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“Guess who said hello to me?”
Stiles’s father, having been sheriff of a small town for 20 years, didn’t even look up at Stiles’s question. The good citizens of Beacon Hills had been asking Stiles to “say hello to the sheriff for me” his whole life; it was hardly news.
“Let’s see,” he pondered aloud, pen hovering over a book of crosswords, and it was equal odds that he was thinking about the answer to 4 Across instead of the important question posed to him by his dear and only son.
Stiles was practically vibrating in place, but he wasn’t saying another word until he had his dad’s full attention. His nervous fidgeting was a lifelong habit and apparently not enough to clue his dad into the sheer enormity of his news.
“Well, you’re coming to visit me first thing in the morning,” his dad started, pausing to fill in another crossword clue, “so you probably would have only stopped for breakfast or gas. I don’t smell a doggy bag of egg-white-vegetarian-omelet, so I’m guessing it’s the gas station. Rhonda’s grandson works there on the weekends – Ricky? Rico?”
Stiles huffed a laugh because retirement had obviously done nothing to quell his dad’s taste for solving puzzles.
“No, Dad, but great deduction,” Stiles relented. He really couldn’t hold it in a second longer. “Someone said hello. To me.”
There was a silent, tense moment where Stiles was certain both of them were holding their breaths—it felt like the moment he’d always thought he’d having meeting his soulmate, sharing their words for the first time. Sharing the news with his father was an awesome runner-up.
The table jolted as a wordless shout burst out of his dad’s mouth, and he was halfway to standing before his shocked eyes met Stiles’s for confirmation. Then Stiles was making a noise of his own as his dad tackled him in a bear hug, his hands indecisively patting Stiles on the back, ruffling his hair, then tightening to squeeze the breath out of him again.
“Aw, kid,” his dad said at last, voice shaky with a little more emotion than Stilinski men usually brought to a conversation. Stiles couldn’t have said his eyes were completely dry, either. “I’m so goddamn happy for you.” He punctuated it with another heavy thump to Stiles’s back.
Stiles made small sounds of agreement, hugging his dad back. Then he finally extricated himself and made a production of straightening his hair and clothes so his dad could compose himself as well. So many emotional topics were taboo between them – Stiles’s late mother and his prior soulmate-related depression among them – that it felt good to have something they could both be happy about.
“So when do I get to meet this kid?” his dad asked, sounding sturdier and younger, suddenly, like he was tapping into a shovel talk he’d been prepared to give back when Stiles was a teenager and he hadn’t bothered to update as the years went by.
“He’s hardly a kid, dad,“ Stiles chided. He wasn’t going to protest on his own behalf; there was a significant part of him – the part that had watched his only parent leave for a law enforcement job day after day for decades – that would never take for granted the security of having a living parent to treat him like a kid no matter how old he got.
“Oh, really,” his dad said, using that same tone he used in an interrogation room, the tone that said he was going to get the full story no matter what, so there was no point dithering.
Stiles laughed. “His name’s Peter. He’s a bit older than me. Owns a bar in Redding.” Creature of the night, grows fangs and claws, supernatural strength and stamina that had proven more fun than frightening…
“And he treats you well?” his dad asked, predictably.
Stiles couldn’t help it, he felt his face heating so fiercely he must have looked like a tomato because, sure, he and Peter had already had some great conversations – mostly about their marks and werewolves, but they’d also spent most of that time in bed.
Stiles’s dad coughed in sudden understanding and Stiles didn’t even try to meet his eyes. He might have needed to rethink his appreciation for having a parent handy.
“Well, then,” his dad recovered, (and Stiles was very, very grateful,) “where is this beau of yours? I’m surprised you let him out of your sight.”
Stiles grinned. “He’s stopping at the diner to pick up breakfast so I could break the news before springing him on you. Your vegetarian egg white omelet will be here shortly.”
His dad groaned theatrically. “Stiles, my cholesterol is fine.”
“Triglycerides?” Stiles asked, knowingly.
“I’ve got meds,” his dad grumbled, and was saved for further argument by the chime of the doorbell. “Saved by the bell,” he said, because he couldn’t not, and went to answer the door.
Knowing it was Peter and not wanting him to face his dad alone, Stiles did his best to make himself visible over his dad’s shoulder, in spite of his doorway-filling cop stance.
“Good morning,” he heard Peter say pleasantly, and Stiles pushed himself onto his tiptoes. When Peter spotted Stiles the corners of his eyes crinkled, and Stiles couldn’t let him stand on the porch a second longer. He dragged his dad backward, interrupting his attempt at an intimidating greeting.
“Let him get inside first, Dad, jeez,” he groused. Then he busied himself unpacking the take-out containers and serving everything up on real plates. He paused when he opened his dad’s box. “Why is there bacon with the vegetarian omelet?”
“They asked if I wanted the Sheriff Stilinski Special,” Peter answered, and Stiles didn’t have to look to discern the smile in his voice.
“Dad!”
“My cholesterol is fine,” he said again, and snatched his plate, bacon and all.
They ate quietly for a few bites, and Stiles was inordinately pleased when Peter elected to eat left-handed so he could place his hand over Stiles’s on the table between them. He wasn’t sure if that would make his dad more or less likely to approve of Peter, but the happy flutter in Stiles’s chest made it a moot point.
“So you’re Peter,” his dad opened.
“I am,” Peter replied, gamely. He wore the same amused expression he did when he was dealing with drunken strangers ranting at him in a bar – Stiles would know – so he figured it wasn’t a bad start. Peter had promised to be on his “best behavior” when meeting the former sheriff, but Stiles honestly hadn’t known him long enough to have any idea what that would entail. The only explicit rule was “don’t tell Dad about werewolves,” which Peter had agreed to easily.
His dad’s face was as blank as it ever was when dealing with a suspect, but Stiles knew that was pretty normal for his dad and not a knock against Peter.
“I’m Noah Stilinski. It’s good to meet you.”
Stiles snorted his amusement at the familiar phrasing, then was waylaid suddenly with the shocking realization that he never had to go searching for his soulmate again. No more stupid greetings and cycles of hope and disappointment. He was sitting at his kitchen table and holy shit his dad was meeting his soulmate.
Stiles tuned back into the conversation to hear his dad ask, “You’re sure this guy’s the one?” He was talking to Peter, relegating Stiles to the role of “this guy.”
“I’m sure,” Peter said with a grin, and he squeezed Stiles’s hand on the table briefly. “I think we’re quite well suited. Stiles’s mark might only be one word, but mine is over 60, and not really fit for polite company.”
Stiles’s dad barked out a surprised laugh, and any remaining tension in the room was broken.
“That’s Stiles, all right. At least you knew what you were getting into in advance.” His dad shook his head and tucked back into his illicit breakfast.
“And I was still pleasantly surprised,” Peter said in that tone Stiles is becoming very familiar with: wryly amused and always hinting at something more he was leaving unsaid. Stiles wondered if it was something else in this case was not fit for polite company.
Peter answered questions about his bar, his living situation, his enormous family, and his hobbies. Stiles learned nearly as much as his father did from the whole interrogation; he’d feel bad about the unfair advantage over Peter, but he had a feeling that their life together was going to involve a lot competition, so he resolved to enjoy his lead while it lasted.
By the time they finished eating, it was late morning, and all three of them were ready to head out.
Stiles planned to visit everyone he could while he was in town, tell them a cleaned-up version of his meet-cute that involved significantly less alcohol and self-pity, and check in on his friends and their families. It wasn’t like Beacon Hills was so far away that he never saw them, but for the first time in a long time he was in a headspace to actually be good company and a good friend.
Peter had some arrangements of his own to make back in the city, like finding more managers for the bar, since he no longer needed to be there every night looking for his soulmate, and preparing to introduce Stiles to his “Alpha” which sounded terrifying despite Peter’s insistence that it was “no big deal.” Stiles was very glad Peter found him “delightful” because he was going to be answering questions about werewolves and pack dynamics until Stiles ran out of breath, either from exhaustion or Peter smothering him with a pillow.
Peter departed first, giving Stiles a chaste kiss and a hug that probably seemed chaste enough, except Peter pressed his nose into Stiles’s neck, inhaling deeply, which was a weird werewolf scent thing that Stiles didn’t fully understand but still found unbearably hot. In front of his dad. He felt his ears heating again. It was just a day for embarrassment.
“I’ll see you tonight,” Stiles said, which was another new thing that Stiles didn’t think he’d ever tire of being able to say.
After Peter drove off, Stiles’s dad hummed thoughtfully.
“I might have to make a trip to the station this afternoon, let the guys know the good news.”
“Like you’re not already at the station every other day for lunch or gossip,” Stiles laughed. “And I’ve heard all about your morning donut visits.”
“It’s just staying informed,” his dad said loftily, though he couldn’t help but grin, and Stiles loved him so fiercely in that moment he dragged him in for another bone-crushing hug. It was a big day – he could be excused.
“Listen, kiddo,” his dad said, a little more seriously, hands uncharacteristically fidgeting. “Don’t worry about me, okay? You enjoy your time with Peter, be crazy in love and all that. I’ll still be here when you two are settled and ready to come up for air.”
Stiles realized his dad wasn’t wringing his hands together, but holding onto his wedding ring, pressing his index finger against the row of tiny diamonds set in it.
“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles said, a little awkward as he always was when it came to his mother. He never really understood his dad’s devotion to someone he’d never met as an adult and only recalled through fragments of childish memory, but Stiles was starting to think he should try.
“I love you, kid,” his dad said, sticking his hands in his pockets, like he was tucking all the feelings away. “Now go see your friends.”
Stiles gave his dad a little salute and hopped into his car. As he pulled out, he rolled down the passenger window and yelled, “Bye, Dad. Love you, too.” And he was off.
The path to Scott’s veterinary practice was a familiar one. Scott had worked there ever since high school in some capacity, and took over as head veterinarian when Dr. Deaton starting reducing hours as he eased into retirement. It was nearly closing time, and the lot was empty when Stiles pulled in. Scott was already waiting for him at the front door, and Stiles grinned ear to ear.
“Guess who said hello to me?”