't gain any muscle. If anything he got even more sinewy. If it wasn't for the huge amounts of sorrow, lager and whiskey sloshing around in his system, he'd probably be selfconscious about it too. Derek didn't seem to mind. The way he was touching him, smelling him, caressing him, was almost like worshipping. Which was way more than could be said of any of Stiles' previous lays.
Then Derek was lying heavily on top of him, all warmth and soft skin, and Stiles forgot to breath normally. He mouthed at Stiles neck and ground their hips together. Stiles whined. He sunk his nails into a naked muscular back, and was answered with a low growl that made his body vibrate and teeth biting down hard on his shoulder. Derek moved his hips again, and Stiles let out a slutty kind of moan. He didn't think about it. It felt so good. It was so good.
The pace got faster and more erratic, until Derek jerked and moaned breathily. Stiles could swear that he heard Derek whisper his name like a prayer, like something he had wanted for a very long time. Stiles rolled his hips once, twice, and then he followed.
He drifted into a deep sleep tightly pressed to Derek, arms curled around his waist, chin nested in the crook of the bigger mans neck. His tears had almost dried by then.
(This chapter was slightly more graphic and emotional, and don't worry, there'll be more angst in the next chapter... Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!)
