Customer: FOR UNCLE CHARALES DMV: FUCKED Verdict: DENIED

For the ask game gimme your top 3 US state license plates

Alright, so I'm going to work off of this list and dataset, with the following notes:

Sticking to ordinary plates - designs are fine, but to narrow this down, nothing you would need to pay an extra fee to access.

Maryland can fuck right off. 989? When even fucking Texas has less than half that number? You had that many special and unique plate designs that you couldn't help but list 989 of them? Fuck you, disqualified on principle.

The District of Columbia is also excluded since you said state, although ftr their best in my opinion is the standard "No Taxation Without Representation" default (points for including the slogan when they don't have official statehood)

So, in ascending order:

In third we have a design fairly typical of the standard across the industry, the California 'Sun' design (under the 'Passenger Vehicles' section, view the right on the top row). Not too much to say about this, because this shitpost has gone on way too long already and we have two more after this; but it's nice, it's understated, it looks kind of like thousands of other plate designs but with just enough pizazz to come off as moderately unique without leaning too far into it like that awful California cursive design 2 to the left. If you're looking for a plate with a white background, a tasteful decoration and some blue text, this is a fine example.

In second place, we have the Kentucky Standard Vehicle Plate. Again, not much to say about this because this is a ranking of license plate designs, but I'm a fan of the politely understated blue background fading into white as you go up, and the state outline to the left - almost a cloudy aesthetic, but without actually needing any clouds in the design. A little fancier than the California design featured, without becoming ostentatious.

Coming in the first, winner goes to the New Mexico Standard Centennial Plate, because just look at that thing. Wonderful color scheme, lively without looking cluttered or shoved together, the phrase 'Land of Enchantment' written at the bottom, which I like to imagine is pissing off Bob Iger somehow. Gorgeous.

Belonephobia

Masterlist   Read it on AO3 Chapter 2

Spiderman: Across the Spiderverse | Migwen | 6.7K | E 

Tags: Non-Con | Kidnapping | Police Butality | P in V Sex | Non-consensual drugging | Breeding kink

Chapter 1

"Sure you don't wanna stay the night, Gwen? I promise Margo doesn't mind." 

Gwen took one look at Miles, all grown up on practically the other side of the world, and shook her head. She was only going to be at Stanford for two days, and she already wasted the first working up the courage to knock on the door to the off-campus apartment that Miles had gotten with Margo. She had to leave to even hope to get back in time for classes to resume at NYU. Spring Break was no excuse. 

"Nah, I gotta start heading back. My hotel is only two hours away, and then I'm spending the night at Hobie's, so ya know…" She hated the way he looked at her, no longer how he used to. Instead, his eyes were full of concern and disbelief. He'd seen her worn hoodie and torn shoes. He had been at the funeral. 

But he didn't push. 

Just a hug. Another tight-lipped smile as she headed out the door. A wave when she turned back from her car. 

Text me when you get to your hotel. 

She breaks down thirty minutes away from the hostel she booked. A dead end for hikers, runaways, and various other riff-raff with twenty bucks and two feet. Her car pulls to a sputtering stop, slightly off the side of the road. She sees the smoke in the waning light of the surprisingly dusty road, rising from the hood of the rusted bucket she inherited from the Captain. 

She knew she should've gotten it checked before making the cross-country trip. Probably could've afforded the repairs with the leftover cash from her dad's emergency fund. But that would've required thinking before she packed her few belongings into the car and took off. 

She was kind of surprised she made it this far if she was honest. 

She sighs, tugging her phone out of the cup holder she tossed it into. 10% . Another sigh fights its way to the surface, giving her pause as she tries to figure out what to do. A tow truck would take too long, and her phone would never last. Her battery pack is dead, gone from her day of use building her resolve. The road looks…empty. The last building she passed was around forty minutes ago driving in the other direction. 

She worries her lip, staring towards the vagueness of the road ahead. She could try to walk it. Get lost, maybe, and get eaten by wolves or coyotes or whatever they had in the California desert. Or she could stay in the car. Turn it off, lock the doors, and make a makeshift bed out of her duffle in the back seat. She could walk back to that bar in the morning. Call a tow truck and get the fuck out of dodge by nightfall tomorrow if she's lucky. 

She nods, mainly to herself as the plan solidifies in her brain. Rest. Regroup. Tackle the problem. She can do that. 

Her head's barely on the stuffed duffle for more than ten minutes when she hears the soft rapping at her window. She bolts up, squinting against the light shining in her face from the unexpected guest's flashlight. 

Never fully roll down your window to a stranger. Her father's voice rings in her head as she moves to roll the antiquated handle down. Just a crack so she can hear. 

"Ma'am, you can't park here." The voice is deep honey spent, familiar only in its tone. The same tone she’s heard dozens of cops use all her life. She shakes her head, still squinting against the light. Has the sun really set so quickly? Maybe it’s been longer than ten minutes. 

"M' sorry, officer," she mutters, sitting up fully."My car broke down and my phone died. You wouldn't happen to have one I could use, do you?" 

It's silent for a beat, and she holds her breath, hoping he doesn’t ask for any papers. She hadn't quite shifted the plates to her name yet. Or fully renewed her license. But she can swear she hears the beep of his radio. Swears he mutters something about an O'Hara into the receiver. 

"Where are you headed?" he asks, and she wants to ask him to turn the light down. Let her see properly so she doesn't feel so groggy. 

"The Fillmore Hostel down the road." 

Another beep, a mutter of civilian assistance . 

"I'll take you there while my partner comes to collect your car." 

She's never heard of such a procedure in her life. Alarm bells start to ring in her ears, telling her to shrink away from the figure on the other side of the door. She shakes her head, scooting down the seat. "I'd rather stay in my car, if you don't mind." 

The sigh that comes out of him is more akin to a beast, full of disappointment and chiding . As if an unruly child had just demanded candy from him knowing damn well dinner was almost ready. 

"It's not safe out here," he says, clearly on the edge of his patience. "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me." 

Again, she shakes her head, inching away from the door again as he huffs.  

"You just had to make this difficult, didn't you?" 

The next moments happen in a flash. One second, she’s inching to the other side of the car. The next, an entire arm the size of both her legs is shoved through broken glass. A singular hand finds her ankle, ignoring her squirming and yelling as she tries to escape the stranger who found her. His fingers overlap circling her calf, finally finding purchase on her before he yanks . 

She's tugged nearly halfway out of the vehicle. Her nails are ineffective against cloth seats as he pulls her out of the window, tight into his arms. And she shrieks, loud as she can against the futility of the night. It's all she can do before she feels a sharp prick in her neck. In the next second, the world goes black .

__________

It's the clinking of metal against metal that rouses her from the darkness. Not that it's much brighter in the room when she wakes. Or maybe it's the haze in her vision that makes it seem much darker than it is. Her eyes refuse to adjust, the shadows are long and cold as she tries to orient herself.

She's on a cheap mattress. Similar to the worn ones at her sleepaway camps upstate when she felt the longing for home. The room is nothing but concrete slabs, a single bulb illuminating the space – what little there was. 

"You're awake." 

The voice brings no comfort. It's a sugary molasses, slow and sickening as it passes over the burnt embers of his mouth. She tries to move, only to find the pressure on her shoulders refusing to relent. The most she can do is lift her head, despite protest from every cell in her body.

He's on the other side of the room, just out of range of the feeble light. It didn't matter, really. From her limited vantage point, he is a colossus, his frame nearly touching the ceiling of the room. If only she could see a door, but even without the reference she can tell he’s wide. Just his shadow fills the space to the point it feels claustrophobic. As if a shift would fill her past capacity.

"Are you hungry?" 

She reels, brain swimming to process the words. "What?"

"Are you hungry?" he asks again, stepping to the side. He keeps to the wall, just out of full view. "I've heard the effects of the toxin can have adverse effects on the body's digestive system–"

"Wh–what? Toxin?"

"Well, it's more of a paralytic I've been working on. Though I fear I may have given you too much, most don't sleep for eighteen hours."

Eighteen hours. She feels tears welling in a burning sensation against her dry eyes. She was supposed to be headed to Hobie’s apartment right now, letting the desert air flow through freshly cut hair with a new punk record playing over the speakers of her dad’s ‘67 Buick. Instead, she doesn’t even know where she is. 

Her stranger doesn’t appear to be too bothered by her silence. His steps are soft, terrifyingly so as he paces around the room. She hears, rather than sees, his ruffling through cabinets and drawers. Each grind of drawer wheels against metal, the soft closing of a makeshift cupboard as he rummages for food or tools. Maybe he was planning to cut her, take the only thing from her that didn’t hurt, and drag her through the nightmares that plagued her. Maybe he was creating new ones for her to fear. 

“You know, chiquitita ,” he murmurs as if simply discussing plans for the coming weekend. “I didn’t expect you . Si no fuera por el capitán … si no hubiera muerto ese día . You see where things could’ve been different, yes?” 

She huffs, ignoring the pain in her throat as she swallows, wincing at the crack of her voice. “I don’t speak Spanish.” 

Even if she can’t see him, the amusement is evident in his laugh. "Of course, you don't. Why would you? It's not like New York has a large Spanish-speaking community."  

The words seem to swirl in her mind, both far and close as she lies in her cot. He continues to rummage around, noises echoing through the room. New York. Capitán. New York. Capitán. New York. Capitán. The sound of the water running is an accent to the running thoughts in her mind. Still, she can do nothing but groan. There’s something to connect but the pounding in her head refuses to let her. 

“Drink.” Her eyes fly open (when had they closed?) to see the man standing above her. They go wide, staring at his face. 

Capitán. Captain George Stacy. Promoted after his exemplary work in apprehending the leader of the 2099 Crawlers. The same leader was supposed to be rotting in a cell on the other side of the country right now. Instead, he is staring down at her, a bored expression on his face as he holds a small cup to her face. 

She shakes her head, lips pressed together. What is there to describe his face other than disappointment? Suddenly his hand strikes out, slipping between her head and the lumpy mattress. His grip encapsulates her skull, dragging her head upward against her restraints. “Open your mouth or I’ll open it for you.” 

Her hesitation is quickly forgotten as he moves to set the glass down, mouth turning agape in his stranglehold. The corner of his lips upturned, grip renewing on the cup as he proceeds to slowly pour into her waiting mouth.

The water is a fountain after what feels like a month of dehydration. It soothes away the ache of sore flesh, a cooling stream of relief against the effects of her poison. She wants to close her eyes in relief, to savor the feeling, but she can only stare at her captor. Even when he drops her head, letting it fall back into the mattress, she can only stare. Some of the water falls out, splashing over her face and clothes, but she can’t stop tracking his movements. He studies her back, squinting at her in kind. 

“I originally planned to make our dear Georgie suffer,” he states, calm as the sky on a summer afternoon. “Imagine my disappointment to learn that all that is left of him is you .” 

“What are you going to do to me?” 

“That, chiquita, is up to you.” 

He backs away from her then, unfurling his crouched position back to his full height. She watches as he turns and walks to the far wall. Can do nothing but watch as he moves the rusted metal of the door she hadn’t noticed as if it weighed nothing. Watches as he glances over his shoulder back at her. “When you’re hungry, just say so.” 

__________

By her count, there are exactly three spiders in what she now can recognize as a basement of some sort. One hovers on the wall behind her head, just above the sink and cabinetry. The second moves every three-ish minutes toward the light fixture on the ceiling, occasionally dropping to create more of its web. The third is a track star, running between the various areas of the room as it searches. For what, she’s unsure. Is it food? A comfortable space for it to nest? 

The restraints (metal bars across her chest, stomach, wrists, legs, and ankles) remove themselves after hours ( days?) pass. A whirring sound fills the entire room and blocks out any thought she may have had. But she can finally move. Sitting up seems to be just as much a struggle as keeping her eyes open, but she does it anyway.  Her muscles creak and groan as she stretches; whether they’re stiff from their held positions or the last of the poison in her body, she doesn’t know.

“You have an hour before you need to be lying back on that cot,” his voice rings from the sky. “If I have to put you back myself, we will have a problem.” 

She frowns, finally swinging her legs off the mattress. “What if I have to pee?”

“There is the sink or the drain in the middle of the room.”

She frowns, staring at where she thinks the sound is coming from. He can’t be serious. Nonetheless, she stands. Finally, her limbs move – each step releasing the numbing pinpricks in her nerves as they get used to pacing the small room. 

She tries the door first. Swears she can hear the snort of laughter from farther away when she finds it heavy and locked. He’d moved it like paper earlier, but she swears it must weigh at least fifty pounds with how ineffective her pushes are. 

Next, she explores the cabinets. Plastic bowls and plates, silverware locked in a clear box. The glass from earlier upon closer inspection is nothing but plastic either. No soap, no toiletries. Just water. 

“Can I take a shower?!” She calls, not even bothering to try and find a source for the violent man on the other side. “Or brush my teeth?!”

“Not now.” 

She sighs, filling another cup of water. Not that she expected luxury from her captor. Or that he’d proven himself to be particularly magnanimous. 

The hour is up before she realizes it, and she finds herself annoyed with her traitorous body as it moves to the cot and lies back in her position. No matter how she tries to rationalize her thoughts as trying to stay alive, she still finds herself annoyed with herself for folding so easily to his demands.

"Good girl," his voice rings as the bars return to their position on top of her. She squirms, the indescribable panic creeping up her chest. "You're doing so well; maybe tomorrow we'll give you two hours." 

She whimpers and nods. That does sound nice. He was going to keep her, until at least tomorrow. Still, she feels an aching pain within her. It gnaws at her stomach, twisting and turning as her head began to ache again. "I'm hungry."

She's met with silence. For a second she almost believes he's left. Left her alone in this windowless room as punishment for her wrongdoings. What wrongdoings she can’t be sure of. He'd told her to tell him when she was hungry. He wouldn't have done that if he didn't plan on fixing it. 

The door opens in a woosh. He's standing there, a plate of toast and apple slices in hand as he begins to cross the room toward her cot. 

"Food," he says as if she can't see the plate in his hand. He balances it easily as he walks in, dragging a chair behind him. She says nothing until he sits, the food now balanced on his knee. "No funny business, pollito ." 

She nods, this time merely dropping her mouth for him to put the first apple slice in. She relishes the crunch. The explosion of juice in her mouth is somehow the most satisfying thing in the world to her. Happily, she takes the second slice, watching his dark eyes as they follow the working of her jaw. It's the third slice that he switches hands. He rests his newly freed hand on her stomach. Not pressing down, no trailing of his fingers.

"Did you know I once had a wife? A daughter?" he asks as if telling her a bedtime story. She shakes her head, no. He sighs. 

"Well, I did. Paula and Gabrielle." For a moment he looks peaceful, remembering the family he had. “When I took over the 2099, Paula was furious .”

Her brow furrows, her heart rate quickening against her chest. The hand on her stomach flexes, nails sharp even through the thin cotton shirt. 

“She didn’t like the danger of it,” he sighs. The next bite is a piece of toast, so tiny in the hands of a beast. “Said it was too violent to raise our girl in. But I had a plan, you see.” 

His nails dig into her stomach, pressing, scraping, and flinging as she looks at him with fear-filled eyes. But he doesn’t seem perturbed. It’s like she barely registers as real, a simple doll for him to ground himself with. 

“I had stopped the drug pushing. Or at least the major bits. We still had internationals to deal with. Partners who wanted us to finish contracts, things of that nature. But we were protecting our own, right?” 

Her breath catches when she realizes what his hand is doing. It’s only when he finds it, the high waistband of her leggings, that it registers. He makes quick work of her shirt, rucking it up with one hand as he continues his monologue. 

“Then Jess . Fucking Jess was convinced that George was a good one. Someone who could help us . When has the NYPD ever helped anyone?” His anger is palpable, laced into the tone of each word as his hand slips under the band of her pants. Suddenly her hunger is gone, her eyes widening as he continues his exploration southward.  

“W-wait, I –”

“ Callate perrito ,” he hisses. He is no longer looking at her face, attentions drifting southward as his fingers break the seal of the underwear she’d worn. “Did you know it was George who arranged for the shipment to New York? I told the group, no, we didn’t need it. But George infected us. Made us weak.” 

She can only whimper as his finger trails her slit. It stings, the soft laughter he lets free when he finds her dry. Cruel , she thinks. 

“Tell me, chiquita, do you do the same? Infect your friends with your silly ideas of what is right, only to hurt them in the end?” he spits at her. She doesn’t know whether he wants an actual answer, or if he is simply musing aloud. He withdraws his hand, and for a brief second, she believes maybe that is going to be the end of it. He’ll leave, and come back to feed her in the morning without his touch infecting her. 

She never is that lucky. 

He sticks his fingers in his mouth, giving a gentle suck before slipping them down her pants once more. 

“George,” he continues, pressing his index against her clit. Years of fumbling with boys and he’d found hers within a second of touching her. “He was a bastard. Only brought Jess and me to the meetup. Should’ve known it was a trap. But Jess vouched for him. I wonder, chiquita , if you were home alone, sleeping soundly as your father lead us to death?” 

She has a hard time concentrating on his words, a whimper escaping her mouth as he presses tight circles into her clit. Her body is a traitor, responding to his touches in kind as she feels herself warm. It pools and coils in her gut, a serpent of arousal as he pulls from her feelings she’d pushed far away since that day . 

“I wonder if you celebrated the night he put us behind bars.” He leans forward, his lips just on the shell of her ear. “I wonder if while you celebrated, your father knew what his men were doing to the families of the 2099?” 

She cries out as he lets his finger pierce her opening, still far too dry to receive any sort of penetration. 

“That’s how Jess screamed when they beat her. Cruel, no?” he whispers, drawing the finger out just to slip it back in. “They killed her husband next. A raid with no warrant, no discipline still. Not so much as a reprimand.” 

She can only whimper in return. It feels sickening, the pleasure he rips from her with each stroke of his finger inside. Silently, she is grateful for the bar holding her hips down, refusing to allow her to chase the sensation when he pulls out. The wetness between her legs builds, regardless of her wants. 

“Poor cosita linda, so confused? Imagine how Paula felt when the police came to our house. Took her in front of our angel . Then they told her I was gone.” His words are straight venom, a hiss to add to the sting as he forces a second finger inside. “And they kept coming back.”

Tears flow freely now, and she wants to reach out, push him away, or hold his hand to the only place that doesn’t hurt. But he doesn’t release her. His thumb joins the fray, returning the attention to her clit. 

"I think I figured out what to do with you, linda ." His voice is a razor blade, his tongue a serpent's fork, as he reaches out and tasted the salty tears on her cheeks. "And you're going to enjoy it, aren't you?"

"N-no," she hiccups, weakly. "I don't want–"

"It's not about what you want," he murmurs, and the coil tightens inside her, rushing for release. "It's about making things right. A family for a family. A daughter for a wife."

Her teeth bite into her cheek, drawing blood as her body seizes. She feels as her orgasm courses through her entire being, clenching and releasing her nerves from head to toe until the only thing she can focus on is the two fingers coaxing her down.  

"There you go," he whispers as if soothing a balm on a tiny cut. There is silence for only a moment, the only sound in the room her jagged breathing and soft sobs. "Rest now, chiquita , there will be more in the morning."

Hi! Whenever I hear the song 'Christmas Wrapping' by The Waitresses I think of a Bellarke modern AU based on it, with the two of them meeting and almost getting together all through a busy year, and it never working out, and then all sorting itself out at Christmas, and would love to read your take on it. Here's the link to a youtube vid with the lyrics in case you don't know the song: youtube. com/ watch?v=ARq6uYSsUq0 Good luck with all the writing, you're awesome!

hey y’all, due to the realities of “having shit to do over the hoildays,” I’ll be taking a few days off of posting after this! we’ll be back for the last seven fills starting Saturday, 12/29. however you are spending the rest of the week, I hope you enjoy it!

December

“You look miserable.”

Bellamy was zoning out, plotting out the rest of his (fairly grim) evening in his head and ignoring the sounds of the lodge party around him, but the unfamiliar voice startles him out of it and looks down to see a cute blonde wearing a truly hideous sweater and smiling up at him from under a reindeer-ear headband.

“You look shockingly upbeat,” he says without thinking, and she laughs.

“Haven’t you ever heard of Christmas cheer?”

He glances between her mug and her face. “So just a bunch of alcohol?”

“95% Bailey’s, 5% hot chocolate,” she agrees. “With whipped cream on the top.”

He has to smile. “So you’re saying I should be drunker.”

“I don’t know you or your life, but you are at a Christmas party. So, yes, you should be drunker and less sad. Unless you’re a mopey drunk, in which case you should be drunker and more sad.”

He laughs. “One, I’m not really at this party.”

The woman pointedly looks around, then back at him. “Are you astral projecting?”

“My sister works here, so she got me a deal on the room, but I’m not really doing any of the guest stuff. I just wanted coffee. Non-Irish.”

“Why aren’t you doing guest stuff? Just because you got a deal doesn’t make you not a guest. And feel free to tell me to leave you alone any time, I won’t be offended.”

“I’ll just leave once I’ve got my coffee,” he says, with a smile he hopes comes across as friendly and teasing, not smug. The woman is cute and also right: in theory, he really should be taking advantage of all the facilities at the lodge. Not that he’s ever much for parties, especially ugly-sweater parties, but he could at least be learning to ski or something. “I’m in grad school,” he explains. “I’m done for the semester, but I’m trying to get ahead for next semester. And I teach too, so–free time doesn’t really exist right now.”

“What are you studying?”

“Education. It’s a licensing thing, I can teach, but I need a masters’ for–” He waves his hand. “You don’t care.”

“Professional license?” she asks, to his surprise. “Or something like that. It’s a professional license in Massachusetts.”

“That’s where I’m getting mine, yeah.”

“What do you teach?”

“History.”

The woman nods, takes another sip of her drink. “I’m in Boston. I’m not a teacher, but I’m a social worker, so I talk to a lot of teachers about how the kids are doing. Are you done with grading?”

“Mostly,” he says, absent. The crowd clears enough he can get to the drinks table, and he’s glad when she follows him as he finds a mug and fills it up. “You’re in Boston?”

“Yeah.”

He laughs. “Wow, me too. What are the odds?”

“Probably not that bad. I think it’s mostly people from New England here. It’s a pain to get to Vermont.”

“I guess you’re right. What area of the city are you in?”

She’s not that close to him, but it’s not like it’s a huge city. He knows some of the schools she works with, and they have some acquaintances in common. He’s also competent enough to learn that her name is Clarke Griffin, she’s twenty-five, single, and bisexual, and she just keeps getting cuter and drunker. Which is actually kind of a problem, because in order to not feel scuzzy flirting with her, he’d have to get a lot drunker himself, and he still has stuff he really has to get done tonight.

“Are you here through the holiday?” he asks, once he’s stayed for as long as he possibly can without breaking out in anxiety hives.

“No, this is actually my last day. Our office doesn’t close except for Christmas day, so we always need coverage. My friend Raven said time is a construct, so we always go on vacation the week before Christmas to celebrate.”

He nods. “That sucks.”

“I don’t mind. The office is dead and I’m the only one around, it’s kind of nice. I catch up on paperwork and play my music really loud.”

He smiles. “I meant that you’re leaving here and I really can’t stick around tonight. Grading to finish up and papers to submit.”

“So you’re going to start having fun after I leave.”

“Probably not, but I’ll at least have maybe two hours of free time.”

“And I’m guessing it’s not any better once you get home.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Yeah, but I want to ask for your number. But if you never have free time–”

“If I get your number, I can get in touch when I do have free time.”

“Works for me.” They trade phones for the number exchange. “Good luck with the grading.”

“Good luck with not being too hungover tomorrow.”

“I’m good at not getting hungover.” She bites the corner of her mouth. “Do you think there’s any mistletoe around?”

“No idea.”

She leans up and kisses the corner of his mouth, light. “Well,just pretend. Merry Christmas, Bellamy Blake.”

He smiles. “Merry Christmas.”

February

Bellamy has three spring breaks, which is both better and worse than it sounds.

New England has this regional quirk where the K-12 schools have two spring breaks, one in February and one in April, which Bellamy would be fine with, except that colleges don’t do that, so he has a total of three weeks off over the course of the spring, but it’s never actually being totally off. When he’s not teaching, he’s still got grad school, and when grad school is off, he still has to teach.

Still, with teaching off his plate, he has a little more flex time, enough that he thinks he could, potentially, actually get a drink with Clarke.

There’s a part of him that thinks even asking is stupid. He liked Clarke, enjoyed talking to her and would like to do it more, but this year feels like the wrong time to attempt a new friendship, let alone a new romance. But pending getting in touch with her until after the summer semester seems risky, at best. He doesn’t want to miss out on something good just because he regularly realizes weeks have passed without his noticing.

And it’s not as if they’ve been completely out of touch. He was competent enough to text her the day after their first meeting, to make sure she’d made it home okay, and she in turn asked if he’d finished his grading. It hadn’t been a long conversation, but she’d texted him a few weeks later with a history question, and he’d checked in for advice about a student who was acting up. They’re both doing their best to keep the connection alive, tending to that small spark, and that means Bellamy can put in the effort to actually see her, now that he has some time.

Me: I sort of have a break coming up

Clarke: Sort of good for youWhat break?

Me: February break for high schoolI still have grad school stuff, but no teachingSo I probably have some amount of free time

Clarke: Shit

Me: Yeah, I hate some amount of free time too

Clarke: Not thatI’m chaperoning a trip for some of the kids at a group home over spring breakIt’s a great programReally coolI love doing itBut I’m going to be in California all week

Me: That does sound like a great programWhere in California?

Clarke explains the itinerary, where she’s most excited to go, what challenges she’s anticipating, and it’s sort of the whole Clarke problem in a nutshell. Part of him feels like he should take this as a sign it’s not meant to be, that he and Clarke will only ever be ships passing in the night and it’s pointless to fight it. But every time he talks to her, it reminds him of why he does like her, why he wants to figure out how this could work.

And, a week later, she’s texting him pictures of herself on a California vacation, so she wants to figure it out too.

It’s just a matter of time.

April

Me: Do you want to come to my birthday party?

Clarke: Yes, obviouslyBut I’m not going to get carried away and say I’m actually comingI think we might be cursed

Me: That would be a weird curse

Clarke: It would, but I’m not taking any chancesWhen’s your birthday?

Me: April 25

Clarke: Happy early birthdayTurning 30, right?

Me: Somehow, yeah

Clarke: I assume the party isn’t on the 25th

Me: No, on Friday

Clarke: This Friday?

Me: Yeah, I know it’s short noticeI wasn’t planning to do anything but then my friend talked me into it

Clarke: I think I can actually make it!Where and when?

Obviously, Bellamy doesn’t actually think they’re cursed, but he does have some trouble believing that Clarke will actually make it, or ]that it will actually be good if she does. Maybe she’ll show up and he’ll realize he doesn’t like her as much as he thought he did, that he’s too invested in a person he barely knows.

“Maybe you’re just scared because you haven’t had a crush in like five years,” Miller says, dry.

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“You sure?”

Bellamy frowns, trying to remember. “Gina and I dated three years ago, so–”

“Yeah, but she picked you up at a bar. It’s not like you had time to get in your head about it.”

“Clarke picked me up at a ski lodge.”

“And then left and you haven’t seen her for four months. And you’ve been in your head about it the whole time.”

This is probably both true and a large part of his problem. Bellamy’s pretty good at relationships, if he does say so himself, but actually getting intoa relationship is always rocky. Especially when he has a crush. Clarke is the worst of all worlds because it should be a slam dunk, but the universe is conspiring against them.

Right on cue, his phone buzzes with a text from her: So we might actually be cursed.

He groans. “Fuck, I think she’s canceling.”

Miller’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

Clarke: I think I’m still going to make itBut one of my clients has a problem with her foster homeAnd I need to get her out and find somewhere else for her to goSo I’m going to be late to very lateI’ll text when I’m done to make sure you’re still thereSorry

Me: You really don’t have to apologizeGo help the kid I hope everything’s okay

Miller’s watching him. “So?”

“Work emergency. She’s delayed.” He sighs. “Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she just didn’t want to hang out, but she started it, and she keeps saying she wants to make this work.”

“Does she ever invite you to do stuff?”

“Yeah, every couple weeks, but she’s busy too. She works Tuesday to Saturday, so Fridays are usually out, and a lot of weird overtime. Or emergencies, like this.” He smiles with half his mouth, caught between amusement and weariness. “Last time she asked if I wanted to hang out, I was chaperoning a dance. The time before that, I was out of town.”

“So you two really do have the world’s shittiest luck.”

“From what I can tell, yeah. Even if she comes tonight, I have no idea when our schedules are going to work out again.”

“But you’re going to keep trying?”

He takes a drink of his beer, shoots Miller a sidelong glance. “What, you think I shouldn’t?”

“Nah, just surprised. I sort of figured you’d just give up on the whole thing. Decide this was the universe’s way of telling you that it wasn’t meant to be. I probably couldn’t even make fun of you for giving up at this point.”

“I want it to work,” he says. “Or at least give it a fair shot.”

“Huh.” Miller raises his glass. “Then I hope she shows.”

“Yeah, me too.”

She texts at 10:30 to ask if he’ll still be there in fifteen minutes, and he probably wouldn’t be staying much longer left to his own devices, but she’s worth waiting for.

It doesn’t occur to him until she sits down next to him that this is his first time seeing her in person since December. It’s a little disorienting, how rarely they’ve actually been together, relative to how much he likes her.

“Hey, happy birthday,” she says.

“Thanks. Everything okay? With the kid.”

“It’s not great. Her foster dad was making her really uncomfortable. We got her out for the night, but she’ll need a new placement, and we probably have to do an investigation into the family.”

“That sucks.”

“It does, but I’m done with it for the night, so–I’m all yours. Is anyone else still around?”

“I made them leave so they wouldn’t make fun of me.”

“For waiting around for me?”

“For being shitty at flirting.”

She grins, the brightness of it lighting up her whole face. “You don’t really need to do a lot of flirting. I’m pre-picked up.”

“I like flirting.”

“But you’re shitty at it.”

“I’m practicing.”

She laughs. “Well, at least you know it’s going to work.”

“That helps.” He leans in, his own smile huge. “So, do you come here often?”

“First time. But I’m hoping to come back.”

They stay for another two hours and make out in their Lyft, but when Clarke asks if he wants to come up to her place, he shakes his head.

“I’ve got stuff to do tomorrow, and I don’t–” He smiles, a little sheepish. “I don’t know when I’m going to see you again, and I don’t want it to be, like–”

“We sleep together and don’t see each other for another four months?”

“Pretty much.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” She leans over for one more kiss. “Happy birthday, Bellamy.”

“Thanks.”

June

Clarke: So, is summer less busy for you?

Me: Usually yes

Clarke: But we’re cursed?

Me: Twelve-month masters. I have one more summer term to goPlus I’m going on vacation with my sisterBut in theory next fall is going to be better

Clarke: In theory?

Me: I’ll be done with school but we might still be cursedI don’t want to jinx it

Clarke: TrueFingers crossedKeep me posted

August

Me: Good news/bad news

Clarke: Your vacation got canceled so you can hang out with me next week?

Me: Close The AP history teacher just quitAnd they want me to replace herWhich is awesome, I really want to be teaching that classBut she took all her materials and left with no noticeSo I’m going to be scrambling to come up with an entire APUSH curriculum

Clarke: So you’re going to be really busy next semester

Me: I’m going to be really busy next semester

Clarke: I got a promotion so Kind of similar boat thereI was going to tell you whenever or I saw youOr whenever it kept me from seeing youWhichever came first

Me: Definitely the second oneWith our luck

Clarke: Yeah, sounds rightCongrats though, that’s awesome

Me: You tooGlad everything else in our lives is going well

Clarke: It could be worseNothing could be going well

Me: YeahStill, we should at least get drinks to celebrate

Clarke: Probably sometime in October

Me: That sounds rightSee you then

Clarke: It’s a tentative date

October

Clarke: Am I allowed to booty call you?

Bellamy’s buried under a pile of grading, but the sound of the phone pulls his attention back, and he finds it and stares at the message for a long second, trying to do the math in his head. Clarke is at a Halloween party that he was theoretically invited to, but he was just too slammed.

No is an acceptable answer pops up and he smiles.

Me: No, you should definitely come overBooty calls are very welcomeDo you have my address?

Clarke: I actually don’tAre you easily accessible via public transportation

Me: Yeah but on the green lineSo

Clarke: That’s fineI’m in Cambridge, I’ll take the train over and sober upSee you soon

Amazingly, the knowledge that Clarke is coming over doesn’t completely break his concentration. If anything, it actually motivates him more, because he wants to be done and have his full focus on his–whatever Clarke is. His pending girlfriend, maybe. The person he’s definitely going to date when they can just get their acts together.

The person he’s spending tonight with, for sure.

Things go wrong five minutes after she gets on the red line.

Clarke: We’re standing by between Central and Harvard

Me: Did they say why?

Clarke: I assume signal problemIt’s always signal problemAnyway, I might be a while

Me: That’s fineJust let me know when you get here

In theory, it’s about forty minutes on the red line to the green line, but Clarke stands by at every station between Harvard and Park Street, and then her next train goes out of service and Symphony, so it ends up being a full two hours before she arrives, exhausted and still dressed in Hogwarts robes.

“I don’t even want to get laid anymore, I just want to pass out.”

Bellamy smiles, pulling her into his arms. “Yeah, I don’t blame you. Do you want to sleep here?”

“If you don’t mind.”

He kisses her hair. “I wanted to see you, or course I don’t want you to just leave. You want the tour?”

“I assume it’s short.”

“It is. And it ends at the bed.”

It’s nice, having Clarke in his space. He loans her a t-shirt to sleep in and she gets settled while he brushes his teeth and gets ready himself. He hasn’t had anyone sleep over since he and Gina broke up, and it’s nice, the way she curls around him and exhales like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

“This girl was hitting on me at the party,” she murmurs.

“Yeah? Was she cute?”

“She was. But it was like–I have someone. Or I want to have someone, I guess. I don’t know why I’d hook up with someone else when I just want to be with you.”

He pulls her closer, rubs his thumb against her shoulder. “Yeah, I’m glad you came here. I know it’s been–rough.”

“It’s not just you. I’ve been busy and held up and–” She presses her lips against his chest. “It feels like maybe this wasn’t supposed to happen, but I still want it to.”

“Me too. But I have somewhere to be early tomorrow so–”

“So we’ll catch up later.”

He smiles. “Yeah, we always do.”

December

The thing about Christmas is that it is, by mutual communal agreement, a big deal. It’s not one of those holidays where you just sort of celebrate it with whoever you’re with; spending Christmas with someone means something.

So Bellamy figures he’ll ask Clarke if she wants to hang out after the holiday. He knows she’s doing her usual trip with Raven and working the holiday, so he figures he can check in once the dust has settled, maybe make some plans with her for New Year’s.

He never lies about what he’s doing, but he feels weird telling her. It feels so dramatic and stupid, opting out of the holiday, and he doesn’t want her to feel like she has to hang out with him.

Which is also stupid. It’s stupid all the way down.

But somehow, it feels like next year is going to be better. After a year of playing phone tag and trying to make things work, they’re still trying. And he’s getting into the groove of teaching AP and Clarke isn’t going to work on weekends anymore and they might be able to make time to see each other more than once every few months.

It doesn’t feel like he needs to rush it now. They’re already taking their time, so they might as well do it right.

So New Year’s with Clarke. That seems doable. And he’ll relax until then.

She sends a bunch of pictures from her vacation in Florida, which means selfies in a bathing suit and sunglasses, pretty much the best Christmas present ever, and when she gets back and asks what he’s up to, he admits that he’s around and free.

His phone rings immediately. “You’re in Boston doing nothing right now?” she demands.

“I’m playing video games, it’s not nothing.”

There’s a pause. “You don’t want to see me?”

He scrambles up, even though she can’t see him. “Fuck, of course I do.”

“But you weren’t going to tell me you were here?”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“And?”

“I thought it might be weird. I’m not even doing anything, just sitting at home alone. It’s not like–” He sighs. “I didn’t want it to be a big deal.”

“It’s not. Can I come over?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Half of him expects the train to fuck her over again, or for something else to go wrong, but he tidies up a little anyway, just in case she really does show up. He wishes he had a tree, or at least a few lights, but it’s too late for that.

It’s not like Clarke’s coming to see his (lack of) decorations anyway. He’s the big draw.

“I can’t believe it’s only been two months since I saw you,” he teases, when she arrives, but Clarke isn’t fooling around. She yanks him down by the front of his shirt, mouth crashing into his, and Bellamy laughs into the kiss. “Hi.”

“Hi. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” He tucks her hair behind her ear. “I figured we’d just hang out after the holiday.”

“Which is a total waste of two days we could be hanging out. I thought you were hanging out with your sister again.”

“I was going to, but then I realized I don’t have anything to do for vacation.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to ask you to come spend Christmas with me. It seemed weird. We’re not even–are we dating?”

“Not very often.”

“I think this is going to be our year. I’m finally going to have enough time to be a real person. Or at least to be your boyfriend.”

“New Year’s resolution?”

“If there’s one thing I learned this year it’s that you’re worth prioritizing.”

“Yeah?”

“I spent a whole year wishing I was seeing you. I don’t want to do that again.”

“But you wanted to wait until December 26th to see me,” she teases.

“Sorry. Do you want to spend Christmas watching Netflix on my couch and making out? I didn’t get you anything and I’m planning to have mac and cheese for dinner. It’s not going to be glamorous.”

“Am I going to see you again in the next week?”

“As much as you want, yeah. School’s out until after New Year’s, so I’ve got plenty of time.”

“Perfect. I want to get laid.”

He laughs. “I can’t believe you waited a whole year for this. Most people who have just given up by now.”

“It’s like you don’t even know how hot you are.” Her expression softens, and she leans in, giving him a soft kiss. “You’re worth waiting for, Bellamy.”

“And you’re worth making time for.” He tugs her toward the couch, and they settle in, close and warm.

Somehow, it feels like Christmas. No tree, no presents, not even any snow, but warm and happiness and–love, probably. The start of it, at least. Something growing.

“This is going to be our year,” he says, and she smiles.

“Yeah, I think so too.”

My darling @blacktofade‘s birthday was, uh, two months ago, so here I am, ten years late with her birthday present. ILU BB!! If this lil au seems like it should be a full-length fic, that’s because it desperately tried to be, and I had to keep chopping at it to keep it under control, like some kind of rouge hedge on meth. (Now on AO3!)

In the hours after the fight, Stiles drives and drives and drives. At first it’s late, and then it’s so late that it’s early, but he keeps on driving, fueled by anger, mostly in silence, though somewhere around the middle of Pennsylvania he thaws enough to put on some music. He stops at a rest stop just past the Ohio border to get a breakfast sandwich, and as he sits at a dirty table and eats, he thinks: shit.

Doubt begins creeping into his thoughts; maybe he’d been too hasty. Maybe he should have given Jay a chance to explain - but no, no, fuck that. He’d always made it really fucking clear that if their relationship ever got to the point where cheating seemed like a good option, he’d rather just be broken up with and yet look what fucking happened. Stiles scoffs scornfully, chucking the wrapper to his sandwich in a nearby trash can. Two and a half years down the drain.

Refreshed by a new wave of anger, Stiles heads back to his car and gets back on the highway. He manages to wrangle his phone from his pocket and, ignoring the multiple text and missed call notifications, he calls his dad, who picks up with a sigh.

“You know what time it is?” his dad asks, and Stiles looks at his dash guiltily. He’s been so worked up that he forgot about the time difference - or the fact that even on the east coast, it’s early, the sun barely above the horizon.

“Sorry,” Stiles says with a wince. “I’ll call back later.”

“It’s fine,” Dad says with another sigh. “I just got home from an overnight shift. Everything all right? You’re not usually up before ten.”

Stiles opens his mouth and then closes his mouth, startled by the raw ache in his eyes.

“Stiles?” his dad presses, somehow gentle and sharp at the same time; Stiles is worrying him.

“I’m - ” Stiles clears his throat, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Um. How would you feel about me moving home for a while?”

Dad’s silent for a long moment. Stiles keeps his fingers tapping nervously at the steering wheel, eyes on the road. “Where are you?” his dad asks eventually.

“Hit Ohio about an hour ago,” Stiles says, and his father sighs for a third time.

“Guess I got no say in it then, huh?”

“Well - I can probably stay with Scott,” Stiles says anxiously. “If it’s - ”

“I’m messing with you, son,” his dad says gently. “You know you’ve always got a place here.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles says quietly, that ache back in his eyes.

“You want to talk about it?”

“God no,” Stiles says, laughing to keep himself from - something. “Maybe in a few days.”

“All right,” Dad says ambivalently. “Well you keep yourself safe on the road, all right? And if you need money for gas or a place to stay along the way, let me know.”

“I’m fine, Dad,” Stiles says softly. “I’m - I will be fine. But thanks.”

“Just take care of yourself,” his father tells him. “It’s a long drive.”

“I will,” Stiles promises.

He makes it another two hours before he has to cede defeat; somewhere around Toledo, his anger ebbs and his eyes begin to droop, so he pulls off the highway and finds a motel where he can crash. The room smells musty but the bed feels like heaven; he’s asleep before he can think. When he wakes up in the early evening, he’s got more text notifications. Most of them are from Jay, and he sees the beginning of one message - look i’m sorry about what happened but you - before Stiles deletes it angrily; there aren’t any buts here. He might not have been a perfect boyfriend, but if Jay wants to try to blame this on him, he can get fucked. Stiles deletes all his texts, all his voicemails, and, for good measure, blocks his number.

Still. Stiles has to grin when he sees one message is from Scott: your dad says you’re coming back?! to stay?

For now, Stiles texts back. For a while.

Scott replies just as Stiles is crossing into Indiana: Dude we’re throwing you a party the moment you get back. Lydia’s already planning it

Stiles laughs, but it’s the last time he smiles for miles. The drive is long and boring, and without anything - or anyone - there to distract him, he’s left to stew. He keeps replaying everything in his head, remembers the stupid fucking look on Jay’s face when Stiles had picked up his phone and seen the texts from the other guy, remembers the way Jay had kept ricocheting back and forth between apology and anger while Stiles packed his bags. Stiles knows he did the right thing, but he doesn’t remember being single being this...lonely. He keeps seeing shit - a stupid license plate, or some driver makes an asshole move - and he keeps forgetting he’s alone, turns to point it out to Jay - and he’s not there.

The nights are worse. The lumpy motel beds seem huge when he’s got no one to share them with. He starfishes over the sheets and goosebumps break out on his arms, but he’s not cold. He’s furious and he’s hurt, and he knows he did the right thing leaving - he knows - but some small part of him can’t help but feel like he should be back in their cramped apartment, drinking warm beers out on the fire escape. He wonders if it’s him that’s fucked up; if his judgement is that bad.

It’s at least a four-day drive back to California, depending on how long he drives every day, and Stiles briefly entertains the thought that maybe he’ll take his time, see some sights; he hasn’t passed Yellowstone yet, or maybe he could wander down to Las Vegas. He’s spent too long in the car already, though, and he hates the silence. He just wants to go home.

It’s a good decision; when he comes down the Redwood Highway and sees the sign welcoming him to California, it feels like some of the weight comes off his shoulders. The rest of it disappears when he reaches Beacon Hills, and he turns down the street to his dad’s house and sees his dad waiting for him at the end of the driveway, all too casual with his hands in his pockets and pleased smile on his face. Stiles feels like he’s ten again, almost falling out of the car in his haste to get out and throw his arms around his dad.

“Can’t believe that old thing made it across the whole US,” his dad says, hugging him tightly.

“Twice,” Stiles says, his voice muffled against his dad’s shoulder.

“Twice,” Dad agrees gently, and claps him on the back.

Being back in Beacon Hills is strange. Stiles left for college and never really came back, just for a little while every couple of years for the holidays. It’s like living in a strange alternate universe version of the town he grew up in, familiar on the surface but different underneath; new neighbors in the houses on their street, different cars parked in the driveways. Old stores he remembers going to as a kid have closed their doors, standing empty and hollow, or new businesses have taken their place. There are empty lots where he remembers buildings, and buildings where he remembers empty lots. Main Street has traffic lights now, and the woods around the high school have been cut down to make room for more soccer fields.

Stiles seeks out his friends, and they’re familiar but different too. They all still live in town - some of them left for college, sure, but they all migrated back long before Stiles did. They throw him the party Scott promised, and Stiles gets absolutely hammered, and no one talks to him about Jay, and it’s perfect.

Life’s quiet in Beacon Hills, but he doesn’t mind. It’s strange to wake up every morning and not hear the constant grind of traffic and horns and sirens outside his window - takes some getting used to, after so many years in the city - but he likes that in the morning, he can go out onto the back steps with a cup of coffee, and all he can smell is fresh air, not the ever changing miasma that is New York City. Stiles doesn’t have much to do with himself; he called his boss and quit somewhere along the drive back - Ohio, he thinks - and he’s applying to jobs, but there’s not much call for a software engineer with a master’s degree up here, but it doesn’t really matter. This isn’t necessarily a permanent move, and he’s got enough of an emergency fund built up in the bank that he’s in no rush to find something.

Stiles mostly just hangs around the house, or at the station with his dad; he’s pulling a lot of night shifts to cover some gaps in staffing, and since the drive messed up Stiles’ sleep schedule like crazy, he doesn’t mind keeping his dad company. It’s nice to spend time with him, and the station’s one of the few places in town that’s mostly unchanged. There are a few new deputies, and the holding cells have been painted a pleasing shade of blue, but other than that, the biggest change is that the coffee maker in the break room has been replaced with a Keurig machine - life’s just that exciting in their small town.

Sometimes his dad picks him up at the house and they go out on patrol together, driving the quiet streets. If not, Stiles gets into the habit of swinging by the station around eleven with food; it’s quiet then, usually only his dad and someone running the front desk, with a skeleton crew out on patrol.

About a week and a half after returning to Beacon Hills, Stiles heads over to the station with a couple bags of food from the diner - in general, he tries to keep his dad eating as healthy as possible, but he’s all right with a treat once in awhile. He’s too busy trying to juggle the bags and their drinks to pay much attention to what’s going on in the station, so once he’s backed in through the doors, he just heads for his dad’s office, only to hear a sharp voice say, “Hey - hey!”

Stiles comes to a halt with a sigh, and turns to look at the deputy manning the front desk. He must be new, because Stiles has never seen him before, and he definitely would remember if he had, because the deputy is gorgeous, just straight-up angry underwear model gorgeous. Even the way he’s currently glaring at Stiles makes him a little weak in the knees.

Maybe he’s staring, because the deputy snaps his fingers and says, “Can I help you?”

Stiles blinks, a little amused and also now a little annoyed. “Did you just snap your fingers at me?”

The deputy gives him a belligerent look. “You want to answer my question? What are you doing in here?”

Stiles holds up the bags of food. “I’m here to see my dad.”

The deputy looks at the food and then at Stiles, and his frown only deepens. “No you’re not.”

Stiles stares at him, bewildered. “Huh?”

“His son lives on the east coast,” the deputy says suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“I’m Stiles,” Stiles says, almost at a loss for words. “I just moved back. I - you want to see my license? I’m not lying.”

To his relief, his dad appears in the doorway to his office, looking amused. “Everything all right out here?”

“Dad,” Stiles says, aggrieved. “Tell Deputy Diligence here that I’m your son.”

His dad stares at him for so long that Stiles actually begins to feel a little nervous, and then he smiles and says to the deputy, “It’s all right, Hale. He’s mine. He moved back to town while you were on vacation.”

Stiles sticks his tongue out at the deputy, who narrows his eyes at him. “Told you.”

“He’s just doing his job,” Dad says genially. “Stiles, this is Derek Hale. He’s been with us - what, a year now, Derek?”

The deputy nods, his eyes still narrowed at Stiles. “Nice to meet you,” he says sarcastically.

“A pleasure,” Stiles harps back, and his dad rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, will you get in here so I can eat?”

“Fine,” Stiles says, with a showy sigh, sidling into the office.

His father shuts the door behind them, rubbing his hands over his face wearily. “Please don’t start,” he says.

“Start what?” Stiles asks warily, dumping their food on the desk.

“I know you,” Dad says accusingly. “I know you, and that - “ He stabs a finger in the direction of the front desk. “ - was flirting.”

Stiles stares at him, mouth agape. “I - that was not.”

His dad just shakes his head as he drops down into his chair. “I know you,” he repeats.

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes a few times before he hazards, “Well, he is pretty hot - ”

His dad waves his hands around frantically. “No! No. The last thing I need is you getting mixed up with one of my officers. I’ve got rules, Stiles; I don’t mix work with my home life.”

“Yeah, but I don’t work here,” Stiles says with a grin. Dad glares at him, and he throws his hands up in defeat. “I’m kidding. I’m not really ready for anything right now anyway, c’mon.”

His dad eyes him, his face softening. “Everything all right on that front?”

Stiles shrugs, settling down in a chair across the desk from his dad. “Fine as it can be.”

And, thinking about it later, he really is fine. Maybe it’s the biggest sign that there were more issues with his relationship than he realized, because after that initial first week of hurting, Stiles doesn’t miss Jay. He misses intimacy and the feeling of sharing a life with someone, and he misses sex, but he’s weirdly not upset. Angry still, sure, but he’s not sad. He’s certainly not ready to leap into another relationship, but the more he thinks about it, the more he begins to believe that maybe their relationship was over long before he left. He almost feels relieved.

The new deputy is at the station the next couple of times Stiles goes over there, and every time, Stiles says hello, but Deputy Hale never says a word in reply, just narrows his eyes at him until Stiles disappears into his dad’s office. Stiles usually wouldn’t be bothered by someone not liking him, but the station’s basically a second home to him, most of the deputies like family, so he feels like he’s got to make some kind of effort to make amends.

The next time he stops by the station, he’s got coffee for his dad - and for Deputy Hale, too. The deputy glances up at him as he enters the station, but returns his attention to his paperwork, not looking up as Stiles approaches the desk. He carefully sets the coffee down on the counter, and only then does Deputy Hale look up, first at the coffee, then at Stiles, unimpressed.

“What do you want?” he asks, his tone uninviting.

“Peace offering,” Stiles says, nudging the cup a little closer to Deputy Hale’s keyboard. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

Deputy Hale looks at the cup for a long moment. “There sugar in this?”

“It’s black,” Stiles says warily.

“Good,” the deputy says. He looks up at Stiles and a small smile plays around the corners of his mouth. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Stiles says weakly because wow, wow Deputy Hale’s smile has done something to him.

“You know, I knew who you were,” Deputy Hale says, picking up the coffee and taking a slow sip.

Stiles sputters, “What?!”

“He has a picture of you in his office,” Deputy Hale says dryly.

“You’ve been playing me!” Stiles says indignantly.

Deputy Hale just raises his eyebrows as the phone begins to ring. “Your dad’s waiting for you,” he says placidly, as he picks up the receiver.

“I’ve got your number, Hale,” Stiles says, starting to grin as he backs away from the desk. “This isn’t over.”

“Call me Derek,” Deputy Hale says, another faint smile hovering on his lips as he puts the phone to his ear. “Beacon County Sheriff’s Station.”

Stiles is still grinning as he steps into his dad’s office; he tries to hide it, but his dad still notices. His father sighs. “I warned you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says, with as much dignity as he can manage. His dad puts his head in his hands.

Stiles tries to feel bad, but he really doesn’t. He’s bored and he’s lonely - most of his friends in town have normal lives, with jobs and families - and he doesn’t mind hanging out with his dad, but after two weeks of seeing him every night, they’re basically caught up on all the things they’ve missed in each other’s lives, so it’s kind of nice to get to know someone new. Now he knows that Derek’s got a sense of humor, he’s a lot more approachable and honestly, Derek’s like god-tier hot, so Stiles will happily take any opportunity to lean up against the front desk and ogle him a bit.

He takes to stopping by the front desk for a few minutes before he heads in to see his dad, and to his private delight, Derek doesn’t seem to mind; he’ll put aside whatever he’s working on, whether it’s paperwork or a crossword puzzle and give Stiles his attention, which, if Stiles is being honest with himself, feels really fucking good. Derek’s not much of a conversationalist himself, but the person Stiles begins to glean from him is a dry, sarcastic asshole - a man after Stiles’ own heart, basically.

He’s not looking for anything. That’s what Stiles tells his dad, and it’s what he tells Lydia when she offers to set him up with one of her friends, and it’s what he tells himself, too. It’s sort of true; he not looking for anything, and he thinks it’d be kind of insane to throw himself back into dating only a month after breaking up with his cheating boyfriend of two and a half years. He could probably use some time to just be alone. And it’s not like he expects anything from Derek - if they just end up as friends, that’s perfectly fine, it’s just - Stiles is horny, like, a lot, and Derek’s super hot, not to mention he’s the kind of guy Stiles would want to date if, you know, he was hypothetically on the market.

He’s embarrassed because his dad is right; he flirts with Derek. But the thing is - and he’s a little rusty here, so maybe he’s way off base - he thinks Derek’s flirting back. He’s at the station almost every night because, as he explains when Stiles jokingly asks what he’d done to be punished with desk duty, he was struck by a distracted driver during a traffic stop and fractured his pelvis. He’d been out on leave for a month, then on desk duty for another two, but that isn’t important - well, it is, and of course Stiles feels bad for him, but the important thing is that when Derek tells him he should be cleared for full duty within the next few days, and Stiles pretends (hah, pretends) to look disappointed and asks, “So does that mean I don’t get to see you anymore?”, Derek’s cheeks go pink and he says “It doesn’t have to,” and that, that is the important thing.

Of course, that’s when his dad comes out of his office and strongarms Stiles into going out on patrol with him, but things aren’t over. Stiles grins as they drive along the quiet streets. Things are just beginning.

-

Three days later, Stiles is getting out of the shower when he’s hit by a wave of lightheadedness so strong it nearly knocks him on his ass; he catches himself just in time and manages to sit on the edge of the tub, his head swimming. Maybe the shower was too hot, he thinks dazed, and then his palms start to itch and his mouth begins to salivate, and he dives for the toilet in time to heave up what little he’s got in him. When the wave of nausea has passed, Stiles shakily picks himself up and sits back down on the edge of the tub, breathing heavily.

There’s a gentle knock on the door. “Stiles?” Dad asks. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Stiles breathes. He swallows hard and grimaces. “Must be those tacos we got at the gas station last night.”

His father chuckles ruefully. “Can’t say those sat too well with me either. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m okay, Dad,” Stiles assures him, wiping at his mouth. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“All right,” his dad says warily. “I’m going back to bed.”

“I’ll leave the Tums out for you,” Stiles calls, and hears his dad laugh as he heads back down the hall.

That night, Stiles heads into the station with a couple salads - for his dad and Derek, because he’s still feeling the gas station tacos - but he’s disappointed to see another deputy at the front desk. “Hey man,” he says, sidling up to the desk. “Is Hale off tonight?”

“He’s back on patrol duty,” Parrish says, shoving disconsolately at a pile of paperwork. “I sure didn’t miss this.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, dismayed. “Oh. You, uh, want a salad?”

“You don’t want it?” Parrish asks, surprised.

“Nah,” Stiles says, tossing it on the desk. “I’m not hungry.”

He goes and hangs out with his dad for a while, watches him grumpily eat his salad, and it’s fine, but he’s bored. He wanted to talk to Derek - knows he could have made Derek smirk about the gas station tacos. His dad’s bored too; after he’s finished eating, he sighs and says, “It’s quiet here tonight. You want to drive around with me?”

Stiles sighs too. “Nah. I think I’m going to head home and go to bed.” Sleep sounds like a good plan; he’s still not feeling quite right. He stops in to use the bathroom before he leaves, and has to lean up against the wall when he gets hit by another wave of lightheadedness. It eventually passes, but it takes long enough that by the time Stiles comes out of the bathroom, his dad’s already left to go on patrol, and the building’s quiet. He decides to step into the break room to get a glass of water, and he’s startled to find Derek in there, leaning up against the counter. Derek raises his eyebrows when he sees Stiles.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “Your dad’s on patrol.”

“I know; he just left,” Stiles says. “Thought you were too.”

Derek nods toward the coffee maker. “I stopped in for a break.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “I was just heading out too - unless you want some company?”

He tries not to sound too earnest, but Derek doesn’t seem to mind; he gives Stiles a faint smile and says, “I wouldn’t say no.”

Stiles grins, buoyed, and steps up to the sink to grab the glass of water he originally stopped in for. “How’s it feel?” he asks as he fills a glass from the faucet. “Being back on patrol?”

“Not as boring as being here – present company excluded,” Derek says, picking up his cup of coffee. “I’m rusty. I’ve forgotten what my cop voice sounds like.”

“What, it’s not the voice you used when you accused me of impersonating myself?” Stiles teases.

Derek snorts and sets down his cup of coffee. He straightens, casually readjusting his utility belt, and it’s like something in him shifts; suddenly, he’s a cop, a tightness to his body that wasn’t there before. It occurs to Stiles that he’s never seen Derek out from behind the front desk. He swallows, struck by how even though they’re almost the same height, Derek’s wider in the shoulders, just the right amount of muscle on him. “What are you doing back here?” Derek asks softly, taking a step closer. There’s a note in his voice Stiles has heard before, plenty of times, when he’s watched his dad’s talk to suspects, but hearing it from Derek makes his whole body warm. “Civilians aren’t supposed to go past the lobby.”

Stiles swallows again. “But I don’t count, right?”

“You don’t count,” Derek confirms, dropping the cop voice. He’s still close. Stiles feels like a planet on a collision course with the sun.

“That’s - you got the voice down,” Stiles says, his eyes widening as Derek step in even closer. “Uh, do - do you want - ”

“Yeah,” Derek breathes, the space between them suddenly gone, their mouths meeting. Stiles is lightheaded again and it’s not the gas station tacos; it’s the feeling of a body pressed up against his, Derek’s hands curled against his waist, his mouth against Stiles’, hot, hot. Stiles folds his arms around Derek’s neck, his whole body thrumming. Derek smells just as good as Stiles imagined he would, and he’s delighted to discover that it’s not the heady, spicy alpha scent he expected, but the softer, richer scent of a beta, the one that makes his toes curl. He breathes it in deeply, tilts his head back as Derek kisses along his jaw, teeth grazing his skin. He’s already getting hard, starved for touch, for any kind of positive attention - and the realization is enough to bring him crashing back down, make him remember where they are.

He pushes at Derek’s shoulders until Derek pulls back, his brow creasing. “This is - we’re in the station,” Stiles hisses.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Derek murmurs. “No one’s going to see us.”

“What about Parrish?”

“If he notices, he’s not going to say anything,” Derek says. “Do you want to stop?”

Stiles chews at his lip for a moment, but he already knows the answer. “Nah,” he admits with a grin, and Derek smiles in response. He leans in to kiss Stiles again, slower and sweeter this time, his hands sliding up and down Stiles’ sides; it’s oddly soothing. They kiss and kiss until Stiles’ lips begin to feel raw from rubbing up against Derek’s stubble, and like he knows Stiles needs a break, Derek tilts his head and moves to Stiles’ neck, his kisses growing wetter, breathier. Stiles exhales shakily, pressing into Derek’s touch, his hips rising without him realizing it - and he can feel Derek’s hard too.

Stiles exhales again and slips his hand between them, cupping Derek’s dick through the rough material of his uniform, and Derek makes a choked off noise against his neck, hips jolting into Stiles’ touch. And - god, Stiles wants him; he wants Derek to bend him over one of the break room tables and fuck him until he can’t breathe - but as horny as he is, he doesn’t think he has the balls to do it in the station. He just - he curls his fingers tighter, eliciting another muffled groan from Derek. Maybe he doesn’t have the balls to go all the way, but he’s willing to do something.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Can I blow you?”

Derek pulls back to stare at him, wide-eyed, and Stiles, staring back at him, can only think about how gorgeous his hazel eyes are. “You - you want to?”

“Mmhm,” Stiles nods, licking his lips pointedly.

Derek’s gaze flickers between his eyes and his mouth and - briefly - to the break room door and then he nods slowly. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Stiles grins, hands going for Derek’s waist as he sinks to his knees, carefully setting his utility belt on the floor. “Trust me - this isn’t a mouth you want to miss.”

“Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Derek says sarcastically, though he looks a little nervous when he says it, stomach muscles tightening as Stiles unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants.

“Promise I won’t bite,” Stiles says, curling his fingers in the waistband of Derek’s pants and underwear. He pulls them down slowly, making sure Derek’s got plenty of time to stop him if he changes his mind, but Derek just exhales. Stiles is a little nervous too, mostly because he’s worried about his dad bursting in at any moment. He shakes his head a little and focuses on the task at hand, which is a really nice dick. He really wants to get his mouth on it, but Derek’s not quite fully erect, so Stiles curls his hand around him, jerking him off slowly. He watches Derek as he does, reveling in the way his lips part and his breath goes a little shaky, the way his eyelashes flutter like he’s fighting the urge to close his eyes. Stiles keeps watching him as he wets his lips and takes him into his mouth, and he grins at the way Derek groans softly.

“I’m not going to last very long,” Derek admits, closing his eyes.

Stiles shrugs his shoulders, pulling back to say, “Doesn’t matter, as long as you have a good time.”

Derek huffs out a weak laugh. “That’s already a guarantee.”

Stiles grins again before getting back on track, sinking his mouth down on Derek’s dick, just shallow little pulls at first, then deeper, testing how far he can go. He’s pleased to report that he can still deepthroat with the best of them, taking Derek in all the way to the base, the tip of his nose just touching Derek’s abdomen.

“Shit, Stiles,” Derek breathes shakily, one of his hands touching Stiles’ cheek then, tentatively, his throat.

Stiles pulls off him slowly, and grins up at Derek, lips slick with spit. “Told you,” he says cheekily.

Getting Derek to come is almost too easy; Stiles is nothing if not good at observation, and he tracks the different ways Derek reacts to the things he does. He likes the deepthroating, but if the way his breathing picks up when Stiles is blowing him shallow and fast is any sign, he likes that even more. Maybe he’s thinking about fucking Stiles, imagining his ass instead of his mouth; he’s certainly not alone in that, because Stiles is thinking about it too. He pulls at Derek’s hips, guiding him until he’s thrusting into Stiles’ mouth, holding his head in place with a gentle hand, and it feels so fucking good Stiles has to close his eyes and rub at the bulge in his jeans. He feels it when Derek’s getting close, because his thrusts falter, uncertain.

“I’m - where?” Derek pants. “Where should I - ”

“My face,” Stiles groans. “Fuck, please - “

“Shh,” Derek hisses. He takes a hold of himself, jerking himself off with quick, ruthless movements, breathing heavily between clenched teeth. Stiles gazes up at him, so turned on he feels like he’s on fire. Derek comes with a choked-off moan, striping Stiles’ mouth and cheek with come, and Stiles shudders with delight, gripping at his dick so he won’t come just yet.

Derek stands still for a moment after he’s finished, his chest heaving - then he lunges for Stiles, hauling him to his feet and smashing their mouths together regardless of the mess he’s left on Stiles’ face. His hands make quick work of Stiles’ pants, shoving them down to his thighs. Stiles nearly sobs when Derek gets his hand around his dick, hips jolting up into his grasp. Derek makes quick work of him, jerking him off until Stiles buries his face against Derek’s neck and comes with a muffled groan, legs shaking.

Derek holds him steady for what seems like hours, until Stiles’ heart stops racing and his legs feel steady again. “Holy shit,” Stiles mutters against Derek’s throat. Derek laughs quietly, taking a step back so he can look at Stiles, eyes lingering on the come still on his face.

“You sure are something,” Derek tells him quietly, pulling his pants and underwear back up.

Stiles grins weakly as he does the same. “Is that a good thing?”

“I think so,” Derek replies, smiling faintly.

Still grinning, Stiles turns to the sink, wetting a paper towel so he can clean his face off. Behind him, Derek picks his utility belt up off the floor and buckles it back around his waist. “Do you want a ride home?” Derek asks.

“I drove,” Stiles says, rubbing the paper towel over his face. “Thanks though.” He lifts his head. “All good?”

Derek snorts and takes the towel from him, dabbing at his forehead. “I made a mess.”

“I don’t mind,” Stiles says. He hesitates, watching Derek throw the paper towel into the trash, before offering, “If you ever get bored while you’re out on patrol, you could stop by the house.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “To play board games?”

Stiles grins. “Some kind of game, for sure.”

Derek laughs softly. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do. I can’t make any promises - we do get busy sometimes.”

“Really?” Stiles questions sarcastically. He gestures between the two of them. “What was this, then?”

Derek smirks at him. “I got busy.”

Stiles tilts his head back and laughs. “Touché.”

They leave the station together - Parrish, at the front desk, waves them out; if he heard anything, he’s not saying - and head for their respective cars. Stiles grins as he drives out of the parking lot; he feels a little better knowing he’s still got game after two and a half years. It feels pretty good to feel desirable.

-

In the morning, while Stiles is brushing his teeth for a second time after having thrown up again - apparently the gas station tacos aren’t done with him yet - it occurs to him that if he’s going to start dating again - or at the very least, sleeping around, he should probably get an STD check because he’s got no idea how many other people Jay slept with while they were together, or if he was safe while he did it. He’s struck by a sudden flash of angry, and glares at his phone as if to dare Jay to try and call again, but the screen’s blank because he blocked Jay’s number, and there’s nothing from Derek because Stiles didn’t give him his number, just told him to show up to his house when he was free at an unspecified moment in time, like they’re in fucking middle school.

Stiles tsks and spits out his toothpaste. Not that there’s anything between them, he amends thoughtfully. He’s not even going to consider trying to figure out what they’re doing until they’ve actually done something. He’s fine with casual, he’s fine with just sex  - hell, he’s fine with nothing. He just doesn’t want to worry about anything right now, except making sure he’s clean, maybe. And also, his job interview because hey, he’s got one of those this morning.

It’s just a phone interview, but he still dresses nicely in case they change their minds and want to Skype, and he makes himself sit at the dining room table for the whole thing so he won’t be distracted. It goes well; Stiles ends the call feeling pretty confident, and he lets that positive momentum get him out of the house and over to the walk-in clinic to get tested before he can start feeling bad about it - and he shouldn’t feel bad, because he’s not the one who did anything wrong. He’s just being a responsible adult. It’s easy; he talks briefly to a doctor, pees in a cup, they tell him they should have results in a few days, and that’s it.

That night, Stiles forgoes visiting his dad at the station, waiting around a little nervously at the house to see if Derek shows up. He ends up falling asleep on the couch; when he wakes up, it’s to his dad coming through the front door, early morning light filtering into the living room. Stiles tries not to be disappointed; they probably had a busy night - or Derek just didn’t want to come. He knows it was wildly out of line to even suggest it. He’s got more important things to worry about, like the results of his job interview. And his STD test. Every buzz of his phone has him grabbing it anxiously, but it’s mostly just messages from Scott; he keeps sending dog memes. Stiles finds them oddly soothing.

Derek doesn’t show up that night, or the next, so Stiles gives up; he’s got the message. Derek’s not interested, or maybe not interested enough to risk his job by hooking up with him while he’s on duty. Don’t worry man, we’ll get you laid, Scott texts, and then he sends Stiles a photo of a dog that ate a bumblebee. Stiles is still laughing at it when his phone begins to ring - not another text from Scott, but an actual phone call from a local number - and he sobers immediately, clearing his throat before he answers.

“Hello?”

“Stiles Stilinski?” says a female voice on the other end of the line. “This is Dr. Boyer from the Beacon City Walk-In Clinic. Is this a good time to talk?”

To talk? Stiles thinks uneasily, a pit opening in the bottom of his stomach. If it were a simple all clear, she’d wouldn’t have said that, right? “Sure,” he says cautiously. “Is - am I - is everything all right?”

“Your STD panel came back clean,” the doctor tells him. “Nothing to worry about there. However - “ Stiles closes his eyes, holding his breath. “ - as part of our testing process, we also run a pregnancy test, and that test did come back positive.”

Stiles’ eyes fly open. “What?!” he croaks.

“If you’d like to schedule a blood test to be sure, that’s something we can set up for you,” the doctor says, in a placid tone Stiles deems to be way too calm for him to handle right now. “Your regular doctor could also - “

He hangs up on her. He hangs up and then for good measure throws his phone across his bedroom. It hits the wall and falls behind his dresser and then Stiles is standing in the middle of the room with his chest rapidly rising and falling, breathing frantically through his nose. This isn’t happening, he thinks. He doesn’t even know how - when was his last heat? When was the last time he’d had sex? How had this happened?

There’s a gentle knock on his door and then his dad sticks his head into the room, hair ruffled from sleep. “You okay?” he asks, yawning. “Heard a bang.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles says hurriedly, because he can’t handle this, and he definitely can’t have his dad see him break down. “Go back to bed.”

HIs dad grunts and disappears back down the hallway. Stiles waits twenty, thirty seconds before he goes flying out of his room and down the stairs, then out the backyard and into the trees, running until he can’t see any houses, and then he drops onto the damp ground and buries his head against his knees. He takes big, deep breaths, inhaling the smell of leaves and wet earth until his heart stops thundering in his ears.

Stiles flops back against the ground and stares up at the sky while he tries to work things through in his head. It has to be Jay’s; Stiles hasn’t been with anyone else, except Derek, and no baby could have come out of that encounter. His last heat was...Stiles counts on his fingers and curses. Eight weeks ago - two weeks before he left New York - and with everything going on, he hadn’t noticed that it was at least two weeks late. Fuck. As for the how - they’d played it safe...most of the time. Maybe a slip up here or there when they were drunk. Maybe a broken condom. Stiles scrubs his hands over his face. Double fuck. He needs to talk to someone about this.

“You’ve got a leaf in your hair,” Scott says later, at the bar.

Stiles isn’t drinking; he’s morosely chewing on the straw to his soda, though at Scott’s comment he scrubs a hand through his hair and feels a leaf crunch under his fingers. He sighs. “I’m a mess.”

“Aw, no way, man,” Scott says cheerfully, bumping his shoulder against Stiles’. “It’s a baby, not a life sentence.”

Stiles drags his hands down his face. “Do you not understand how kids work?” he asks despairingly. “They do tend to stick around for life, unless you seriously fuck something up.”

“Well, I mean, they don’t have to,” Scott says. “You could always put it up for adoption.”

Stiles sighs again. “I dunno, man.”

Scott takes a long swig of his beer and then watches Stiles for a moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Okay,” he says abruptly. “What are you thinking - like, right now? This isn’t a commitment, just - tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I can’t keep it,” Stiles says. “I live at my dad’s house - I don’t even have a job.”

“So let’s say you get a job,” Scott says. “What then? Do you keep it?”

“I - I don’t know,” Stiles says, confused. He shouldn’t, he doesn’t think; even if he finds a job, he’s still living with his dad, and Jay’s not exactly in the picture. Stiles had tried calling him; after his cool-down in the woods, he’d reluctantly unblocked Jay’s number and tried, but the call went straight to voicemail - Jay’s blocked him.

“Okay, okay,” Scott says, waving his hands around. “Step back. Big picture. Do you want kids?”

“I mean - yeah,” Stiles says. “But I always thought I’d be married first. I don’t really want to be a single dad.”

“Your dad’s a single dad,” Scott points out.

“Yeah, but - my mom was there for the first decade,” Stiles says, his throat tight. “She was there for all the formative stuff.”

Scott waves a hand dismissively. “My dad missed most of that, and I turned out all right, didn’t I?”

Stiles grins reluctantly. “Tell me the truth,” he says. “You just want me to have a kid so our kids can be best friends.”

“I’m not gonna lie to you, man,” Scott says with a grin. “That’s definitely on my mind.” He takes another swig of his beer and adds, a little more seriously, “Seriously, though, whatever you choose to do, I’m here for you. We all are.”

“Thanks, dude,” Stiles says quietly.

“And you’re not going to stay single,” Scott says. “I mean, unless you want to, but you’re hot and smart - people love you. And if you have a kid, they’ll love your kid, too.”

Stiles snorts. “Why don’t you marry me, if you love me so much?”

“Already taken,” Scott says sadly, slinging an arm around Stiles’ shoulder. “Sorry man. But hey - you only broke up with Jay like a month ago and you already hooked up with that deputy. Maybe he’ll take you off the market.”

“Nah,” Stiles sighs. “I don’t think anything’s going to come out of that.”

Stiles leaves the bar without any real decisions made, but he feels a little better all the same. Scott’s got that kind of effect on him; he puts out so much confidence and goodwill that he can’t help but feel that everything’s going to be all right - and maybe it will.

It’s still relatively early when he gets home, and he briefly entertains the idea of going to see his dad at the station, but seeing as he was just out, as well as the fact that his dad can read him like a book, he decides against it, and collapses on the couch instead. He tries to distract himself with television, but his thoughts keep drifting and he really doesn’t want to be thinking right now.

A car pulls into the driveway, but Stiles doesn’t really notice; the deep hum of the engine sounds like his dad’s cruiser, and it’s not unheard of for his dad to stop by during a shift if he forgot something. The sound of a car door closing doesn’t catch his attention, but the knock on the door sure does. Stiles straightens warily, then slowly lifts himself off the couch and heads for the door. He peers through the peephole and his jaw drops; it’s Derek.

Stiles hurriedly unlocks the front door and pulls it open. “Hi,” Stiles says, and Derek offers him a small smile. “I, um, I didn’t think you’d show.”

“It’s been busy,” Derek says. “And I had to work up the nerve.” He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder at the quiet street. “Does your offer still stand?”

Stiles begins to grin. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah - I could use a distraction tonight. Come in.”

They don’t even make it upstairs. Many years ago, Stiles shoved a bottle of lube deep within the couch in case he felt like jerking off and was too lazy to go upstairs, which means he doesn’t even have to think when Derek guides him down onto the couch. He likes the way Derek strips him down piece by piece, methodical and unrushed, but with purpose. Derek doesn’t fully strip - and Stiles doesn’t blame him for that; he’s on the job, after all - but he leaves his utility belt and radio on the coffee table.

Stiles has never considered himself to have a thing for uniforms, because then he has to think about his dad and that’s not cool, but there’s something about the way the muscles in Derek’s arms flex against his shirt that gets Stiles’ heart racing. Although to be fair, it could also have something to do with the way Derek works him open in the same steady way he’d stripped Stiles, like this is just another part of his job - but he’s also breathing fast through his mouth, eyes flickering between his hand and Stiles’ face, constantly checking on him. It feels so good to feel wanted, like he can tell by the way Derek’s breathing that he’s trying not to go too fast, and being wanted makes Stiles want.

“Come on,” he breathes, because he can’t stand waiting, and he’ll be damned if the way Derek flushes as he fumbles with his belt in his hurry to get his pants down isn’t endearing. Stiles has to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from speaking when Derek leans over and pulls a condom out of one of the pouches on his utility belt because he wants to say it doesn’t matter, but that’s a road he wanted to avoid going down tonight.

Before he can start thinking about it, though, Derek’s kneeling there in front of him, one hand under Stiles’ knee, the other on his dick. He looks at Stiles for affirmation and Stiles nods, his body tight with anticipation. Derek pushes into him slowly, fingers digging into his thigh, and Stiles has to close his eyes, his head falling back as he sighs with pleasure; Derek’s dick’s just as nice as he’s daydreamed it’d be. Derek moves slowly at first, thrusting in and out of Stiles smoothly, but he falters when Stiles hooks his legs around Derek’s hips and opens his eyes, grinning faintly.

“That’s not really what you came here for, is it?” he asks.

Derek’s flush deepens, and he doesn’t say anything, but he puts his hands on Stiles’ hips and now they’re fucking, Derek driving into him hard and fast. Stiles groans happily, tugging at Derek’s shoulders until he leans down so they can kiss. This is exactly the kind of distraction he needed, and it’s just nice to get fucked stupid. Derek’s different from Jay in just about every way - his build, his smell, the way he fucks - and Stiles needs something new right now. Derek’s perfect.

“This is perfect,” he murmurs out loud, and he grins, pleased, at the way Derek’s hips stutter. He’s sensitive; Stiles likes that. He slips a hand between them, jerking himself off to that sweet flush on Derek’s face.

Derek breathes against his cheek, open-mouthed and a little frantic. “I’m - I’m going to come - “ he hisses.

“So come,” Stiles says. He grins at Derek, hand moving faster on his dick. “Do it for me.”

Derek exhales harshly, pining Stiles’ hips to the couch and punching into him, the sound of their skin striking loud in the quiet room. At the last moment, Derek sets his teeth against Stiles’ shoulder and he doesn’t bite down, it’s not a mating bite, but Stiles can feel the way his jaw flexes against his skin, and the shock of such intimacy is enough to send him over the edge into orgasm, his spine arching, pressing him harder against Derek’s teeth.

When that first glorious wave of pleasure passes, Stiles collapses back against the couch, boneless, small shudders of delight running through him. Derek half falls on top of him, catching himself by his elbows, and for a long moment they just look at each other, and it’s weird, but it’s not.

“That was good,” Stiles tells Derek. “Really good.”

Derek looks both pleased and self-conscious. “I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Stiles says. He looks down at their bodies, and the damp patches on Derek’s shirt from Stiles’ come. “Shoulda taken your shirt off.”

Derek follows his gaze and sighs dramatically, carefully shifting back onto his knees, Stiles grimacing at the loss of his dick and how gross he suddenly feels. “Next time,” Derek says, and then he seems to catch himself, looking at Stiles carefully. “If you want a next time.”

“Dude, yes,” Stiles says enthusiastically. Derek’s shoulders relax in relief. He gets to his feet, tucking himself back into his pants and examining his shirt ruefully. “You want to borrow one of my dad’s?” Stiles offers, watching him. “He’s got plenty.”

“It’ll be fine,” Derek says, still looking at his shirt. “I’ll be alone in my cruiser for most of my shift.” He glances up and catches Stiles touching the spot on his shoulder where Derek had not...bitten him, exactly, but it tingles. “Oh,” Derek says, looking embarrassed. “That - I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Stiles says, bending over to locate his clothes. “I liked it.”

“Oh,” Derek says, taken aback. “I’ll - remember that.”

Stiles slips on his boxers and looks up at him with a grin. “Good. Hey - you want a sandwich for the road?”

“Oh,” Derek says again. “I - “ On the coffee table between them, his radio crackles to life, the night dispatcher sounding out a code. “I should go,” he says reluctantly. “Can I...come back? Tomorrow, if I don’t get too busy?”

Stiles’ grin widens. “I’ll be here.”

Sex with Derek is the distraction Stiles needed it to be; he sleeps great that night, well enough that he doesn’t panic in the morning when he remembers that he’s pregnant. Even though he throws up in the shower - and the gas station tacos were consumed so long ago now that he knows they’re not to blame - he feels weirdly calm. He doesn’t really think about it; he lets it sit at the back of his mind and percolate while he adjusts to the idea of it, and focuses on finding a job instead. It works; two days later, he gets a job offer from the place he had the phone interview with, and he accepts. It’s nothing big, and it’s nothing challenging, but that doesn’t really matter to him right now. Derek comes over almost every night for two weeks straight, and Stiles just enjoys how free he feels.

Eventually, though, he has to make a decision about the baby. He’s been behaving himself since he found out - no alcohol, no coffee; he goes to his old family doctor and gets a second opinion, just to be sure. HIs doctor confirms it’s true - not that Stiles is really surprised, considering how much he’s been throwing up - but hearing it again out loud forces him to face the music: he’s got to make up his mind.

When he does think about it, it’s a surprise to him that it’s not black and white. Sure, he panicked when he first found out, and his first instinct was get it out of me, but now...he’s not sure. Logically, he knows this probably isn’t the best time to do it, and if he were still with Jay, it’d be one thing - but at the same time, part of him thinks why not? Yeah, he’s single, but his new job pays well, and the cost of living is a heck of a lot cheaper here than it is in New York City.

Maybe it’s the changing hormones or something, but Stiles feels weirdly zen about the whole situation. He always knew he’d have kids, so why not now? It’s not like he’s a teenager without any options; he’s got a good job and a support system, and half his friends have kids already. Stiles doesn’t rush into a decision, but the more he thinks about it, the more he finds himself leaning toward yes. There’s one morning where he wakes up and kills a little time daydreaming about what it’ll be like when his pregnancy’s further along - and it hits him: he’s already decided. This is happening.

Stiles exhales quietly and rolls onto his stomach, shoving his face into his pillow. He’s going to do it. Then he thinks no, no, this is crazy, right? It is crazy, but he wants this baby. He’s excited about this baby, god help him.

Stiles exhales again when he realizes that he’s going to have to tell his dad about this. No one knows yet except for Scott, and he’s put off telling his dad because he knows what his dad’s reaction’s going to be, and he wanted to come to a decision on his own. Dad’s not going to be happy with him; he’s always been very proud of Stiles for getting an education and building a career, and Stiles knows he’s going to think a baby’s going to derail all of that, but honestly, Stiles doesn’t think it will. For a little while, maybe, but Stiles fully plans on keeping his life on track, especially if he’s going to be doing this alone.

Still, he’s got to tell his dad; the truth’s going to come out eventually anyway, especially when he gets to the point where he literally won’t be able to hide it, so he might as well get it over early on and give his dad a chance to - hopefully - get over it. He could even do it right now - he can hear his dad taking a shower, but he’s going to be heading to bed soon, and Stiles would rather do it when he’s rested. He’ll do it tonight, he decides; he’ll stop by the station with junk food to soften the blow, and tell him then, and then he can bounce if his dad gets too upset. It’ll be fine, though...he hopes.

There’s another person Stiles knows he needs to tell, as reluctant as he is to make contact: Jay. It’s only right; even if what Jay did to him was fucked up, he’s still the dad, and Stiles doesn’t want him to find out years down the road and make a big deal of it. Stiles isn’t sure how he’s going to react - they once had a talk about kids, but it was in a vague, maybe someday way that wasn’t really conclusive. Jay’s still got his number blocked - Stiles has tried calling a couple times - but he’s convinced a friend of theirs to tell Jay to call him, and Jay does, while he’s sitting at work.

Stiles curses softly when he sees Jay’s number on his screen, but he steps out into the stairwell for some privacy and takes a deep breath before he puts to the phone to his ear. He’s not really ready for this; he’s still angry and hurt at what Jay did, but this needs to be done. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Jay says quietly, and the sound of his voice makes Stiles - he doesn’t know how to feel.

“Hi,” Stiles repeats tightly. He feels hot all over. He draws in a deep breath, but before he can speak, Jay gets there first.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “What I did was stupid and selfish, and I’m sorry.”

Stiles closes his eyes, biting back the anger that swells in his chest. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says crisply.

“It’s not?” Jay asks, sounding startled. “But - ”

“We’re done,” Stiles hisses. “I don’t give a shit if you’re sorry or not. If it makes you sleep better at night - fine, whatever, but I don’t care.” He takes a deep breath and continues, “I just wanted you to know I’m pregnant.”

“What?” Jay exclaims. “Are you serious? Is this - do you want to get back together or something, because I - “

“Fuck no!” Stiles snaps, then looks up and down the stairs guiltily. He says, voice lower, “I don’t ever want to see you again. I don’t want anything from you - I just wanted to give you the chance to decide if you want to be involved or not.”

“Oh,” Jay says blankly. “I - I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Stiles says irritably. “Just - think about it.” And he hangs up, his heart beating fast in his chest. He feels shaken; already, his time on the east coast had begun to feel like a lifetime ago, but hearing Jay’s voice had brought it all crashing back. He’s already regretting calling; what if Jay does want to be involved? What if he decides he wants custody? How would that work, with them on opposite sides of the country?

Stop it, he tells himself sternly. He hasn’t even had the baby yet; they’ll figure it out. He’s got bigger, more local things to worry about, like how he’s going to casually bring it up to his dad. Hamburgers are the best way to soften the blow, he decides; his dad would kill for a good hamburger, especially now that Stiles is back home and can monitor how much red meat he’s consuming, so that’s definitely the way to go. Maybe Dad will be so psyched about the burger that he won’t even mind that Stiles is pregnant.

When Stiles arrives at the station later that evening, he can’t help but look around for Derek. He’s nowhere in sight, though, and the parking lot’s mostly empty. He nods at the deputy on duty behind the front desk and heads for his dad’s office.

“What’s this for?” his dad asks suspiciously, when Stiles dumps the bag of food on his desk.

Stiles deflates a little; maybe his plan won’t work. “Can’t I treat my old man?”

Dad opens the bag and peers inside. “Not with - “ He inhales deeply. “Sweet potato fries. I thought I wasn’t allowed to have anything that’s touched vegetable oil.”

“Well, we all need a treat sometimes,” Stiles says defensively.

His father pulls out a hamburger and unwraps it, and there’s no denying the way his face lights up. “You’re up to something,” he says, and takes a big bite of hamburger, closing his eyes blissfully as he chews. When he’s swallowed, he waves the burger at Stiles and says, “What’s up with you? You’ve been more fidgety than usual lately.”

Stiles, who’d been anxiously jiggling his leg up and down, stills guiltily. “Nothing,” he says, trying to stall.

His dad shakes his head, taking another bite of hamburger. “Uh uh,” he says. “Spill.”

Stiles twists his mouth from side to side as he tries to work up the nerve. “Well, I…” He sighs. “I’m, uh, pregnant, Dad.”

His father stops chewing. He sets down the hamburger and then stares at Stiles, who shifts around in his chair uneasily. He looks down at his desk and then out to the lobby, gaze distant. He runs his hand over his hair and then looks at Stiles again. “Pregnant?”

Stiles nods nervously. “Yeah. I’m keeping it.”

“Pregnant,” his dad says again, almost to himself, thoughtful. “Huh.”

Stiles is confused - and a little concerned; this isn’t the reaction he expected. “Dad?” he says cautiously. “Did I break you?”

Dad shakes his head a little. “No, no,” he says. “I just, uh, wasn’t expecting that, I guess.” He considers his hamburger for a moment, brow furrowed. “It’s Jay’s?”

Stiles nods again.

“He knows?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re keeping it?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” Dad squints at him. “Really?”

“Yes,” Stiles says defensively, a little irritated.

“Huh,” his dad says again. “Well - congratulations.”

Stiles blinks. “That’s it?”

His father frowns. “What do you want me to say?”

“I thought you’d, I dunno, try to talk me out of it.”

“You’re a grown man,” Dad says patiently. “You get to make your own decisions. Do you want me to try and talk you out of it?”

“No,” Stiles says. “I mean - no.”

“Then come here,” his dad says, getting to his feet and holding out his arms. Stiles gladly gets up and goes in for a hug. “Weirdest thing,” his dad says, patting Stiles’ back. “Your mom told me here too.”

“What, about me?” Stiles asks, surprised.

His dad nods. “Yep. Not in this office - I wasn’t sheriff yet - but she brought me lunch and told me in the break room.” He smiles. “Must be a family tradition.”

They settle back in their seats, but Stiles still eyes his dad with some surprise and trepidation. “You’re really okay with this?” he asks. “You’re not worried about me?”

Dad sighs. “Son, I worry about you every day - but I’m a parent; that’s what I do. You’re your own person now; if you’ve thought about this and decided it’s what you want, then I’ll support you.”

Stiles blinks, his throat unexpectedly tight. “Thanks, Dad.”

His dad smiles as he picks his hamburger back up. “I do reserve the right to laugh at you when your kid turns out to be as much of a hellion as you were.”

Stiles snorts. “Fair enough.”

He leaves later feeling lighter; his dad having his back is an unexpected but very much appreciated turn of events, and knowing that he’s going to be there for Stiles makes the thought of doing this so much easier.  He’s still sure his dad isn’t as cool with it as he says he is, but Stiles will take what he can get.

Speaking of taking what he can get, Stiles has barely parked at the house when a cruiser pulls into the driveway behind him. Stiles grins as he hops out of the jeep, turning to watch Derek get out of the cruiser. “You’re here kind of early tonight,” Stiles says.

Derek shrugs. “I wanted to see you,” he replies.

Stiles is glad the sun’s already gone down so Derek can’t see how red his face gets. It’s flattering, all right? Derek’s been coming over almost every night, and Stiles isn’t going to lie to himself; he’s into Derek, and if he were to mention being interested in trying something a little more serious, Stiles certainly wouldn’t be opposed to it. The only thing complicating things now is...the baby.

Stiles doesn’t know whether to tell him or not. Like, it’s going to obvious in a couple months anyway, but he’s worried that if he tells Derek now, Derek might bounce - which is fine, he’s got every right to do that, but, selfishly, Stiles wants as much of him as he can get. And what happens if they decide to get serious? Derek should know so he can decide if he wants to deal with that - but then again, Stiles doesn’t want to bring it up if they’re not going to get serious.

He’ll wait a couple weeks, he thinks. Maybe it’s selfish (okay, he knows it’s selfish), but he’s waiting a couple weeks longer to tell his friends anyway, just to be sure he’s clear of the first trimester, so he figures he can tell Derek at the same time. His dad’s already promised not to tell the station until Stiles is ready, so there’s no danger on that end. He just hopes Derek will be cool with it; maybe he’ll luck out and Derek loves kids. Who knows.

-

Most of a week slips by, and even though it’s minute, he’s beginning to feel his body change. The morning sickness has mostly stopped, for one thing - thank god - and while his pants still fit, it’s becoming a great relief to get home from work and immediately change into sweatpants. He feels...happy, happier than he’s been in months. He still thinks this is crazy, but at the same time he’s proud of his decision, and to further cement it in place, he goes to the doctor for a check-up and gets an ultrasound. He grins when he sees it on the screen: his very own vaguely baby-shaped blob. The nurse gives him a printout, and after he’s finished work that evening, he heads over to the station to show his dad.

It’s still early when he gets there, the parking lot still somewhat full; most of the day shift hasn’t left yet. He’s a little surprised to see Derek standing halfway down the sidewalk outside the building, his head turned to look at the lot. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Stiles, but Stiles will stop to say hello - after he’s hidden the ultrasound somewhere. Stiles has to twist to reach it; it’s fallen off the passenger seat and onto the floor. When he’s straightened, hand reaching for the door handle, he sees that Derek’s dropped into a crouch, and he barely has time to register how weird this is before a young voice yells “Dad!” and a little boy comes running down the sidewalk and right into Derek’s arms.

Stiles stares at them blankly, frozen in the movement of opening the car door as he watches Derek swing the kid up into the air, both of them laughing. The kid can’t be any older than seven or so, and he’s basically a younger, softer carbon copy of Derek - there’s no way he’s not Derek’s kid, even ignoring the fact that he called Derek Dad. There’s a sinking feeling Stiles’ stomach, though; why wouldn’t have Derek told him he had a kid?

The why becomes apparent momentarily, as a dark-haired woman comes down the sidewalk from the same direction the kid had appeared from and Derek turns to talk to her, still smiling. The pit in Stiles’ stomach turns into a chasm. Derek has a family. Derek has a family, and he and Stiles have been fucking behind their backs.

Stiles curls into himself, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. “Fuck!” he hisses frantically. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” How could this happen? How could Derek do this to his family? How the fuck could he stand there smiling when just the night before he’d spent twenty minutes eating Stiles out before fucking his brains out? What’s wrong with him? And what’s so wrong with Stiles that he keeps attracting these fucking asshole cheaters? Derek’s just as bad as Jay - worse, even, because at least he and Jay weren’t married, and kids weren’t in the equation at the time. Even worse, Stiles told Derek what Jay had done a couple weeks ago, and Derek had sympathized. He’d known exactly what he was doing, and how Stiles felt about it, and he’d still done it, what the fuck.

Stiles grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white, struggling to pull in air. He can’t believe this is happening to him - again. And he’s not just the blindsided victim this time; he’s part of it, he caused this. He’s the one who flirted, who didn’t listen when his dad told him to stay away, the one who told Derek to come to the house. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, his shoulders shaking. He tries to calm down; he knows that stress isn’t good for the baby, but he can’t quite seem to catch his breath, the air rattling in and out of him. He can’t seem to catch himself; he’s falling down a hill, racing toward a panic attack - when a knock on his window surprises him into breathing again.

Stiles looks up, hoping to see his dad, but to his horror, Derek’s standing there, looking concerned. “Stiles?” he asks, his voice slightly muffled by the glass. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, no,” Stiles groans, scrambling to get his keys into the ignition. “No, no, no - “

“Stiles?” Derek says again. “Do - ”

“Get the fuck away from me!” Stiles yells, so loud Derek takes a startled step backward, giving Stiles the room he needs to throw the jeep into reverse and zoom out of the spot. He speeds the entire way home, fighting to keep his breathing even. When he gets back to the house, he makes sure all the lights are out and doors are locked before he goes upstairs and collapses into bed, because he’s got a feeling Derek’s going to try to stop by. Until that happens, though, he stays curled in bed, fighting off his thoughts. He wants to talk to Scott, but he’s too ashamed to even pick up the phone.

Stiles’ suspicion eventually proves correct; a couple hours after he gets home, he hears a car pull into the driveway, and a minute or two later, someone knocks on the front door. He doesn’t bother getting out of bed, because there’s no one else it could be except Derek. He knocks again after a minute or two, and a couple minutes after that, Stiles hears the car leave. Derek doesn’t get the hint, though; he comes back the next three nights, and Stiles ignores him every time he comes to the door. Stiles actually sees him the fourth night; he’s up in his room by the window and sees the cruiser come down the street, slowing by the driveway, but Derek doesn’t pull in, and Stiles sighs in relief.

It takes a few weeks - with no further contact from Derek - for the hurt and shame to wear off enough that he feels like he can talk to Scott about it, but when he does, Scott’s completely on his side.

“This is not your fault, man,” he says. “Derek’s the one who decided to cheat.”

“Yeah, but I encouraged him,” Stiles says miserably. “If I hadn’t flirted with him - ”

Scott shakes his head. “You thought you were flirting with someone who was single,” he argues. “Derek knew exactly what he was doing. That’s sick.”

Stiles sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Doesn’t feel good,” he says. “I liked him, man. I thought he was a good dude. I don’t understand how people can do shit like this.”

Scott slings his arm around Stiles’ shoulder. “Some people are assholes. Don’t give up; we’ll find you someone who’s actually nice.”

Stiles waves his hand wearily. “Don’t bother; for now, I’m just going to concentrate on having this kid.”

And for a month, that’s what he does. He works as much overtime as the new job will allow, because he’s determined to do right by this baby. It’s pretty easy to save money when he’s living at home and not paying rent. His dad insists that Stiles can live in the house as long as he wants, which Stiles will certainly think about, but part of him wants a space for himself and the baby, a little home just for them. Jay gets back in touch; he doesn’t want to be a parent, but he sounds guilty and worried enough about it that he offers Stiles money in support, which Stiles says he’ll think about accepting - he’s got his pride, but now he’s got a kid to think about, too.

Overall, things are good. The baby’s healthy, all his friends and family know and support him, and Stiles is happy - for the most part. He can’t help the way his thoughts sometimes stray to Derek - especially when he’s horny, but then he inevitably thinks about Derek’s family, and it makes him sick to his stomach. He avoids the station, scared of running into Derek there; he’s got an excuse now anyway, since he works a normal nine to five, and then the overtime on top of that, and he tells his dad he’s been going to bed early. He can tell his dad knows something’s up, but Stiles doesn’t have the heart to tell him - not after his dad warned him not to get involved with Derek. He’d known, Stiles thinks glumly. That’s why he’d warned Stiles off, and he hadn’t listened.

It’s - whatever. He’ll get past it eventually; the longer he goes without seeing Derek, the easier it is not to think about it, although one night he’s at the grocery store after work and he sees Derek’s wife, girlfriend, whatever she is, and he nearly has another panic attack, bending almost in half to stare at the navel oranges so she won’t see him. She’s got their kid with her, and they’re so close Stiles can hear them talking, the little boy reading off the labels in the exotic fruit section.

“Papaya,” he says proudly. “Per - per - Mom, what’s that one?”

“Persimmon,” the woman tells him. “You want to try one?”

“What’s it taste like?” the kid asks curiously.

“I don’t know; I’ve never had one,” the woman says, reaching out and picking one up. “Let’s try it.”

Stiles wants to melt through the ground. There’s absolutely no denying it now - the kid called her Mom and he already heard the kid call Derek Dad - and the worst part is they have no idea what Derek’s done to them. What Stiles has done to them. He should tell the woman so she knows, so she can leave him if she wants - Stiles has been in her shoes and god knows he would have wanted someone to tell him instead of finding out by accident. What if he’s not the only one Derek’s been with? He should tell her so she can get checked for STDs - but he can’t move. He’s worried about how she’ll react - and he can’t do it with the kid there, watching him, listening but not understanding. They move off through the produce section and Stiles rubs at his forehead, nervous sweat prickling at his temples. Maybe...he can write a letter, steal her contact information from his dad’s files; if they’re married, she’s probably Derek’s emergency contact. That’s what he’ll do. He exhales and chooses an orange. That’s what he’ll do.

Stiles puts it off. It’s not that he doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t know how to say it. He sits at his desk at work and gazes off into space, trying to compose the letter in his head. Dear ma’am, he tries. Too formal. To whom it may concern. Too impersonal. Dear Mrs. Hale. Too personal.

I’m a scumbag, he thinks, and scrubs his hands through his hair anxiously.

He puts it off for several days, and then the situation is completely torn from his hands, because Derek shows up at the house. Stiles is in the kitchen cleaning up after his dinner, so he doesn’t hear the car pull into the driveway, but he does hear the doorbell ring. It doesn’t even occur to him that it might be Derek outside; he thought that Derek had finally clued in on the fact that Stiles didn’t want to see him anymore, and anyway, Scott had mentioned he might stop by later, so Stiles opens the door expecting to see him, not Derek. For a moment, Stiles just stares; Derek is wearing civilian clothes, just jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, but Stiles has never seen him dressed like that, and it throws him. Then Derek opens his mouth to speak and Stiles remembers who he is - what an asshole he is - and tries to slam the door shut, his body flushing hot with anger.

Derek catches the door before Stiles can close it, though; Stiles pushes at it angrily, but Derek’s stronger than he is. “Stiles,” Derek says. “Your dad asked me to stop by.”

Stiles stops pushing at the door, but only so he can glare at Derek. “Why?” he asks shortly.

Derek holds up a plastic bag, putting it between them like a shield. “He said you’ve been working a lot and he wanted to make sure you’re eating well.”

“I don’t need food,” Stiles says flatly. “I just ate.”

“Well - ”

“Goodbye,” Stiles says viciously, and shoves at the door.

Derek doesn’t budge. “Stiles,” he says again, in a soft, careful tone that makes Stiles’ insides squirm. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m sorry. I want us to be friends.”

Stiles lets go of the door so abruptly that Derek almost stumbles at the sudden loss of pressure. Friends, he thinks furiously, and something inside him snaps. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls. “What the fuck - friends? Are you fucking kidding me? After what you did?” He’s breathing heavily, all the rage and hurt he’d begun to pack away rushing to the surface, pouring out of him. “How could you do that to them? To - to me? I told you what Jay did to me!”

Derek looks bewildered and a little concerned. “What are you talking about?” he asks. “What did I do?”

“You can stop pretending like you’re innocent,” Stiles spits. “I saw you. I saw them - I saw your kid.”

Derek’s face darkens. “What about my kid?” he snaps. “That’s what this is about? You’re pissed because I didn’t tell you about him?”

“No, I’m pissed because you’re a fucking cheater!” Stiles yells.

Derek furrows his heavy brows at Stiles, his face flushed. “And just who did I cheat on you with?” he asks sarcastically.

“Your wife,” Stiles says coldly.

Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles. “I don’t have a wife,” he says shortly.

Stiles shrugs angrily. “Fine, your girlfriend, then. Whatever.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Derek says. He folds his arms over his chest. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Will you stop?” Stiles says, suddenly weary. “Just - stop lying to me. I saw you guys at the station. I saw her and your kid at the store - he called her Mom.”

Derek’s face slackens in sudden understanding. “Oh,” he says softly.

“Oh,” Stiles echoes sarcastically, then sighs. “Look - just get out of here. I don’t want to be your friend.”

“Stiles, listen to me,” Derek says. “That was my sister.”

Stiles scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Derek says. “My son’s mom is out of the picture. Cora’s been helping me with him since he was a baby. A couple months ago he decided he wanted to start calling her Mom and we’ve been trying to break the habit.” He stares at Stiles, eyes searching his face. “I swear I’m not lying.”

Stiles shifts uneasily, not sure what to believe. He never wanted to believe Derek would do this to him or his own family, but he feels so raw he’s not quite willing to open himself up again, afraid it’s just more lies.

“Ask your dad,” Derek says, sensing Stiles’ reluctance. “He’s met them both a thousand times.”

That makes Stiles pause; Derek wouldn’t say that unless it was true, because Stiles’ dad wouldn’t lie about something like that. Maybe Derek is telling the truth. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Derek looks at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Do you really think I’m the kind of person who’d do something like that?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs unhappily. “I didn’t want to think that,” he says. “But I never thought my ex was, either.”

Derek’s face softens slightly. “I get it,” he says quietly.

“No. I’m the asshole here,” Stiles says, and laughs, too sharp and high. “I guess I’ve got some shit to work on.” He reaches for the door. “Look, I - I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s okay, Stiles. I can see how - I should have been more clear.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, smiling uncomfortably. “You don’t owe me any explanation. It’s not like we were dating, anyway.”

Derek opens his mouth and then closes it, looking a little hurt. Stiles doesn’t have the energy to try and parse that reaction. He begins to close the door, but pauses when Derek says, “I still mean it. About being friends.”

“I - I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “I - don’t want to be your friend. I want - wanted - to date you.” He sees Derek begin to open his mouth, and hurries on, plunging over the edge of the cliff as it comes into sight. “It’s not a good time. I’m having a kid, so - ”

Derek’s eyes go wide. “A kid?” he says, and his eyes dart down to Stiles’ stomach, hidden under the loose tee Stiles is wearing. He looks back at Stiles. “Mine?” he asks hoarsely.

“Oh, no!” Stiles hurries to say. “No, no - it’s my ex’s. Not yours.”

Derek visibly relaxes, and Stiles finds himself irrationally offended by this, like he’d be so awful to raise a kid with; he’s a fucking delight. “Well,” he says tightly. “LIke I said, it’s not a good time right now, so…”

“Right,” Derek says quietly. He hesitates before saying, “If there’s anything you need - ”

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles says curtly. “You can tell my dad I ate the food.”

Derek gives him a long look. “If you were avoiding the station because of me,” he says softly. “You don’t need to anymore.” And with that he turns on his heel and strides off down the driveway, where an SUV - not his cruiser - is parked. Stiles doesn’t wait to see him go; he shuts the front door and then puts his back to it, sinking down to the floor. His hands are shaking as the adrenaline arisen from his anger leaves him; he feels cold suddenly, and small. He doesn’t know what to think or feel; he’s almost sure Derek’s telling the truth, but he doesn’t feel any better about the situation. He feels a different kind of guilt now, as well as regret for fucking up the possibility of any kind of relationship between them, even a friendly one - you don’t come back from something like this, you just don’t. Why would Derek want to be friends with a paranoid asshole who yelled at him in front of the whole neighborhood?

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Scott says a few days later as they stand in his backyard, flipping a row of burgers on the grill. “You made a deduction based off the information you had, and it was pretty damning. I mean, you heard the kid call him Dad and the woman Mom - what were you supposed to think?”

Stiles sighs heavily, watching Scott’s daughter stalk around the backyard with a super soaker, strategically assassinating her Barbies. “Yeah, but I could have just talked to him instead of, you know, avoiding him for weeks and then screaming at him like a lunatic. Like an adult.”

“You were angry,” Scott says. “You apologized.”

“Dude, you are being way too easy on me,” Stiles says. “I know you’re my best friend and you’re on my side, but I was an ass.”

Scott sets down his spatula and raises an eyebrow at him. “Yeah? It’s not like that’s out of the norm for you. Why’s it bothering you so much?”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest uncomfortably. “I dunno,” he says. Then he sighs again, giving up. “Because I like him.”

Scott gives him an exasperated look. “So why didn’t you tell him that when he said he wanted to be friends?”

“Because I was still mad at him,” Stiles says.

“And now you’re not?”

“Now I just feel bad. About everything.” Stiles shrugs helplessly. “What do I do?”

Scott clicks his tongue, turning back to the grill. “I don’t know, man. I guess you can try talking to him, but don’t expect anything to come of it - this is a bell that you might not be able to unring.”

Stiles heaves one last sigh. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re probably right.”

“Is it even worth it?” Scott asks, flipping the burgers again. “I mean - what’s your goal here?”

Stiles hesitates. “I’m not sure.”

“You need to figure it out,” Scott says pointedly, “or else you’re wasting everyone’s time.”

Stiles blinks, a little candor - but then again, that’s what he’s here for. He knows Scott’s right. What does he want? “Thanks, man,” he says.

Scott grins at him as Kira steps out into the backyard, a bowl of pasta salad in her arms. “You know, your life seemed a lot less dramatic when you were on the other side of the country, dude.”

Stiles snorts, not offended. “You and me both.” He turns to say hi to Kira and sees it happen in slow motion: Scott and Kira’s daughter, having executed all her Barbies, turns to living targets, and shoots Kira right in the side with a cold jet of water. Kira shrieks in surprise and her bowl of pasta salad goes flying. Stiles ends up covered in oily spirals of rotini and veggies, but he’s laughing too hard to care.

-

Stiles gets his chance to find out the truth about Derek a couple nights later, when he comes home to find it’s his dad’s night off, and he’s made them a generous spread for dinner. Stiles raises his eyebrows as he comes into the kitchen and sees all the food.

“What’s all this about?” he asks.

“Made it all from scratch,” Dad says proudly.

“Yeah, but why?” Stiles asks, amused. “You planning on feeding an army?”

“I just want to be sure you’re eating right,” his dad replies, looking pointedly at Stiles’ stomach.

Stiles pats his little bump protectively. “I am,” he says defensively, narrowing his eyes at his father. “And you don’t need to set your deputies on me to make sure of it, you know.”

Dad at least has the grace to look embarrassed, but he says, “I told you, Stiles; it’s my job to worry about you.”

Stiles shakes his head, but he helps his dad set the table, keeping his mouth closed until they’re both sitting, plates full. He watches his dad scoop up a fork full of corn and then, before he can grab another, Stiles asks, “Why didn’t you tell me Derek has a family?”

His father looks surprised. “You two always talk when he’s at the station; I thought he told you.”

“You’ve met his kid, though?” Stiles asks.

“Sure,” his dad nods. “Will. He’s a good kid. Well-behaved. Likes bugs.”

Stiles smiles, trying to sound casual. “And - “ He thinks hard for a moment, trying to remember; he’s certain Derek said his maybe sister’s name. “Cora,” Stiles says with relief, almost snapping his fingers. “You’ve met her?”

“A couple times,” his dad says. “You can definitely tell they’re all related - a very solemn family, they are. I thought she and Derek were twins the first time I met her.”

“They’re siblings,” Stiles says quietly.

“That’s what I’m saying,” his dad says, waving his fork around. “And that kid of Derek’s, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree - ”

Stiles stares off into space, his dad’s voice fading as Stiles’ thoughts demand his attention. So he really was wrong. He’d freaked out and yelled at Derek, who hadn’t done anything wrong. No wonder he’d looked so confused and hurt. God, this is what Stiles gets for jumping - cannonballing to conclusions.

“Stiles?” Stiles blinks and looks at his dad, who frowns. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says awkwardly. “I’m fine. I’ve just - got a lot on my mind.”

Dad’s frown deepens; Stiles can almost see the gears behind his eyes begin to turn. He hurriedly shoves chicken into his mouth, but it’s too late; his dad asks calmly - too calmly, “Why all the questions about the Hales, anyway?”

Stiles swallows hard. He tries to reach for the dinner rolls, but his dad yanks the bowl away from him. “I was just curious,” he says innocently.

“Why not ask Derek?” Dad asks, narrowing his eyes. “I thought you two were friends.”

“Maybe not right now,” Stiles says, wincing.

His dad sighs and buries his face in his hands. “Stiles,” he groans. “I told you. I asked you for one thing - one thing - and you couldn’t listen!?”

“I - I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Stiles protests, which, okay, isn’t quite true. He wanted it to happen. But Derek was the one who made the first move, so it’s a little true, right?

“No wonder he looks so guilty every time I see him,” Dad says irritably. “What’s wrong with you?”

Stiles bristles at this. “You’re the one who told me I’m old enough to make my own decisions. It’s not your problem.”

“It is my problem when it’s one of my deputies!” his father says sharply. “If this gets messy - ”

“It already is,” Stiles says, shrugging. “Or - it was. It doesn’t matter now. He’s - professional, Dad. It’s not going to be a problem.”

Dad eyes him for a long minute, gaze sharp, too observant. “He hurt you?” he asks, some of the anger fading from his voice.

“No,” Stiles says, avoiding his gaze now, digging disconsolately at his chicken. “I hurt him.”

He can feel his dad watching him still, the dining room quiet. After another long moment, his dad asks, “Do you want me to talk to him?”

“No!” Stiles says, horrified. “No - just - leave him alone, please. He’s probably had his fill of Stilinskis getting into his business.”

Dad forces out an unamused laugh, but he doesn’t argue; he looks relieved. “Are you going to try to work it out with him?”

Stiles sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Does that mean you’ll start coming by the station again?” his father asks hopefully.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You just miss having your dinner hand-delivered to you every night.”

“Caught me,” his dad says sadly.

Stiles does start going back to the stations in the evenings, though, because he does miss spending time with his dad. He doesn’t go almost every night like he used to, and the first night he goes back, he’s more nervous than he expected to be, scanning the parking lot for any sign of Derek (there is none), and breathing a sigh of relief when he steps inside and it’s one of the older deputies on duty at the front desk. He knows that he’ll run into Derek eventually, but in the meantime, he just enjoys the time with his dad again.

Inevitably, it happens; he gets to the station one night and he’s halfway up the walkway when the door to the station opens and Derek steps outside. Derek sees him immediately - it’s not like Stiles has time to throw himself into the bushes - and his mouth thins. Stiles stops walking, his body going hot; this is the moment he’s been dreading, and he has no idea what to say. Derek didn’t stop; he’s getting closer, so Stiles goes with the first thing that comes to mind, a weak “Uh, hi.”

Derek looks at him coolly. For a moment, Stiles thinks he’s not going to say anything at all, but then he says, “Hi,” and walks right past him.

Stiles stares after him, his heart racing in his chest. That’s it? he wonders, disappointed. It just doesn’t feel right. He trots after Derek, calls, “Hey, can we talk?”

Derek casts him an irritated look over his shoulder. “I thought you wanted space.”

“I don’t,” Stiles confesses. Derek stops in front of his cruiser and turns to look at him, his brow furrowing. Stiles plunges onward: “If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. I just need you to know I’m sorry.”

Derek looks exasperated. “I told you; it’s fine,” he says.

“It’s not,” Stiles says. “I was way out of line. I shouldn’t have treated you like that - I’m sorry.”

“I get it,” Derek says shortly. “What do you want from me, Stiles? You said you didn’t want to be friends. I left you alone. What do you want?”

“I know,” Stiles says wretchedly. “I know. I was still freaking out when I said that. I’m - things are really weird right now, all right? This - “ He gestures at his stomach, then at the world around them, as if to say everything. “ - is a mess. I’m a mess; I know that. But I really liked spending time with you - even before we started hooking up. So - I don’t know. You’ve got every right to tell me to fuck off, but I’d regret it if I didn’t tell you that I wanted to go back to the way things were - or just be friends. Whatever you want.”

Derek slowly sinks down to sit on the hood of his cruiser, brow still furrowed. Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and hovers there, watching him anxiously. “What about your kid?” he asks eventually, nodding toward Stiles’ stomach.

“What about it?” Stiles asks. “I don’t expect you to be a dad or anything. What about your kid?”

Derek snorts softly. “Touché.”

They’re quiet for another long moment, Stiles rocking on his heels to try and soothe some of his nervous energy. Eventually, though, Derek says, “I can’t do it.”

Stiles blinks, his heart sinking. “What?”

“I can’t do it,” Derek says again. “I can’t go back to where we were, and I can’t be your friend.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, disappointed. “Well. That’s fair. I - ”

“However,” Derek says, speaking over him. “I can take you out sometime.” He offers Stiles a faint smile. “Dinner, maybe?”

Stiles stares at him. “Seriously?” Derek nods, and Stiles starts to grin. “I - shit, man. That was sneaky.”

Derek looks pleased. “Is that a yes?”

“Hell yes,” Stiles nods, grinning widely now.

“Come here,” Derek says, gesturing at him, and Stiles closes the distance between them. Derek tilts his head back so he can meet Stiles’ eyes and says, “I’ve missed seeing you.”

“Me too,” Stiles says - and then, because he’s there, and because he can, he dips down for a quick kiss. Derek approves; he curls his fingers in Stiles’ belt loops and pulls him in closer and they kiss again, deeper, slower - only to jerk apart when a window bangs open somewhere behind Stiles and his dad yells, “Hey, hey - not in my parking lot! Cut it out!”

Stiles grins down at Derek, his face hot. “Dinner, then? Tomorrow?”

Derek smiles, his cheeks flushed. “It’s a date.”

South City Cats (Short Story)

I had just finished a fourteen-hour shift at Los Cerritos Elementary School. I remembered that day very vividly because I had to be there at six in the morning to set up the voting machines. Normally I wouldn’t get up before six but I thought this could be an exceptional way to” give back to my community” even though they were the ones paying me to work this junior election. I had never payed much attention to the politics around me or even on the news. To be honest I just found them amusing, not to be rude or anything but it’s sort of comical in a way. What the news and politics have in common is the fact that they would inform their audience about a particular story but they would never reveal the truth behind it, sort of like a mystery. And that could be fun for you but I didn’t necessarily have the time for that. I’m simple. I don’t pay attention to anything that’s not going to help me in the future, you know what I’m saying? How is any of that going to benefit me later in life? Not stubborn just realistic. But anyway, I get off from work and it's around three in the afternoon. I’m walking to my house on West Orange Avenue and I noticed that the sun was out and when I mean out I mean it was really out. I could literally feel the sun beaming hard on my back and I was shocked by the sun’s behavior that day. I lived in South San Francisco and the Bay Area is not known for its wondrous sunny days, it will never be known for that and if so I am waiting for that day because believe me it gets chilly over there. At this point all I want to do is lay on my twin mattress and listen to Ray LaMontagne. As soon as the music starts playing I received a text from Sita. On my way with Tea and Joplin, let’s hang out. Believe me I did not want to go. I was exhausted but it was a slow day and I had breaks so I thought why not hang out with them. I replied saying okay. I quickly gathered cash, debit card, and both identification cards. Sita drove a 2001 maroon Honda civic with an orange lining around her license plate because her family were huge Giants fans. It gets kind of annoying at times, the yelling and screaming but I came to the conclusion that all baseball fans were crazy and a little too excited to watch a team either score or not score a homerun. As you can clearly see baseball is not my thing. Two honks and I’m out the door. I lived in a four-bedroom yellow house with the most down to earth roommates I have ever had. We were four independent young women putting ourselves through life. Every time I walked out of my house I felt liberated, free to do anything that I wanted and I did. I was nineteen at the time and shit I lived my life my way one day a time. Opened and closed doors of her car and we all just smiled to each other. There weren’t any HI’s with us four just smiles and always smiles because we knew what we were going to do. “You guys wanna go to mission?” Joplin asked. “Yeah I go there all the time and the people there are super chill.” Tea showed so much excitement in her smile, it was pleasant. It amazed me how excited we all get just to pick up. By the way the term “pick up” refers to buying marijuana not just from dispensaries but from plugs as well which are drug dealers. Being from the Bay Area you can’t help but pick up the lingo so I apologize in advance if you can’t quite understand the terminology. Sita parks her car in a small parking lot near Las Brisas seafood restaurant which was right next to Cookies the dispensary. We each picked up a dub (2 grams) so a total of 8 grams. It wasn’t “fat” but it was enough for the day believe me. After that we headed towards Haight street because Tea wanted to buy a new bong and I thought I should get a new bong too. I always wanted a bong but not a tall one just a small piece because you can’t carry big bongs with you everywhere it’s just not smart you know. I believe that tall bongs or much larger pieces should stay at home where they belong. I remembered that I had to convince Tea to buy a small piece since we were going to Dolores Park anyway. “If we get caught dude or even robbed you’re gonna regret buying an expensive and beautiful piece, trust.” “Yeah you’re right next time though for sure.” she said sadly but waiting on the day she was going to come back for that bong. Both Tea and I bought small bongs for about twenty dollars, the smoke shop was having a sale that day. I liked to believe that we were lucky that day because let’s face it bongs can be expensive but when they’re cheap and workable it's oh so sweet. We had this thing where we would name our pieces because we felt like they were much more than just objects that we smoked out of. There’s a reason people threw blunts and joints away when they were done, they had no meaning, no ties to the person that was smoking it but pieces are a different story. You keep them forever and for as long as you want, naming them is just the icing on top. I have three now, Stacy, Judy, and Z. Simple but interesting at the same time. Tea named her’s Haightie, I wonder why. We parked at the very top of Dolores Park and walked down to the stairs near where the J train passed by. That bus stop had to be one of my favorites in all of San Francisco. There was just something about the route going towards downtown and the adolescent conversations in the air. It reminded me of my friends and how young we were. Life is beautiful, isn’t it? We sat on the stairs. I sat next to Tea and both Sita and Joplin sat one step below us. We smoked and talked about our lives and what was going on at the time. A group of freshman and sophomores approached us asking if they could use our lighter to light their blunt. It was so skinny that I felt bad because that was all they had to smoke. It was not a pretty scene. I offered to smoke them out and they were pretty high from what I remembered. I asked, “Where do you guys usually buy your dro from?” The short chubby guy with curly hair responded very quickly, “I have a plug in the city.” Joplin jumped in and said, “Is it dank? Is it sticky? Does it get you high?” The tall one nodded yes for the whole group. We looked at each other and we all thought the same thing. New customers for our growing business. “Aye if you guys want anything fresh just let us know.” Sita handing them our contact information. It was a text app number and a house number to a warehouse in Sacramento. I still remembered how thrilled they were that day. I would be too if I was 16 and without a rec (Marijuana card). We had forgotten that we parked the car all the way at the top so the walk up the hill was not pleasant for someone who was lit, stoned, blazed, baked, or whatever you guys call it nowadays. Sita didn’t like driving in the city under the influence because she had already been in two accidents while driving high. She wasn’t paranoid, she just played it smart. Tea however was always excited to drive in the city, it didn’t matter what state she was in, she just enjoyed driving in general. We drove to Serramonte Mall because they wanted to eat, I preferred real food when I’m high, never had the munchies for snacks and fast food. I wanted to live a long healthy life. During the ride home we discussed the raids that were going on in Sacramento. Somehow cops got word of illegal distribution of marijuana in their county but we weren’t worried. We trusted Pac. Everyone trusted Pac, but everyone knew to never cross him or else. He didn’t play any games. He was the type that didn’t waste time on anyone, he had no problem cutting you off from his list completely but if you made trouble you wouldn’t even exist on that list. A couple nights ago, Joplin and I were working real late around two in the morning. Pac had just finished selling two ounces to a wealthy client in San Diego. He had customers all over California. He only shared his wealthy client list to Dirty his long-time business partner. He found out that Dirty had been selling blow to some of his clients on the low. Pac was furious. He didn’t like being around that stuff, it reminded him of his mother. She was an addict until she overdosed in a cheap motel, turns out she was selling her body for that stuff. It made sense to why he didn’t want that stuff around his business but I didn’t expect him to take Dirty for a night ride into god knows where. Joplin and I left because we knew shit just went down. After that nothing was ever the same. We talked about that night in the car and chills were beginning to form on my body. I didn’t witness it but I knew. They had dropped me off around midnight and I just wanted to knock out. “What time are you guys coming in the morning?” I yawned. “Ten cause we have to be at work at twelve.” Sita explained. I nodded yes and carried on. I had dinner and dreamt all night. I woke up to the sounds of my roommate Kenzi fucking her boyfriend loud and apparently, he was pleasing her right since she was moaning pretty loud. All the roommates were comfortable around each other so pure fucking in the bedroom was normal on West Orange Ave. I blast the Return of 36 Chambers: The Dirty Version album by Ol’ Dirty Bastard while I was getting ready. ODB is awesome, I have so much respect for him, he changed rap music for me. I received a group message: Sita: Jules says we have to come in work ASAP, it’s an emergency. Tea: What happened? Sita: Idk. but we have to go soon. Joplin: I’m here, Franco gave me a ride. Jules is crying. Luna: I’m ready. Sita: On my way. Tea: meet you in front of Luna’s It took us about two hours without traffic so just imagine what we did on the way there. We were curious to what Jules must have been crying about. Maybe Pac and Jules had a fight or maybe he finally figured out that she was cheating on him. Everyone knew but no one wanted tell him. Only one would be dumb enough to put their nose where it didn’t belong. We arrived at the warehouse on G street near 19th and 20th street. Security checked us in and we were escorted into Jule’s office along with Joplin. Jules was sobbing so hard that the snot from her nose just kept running and running. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone cry that hard over something. She had to pull herself together to tell us what was going on. Jules was the type to tell a person what the situation was even if it made others uncomfortable to hear it. She began, “Pac was found in the bathtub one shot to head. I called some people over to clean the house. I don’t want his murder in the papers. Whoever did this left a bag of coke on his body. Coke dealers are assholes. Anyway, I’m closing the warehouse as soon as we sell all of our plants. I don’t know how long that would take but I suggest you four start looking for depressing jobs at the mall or something.” I couldn’t believe it myself. Pac was dead. He was a good man to the four of us, he treated us like one of the homies. People were always afraid of him because he was your typical pants sagging thug looking black male. But he was sweet. He listened to a lot of Jill Scott whenever he was alone in his office. As soon as you walked in his office you would see a quote hanging on the wall and it says, “Your background ain’t squeaky clean shit, sometimes we all go to swim upstream, you ain’t no saint, we all are sinners but you put your good foot down and make your soul a winner.” Imagine reading that every day. I respected that. I like to think that he had an old soul. We didn’t know what to do. Should we stay or leave but we finished our shift instead. We were just trimmers and watched over the plants. We made sure that the correct lights were being used correctly and that each plant was getting enough sunlight for the plants grow properly. Sounds great but it was a lot of work. Joplin had pulled me aside and it seemed as if she wanted to tell me a secret, the kind that Tea and Sita knew nothing about. She had a concerned look on her face and it worried me. She explained to me that she might know what had happened to Pac. Her boyfriend Franco bought blow from Dirty from time to time only because he sold to him cheap. She didn’t even know that her own boyfriend was doing coke right under her nose. He told her that right after Dirty “disappeared” he noticed that a black 1965 Pontiac GTO was following him. He was wondering why but then it clicked to him. Franco had gone with Dirty to Beverly Hills to sell a kilo of coke to some rich white guy. Franco saw how much money Dirty was making and he was easily convinced. Show a guy some cash and they’ll pretty much do anything. They get to this Walter Springs house real late around two thirty, and he was having a coke party in his mansion. I didn’t know people actually partied hard like that, a party specifically for coke? That’s insane. They walked in the house and the place is packed with coke heads. Typical suburban cats everywhere. Walter signals Dirty to come upstairs. “Just be cool man, these cokeheads will look at you the wrong way if you look sus.” “I’m straight man.” “Good.” Walter was a son of some Hollywood producer so he had money to blow. “Wassup fellas, wanna do a line?” He didn’t even introduce himself just offered a line of coke for hospitality he probably thought. Dirty didn’t want to stay there for long so it was a quick exchange. Sixty-six thousand for a kilo of coke. Somehow Dirty had the idea that he could skimp Walter because he was from Beverly Hills. Turns out he sold Walter half a kilo for the same price and walked out of the mansion a happy man. He told Franco that was going to be his last drop. Franco didn’t question it until he saw the other half of coke in his glove compartment. He knew that Dirty had just played the worst move you could ever do with selling drugs on the streets. It’s one thing to skimp a dime for twenty dollars but to skimp someone of sixty-six thousand dollars is crossing the line. Shit like that just doesn’t exist in the Bay Area is just doesn’t. “That’s when he figured that the guy in the Pontiac was Walter Springs. He said that he followed him from San Francisco to Davis where he lives.” Joplin explained. Franco had gotten out of the car and the look on Walter’s face scared the shit out of him. He held a gun to his head and said, “You think you and your buddy could play me in my own town?” He was so high off of coke that he couldn’t stop sticking his tongue out at Franco. “Hey man I had no idea he was gonna do that to you I swear.” Franco cried. “So where is he?” “I haven’t seen him since that day.” He knew that Dirty was nowhere to be found but he felt that Walter didn’t need to know that sort of information. “Who’s his boss?!” Pressing the gun hard on the side of his forehead. “Wait wait wait wait wait! His name is Pac. He has a warehouse in Sacramento on G street very easy to find.” He was so scared that he was going to piss his pants but that’s understandable, being held at gunpoint for no reason is one the most frightening thing a person could ever experience. Walter removed the gun from Franco’s face and licked his face goodbye. Creepy and disgusting, coke heads I guess. As Joplin is telling me the story I’m thinking maybe Walter killed Pac. “You wanna take a trip to Beverly Hills tonight?” I asked Joplin. “Doesn’t that Walter guy lives in Beverly Hills? Oh my gosh you wanna go there huh?” “Dude why not find out if he killed Pac or not. We’re not detectives dude we’re just two girls looking for a party. Don’t you wanna find out who did it?” “Okay fine. I’ll ask Franco if I can borrow his car tonight but if he asks I’m sleeping over at your place, okay?” “Yeah no problem.” I went home with Sita and Tea. The car ride was extremely awkward for me. I felt weird about not telling them what Joplin told me but the less people who knew the better it’ll be. “What’s up dude what did Joplin tell you?” Sita asked. “Nothing she thinks Franco is cheating on her but I told her not to stress about it.” “Dang what if he was though, that would be crazy huh.” Tea wondered. Caress me down was playing on the radio and I slowly turned it up leaving the conversation hushed. I said hi to my roommates and packed a bag for the road. Joplin texted. I’ll be there at 8 ok. I replied quickly. Luna: I’m gonna take a nap so honk really loud. Joplin: Loud enough for the neighbors to hear? Luna: Fuck it. I think that was one of the best naps I have ever taken. I slept good. I heard the intensity of the honks and I thought wow she really didn’t give any fucks. I said bye to my roommates and Twyla said, “You’re always going somewhere. Where are, you going tonight?” “I’m going to a party in Beverly Hills.” “You better be careful there, those people don’t give a damn what happens to you.” “Gotchu. Don’t worry I’m going with Joplin.” Little did she know. I sat in the passenger seat and Joplin pointed to the two nine-millimeter pistol silencers in the back seat. And all she said was, “Let’s pray that we won’t have to use these tonight.” I didn’t know what to say. I had never used a gun before in my life but I didn’t know that she had any experience either. Clearly Joplin was not the person to fuck with. It took us about six hours to get there without traffic. Joplin found the address in Franco’s phone. It took two glances to realize where I recognized that address from. “Hey, remember when we were in Jules office today?” I asked. “Yeah why?” “Did you see this exact address written on her whiteboard? She made a note to herself to be there tonight.” “You know I think I saw it too but I’m not sure.” “Change of plans. We should be ghost tonight.” “No one knows our name or where we’re from. If anything, we’re a bunch a groupies tonight, nothing more.” It was the perfect plan. We were going to scope the place out without being seen by Walter or Jules. Joplin parked the car two blocks away from the house. We changed into our groupie outfits and we were instantly Lola and Joy from the Valley. It was so hard walking those two blocks wearing pumps. The struggles of a female. We get to the house and the place is packed with once again coke heads but now I see it with my own eyes. We stood out for real. The only nonwhites at the party. We couldn't help but stand out. Not my fault that this Walter guy didn’t have any friends outside of his race. But hey it is Beverly Hills, gotta remember that. The plan was to enter the mansion together and leave together no matter what. We did not waste any time at all but the thing was we didn’t know what Walter looked like just Jules. We each took down a martini but eating the olive was my favorite part. We socialized and a met a guy named Adrian. He was coming on to Joplin but she didn’t even bother to acknowledge him. I told her to be nice because we were there for one reason only, Pac’s shooter. “You know where we could find some…” Joplin tapping her nose. “Yeah you guys wanna have a couple lines with me? We could go to a private room upstairs.” We nodded yes and followed him up the stairs. He took both our hands and guided us to a room that was awfully close to a darkroom. Red lights were everywhere. The darkroom led to several rooms and soon we were in the same room as Jules and a man we believed to be Walter. She didn’t recognize us. She didn’t even bother to look at us. I assumed she didn’t pay any attention to Valley type girls. While Joplin did a couple lines in the background I asked Adrian how Jules knew Walter. He said that they were cousins from the area. I had no idea that they were even related. Jules told us that she was from the Bay, born and raised. It was one of the main reasons why Pac fell in love with her in the first place. I wondered why she lied about where she came from, perhaps she thought that we would all judge her but who knows at this point. She leaves the room and I make my way towards Walter. He saw what he liked and he didn’t waste any time. “I love chocolate.” That's what he said to me. I laughed in my head but I just smiled and sat right next to him. I didn’t know how much time I had before Jules would walk back in the room. “You wanna go somewhere quiet?” I flirtingly asked him. I guess he was shocked that I was somewhat “interested” but I just wanted answers. He quickly grabbed my hand and his hands were so warm, I never wanted him to let go. As we leave the room I signaled Joplin a peace sign to let her know that I was leaving. He takes me to the pool house behind the mansion. Joplin carefully follows us out back. He opens the door and takes me to the bed. His slow kisses on my neck felt gratifying. He smelled like Pina colada. He gently moves his hands up my dress and before he could proceed I saw Joplin’s face in the window. I burst out a giggle and he gave me a strange look. Next thing I knew Joplin busts open the door and immediately points the pistol at him. I get up and quickly close the door behind her. “Oh so you guys wanna play rough? Okay I can dig it.” Excitement shooting through his pants. “No we want to know if you came to see Pac or not? You know your cousin’s boytoy.” It was the high taking over Joplin. But she seemed rational enough to handle a weapon. “I have no idea what you’re talking about baby.” I surprised myself by clocking the gun to his head and I asked the question again. “Did you or did you not shoot Pac in his home?” “Why you guys wanna know? Where are you guys from?” “Don’t worry about it rich kid. Just tell us. A simple yes or no.” “No.” “Then who because we all know you were in town the day he died so what’s up. Beverly Hills cat driving to the city for the weather? I don’t think so mister.” Joplin stated, and she was right. She was annoyed by his presence and his lack of cooperation. She decided to shoot him in the foot and he screamed “You bitch!” I had to laugh but shit just got serious. Joplin shot someone. “Are you gonna tell us what went down or not man?” I asked. “Fine. I told Jules that Dirty tried to skimp me out of a kilo. I knew that he worked for Pac because he sold me bud from time to time. He came with some short guy with a hairy face.” “That guy is my boyfriend” “Nice one. Anyway, I follow this guy to his house and I’m acting all badass waving my gun around. He immediately sells out Pac. I go to his warehouse and I find Jules there. She tells me that Pac found coke in her car and blames it on Dirty. She tells him that he’s been slangin that yayo to his wealthy clients like me. Somehow Dirty miraculously disappears into thin air and no one sees him.” At this point all I wanna do is tape his mouth shut. I asked for one thing and he gives a play by play. “Get on with it dude!” We both shouted. “After we leave the warehouse we drive back to the city to her place. She confessed to me that Dirty was her lover and that he gave her aids. She got her test results earlier that day. I walked inside with her and there’s Pac sitting in the kitchen waiting for her.” “So you gave me aids? Who the fuck have you been sleeping with?” She had to tell him there was no point to keeping it a secret anymore. Too late for that. “It doesn’t matter anymore, he’s dead.” She started sobbing. “Who Dirty? I just told him that he couldn’t cross California state lines or else.” “But but.” “You stupid bitch!” He rushed towards her but before he could even lay a finger on her, Dirty took one shoot to the head through the back door. I forgot that he was good with guns. “So Dirty shot Pac?” Joplin asked “Yes.” he answered. “And you and Jules cleaned the house and dumped the body?” “Yes” “Where?” “I can’t say.” “Fair enough.” “Are you guys gonna take me to the hospital now?” We looked each other then looked back at him. Threw him a pair of some keys that were laying on the table. “Drive yourself rich kid.” Joplin said “How can you live with yourself knowing that you shot a person in the foot?” I said, “The exact same way you witness a murder and not tell anyone about it.” As we walked out the door exiting the back of the Mansion, we see Dirty and Jules staring hard into each other’s eyes. I didn’t know how I felt about it but I knew that I did not want to be involved. We walk towards the car passing the jay back and forth. An elderly white lady was walking her dog and she looked at our skanky outfits with such animosity and says, “How can you girls live with yourself dressing like that?” I laughed and said, “One day at a time lady.”

[MF] Smoking Crack and Shooting Dope

Original article here: https://ad-venturing.com/2019/03/25/smoking-crack-and-shooting-dope/ ​ After graduating high school, I didn’t know what to do with my life. I didn’t get good enough grades to go to a four-year college, I didn’t want to join the armed forces and the job market was shot. I worked part-time as a lifeguard at a local pool but ten hours a week wasn’t’ enough to cut it. I graduated high school in the spring of 2009, in the middle of one of the worse economic downturns the United States has ever seen. I decided community college was the path I would take. Get the gen-eds’ out of the way then two or three years down the road figure out what the hell I would do with my life. And to be honest, I had no fucking clue what I wanted to do. I was still immature at that age. Spent most of my free time at drinking with my best friend Worm at this dad’s house. Worm’s dad was a bad alcoholic and would let us drink and party with him. It was a fun time. Never a dull moment. Never a sober one either. When I wasn’t hanging out with Worm I was either partying with other people or pissing my parents off. I had a rebellious spirit at that age and my parents didn’t take kindly to that. In general, three thirds of my free time were spent in Worm’s room drinking. Worm’s room was dingy. It was a small room with a bed, a computer and a couple of chairs. There was a bookshelf on the wall filled with Stephen King books and a few movies. Filled ash trays lined the computer desk along with empty bottles of malt liquor and the occasional Busch Light his dad left. Bottles of piss were shoved under the bed and a pile of dirty clothes were stacked at the end of the bed. Empty packs of cigarettes were thrown on the floor. Worm and I would spend our free time drinking malt liquor, smoking weed and fucking around on the internet. When the weather was nice we would have a fire and party outside. There was always music playing in the background. When I decided it was time to pass out I would sleep in Worm’s bed. Worm would stay up due to his insomnia and sleep when I was at community college. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night and he would be so far gone listening to music or watching a movie. It was crazy to me how little he slept. We were both single at the time and spent a lot of time messaging random chicks on the internet. Most of the time I think they thought we were weird but occasionally some would want to meet up with us. Both Worm and I were broke at the time so we couldn’t take girls on nice dates or anything like that. Instead we just took them back to Worm’s room to hang out. Thinking about that in hindsight, taking nice girls back to Worm’s room was probably the wrong move. If I was in their place I don’t think I would have been too impressed given the empty beer cans, 666 marks etched everywhere, and ash trays stuffed with cheap cigarettes. Though, we did hide the piss bottles. Most of the time when we brought chicks back to Worm’s room, we would smoke weed then awkwardly try to make conversations. Ninety percent of the time we wouldn’t hear from them again. One night we were scrolling through Myspace and found a chick named Nancy. Nancy was a punk rock chick and listened to the same music we did. I decided to reach out the her and see if she wanted to chill. She responded back quickly telling me she was at a music club in a town 45 minutes away. She told us she was bored and if we came to pick her up she would chill with us. We decided to make the drive to pick Nancy up. Back then gas prices were around $4.20/gallon and working ten hours a week barley paid for my gas, let alone anything else I wanted to do. Worm didn’t have a job and resorted to pawning random stuff in his room to buy weed. This was an expensive trip for two broke kids. After hitting a bong, we took a drive out of nowhere town to another nowhere town to meet up with a pretty girl. We blasted Rancid and sung along to “California Sun”. Eventually we made it to the music club. I texted Nancy and she told me she will be out in ten minutes. Worm and I decided to smoke a cigarette and wait outside of the car. When the cigarette was halfway done Nancy came out of the club. Nancy was short with jet black hair. She was wearing black tights, a black Leftover Crack hoodie and had tattoos all over her body. Her eyes stood out to me as unusually big and blue. She probably weighted around 100 pounds and was half my height. Nancy isn’t the kind of girl you bring home to your parents for dinner. I could tell that about her the first time I met her. She seemed sketchy. I guess anyone who listened to Leftover Crack and had tattoos on their neck were sketchy, including myself and Worm. When she talked to us the first time she sounded high. Had a slow way of talking where words were slurred. When you looked into her eyes a blank cold soul looked back at you. Later I found out she was loaded on Xanax and a handful of other pills. Nancy asked us if her 14-year-old cousin could hitch a ride back with her and chill with us for a while. I told her that is fine, and she went back into the club to grab her. We then headed back to Worm’s place to chill. On the ride home Nancy told us that Rancid was her favorite band and she was glad we were listening to them. Worm lit up a joint and we smoked it. Nancy and her cousin didn’t smoke with us. Ten miles from Worm’s house we got pulled over for running a red light. “Shit”, I thought. I was certain we were fucked. We had just smoked a joint 30 minutes ago, and I was freaking out. Nancy was also loaded given the way she talked. She told us she was high on Xanax and some other pills when the cop was checking out my license plate. Luckily the lady cop told us to be more careful with our driving and let us go. I thought Nancy could have been a decent chick to go on a date or two with, but I found out quickly that I didn’t want to mess around with her. After we got back to Worm’s room she started talking about all these dudes she was fucking at the same time and the drugs her brother was doing. We asked her if we could film her brother shooting heroin and she laughed saying she would have to ask him. After that night Worm told me we had to be careful around this chick. I agreed with him. She is the type of girl the law follows, and you would catch something from. We hung out with her a couple more times then stopped talking to her after her boyfriend got pissed she was hanging out with us. ******* It had been around 6-7 months since the last time I talked to Nancy. It was the summer of 2010. Haiti was just devasted with a massive earthquake the previous winter and in 11 days President Obama would declare an end to combat operations in Iraq. I still spent the majority of my free-time with Worm. In the fall I would meet my future wife at community college. My life would be forever changed. I was sitting in my room and got a ping on my Facebook from Nancy. Myspace was officially dead, and society transformed into the new social media dimension. She posted on my wall asking how I was doing. I told her I was good and asked her how she was. She told me that she started to do heroin but was clean for now. I knew her older brother was a junkie and wasn’t too surprised that she followed his path. She then told me she broke up with her boyfriend and that I should come hang out with her and her brother at a summer festival the city puts on every year. It was my birthday and I wanted to get drunk, so I decided to go. I told my parents I was going to stay at Worm’s house that night. For some reason they never cared that I stayed there even though they knew his dad was a bad drunk and it was a poor environment for a kid with angst. But I’m not complaining, it gave me more of an opportunity to get fucked up. At the summer festival I wore plaid yellow and red pants a punk kid who listened to “The Causalities” would wear. One leg of the pants was yellow and the other was red. I donned a “Leftover Crack” shirt that said, “Kill Cops”. I just caught a misdemeanor in the spring and had to serve a day in jail in a few days. I looked and acted like I was a pre-convict with no future. I was ready to get fucked up and forget about my troubles with other punk rock kids. I met Nancy and her brother on a bridge over the river. The bridge was cloaked in trees that made it look like a tunnel into a different world. The river was flowing from rains that summer and it was around 90 degrees out. Nancy was holding hands with a punk rock dude I skated with a couple of times. I knew he did hard drugs and was certain Nancy was either back on them or will be back on them soon. Nancy’s brother, Sid, was as short and skinny as Nancy. He had a cut-off t-shirt showing off his full sleeves, tattoos on his neck and a buzz-cut hair cut with an 8-10-inch rat tail. Sid and I instantly hit it off and became friends. We walked to the nearest liquor store and Sid bought some 40s for us. I wasn’t 21 at the time and still needed someone to buy me booze. We spent the rest of the night drinking beers on the bridge and talking about music we liked. After the festival was over we walked back to Sid and Nancy’s parents house to crash. I was drunk off my ass walking back, and cops were all over the place. We took a back way to their home, so we didn’t get stopped by the cops. If they stopped us, I would have gone to jail given my age and due to the fact, I was on probation. When we got back to Sid and Nancy’s place we went to their basement where Sid sleeps. Nancy and her boyfriend followed us but left after her boyfriend started to get dope sick. I passed out a few hours later. A few days later Worm and I were hanging out looking for someone to buy us beer. Worm’s dad was out of town and the fridge was empty. I told Worm we could see if Nancy’s brother would buy us some beer. Worm hadn’t met Sid yet and I only hung out with him on the bridge during the summer festival. I texted Sid and he told us he would buy us beer only if I would drive him to the city to pick up drugs. Worm and I didn’t think twice. We thought driving to the city to pick up hard drugs would be an adventure and something new to experience. We were adrenaline junkies looking for the next journey and decided to get some hard drugs. We picked up Sid and Nancy at their parents’ house. Sid and Nancy were ecstatic and ready to get loaded. They planned to pick up some heroin and crack with the forty bucks they had. We blasted punk rock on my shitty stereo on the way to the city. Our first stop was to pick up heroin. We picked it up in one of the worst areas in the city. This was my first time driving through the hood. The house we stopped at was run down. Siding was falling off the house. Rusted out cars lined the driveway. Beer cans covered the stone porch. A guy was sitting on the lawn in a long-chair smoking a cigarette. He looked like he was about to pass out, holding the cigarette to his lips for dear life. You could tell he was a seasoned junkie. Sid began telling Nancy he didn’t want to go grab the heroin. He said the black guys in there made fun of him for his hair and tight pants and made him feel uncomfortable. Nancy said she would grab the heroin. It seemed like Nancy took forever. I was paranoid and kept checking the rearview mirrors to look for cops. I started to feel like this was a bad idea but kept my cool in front of everyone. Eventually Nancy walked out the door. After she got in the car she told us the guy selling her the heroin told her to come into the bathroom to get it. She followed him, and he pulled out his dick telling her to suck it. She said she grabbed the heroin and walked out. Sid got upset and told her he didn’t like her going in there. I thought Sid was a coward for putting his little sister in that situation. Before grabbing the crack, we headed to a McDonalds, so they could shoot it up. I asked them if they could wait to get home to do it, but they refused. When we got to the McDonalds Worm and I kept lookout while they prepared to shoot up. To prepare the heroin Sid pulled out a spoon and put the heroin on it with some water and a piece of a cotton ball. Nancy pulled the needles out of her bra where she kept them for safekeeping. After sucking the heroin up in the needles, they tied their arms off with the safety belts in my car. Worm and I both watched with fascination. I think they both thought it was weird how interested we were in watching them shoot up. To Worm and I, it was a new experience, a different type of adventure. It was exciting. Immediately after they shot up they changed. Became a type of zombie with slurred speech and eyes that looked like they were falling asleep. Nancy got way higher than Sid. I could barely understand what she was talking about. She wined and bitched about life. Sid was still coherent and was ready to buy crack. Buying crack was a better setup than the heroin. To get crack you drove your car into a car wash the dealers owned. You would then give the dealers your money and they would give you the address of where to meet them in ten minutes. We met the dealers guy in a sketchy van down an alley. Sid went out and grabbed the crack. Before we knew it, we were back on the highway. After getting off the highway Sid and Nancy lit up a crack rock at a red light. Crack smoked filled the car. I think Worm and I got a contact high, but it could have been all psychological. After they were done smoking crack a cop pulled up next to us at the red light. My knuckles turned white gripping the steering wheel. When the red light turned green the cop went one way and I went the other way. A breeze of relief ran through me. Eventually we made it back to the nowhere town in nowhere land. Sid bought Worm and I some beer and we dropped Sid and Nancy back off at their home. It was quite the adventure to get the few beers we could afford. Adrenaline ran through our blood the rest of the night. I haven’t talked to Sid or Nancy in years. The last time I checked Sid was clean and has a kid. Nancy is in and out of jail and hops from shitty boyfriend to shitty boyfriend. Nancy is still a junkie and will likely die one. A very short time in my life was spent with Sid and Nancy. I created some interesting stories with them that I will likely write about in the future. Feel free to follow “Ad-Venturing” to keep up with my writing. Until next time,

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the night when Amber hit up the group chat, i was in the middle of a real shitty moment. i was recovering from the night before; which i have to learn to say no to, when i’m feeling like shit because when i try to push through the suck, the depression and anxiety just gets worse and worse. so i come home from a a cross-fade session and i go through this panic attack/episode/some fucking weird shit. and i go into the most un-fucking-explainable mode of whipping out my costco-flashlight-for-damage-control and do a thorough scan of my parent’s house. mentally going through every possible threat from everyone i’ve probably pissed off. the light hits a weird angle in the corner of a room through a mirror in the hallway and splits my silhouette. me being high, i think that i’ve split myself into three dimensions. i don’t remember who i thought the three splits represented but i was jumping and crawling all around my parent’s house like a fuggin’ lunatic. all while realizing that i’m seeing silhouettes of a woman everywhere i look, bouncing off vases, furniture, the night lamp. i look at my shadow and it looks nothing like who i think i am. in the midst of a a mental and existential confusion of the male and female energy from the silhouettes, i come to the conclusion that not-Linda’s ex and his homies are on their way to fuck my shit up; but they’re 2 hours out. so i give myself a time hack to pack all of my shit for California in the car, tonight, within the hour. and be long fuckin’ gone by the 2nd hour.

after i pack all of my shit and momentarily get my shit together without the luxury of a cigarette break, on my way out of the house i unclip the keys to my Integra and Civic and leave them outside of my old neighbor’s house, who i pissed off before they moved out. hoping to give some type of good fortune to the new couple. i decide to pack the new Integra’s alternator into my Dad’s Accord thinking i’ll just sneak back home in the daylight where my potential murder could be witnessed, to fix the Integra.

one last check/sweep of my parents house and i grab the wine bottle i’d been drinking and gather a lighter and a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom and put them on the kitchen counter. make it easier for my ‘assailants’ to fuck my shit up. either that, or i was old/stable enough to own a place of my own where i could comfortably set my house on fire (and call 911 about it when i’m driving away of course). I fuck up the license plate on my Civic and Integra, as a sign that i never should have owned them or deserved to own them in the first place. do some other stuff i’m embarrassed to disclose. and drive away into 3 am darkness.

anyways, thats the night i was recovering from, when Bola texted. it didn’t really trigger me, but i was definitely not in a position to talk in a group chat. that same morning, i missed plans to go to Schlitterbahn with some old friends, also. so i was definitely not my biggest fuckin’ fan that day, or week while we’re at it.

i’ve been going crazy and involuntary looking for help publically and strictly physically

probably trying to kill that version of myself that was living at my parent’s house. not the healthiest way but definitely as self-contained as i could

Customer: DYING WORDS OF GRANDFATHER THAT RAISED ME AFTER MY PARENTS BURNED TO DEATH WHEN THE FAMILY HOME WAS LIT ON FIRE BY THE NEIGHBOR'S BOY. DMV: FUCK THEM Verdict: DENIED

Customer: FRIENDS AND FAMILY UNITED TO KEEP A CLEAN COMMUNITY. NO TO TRASH DMV: FUCK NO Verdict: DENIED

Customer: (not on record) DMV: FUCK YES Verdict: DENIED