"Beware the Fury of a Patient Man." (John Dryden). The Sheriff
Sheriff John Stilinski got the call just as he was coming off his evening shift. Adrenaline pulsed through his body as a thrill of righteous satisfaction hit his gut. For a few seconds, he allowed himself to enjoy that sensation, then he forced his feelings away. He was going to be professional about this. He wasn't going to allow anything that would jeopardise this operation. Especially not his own emotions. Not now when they were so close to finishing this.
He had been waiting for this for a very long time and now it was all coming to fruition.
What was that dumb catch phrase young Scott repeated for nearly a year after he had taken the boy and his mother to see the movie of that ridiculous TV series he remembered watching when he was a kid? "I love it when a plan comes together" or some such shit.
If he had perhaps taken the boy to see it a few more times, okay three more times, after the family outing without Mel knowing and mocking him for it, well that was his and Scott's business. It had been a good film damn it and he and Scotty needed some male bonding time now the kid was growing like a weed.
For the last five months John hadn't seen much of the boy since Scott had almost seemed to grow out of his asthma overnight, he and his best friend Isaac making friends with Erica Reyes and the quiet responsible Boyd kid, and surprisingly Lydia Martin, the same red headed little madam Lydia Martin that Scott had been terrified of since elementary school, and even that young jock jerk Jackson Whittemore, because Scott had worked so hard on his fitness that he made co-captain with Whittemore in the High School Lacrosse team.
God damn it, John had been so proud of the kid. (If he had strutted into the Station with a broad smile and gloated to a few of his Deputies, well more like all his Deputies, for the whole of his shift the day after the boy had been selected, then no-one was going to ruin the moment for him).
For the first time in years it wasn't just the "epic friendship" of Scott and Isaac, much as he loved those two dorky kids, they hadn't ever been exactly inundated with friends or popularity yet now they seemed to have their own little gang. It was cute though he didn't use that word to Scott. The happy go lucky kid would have sulked for at least half an hour. Then there was that pretty sweet young Argent girl, the one Scott had fallen so hard for the same day he had made front line at Lacrosse. She and her family had just moved to the area and their little romance was sickeningly toothrottingly sweet, though Scott had almost forgotten that Isaac had existed for a while until John had told him to pull his head out of his ass and remember his best friend.
Scott was likely to be out of his and Mel's hair going to college soon, too soon, so damn it he was going to have as much time with the boy as possible, and at least if he made Scott watch a film with him, he wasn't whining like a love sick puppy about the love of his life Allison.
A plan coming together. The phrase pulled the Sheriff's affectionate thoughts away from his pseudo step son and had the added benefit of also reminding him why he was doing this and for whom. Finally he could do something to balance the scales of justice.
He didn't bother putting the blue lights or the sirens on as he drove towards the rendezvous site they had agreed on. There was no need, and he didn't want to draw attention to himself or where he was going. He had considered disabling the GPS tracking device on the Cruiser, but that would have rung alarm bells at the Station. Instead for the last few weeks he had been regularly taking a drive through the Preserve on his way home, casually passing it off at the Station as a last minute check before he finished his shift. No one ever questioned their trusted dependable Sheriff.
He didn't call it in to dispatch, he didn't need any of his people for this and the less they knew the better at the moment. It pained him to say it because he had personally interviewed and selected all his Deputies, but he couldn't take the chance that one of them might let something slip, even if inadvertently. It was a dangerous mission and he could not bear the thought that any of his people would be caught in the cross fire on this one. He would call them in when the time was right and they could do their duty safely, with no risk to them. This operation was on a need to know basis only and right now he was the only one who needed to know.
His drive through the Preserve was quicker than he had anticipated. He left the Cruiser far enough away from the decrepit Hale House so that no one would hear him coming. He got out of the vehicle, went to the trunk and opened the gun safe. He withdrew the shot gun, and took extra ammunition. There was no way he was loading the shotgun before he got to his destination. He wasn't certain that he could resist using the damn thing in that first instance. He would have to ignore his instinctive first reaction, and he knew it was going to be bad. He was a Law Enforcement Officer and this had to be about justice. He had waited so long for a chance at this but even after all these years he was still raw on the inside. He couldn't take any chances that he would screw this up because of his first instinctive reaction.
Besides it was more of an image booster, a not so subtle intimidation tactic at the moment. With the kind of backup he had waiting for him, the shotgun was pure decoration anyway. He wasn't stupid, he knew he needed protection, this was an unlikely confederation of allies for a specific purpose, and he mustn't forget it. So he checked his service gun in the holster. He knew it was loaded and ready after his long shift but he was still checking.
He sternly told himself to stop delaying the inevitable, he had agreed to this, he wanted this with every fibre of his being. He wanted this to start so that they could finish this nightmare in the right way and if that meant breaking a few rules then so be it. He could live with his actions when he knew that there would finally be justice for all concerned.
He knew he had taken enough precautions but it was almost a ritual now, something that soothed him so that he was able to do his job properly. He couldn't think about the end result yet, or he might not be able to resist the temptation to use the weapons. He, no, they had all worked too hard for any stupid impulsive behaviour to jeopardise this now. He had to remember the bigger picture. And this was just the first piece of the jigsaw slotting into position but he felt the satisfaction burn through his body. It was finally happening. There would be justice at last.
He moved away from the old Hale house towards the inner forest, heading for the incongruous dank empty wrecked train carriage where the meet was going down. His body moving forwards but his mind was skipping backwards, to four months earlier remembering how this had come about …
John was tired, no tired was too weak a word, he was bone weary. The week had been insane with calls and animal attacks of all things, but what was really bringing him down was the upcoming anniversary. Sixteen years. Dear God had it really been sixteen years ago? It still felt like yesterday.
His whole world had crashed and burned sixteen years ago. He had lost them both sixteen years ago. He had the day off tomorrow so that he could spent it alone. He would take flowers to Claudia, the pink and yellow fragrant tea roses she had adored, sit at her graveside and tell her about Scott's latest antics, there was always something to say about that kid, and then finally beg her forgiveness for not being able to bury their little Genim besides her. He had stood there at her funeral and sworn through his tears that he would find the body of their son so that he could lie in his Mommy's arms. That promise had been the only thing that had kept him functioning that first year, had kept him from following the two of them but every year the hope had become fainter until now there was nothing else he could do but simply beg her forgiveness for his abject failure.
He hoped that she forgave him because he had never forgiven himself for not finding their son.
He knew he was fortunate that Melissa and Scott were still so understanding about it. He was not an easy man to be deal with when this date rolled up, and it had been worse at the start of their relationship eight long years ago.
John Stilinski had met Melissa McCall and her young son Scott in a traffic accident. Melissa's car had been hit by a drunk driver and thankfully both she and Scott had been okay, a little shaken but nothing major even though John had made them go to the Emergency department at the hospital where Melissa actually worked, to get checked out. He had followed them in his cruiser to get their statements and give the pair a lift home afterwards as Melissa's car had been towed.
John knew who they were. The Sheriff had met Agent McCall, her husband, previously on official business and hadn't liked the arrogant patronising son of a bitch in the slightest. But when he heard that the man had abandoned his wife and young son in order to advance his FBI career in Washington, he had come to despise him at a cellular level. For Rafe McCall to give up his family so callously, so selfishly when John would sell his very soul to have his own back again, it had turned the Sheriff's stomach. He wouldn't piss on the man if he was on fire.
John Stilinski had lost his own family in the most brutal manner, his wife and six month old baby son had been murdered when they had been travelling interstate to see her parents.
John, a new Deputy at Beacon Hills Police Department, the town they had settled in to raise a family, had been unable to change shifts so he was going to drive up two days later for the first family gathering since their beautiful baby boy had been born. But Claudia's car had been run off the road by unknown assailants, in the outskirts of a town where on the very same night an extended family gathering had resulted in a tragic fire that had subsequently been discovered to be arson. The crash which had killed Claudia and their baby had delayed the first responders for long enough that there were no survivors from the fire. They had arrived too late to save anyone at the house or Claudia and Genim at the crash site
His beautiful vibrant young wife had died instantly in the crash but they had never found little Genim's body. The local force had never said as much to his face but John knew they thought the babe's body had been taken by wild animals.
For a long, long time, Deputy John Stilinski had taken his service weapon to bed with him but every time he reached out for it in the depths of the night, a vision of the appalled look on his darling Claudia's face flashed before his eyes and he just couldn't do it. He had promised her he would find their son's body. He had promised her. He didn't have the right to go to her in death until he fulfilled his oath.
When the old Sheriff had retired, he had been encouraged to run for election. He had been surprised to win it but it gave him something to focus on instead of that cold empty house and his cold empty heart. For eight years after their deaths he had given his love and care to the people of the Beacon because he couldn't find it in himself to work at any other relationships.
Sitting in the ER, watching as young Scott protectively held on to his still shaking Mom, made him want to find Rafe McCall and introduce him to a nice secluded part of the Beacon Hills Preserve where he could beat the crap out of him and leave him to rot in the mud like the lowlife scum he was.
The boy was the same age as his own Genim would have been. They might even have been friends, hell Melissa and Claudia would definitely have been friends. They would have loved each other.
They had the same awful outrageous sense of humour. His wicked Claudia had called the baby Stiles all through her pregnancy and even after they had christened the boy Genim in honour of her own Grandfather who had been the one to introduce the two of them at the Police Charity Ball.
Genim Jones had been a civilian firearms instructor at the Police Academy and had never been able to pronounce John's surname properly. John had nearly died of embarrassment when Jones had introduced him to his beautiful granddaughter Claudia as John Stiles. She had cried with laughter when John had told her his actual name out of earshot of the gruff older man, and then stared him unflinchingly straight in the eye as she promised with a determined glint in hers "I'm just going to have to marry you now so he will have to learn to say it properly."
Melissa had smiled wickedly with approval when John had told her that story and just asked if the old man had actually learnt how to pronounce it.
It took him six months after her divorce had been finalised for him to finally ask Melissa McCall out on a date, a year after the road traffic accident. A year when eight year old Scott McCall had decided to adopt the Sheriff of Beacon Hills like one of the many stray hurt animals that the boy couldn't stop himself from helping.
The first time the boy had brought John lunch to the Station, little Scott had succumbed to an asthma attack because of his nerves. The Sheriff, who had been staring in utter bewilderment at the child size carton of banana milk and the crumbling PBJ sandwiches that the dark haired tyke had shyly laid out on his desk whilst ignoring the delighted amusement of his Deputies, had been forced to call Melissa at work to ask how to deal with the distressed child.
When his surprised mother had asked him what he was doing the little boy insisted stubbornly that he was saying thank you because the Sheriff had helped them.
It was the first of many such calls to the boy's mother as he became a familiar figure in the Station. The Sheriff had never been sure how the child had found out about his shift rota, although his admin staff all looked suspiciously innocent and seemed to magically disappear from his presence whenever the Sheriff raised the topic. But without fail the young boy would only come to the Station on the days that John was working. The damn kid was better than some of his own detectives. He would arrive in the afternoons after school, and at the weekends bringing the bewildered Sheriff lunch, and even an afternoon snack. He would sit shy and nervous opposite the Sheriff's desk, peeping at him through his eyelashes and ridiculously long hair, stubbornly not leaving until the Sheriff had eaten that day's offering to then disappear with a big beaming smile that lit up his young face and a shy little wave goodbye.
If the Sheriff was on night shift, Scott would leave his culinary offerings in the Station's fridge for him to enjoy later.
John Stilinski had lived in a cold vacuum since he had lost his family. He had learnt how to react to people and situations again, learnt how to hide the pain so deeply that he could function as a relatively normal human being but he knew he had buried his heart with his wife and his dead son. He didn't want to get involved with anyone because it felt like he was betraying both his wife and his son.
He had tried to be indifferent to the young boy, his face gruff and unwelcoming, had tried to make it clear that he had no interest in providing a surrogate father role but Scott's constant puppy eyes, sheer stubborn determination and hopeful sunny smile had slowly warmed the man's heart.
He couldn't find it in him to be cruel to the young boy, even though tiny splinters of pain dug into his soul every time he looked at Scott and tried to imagine what his baby Stiles would have looked like at Scott's age until the day came that he realised it was Scott putting the smile on his face and it was Scott he thought about first, not his long gone baby boy.
Hell he had known Scott longer than he had known his own son at the point when he and Melissa went on that first date together. And hadn't Scotty's sweet little face worn the biggest smile all that day and for the rest of the week. Sometimes he wondered if he would have ever have even asked Mel out if it hadn't been for Scott but he refused to look a gift horse in the mouth. They came as a package and he thanked God for the pair of them. He was still gun shy about anything more formal or a proper commitment than they had at the moment, he couldn't get past his failure to find his son. It was probably stupid after all these years, and so unfair to them because damn it he loved both Mel and Scott but it seemed like a betrayal of his vows to his Claudia. He hadn't found closure for the brutal way they had been ripped from his life and until he did, he couldn't offer Mel and Scott everything they deserved.
But his lovely Mel and Scott were both still so understanding about this one day of the year. They never questioned him, just hugged him without words and left him to it. He had made his way home knowing they wouldn't be there, knowing they wouldn't expect to see him at their place, knowing that he needed the time to remember and mourn his lost family.
He hadn't bothered to put on the lights, just gone straight for the kitchen cupboard where he kept the bottle of Jack he only ever touched on that day. The rest of the year he would take a beer but never touched the hard stuff, he had come too close to losing himself in the damn bottle for a long time after he had lost them, so now he just didn't. The smell alone brought back too many memories of utter soul wrenching despair. He couldn't touch it now except as part of that one day of the year.
He had his own remembrance ritual, a brand new bottle bought specifically for the anniversary, one glass and the leisure and freedom to consume as much of the bottle until the tears started and ultimately he passed out. He knew he was getting too old for the kind of shitty hangover that he would get the next day but he wouldn't, he couldn't change his ritual now.
He had failed them both, he had let Claudia drive there alone with their six month old baby boy.
If he had been there he could have saved them but no, his work had taken precedence over his family. He should have made her wait for him, he should have god damn resigned, and why hadn't he done something? They had never found the bastards responsible. Never come close despite all the time and effort he personally had put into it.
He had nearly gone insane with conspiracy theories especially when he found out about that other poor family who perished in the fire in the same night. He had bugged, harassed and hassled every law and order organisation he could think of, even the god damn Fish and Wildlife Service for information, for help, for anything until his own Sheriff, the kindly older man who had been his mentor and nearly a second father to him, had sat him down and told him that no matter how hard he tried it wasn't going to bring them back and that he was unlikely to ever find the bastards who had caused the accident. So he had to deal with it as it was. The Sheriff had even forced him to attend counselling before he would allow him to come back to work. Not that it had made any difference at the time, he had just paid lip service to the whole damn thing to get back to his job.
Because Jesus Christ, he didn't even have his baby boy's body to bury with his mama. Some fucking animal had eaten his baby's dead body, or worse eaten Stiles alive. His baby boy would have been screaming in fear and agony as... It was at this point that his body normally shut down as if his very soul couldn't bear the pain
If there was anything left in the bottle the next morning it was poured away, the empty bottle washed and recycled and no other hard liquor passed the threshold of his front door until the anniversary rolled round again for another year.
Standing at the kitchen counter, he poured the amber liquid into the waiting glass. He raised it until the distinctive aroma hit his nostrils and then his voice hoarse, he whispered their beloved names "Claudia, Genim" before closing his eyes and putting the glass to his mouth, then nearly draining it in one go. The liquid seemed tasteless but it burnt its way down to his stomach and began the task of melting the ice which always entombed his heart on this day. He drew a shuddering breath and with no need to keep up appearances in the silence and stillness of his own house, his head slumped forward as he bent over the kitchen counter.
"Does that actually help?" the strange hard voice asked in a lightly mocking tone, but with genuine curiosity. "We can't get drunk so it's a moot point for us"
The glass dropped to the floor and smashed unnoticed as the Sheriff spun and pulled the service weapon from his holster.
The living room lights were suddenly switched on and the angry Sheriff, adrenaline pounding through his veins could see two strange men. Frantic thoughts raced through his brain. How the hell had he missed them when he walked in? His house had been locked up. What the actual hell?
They looked like a pair of GQ male models, not that he ever bought the damn thing but there was always a copy in the break room at the Station and he had mocked enough of his younger Deputies for reading it. The dark haired younger one looked like a muscular bad ass with the dark leather jacket, and jeans. Piercing green eyes in a face full of sinful cheek bones and dark stubble a designer would pay a fortune for, watched him with the unblinking gaze of a predator. The older man, just as handsome but more the suave villainous type, blue eyes gleaming with calculation, pale lips twisted in a smirk, wore the grey suit as if it had been made for to cling to every contour. Even the Sheriff knew that suit had cost more than his monthly wage and if he wasn't mistaken that pale blue shirt with darker blue tie were both made of silk.
What the hell? None of this made any sense. His house had been broken into by a pair of pretty rich boy rogues? Were these two insane? Invading the home of the god damn Sheriff. They were lucky he hadn't just shot them already.
The older man who had spoken was lounging in the Sheriff's favourite chair, an arrogant smirk on his handsome face until the younger man who had switched on the room lights growled at him and in a higher voice than the Sheriff expected told the seated suit to shut the hell up.
John kept switching his attention between the two of them, but his gun remained firmly trained on the older man. There was something about that darkly sophisticated figure that tripped all John's early warning triggers. He could actually feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
"I don't know what you boys think you are playing at but invading the home of the Sheriff is the kind of dumbass move that is as likely to get your brains blown out as being sent down for five to ten at the State penitentiary. Right now you have got a fifty percentage chance of either happening"
His words were ice cold, and the hard expression on his face didn't falter as the older man laughed with mocking delight. The younger guy gave a long suffering sigh which seemed to be more at the other man's behaviour rather than at the Sheriff's words.
"Sheriff…" he began and took a step forward as he spoke and John's finger released the safety in the gun. The small sound reverberated through the living room with shocking clarity. There was a second of absolute stillness as if they were all holding their breaths and then the younger man stepped back again.
His hands were raised placatingly and there was a weird red flare to his eyes that John couldn't understand. But he didn't have long to think about it.
As the younger guy raised his hands, John noticed the file he was holding, a very familiar file. A file he had been compiling for sixteen years.
John's anger surged like a tidal wave. "Have you been through my damn safe?" his voice had turned deadly. His knuckles were white with the effort of not squeezing the damn trigger. He reached to take his cell phone from his pocket with his free hand instead and began to dial 911.
Before John could finish the number and even open his mouth, the younger man leapt at the Sheriff. He moved so fast that the Sheriff didn't even have the time to swing the gun towards him. But he did manage to pull the trigger and the bullet just missed the older guy's ear, embedding itself in the wall behind him. He didn't have time to feel any satisfaction at the startled shocked way the smooth creeper flung himself out of range and the hissed "fuck" that left his mouth.
The next thing John knew was that he was helpless on the couch, landing with a groan as all the wind was knocked out of him and being held in place by the younger man, again with the red flaring eyes and sub vocal growling. How the hell had the bastard done that? John had been nowhere near the couch and now he was lying on it with this freaky man mountain on top of him. What the hell?
Damn it, had the guy's eyebrows disappeared as well or just popped out the side of his face as sideburns, and were those actual claws digging into his arms?
John could feel his heart beat race, and adrenaline flood his body, negating any effects of the liquor he had just taken, as he stared up at him in horrified fascination and blurted out "What the fuck are you?" His skin was crawling, only the fact that he was basically pinned to the couch by this, this thing kept him in the same place. His hind brain was screaming predator at him, to take to his heels, to run and never stop. He could feel his heart trying to leap out of his chest with fear.
It was the older guy who answered yet again, the thread of vicious amusement more pronounced in that hateful mocking voice as he seemed to have recovered from his shock at nearly having extra ventilation in his head courtesy of a police service pistol.
"Sheriff Stilinski meet my nephew Derek Hale, Alpha Werewolf of Beacon Hills. My name is Peter Hale. Former comatose patient and Uncle of said Alpha. We have come to the inescapable conclusion that we need your assistance with a little project of ours."
John could barely tear his horrified disbelieving gaze away from the disturbing unnatural face hanging above him, way too close to his own face and vulnerable neck, to look at the still relaxed older man. "Werewolf, werewolf?" He could hear his own voice rising and vibrating with a mixture of disbelief, anger and visceral fear.
"Are you out of your tiny mind? You have got to be kidding me you …" he began shakily but before he could finish, the so called Alpha released him carefully and pulled away from the prone man slowly until he stood up and still moving slowly backed up towards the older man, his uncle, as if John was the unpredictable predator who had attacked and he needed to keep him in line of sight at all times.
John stared back up at then in confusion, rage and fear warring within his body. Werewolves, fuck, he'd only had one drink. Was he finally losing his mind? Werewolves? Was Rod Sterling gonna leap out from behind the sofa and spout off about entering the god damn twilight zone. Because that's what this felt like. Only this time his instincts were telling his body to play dead, not move, hope the big nasty thing with fangs didn't notice him anymore. Well fuck that.
He was the god damn Sheriff of the god damn County and he'd show these weird furry fanged and clawed idiots what badass meant. He forced the fear back, locked it away and drew on the build-up of adrenaline instead. His muscles tensed to move, his brain assessing the tactical dangers and choosing and discarding options. But he was interrupted again.
The Alpha guy's voice was softer than the rabid growling but still hard, biting with anger and an old underlying pain. The words short, blunt and to the point.
"The Argents murdered our family and they murdered yours. Are you going to wallow pathetically for the rest of your life or will you help us do something about it? Was this all for nothing?"
The file was flung onto the small coffee table besides the couch and out spilled the carefully stored cherished photos of his long dead wife and child…
John's mind was brought back to the present by the sight of the old subway train. It seemed to take him less time than usual to get there from the parking lot but he had been knee deep in memories so he couldn't really judge. He still couldn't quite get his head around the fact that there was a real honest to god shell of a subway train in the nature preserve at Beacon Hills but with all the other supernatural shit going on in his County he supposed one more little puzzle was nothing to worry about.
As he entered the dark and frankly scary building, he quickly noted Derek and Peter's positions in relation to his own. They were like the three corners of a triangle, far enough away from the small patch of ground that was bathed in the kind of white light that would make your eyes water, and ensure you were not able to see what was outside that circle in the dark.
Derek dipped his head in acknowledgement at the Sheriff's entrance but his eyes went back to the chair in the centre of the light. Peter who was lounging on a long empty crate, did not remove his predatory focus from the light but the Sheriff knew that Peter was aware he was there.
Somewhere inside his mind there was a little voice that was appalled at himself. For Christ's sake he was the voice of law abiding reason for his county, he was believed in justice, and due process.
He had argued for that with the two Werewolves and finally got them to agree that the end result of this would be the incarceration of the people responsible for their respective families' deaths. In their long and exhausting planning sessions he had still truly thought he could be objective, that he was the rational and civilised being in the maelstrom of grief, pain and need for vengeance, for justice that they were all orbiting, even though the plan was unorthodox and downright illegal.
But now he couldn't help it, he was horrified but he couldn't be that rational moral officer of the law because when he looked at the captive in the centre of that stark white light, he didn't care how old he was, how hurt he was, or how guilty he was. How dare this little Argent bastard be alive when that evil family had destroyed his own and countless others?
John Stilinski felt his heart began to pound, adrenaline flooding his body, hatred tightening his hand around the shot gun amidst a sickening gut clenching relief that he hadn't loaded the damn thing.
Because right now, right here and now, he wanted to turn that shotgun on the figure in that chair. Tied up, unconscious and head slumped forward covered by a dusty old sack, he just wanted to put a hole in the kid's chest and finally be done with it.
AN:
No infringement intended. This story is based on a plot bunny from the wonderful ImogenLily on AO3. If you want to read the full thing, please check out the same story on there, It has the same title and everything"
With a nice little segue-way into titles, this title is based upon the following quote:
"The paradox of vengefulness is that it makes men dependent upon those who have harmed them, believing that their release from pain will come only when their tormentors suffer".
Laura Hillenbrand, Unbroken: A World War II story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption.
Hope you enjoy it.