Build A Space Station Out Of The Emotion You Call 'Love'.
Firstly, happy birthday to maleyka and ifeelbetter! I hope today is most excellent to you and involves delicious cake. ♥
Secondly, the following is all ghostrunner7's fault because she wrote Chris Argent/Sheriff Stilinsky and in the course of squeeing over its magnificence with her, I somehow talked myself into writing them as well, but never mind that bullshit, THIS IS STILL ALL HER FAULT. I hope you like it, bibi. ♥
Title: Your Impossible Man
Pairing: Chris Argent/Sheriff Stilinsky
Word Count: 4,466
Rating: R
Summary: Chris is possibly having a midlife crisis. Making out with the local sheriff isn't helping, but at least it's fun.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters and am making no profit off of them. It is to weep on all counts.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to sinden for giving this a once-over and laughing at my terrible jokes. For charliehey who always supports hot, middle-aged dads getting it on.
Check the gas gauge. Clean his weapons and make sure they're ready to fire. Make sure there's extra ammo in his truck. Make a list of teams for night patrol and which area they'll cover tonight.
Every night, Chris marks off things on his mental to-do checklist as he gets ready for another night of patrolling and making sure that no one else in this town gets hurt. It's become his job because Kate hates planning anything when she can just wing it (she's been that way since she was a kid, recklessly throwing herself headfirst into situations and barely making it out with her bones intact, laughing the whole way because she loves testing fate) and everyone else in the family seems more comfortable following orders than giving them. And while Mrs. Argent is good at keeping the family together and planning things out in the long run, she isn't as good at the finer details the way he is. He's good at figuring out which people work well together, at organizing their patrols to cover the maximum amount of ground without spreading themselves too thin, at tracking down the Alpha and flushing him out of hiding, even when he manages to avoid the gunfire.
Chris is good at the details, knows the devil is in them, and it won't be long before he finds that murderous son of a bitch and takes him out. The town will finally be safe again and maybe then Chris will finally get a chance to relax and spend some time with Allison, maybe even do normal father-daughter things with her before he loses his chance and she gets too old to indulge his useless sentimentality.
So here he is, spending another night mapping out the various areas his teams will patrol and trying to make sure they'll be prepared for whatever attacks come their way. He can feel his usual tension headache start behind his eye and he knows that by the end of the night, it'll be a screaming pain that snakes around his brain and renders him useless once he gets home. He'd complain, but it's his life, it's his choice, and he's never regretted it. There might have been a time when he did, right after Allison was born, when he'd held her for the first time and felt his entire world tilt on its axis with how small and soft and right she'd felt in his arms; there was a time when he'd wanted to give up hunting and just be a normal dad, being there for all her firsts (first smile, first step, first tooth, first word), helping her with her homework, maybe teaching her how to use a crossbow if he could bring himself to induct her into the life.
Except that being a Hunter doesn't end just because you become a father, and Chris had known all the things out there that could hurt his family if he let it, so he didn't give it up. He'd hunted and fought and missed many of her firsts (first restless night, first time she got seriously ill, first time she got out of the house and ran naked to the neighbor's house, the first day of school where she cried and her mother cried and he had to hear all about it on the phone when it was done) and he'd consoled himself by remembering that he was doing this all for her, that he was doing this so she would be safe. And maybe he didn't tell her about being a Hunter because he wanted her to avoid this life of nomadic wandering, constant fear, secrecy and paranoia, but that was his business as her father, not Kate's, and he'd thank her to keep out of it.
Sighing, he rubs at his face and wonders again if he's doing the right thing. More and more these days, he considers his life and whether he's making the right choices for the family, for Allison. He never used to second-guess himself this much, but between the Hale fire and his encroaching age, he's feeling more uncertain about the solidity of his world-view and the shades of gray that keep creeping into his black-and-white morality. Maybe he just needs to take out the Alpha and his pack like he's been planning and save the midlife crisis for when he has the time to indulge it.
Getting sloppy, he thinks to himself, folding up the maps and packing everything away as neatly as he always does. Sloppy and sentimental, two very bad combinations when you're a Hunter, and he thinks that Kate would laugh herself sick if she knew the direction of his thoughts. Or maybe she'd question his ability to lead the family; she's ruthless when it comes to weaknesses, and while he doesn't think she'd turn on her own family, she's unpredictable enough that he feels uncomfortable thinking too deeply about this.
He gives up thinking for the night and goes to put his supplies in the truck. He has time to question himself after the night patrol is done, assuming none of them get killed by the Alpha and his pack. Although, with the way he's been feeling lately, maybe getting eaten would be a relief; it'd stop the self-doubt, at the very least.
He swallows some aspirin in a futile attempt to stave off the impending headache and goes out to fight werewolves. It never stops being funny, no matter how many times he's thought it or done it. It just sounds too much like a bad joke and his life is the punchline.
***
It's been a long, tiring night and all Chris wants to do is go home and sleep off this raging headache that's clawing at his brain. But as luck would have it, the Alpha had attacked while Sheriff Stilinsky was in the area, and now Chris has to stay behind to make a statement and try to explain why he's out at night with enough weaponry for a small army. All in all, it's been a perfect shitstorm of a night, so he's not surprised that it ends with questioning by Stilinsky, who isn't dumb and is getting too close to asking the right questions for Chris to be comfortable with.
"Mr. Argent," Sheriff Stilinsky starts, his voice low and calm and professional, like he hadn't been knocked to the ground by a two-hundred-pound supernatural beast. Chris is reluctantly impressed; it takes serious balls to withstand that kind of attack and still be able to keep your nerves in check.
"Please," he says politely, "call me Chris. It's never a good thing when a cop calls you mister."
Stilinsky's mouth quirks in a half-smile, and almost against his will, Chris notices the crinkles around his eyes, the laugh lines at his mouth. It's really not a good time for his college experimentation days to rear up and remind him that Stilinsky is exactly the kind of guy he used to find attractive, so he clamps down on his stray thoughts and focuses on what the good sheriff is saying.
"Chris," and Chris's jaw clenches at how good his name sounds in that flat drawl, "can you tell me anything else about what went on here?" Stilinsky's looking at him in a thoughtful way that Chris thinks is the sheriff sizing him up, trying to fit his presence with what's been going on in this town over the past few weeks, which is not good. Chris doesn't know a lot about Stilinsky, but he knows that the man is tenacious, and judging by the pointed questions he's been asking Chris, he's smart and will start putting things together if Chris doesn't distract him.
"Tell you what, Sheriff." Chris smiles and tries to project a less threatening air, which isn't easy after the adrenaline rush of fighting off the Alpha. "How about we go get a drink and you can ask me all the questions you want?"
Stilinsky's eyebrow quirks up in a silent question. "I'll admit," he says after a minute, "this is one of the more inventive ways to get me to stop with the questions. Usually, it's all lies and lawyers and people slamming doors in my face."
Chris's smile slides into something more genuine. "How terrible."
Stilinsky rolls his eyes and shove his notepad into his jacket pocket, his mouth tilted up in a half-grin that makes him look about ten years younger and miles less troubled. "Whatever, pal. You're paying anyway."
Chris laughs. "I hope you're a cheap date then. You have to drive home, remember?"
Stilinsky's dismayed expression keeps him amused as they make their way to the local dive, a shabby bar with The Eagles on the jukebox and copious amounts of Wild Turkey on hand. Chris has never been here before, but he's been in many places like this; small towns are pretty much all the same, and as a Hunter, he's been to enough dives like this one that he feels at home here, maybe even moreso than his own home, although he's not admitting to that.
Stilinsky finds them a table where their backs are to the walls and they can see everyone who comes into the bar. Chris is reminded again that despite being a small-town sheriff, Stilinsky is still a cop, a really smart one who could spell trouble for the Argent family if Chris doesn't take care of it.
"Bud," he orders when the girl comes by with a notepad and a tired smile.
"Whiskey, two fingers," Stilinsky chimes in, giving Chris a crooked smile when he notices Chris's surprise. "Relax, Argent. I'll still be good to drive."
Chris shrugs, tries not to notice the ruddy hue of Stilinsky's cheeks as he looks at Chris, tries not to read intent in the way he smiles and leans in to talk. "I wasn't doubting you at all, Sheriff," he says, trying to keep up the light tone. "I was just surprised that you liked whiskey."
"Don't even get me started," Stilinsky sighs, and Chris is surprised into laughter once again.
"Oh, a connoisseur, are you?" Stilinsky's face is priceless, equal parts amusement and embarrassment, and his cheeks again take on that pink flush that makes Chris's fingers itch with the need to touch him. Luckily, the waitress comes by with their drinks, and Chris chugs half his beer in record time to stop himself from doing something completely fucking stupid, like suggest the sheriff accompany him to his truck so he can blow him without any witnesses. That just cannot happen, no matter how much he wants it and no matter how Stilinsky looks at him with those shrewd eyes and easy smirk.
They drink in silence for a while, Chris trying to remind his body that it isn't seventeen anymore while Stilinsky sips his whiskey and watches the bar for any suspicious activity. Not that there is any -- it's one a.m. on a school night and Beacon Hills is as small a town as it gets -- but Stilinsky's still a cop, and Chris knows that no matter where they are, cops are never off-duty, not even small-town sheriffs. After minutes of silence and another beer that goes as fast as the first one, Chris finally feels compelled to break their no-talking streak.
"How'd you get into the sheriff business anyway?"
Stilinsky raises his eyebrows like he knows how ridiculous that question is and Chris can almost hear the "Really?" in that look. "Watched 'Blazing Saddles' a lot," he says, tone dry as dust. "Always wanted to be Bart."
Chris rolls his eyes. "You're not that smooth, Sheriff."
Stilinsky snorts and finishes his whiskey, rubbing his fingers over his mouth as he looks at Chris. It's very distracting because his mouth is pink and wet and Chris wants to taste it. "My dad was a cop," he admits after a moment. "Detective, actually. The Stilinsky family comes from a long line of cops and soldiers," he adds, looking a little uncomfortable to even be admitting that, and Chris wonders if he's ever told anyone outside of the family that little tidbit of information. It seems like a personal thing, that fact, and Chris wonders if Stilinsky meant to tell him that or if it's the whiskey talking.
"So how'd you end up in Beacon Hills?" he asks, curious now. Stilinsky is more than the uniform he wears, more than the easy smile and authoritative air he projects, and Chris wants to know more about him for his own reasons, not family reasons.
Stilinsky smiles, but it's not a happy one. "Moved here when Stiles was born because his mom and I thought it would be a better place for him to grow up." He waves his hand around in a vague gesture that seems to indicate the whole town. "Fresh air, open spaces, good neighbors, and all that brochure bullshit." He slumps back a little in his chair as if the town's personally disappointed him. "It was good right up until she died and Stiles and I..." He pauses for a moment, looking rougher and older, and Chris feels a pang of sympathy for the lost look on the other man's face. "He's all I have left, you know," Stilinsky continues, seemingly getting himself under control when he notices Chris looking at him. "And then with these attacks..." He trails off, shaking his head like he's trying to rid himself of the past, and Chris knows what that feels like.
"Sucks," he says because he doesn't know what else to say. He's never been one for platitudes and he's never been good at comforting anyone, not even his own daughter, so he's a bit lost here.
Stilinsky laughs and the tension bleeds out just like that. "It does suck," he agrees, his fingers tapping restlessly against his empty glass. "It sucks balls."
"And I think that's our cue to go home," Chris laughs, pushing his empty beer bottle aside. "Once we start using balls in conversations, it's definitely time to go home."
Stilinsky scrubs at his face like he's trying to wipe away the fatigue, leans back in his seat and gives Chris an amused look. "Miss Emily Post's Small Town Etiquette?" he asks, mouth turned up in an easy grin.
"Chris Argent's Guide to Dealing with Local Law Enforcement," Chris retorts, feeling inordinately pleased when Stilinsky laughs, an open, throaty sound that just plucks away at Chris's self-control until he thinks he needs to get out of this bar before he loses all sense of decorum. "C'mon, Sheriff, let's get you home." He ignores Stilinsky's eye-rolling and tosses enough cash on the table to cover them both, grabbing hold of Stilinsky's jacket and tugging him toward the front door like he's a misbehaving kid.
On their way out the door, Stilinsky tilts his face up to glare at Chris. "You're aware that I'm not five and that I'm the sheriff, right?"
Chris smothers a smile and eases his grip on the sheriff, although he keeps his hand on the man's shoulder just because he wants to. "Is that your way of telling me you've got a gun?"
"No, I'm just happy to see you."
Chris's laugh comes out in a wheeze. "Shit, I walked right into that one."
Stilinsky's grinning as he walks Chris to his truck, leaning against the open door as Chris turns on the engine and warms it up for a few minutes. "With your eyes open too," he smirks. "You'd think a man with a seventeen-year-old daughter would know better."
Chris shrugs. "To be fair, I haven't been involved with the cops for a very long time."
"Youthful indiscretions?" Stilinsky asks, those sharp eyes taking him in again, measuring him in a way that makes Chris flush with heat.
"Something like that."
There's a moment of silence as Stilinsky tilts his head back to gaze up at the stars and Chris follows the line of his throat, wondering what it would be like to put his mouth against that pulse, to set his teeth against that soft place where Stilinsky's jaw meets his throat and just bite and suck until Stilinsky's a wreck. It's much too animalistic a thought for him, this need taking him completely by surprise, and he has to tear his gaze away from the man before he gives in and does something he's going to regret.
"You know," Stilinsky says, his voice soft and thoughtful, "we could flirt like this all night, but it's late and we're both tired." He looks back at Chris and his gaze is direct. "So how about we just get off and go home, and we can deal with the repercussions in the morning?"
Chris feels his mouth part in surprise. "I'm not--"
Stilinsky smiles. "You are," he says, shaking his head when Chris tries to protest. "I may have been married for a long time, Argent, but I can still recognize when someone is hitting on me."
"Does delusion run in the Stilinsky family too?" Chris snaps, feeling vulnerable and disliking the feeling, hating it even more when Stilinsky moves closer and crowds Chris in the front seat.
"Delusion, my ass," Stilinsky murmurs, pressing his hands to Chris's sides, sliding his fingers under the plaid shirt to touch bare skin. "You practically have 'do me' written on your forehead."
Chris's breath stutters when Stilinsky pushes at the waistband of his jeans and thumbs his navel, his fingers rough with callouses that make Chris shiver as they rasp against his skin. "I am not that easy," he finally manages to spit out, his hands going to clutch at Stilinsky's shoulders, although he's not sure whether to pull him close or push him away.
Stilinsky laughs. "You are exactly that easy, Chris." And before Chris can argue, can open his mouth to say 'fuck you and the patrol car you rode in on', Stilinsky is kissing him, rough and needy, that sharp, clever mouth opening against his until Chris thinks he could come just from being kissed by him. Chris kisses him back because the man's right, he is this easy, and he gives in to his urge and puts his teeth against Stilinsky's throat, bites down until the man is making obscene noises that go straight to Chris's dick.
"No marks," Stilinsky warns, but Chris doesn't listen to him, just keeps kissing and licking and biting until Stilinsky grabs him by the hair and tugs his mouth away. Chris tries to argue, but Stilinsky is undoing his zipper, shoving his pants down, and just when Chris is about to go out of his mind, Stilinsky wraps his hand around Chris's dick and squeezes him tight.
Chris almost slams his head against the frame of his truck because it feels so goddamn good. "Oh, you-- fuck," he gasps, and feels his whole body shake when Stilinsky laughs and starts jerking him in rough, steady rhythm.
"Don't act like you don't love this," Stilinsky drawls, and Chris has to grab the frame to stop himself from yanking the man into his truck so they can do this right. "You voyeur. I'll bet this isn't the first time you've fucked outside a bar."
"What's your excuse?" Chris says through clenched teeth, feeling his control slide further away when Stilinsky leans in and kisses him with teeth and tongue, the taste of whiskey sharp in Chris's mouth. "You're the sheriff. Aren't you breaking laws right now?"
Stilinsky's smile is wicked. "I'll consider arresting myself for indecency after you blow me."
Chris loses it then, comes with Stilinsky's mouth on his and his hand wrapped firmly around Chris's dick. For a few minutes after, Chris can't think, can't even breathe right, and it takes him a moment to remember how to move his limbs in something resembling coordinated movement while Stilinsky cleans him up with some napkins he has in his coat pocket and zips up his pants again. On the plus side, his headache is gone; on the down, Stilinsky just jerked him off in his own truck outside a shitty bar full of people he knows. This might rank right up there with the dumbest thing he's ever done, and that includes the time he was twenty and went after a Wendigo without the proper equipment or back-up; at least he only risked death then whereas now, he risks his family's reputation and the possibility of scarring Allison for life if they get caught.
He's startled out of his thoughts when Stilinsky lightly taps his cheek, his eyes looking him over carefully to make sure he's all right. "You good there, Argent?" he asks, and Chris can hear the undercurrent of worry in that question. "I was just kidding about you blowing me, you know. If you don't want to--"
Fuck it, he thinks as he pushes himself out of the truck and goes to his knees, Stilinsky letting out an awkward yelp as Chris undoes his pants and takes him in his mouth. Considering how dangerous his life is and how none of them might survive the next attack, he might as well indulge himself just this once. It's an excuse, and a poor one, but Chris wants this too much to even bother trying to justify it to himself anymore. Stilinsky wants it as badly as he does, judging by the sounds he's making. And they're too desperate for this to be graceful, but Chris doesn't care about grace, just making it good for the man.
Stilinsky's fingers are tight in his hair, like he's trying to hold himself back, but Chris is too eager for it to let Stilinsky go easy on him. So he cheats, licks and sucks and deep-throats him until Stilinsky is braced against the truck and fucks Chris's mouth hard and fast. When he finally comes, Chris barely manages to swallow it all, feels almost light-headed and shaky when Stilinsky pulls away from him. He flushes when Stilinsky crouches in front of him and touches his face, his thumb rubbing gently against Chris's lower lip. "You okay?" he asks, his face creased into lines of worry.
Chris manages a smile. "I'm fine. I have done this before."
Stilinsky's eyebrows go up again, and it's amazing how much he can manage to say with just a look. "This thing specifically?" he asks, disbelief evident in his tone. "Where you blow a guy in his truck in front of a bar?"
"Youthful indiscretions," Chris counters, and smiles when Stilinsky snorts and pulls him to his feet.
"You are just full of surprises," Stilinsky says in a soft, wondering voice, his fingers absently circling Chris's wrist, his thumb against Chris's pulse.
Chris ducks his head a little and brushes a kiss against Stilinsky's mouth, soft and a little sweet. "You have no idea," he says, letting Stilinsky nuzzle his jaw, cup his face and kiss him, his whole body pressing into Chris because Stilinskys apparently use their whole bodies to do everything, including have conversations and kiss.
"We should probably go home," Stilinsky says after moments of breathless kissing that Chris hasn't indulged in since high school. "I have a son that never goes to bed when he's supposed to and asks too many questions."
"It must run in the family," Chris quips and is rewarded with another quick, fierce kiss.
"We Stilinskys don't do anything we're supposed to." Stilinsky adjusts his clothing, looking Chris over like he wants to make sure he hasn't missed anything. His gaze lingers a little too long at Chris's hips and he turns a little pinker when Chris laughs and mentions that his eyes are higher. "So I like your dick," he says, reluctantly amused. "Sue me."
One time only, Chris reminds himself, but he can't stop looking at Stilinsky and the way he watches everything around him like he's looking for that one piece that will put the puzzle together and the way he braces himself like he's the only thing standing between danger and keeping the townspeople safe. Chris likes him, way more than he should, and he knows the dangers of being around law enforcement longer than he has to be; the existence of werewolves is a secret, the existence of Hunters is a secret, and the more time Chris spends with the sheriff, the bigger the chance is that Stilinsky will find out about everything and arrest them both. Or worse, get hurt trying to do his job.
Chris has lost enough people and he doesn't want the sheriff to be next on his list. Better to just cut the ties while he can and keep them both safe.
"Guess I'll see you around," Stilinsky says quietly, turning to head back to his car, and Chris grabs his arm, pulls him back.
"Drinks next Friday?" he asks, ignoring the voice in his head that is screaming at him to be reasonable, to do the sensible thing and let the man go before they both get in over their heads.
Stilinsky's smile is beautiful, open and pleased, and Chris would kiss him again if he thought that he could get away with it. "Next Friday," he says with a nod, brushing his knuckles against Chris's before he turns back and heads toward his car.
Chris watches him drive away, his heart beating too fast as he considers all the ways this could go wrong, all the risks he's taking with himself, with his family, with Stilinsky. He can still feel Stilinsky's mouth against his, still feel his hands on his skin, and it feels like a fist in his gut when he realizes that he's going to do this, he's going to risk it all for another evening with Stilinsky and his smart mouth and his mile-a-minute brain. He doesn't know if it's a midlife crisis thing or if Stilinsky has just gotten under his skin, but he wants to do it again, see where it goes before it all blows up in his face. Just this once, he wants to be selfish and get what he wants just because he wants it, and the sheriff seems willing to indulge him. Maybe just one more time and then Chris can let it go, let Stilinsky go, and move on with his life.
It's a plan; not a great plan, but it's better than his constant worrying over everything else that's going wrong with his life. At least he'll enjoy this. Although, he thinks as he starts up the truck and makes his way home, if they're going to do this again, he's going to need to ask the sheriff his first name. It'd be the polite thing to do.
Lastly, Reese woke me up at five a.m. today because she is pure evil and would eat my soul if I didn't scrunch up into a hedgehog ball at night. I'm onto your game, cat! Watch, I'm going to pick her up and cuddle her all day long. Let's see how she likes that.
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. Please comment anywhere you feel has the best icons to use to dazzle me. I'm really easy.
Secondly, the following is all ghostrunner7's fault because she wrote Chris Argent/Sheriff Stilinsky and in the course of squeeing over its magnificence with her, I somehow talked myself into writing them as well, but never mind that bullshit, THIS IS STILL ALL HER FAULT. I hope you like it, bibi. ♥
Title: Your Impossible Man
Pairing: Chris Argent/Sheriff Stilinsky
Word Count: 4,466
Rating: R
Summary: Chris is possibly having a midlife crisis. Making out with the local sheriff isn't helping, but at least it's fun.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters and am making no profit off of them. It is to weep on all counts.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to sinden for giving this a once-over and laughing at my terrible jokes. For charliehey who always supports hot, middle-aged dads getting it on.
Check the gas gauge. Clean his weapons and make sure they're ready to fire. Make sure there's extra ammo in his truck. Make a list of teams for night patrol and which area they'll cover tonight.
Every night, Chris marks off things on his mental to-do checklist as he gets ready for another night of patrolling and making sure that no one else in this town gets hurt. It's become his job because Kate hates planning anything when she can just wing it (she's been that way since she was a kid, recklessly throwing herself headfirst into situations and barely making it out with her bones intact, laughing the whole way because she loves testing fate) and everyone else in the family seems more comfortable following orders than giving them. And while Mrs. Argent is good at keeping the family together and planning things out in the long run, she isn't as good at the finer details the way he is. He's good at figuring out which people work well together, at organizing their patrols to cover the maximum amount of ground without spreading themselves too thin, at tracking down the Alpha and flushing him out of hiding, even when he manages to avoid the gunfire.
Chris is good at the details, knows the devil is in them, and it won't be long before he finds that murderous son of a bitch and takes him out. The town will finally be safe again and maybe then Chris will finally get a chance to relax and spend some time with Allison, maybe even do normal father-daughter things with her before he loses his chance and she gets too old to indulge his useless sentimentality.
So here he is, spending another night mapping out the various areas his teams will patrol and trying to make sure they'll be prepared for whatever attacks come their way. He can feel his usual tension headache start behind his eye and he knows that by the end of the night, it'll be a screaming pain that snakes around his brain and renders him useless once he gets home. He'd complain, but it's his life, it's his choice, and he's never regretted it. There might have been a time when he did, right after Allison was born, when he'd held her for the first time and felt his entire world tilt on its axis with how small and soft and right she'd felt in his arms; there was a time when he'd wanted to give up hunting and just be a normal dad, being there for all her firsts (first smile, first step, first tooth, first word), helping her with her homework, maybe teaching her how to use a crossbow if he could bring himself to induct her into the life.
Except that being a Hunter doesn't end just because you become a father, and Chris had known all the things out there that could hurt his family if he let it, so he didn't give it up. He'd hunted and fought and missed many of her firsts (first restless night, first time she got seriously ill, first time she got out of the house and ran naked to the neighbor's house, the first day of school where she cried and her mother cried and he had to hear all about it on the phone when it was done) and he'd consoled himself by remembering that he was doing this all for her, that he was doing this so she would be safe. And maybe he didn't tell her about being a Hunter because he wanted her to avoid this life of nomadic wandering, constant fear, secrecy and paranoia, but that was his business as her father, not Kate's, and he'd thank her to keep out of it.
Sighing, he rubs at his face and wonders again if he's doing the right thing. More and more these days, he considers his life and whether he's making the right choices for the family, for Allison. He never used to second-guess himself this much, but between the Hale fire and his encroaching age, he's feeling more uncertain about the solidity of his world-view and the shades of gray that keep creeping into his black-and-white morality. Maybe he just needs to take out the Alpha and his pack like he's been planning and save the midlife crisis for when he has the time to indulge it.
Getting sloppy, he thinks to himself, folding up the maps and packing everything away as neatly as he always does. Sloppy and sentimental, two very bad combinations when you're a Hunter, and he thinks that Kate would laugh herself sick if she knew the direction of his thoughts. Or maybe she'd question his ability to lead the family; she's ruthless when it comes to weaknesses, and while he doesn't think she'd turn on her own family, she's unpredictable enough that he feels uncomfortable thinking too deeply about this.
He gives up thinking for the night and goes to put his supplies in the truck. He has time to question himself after the night patrol is done, assuming none of them get killed by the Alpha and his pack. Although, with the way he's been feeling lately, maybe getting eaten would be a relief; it'd stop the self-doubt, at the very least.
He swallows some aspirin in a futile attempt to stave off the impending headache and goes out to fight werewolves. It never stops being funny, no matter how many times he's thought it or done it. It just sounds too much like a bad joke and his life is the punchline.
***
It's been a long, tiring night and all Chris wants to do is go home and sleep off this raging headache that's clawing at his brain. But as luck would have it, the Alpha had attacked while Sheriff Stilinsky was in the area, and now Chris has to stay behind to make a statement and try to explain why he's out at night with enough weaponry for a small army. All in all, it's been a perfect shitstorm of a night, so he's not surprised that it ends with questioning by Stilinsky, who isn't dumb and is getting too close to asking the right questions for Chris to be comfortable with.
"Mr. Argent," Sheriff Stilinsky starts, his voice low and calm and professional, like he hadn't been knocked to the ground by a two-hundred-pound supernatural beast. Chris is reluctantly impressed; it takes serious balls to withstand that kind of attack and still be able to keep your nerves in check.
"Please," he says politely, "call me Chris. It's never a good thing when a cop calls you mister."
Stilinsky's mouth quirks in a half-smile, and almost against his will, Chris notices the crinkles around his eyes, the laugh lines at his mouth. It's really not a good time for his college experimentation days to rear up and remind him that Stilinsky is exactly the kind of guy he used to find attractive, so he clamps down on his stray thoughts and focuses on what the good sheriff is saying.
"Chris," and Chris's jaw clenches at how good his name sounds in that flat drawl, "can you tell me anything else about what went on here?" Stilinsky's looking at him in a thoughtful way that Chris thinks is the sheriff sizing him up, trying to fit his presence with what's been going on in this town over the past few weeks, which is not good. Chris doesn't know a lot about Stilinsky, but he knows that the man is tenacious, and judging by the pointed questions he's been asking Chris, he's smart and will start putting things together if Chris doesn't distract him.
"Tell you what, Sheriff." Chris smiles and tries to project a less threatening air, which isn't easy after the adrenaline rush of fighting off the Alpha. "How about we go get a drink and you can ask me all the questions you want?"
Stilinsky's eyebrow quirks up in a silent question. "I'll admit," he says after a minute, "this is one of the more inventive ways to get me to stop with the questions. Usually, it's all lies and lawyers and people slamming doors in my face."
Chris's smile slides into something more genuine. "How terrible."
Stilinsky rolls his eyes and shove his notepad into his jacket pocket, his mouth tilted up in a half-grin that makes him look about ten years younger and miles less troubled. "Whatever, pal. You're paying anyway."
Chris laughs. "I hope you're a cheap date then. You have to drive home, remember?"
Stilinsky's dismayed expression keeps him amused as they make their way to the local dive, a shabby bar with The Eagles on the jukebox and copious amounts of Wild Turkey on hand. Chris has never been here before, but he's been in many places like this; small towns are pretty much all the same, and as a Hunter, he's been to enough dives like this one that he feels at home here, maybe even moreso than his own home, although he's not admitting to that.
Stilinsky finds them a table where their backs are to the walls and they can see everyone who comes into the bar. Chris is reminded again that despite being a small-town sheriff, Stilinsky is still a cop, a really smart one who could spell trouble for the Argent family if Chris doesn't take care of it.
"Bud," he orders when the girl comes by with a notepad and a tired smile.
"Whiskey, two fingers," Stilinsky chimes in, giving Chris a crooked smile when he notices Chris's surprise. "Relax, Argent. I'll still be good to drive."
Chris shrugs, tries not to notice the ruddy hue of Stilinsky's cheeks as he looks at Chris, tries not to read intent in the way he smiles and leans in to talk. "I wasn't doubting you at all, Sheriff," he says, trying to keep up the light tone. "I was just surprised that you liked whiskey."
"Don't even get me started," Stilinsky sighs, and Chris is surprised into laughter once again.
"Oh, a connoisseur, are you?" Stilinsky's face is priceless, equal parts amusement and embarrassment, and his cheeks again take on that pink flush that makes Chris's fingers itch with the need to touch him. Luckily, the waitress comes by with their drinks, and Chris chugs half his beer in record time to stop himself from doing something completely fucking stupid, like suggest the sheriff accompany him to his truck so he can blow him without any witnesses. That just cannot happen, no matter how much he wants it and no matter how Stilinsky looks at him with those shrewd eyes and easy smirk.
They drink in silence for a while, Chris trying to remind his body that it isn't seventeen anymore while Stilinsky sips his whiskey and watches the bar for any suspicious activity. Not that there is any -- it's one a.m. on a school night and Beacon Hills is as small a town as it gets -- but Stilinsky's still a cop, and Chris knows that no matter where they are, cops are never off-duty, not even small-town sheriffs. After minutes of silence and another beer that goes as fast as the first one, Chris finally feels compelled to break their no-talking streak.
"How'd you get into the sheriff business anyway?"
Stilinsky raises his eyebrows like he knows how ridiculous that question is and Chris can almost hear the "Really?" in that look. "Watched 'Blazing Saddles' a lot," he says, tone dry as dust. "Always wanted to be Bart."
Chris rolls his eyes. "You're not that smooth, Sheriff."
Stilinsky snorts and finishes his whiskey, rubbing his fingers over his mouth as he looks at Chris. It's very distracting because his mouth is pink and wet and Chris wants to taste it. "My dad was a cop," he admits after a moment. "Detective, actually. The Stilinsky family comes from a long line of cops and soldiers," he adds, looking a little uncomfortable to even be admitting that, and Chris wonders if he's ever told anyone outside of the family that little tidbit of information. It seems like a personal thing, that fact, and Chris wonders if Stilinsky meant to tell him that or if it's the whiskey talking.
"So how'd you end up in Beacon Hills?" he asks, curious now. Stilinsky is more than the uniform he wears, more than the easy smile and authoritative air he projects, and Chris wants to know more about him for his own reasons, not family reasons.
Stilinsky smiles, but it's not a happy one. "Moved here when Stiles was born because his mom and I thought it would be a better place for him to grow up." He waves his hand around in a vague gesture that seems to indicate the whole town. "Fresh air, open spaces, good neighbors, and all that brochure bullshit." He slumps back a little in his chair as if the town's personally disappointed him. "It was good right up until she died and Stiles and I..." He pauses for a moment, looking rougher and older, and Chris feels a pang of sympathy for the lost look on the other man's face. "He's all I have left, you know," Stilinsky continues, seemingly getting himself under control when he notices Chris looking at him. "And then with these attacks..." He trails off, shaking his head like he's trying to rid himself of the past, and Chris knows what that feels like.
"Sucks," he says because he doesn't know what else to say. He's never been one for platitudes and he's never been good at comforting anyone, not even his own daughter, so he's a bit lost here.
Stilinsky laughs and the tension bleeds out just like that. "It does suck," he agrees, his fingers tapping restlessly against his empty glass. "It sucks balls."
"And I think that's our cue to go home," Chris laughs, pushing his empty beer bottle aside. "Once we start using balls in conversations, it's definitely time to go home."
Stilinsky scrubs at his face like he's trying to wipe away the fatigue, leans back in his seat and gives Chris an amused look. "Miss Emily Post's Small Town Etiquette?" he asks, mouth turned up in an easy grin.
"Chris Argent's Guide to Dealing with Local Law Enforcement," Chris retorts, feeling inordinately pleased when Stilinsky laughs, an open, throaty sound that just plucks away at Chris's self-control until he thinks he needs to get out of this bar before he loses all sense of decorum. "C'mon, Sheriff, let's get you home." He ignores Stilinsky's eye-rolling and tosses enough cash on the table to cover them both, grabbing hold of Stilinsky's jacket and tugging him toward the front door like he's a misbehaving kid.
On their way out the door, Stilinsky tilts his face up to glare at Chris. "You're aware that I'm not five and that I'm the sheriff, right?"
Chris smothers a smile and eases his grip on the sheriff, although he keeps his hand on the man's shoulder just because he wants to. "Is that your way of telling me you've got a gun?"
"No, I'm just happy to see you."
Chris's laugh comes out in a wheeze. "Shit, I walked right into that one."
Stilinsky's grinning as he walks Chris to his truck, leaning against the open door as Chris turns on the engine and warms it up for a few minutes. "With your eyes open too," he smirks. "You'd think a man with a seventeen-year-old daughter would know better."
Chris shrugs. "To be fair, I haven't been involved with the cops for a very long time."
"Youthful indiscretions?" Stilinsky asks, those sharp eyes taking him in again, measuring him in a way that makes Chris flush with heat.
"Something like that."
There's a moment of silence as Stilinsky tilts his head back to gaze up at the stars and Chris follows the line of his throat, wondering what it would be like to put his mouth against that pulse, to set his teeth against that soft place where Stilinsky's jaw meets his throat and just bite and suck until Stilinsky's a wreck. It's much too animalistic a thought for him, this need taking him completely by surprise, and he has to tear his gaze away from the man before he gives in and does something he's going to regret.
"You know," Stilinsky says, his voice soft and thoughtful, "we could flirt like this all night, but it's late and we're both tired." He looks back at Chris and his gaze is direct. "So how about we just get off and go home, and we can deal with the repercussions in the morning?"
Chris feels his mouth part in surprise. "I'm not--"
Stilinsky smiles. "You are," he says, shaking his head when Chris tries to protest. "I may have been married for a long time, Argent, but I can still recognize when someone is hitting on me."
"Does delusion run in the Stilinsky family too?" Chris snaps, feeling vulnerable and disliking the feeling, hating it even more when Stilinsky moves closer and crowds Chris in the front seat.
"Delusion, my ass," Stilinsky murmurs, pressing his hands to Chris's sides, sliding his fingers under the plaid shirt to touch bare skin. "You practically have 'do me' written on your forehead."
Chris's breath stutters when Stilinsky pushes at the waistband of his jeans and thumbs his navel, his fingers rough with callouses that make Chris shiver as they rasp against his skin. "I am not that easy," he finally manages to spit out, his hands going to clutch at Stilinsky's shoulders, although he's not sure whether to pull him close or push him away.
Stilinsky laughs. "You are exactly that easy, Chris." And before Chris can argue, can open his mouth to say 'fuck you and the patrol car you rode in on', Stilinsky is kissing him, rough and needy, that sharp, clever mouth opening against his until Chris thinks he could come just from being kissed by him. Chris kisses him back because the man's right, he is this easy, and he gives in to his urge and puts his teeth against Stilinsky's throat, bites down until the man is making obscene noises that go straight to Chris's dick.
"No marks," Stilinsky warns, but Chris doesn't listen to him, just keeps kissing and licking and biting until Stilinsky grabs him by the hair and tugs his mouth away. Chris tries to argue, but Stilinsky is undoing his zipper, shoving his pants down, and just when Chris is about to go out of his mind, Stilinsky wraps his hand around Chris's dick and squeezes him tight.
Chris almost slams his head against the frame of his truck because it feels so goddamn good. "Oh, you-- fuck," he gasps, and feels his whole body shake when Stilinsky laughs and starts jerking him in rough, steady rhythm.
"Don't act like you don't love this," Stilinsky drawls, and Chris has to grab the frame to stop himself from yanking the man into his truck so they can do this right. "You voyeur. I'll bet this isn't the first time you've fucked outside a bar."
"What's your excuse?" Chris says through clenched teeth, feeling his control slide further away when Stilinsky leans in and kisses him with teeth and tongue, the taste of whiskey sharp in Chris's mouth. "You're the sheriff. Aren't you breaking laws right now?"
Stilinsky's smile is wicked. "I'll consider arresting myself for indecency after you blow me."
Chris loses it then, comes with Stilinsky's mouth on his and his hand wrapped firmly around Chris's dick. For a few minutes after, Chris can't think, can't even breathe right, and it takes him a moment to remember how to move his limbs in something resembling coordinated movement while Stilinsky cleans him up with some napkins he has in his coat pocket and zips up his pants again. On the plus side, his headache is gone; on the down, Stilinsky just jerked him off in his own truck outside a shitty bar full of people he knows. This might rank right up there with the dumbest thing he's ever done, and that includes the time he was twenty and went after a Wendigo without the proper equipment or back-up; at least he only risked death then whereas now, he risks his family's reputation and the possibility of scarring Allison for life if they get caught.
He's startled out of his thoughts when Stilinsky lightly taps his cheek, his eyes looking him over carefully to make sure he's all right. "You good there, Argent?" he asks, and Chris can hear the undercurrent of worry in that question. "I was just kidding about you blowing me, you know. If you don't want to--"
Fuck it, he thinks as he pushes himself out of the truck and goes to his knees, Stilinsky letting out an awkward yelp as Chris undoes his pants and takes him in his mouth. Considering how dangerous his life is and how none of them might survive the next attack, he might as well indulge himself just this once. It's an excuse, and a poor one, but Chris wants this too much to even bother trying to justify it to himself anymore. Stilinsky wants it as badly as he does, judging by the sounds he's making. And they're too desperate for this to be graceful, but Chris doesn't care about grace, just making it good for the man.
Stilinsky's fingers are tight in his hair, like he's trying to hold himself back, but Chris is too eager for it to let Stilinsky go easy on him. So he cheats, licks and sucks and deep-throats him until Stilinsky is braced against the truck and fucks Chris's mouth hard and fast. When he finally comes, Chris barely manages to swallow it all, feels almost light-headed and shaky when Stilinsky pulls away from him. He flushes when Stilinsky crouches in front of him and touches his face, his thumb rubbing gently against Chris's lower lip. "You okay?" he asks, his face creased into lines of worry.
Chris manages a smile. "I'm fine. I have done this before."
Stilinsky's eyebrows go up again, and it's amazing how much he can manage to say with just a look. "This thing specifically?" he asks, disbelief evident in his tone. "Where you blow a guy in his truck in front of a bar?"
"Youthful indiscretions," Chris counters, and smiles when Stilinsky snorts and pulls him to his feet.
"You are just full of surprises," Stilinsky says in a soft, wondering voice, his fingers absently circling Chris's wrist, his thumb against Chris's pulse.
Chris ducks his head a little and brushes a kiss against Stilinsky's mouth, soft and a little sweet. "You have no idea," he says, letting Stilinsky nuzzle his jaw, cup his face and kiss him, his whole body pressing into Chris because Stilinskys apparently use their whole bodies to do everything, including have conversations and kiss.
"We should probably go home," Stilinsky says after moments of breathless kissing that Chris hasn't indulged in since high school. "I have a son that never goes to bed when he's supposed to and asks too many questions."
"It must run in the family," Chris quips and is rewarded with another quick, fierce kiss.
"We Stilinskys don't do anything we're supposed to." Stilinsky adjusts his clothing, looking Chris over like he wants to make sure he hasn't missed anything. His gaze lingers a little too long at Chris's hips and he turns a little pinker when Chris laughs and mentions that his eyes are higher. "So I like your dick," he says, reluctantly amused. "Sue me."
One time only, Chris reminds himself, but he can't stop looking at Stilinsky and the way he watches everything around him like he's looking for that one piece that will put the puzzle together and the way he braces himself like he's the only thing standing between danger and keeping the townspeople safe. Chris likes him, way more than he should, and he knows the dangers of being around law enforcement longer than he has to be; the existence of werewolves is a secret, the existence of Hunters is a secret, and the more time Chris spends with the sheriff, the bigger the chance is that Stilinsky will find out about everything and arrest them both. Or worse, get hurt trying to do his job.
Chris has lost enough people and he doesn't want the sheriff to be next on his list. Better to just cut the ties while he can and keep them both safe.
"Guess I'll see you around," Stilinsky says quietly, turning to head back to his car, and Chris grabs his arm, pulls him back.
"Drinks next Friday?" he asks, ignoring the voice in his head that is screaming at him to be reasonable, to do the sensible thing and let the man go before they both get in over their heads.
Stilinsky's smile is beautiful, open and pleased, and Chris would kiss him again if he thought that he could get away with it. "Next Friday," he says with a nod, brushing his knuckles against Chris's before he turns back and heads toward his car.
Chris watches him drive away, his heart beating too fast as he considers all the ways this could go wrong, all the risks he's taking with himself, with his family, with Stilinsky. He can still feel Stilinsky's mouth against his, still feel his hands on his skin, and it feels like a fist in his gut when he realizes that he's going to do this, he's going to risk it all for another evening with Stilinsky and his smart mouth and his mile-a-minute brain. He doesn't know if it's a midlife crisis thing or if Stilinsky has just gotten under his skin, but he wants to do it again, see where it goes before it all blows up in his face. Just this once, he wants to be selfish and get what he wants just because he wants it, and the sheriff seems willing to indulge him. Maybe just one more time and then Chris can let it go, let Stilinsky go, and move on with his life.
It's a plan; not a great plan, but it's better than his constant worrying over everything else that's going wrong with his life. At least he'll enjoy this. Although, he thinks as he starts up the truck and makes his way home, if they're going to do this again, he's going to need to ask the sheriff his first name. It'd be the polite thing to do.
Lastly, Reese woke me up at five a.m. today because she is pure evil and would eat my soul if I didn't scrunch up into a hedgehog ball at night. I'm onto your game, cat! Watch, I'm going to pick her up and cuddle her all day long. Let's see how she likes that.
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. Please comment anywhere you feel has the best icons to use to dazzle me. I'm really easy.