troubleiwant:

Remember how there’s not enough Canon compliant future fic where Stiles is a cop and he runs into Derek again?? WELL HERE IS SOME MORE.

Abby loves a lot of things about being a cop, but handling vagrancy calls isn’t one of them. The only worse option is if it ends up being a drunk and disorderly, too. Just, she hates forcing people to move along when they’re only trying to survive on the streets. And while she can’t blame those who react poorly to her thinly-veiled orders, she doesn’t love getting cussed at either.

Luckily, her partner Stiles is always willing to step up. He intuitively grasps how to balance his authority with a friendly sympathy that reads as honest respect, not pity. Most of the city’s homeless accept Stiles as at least a friendly acquaintance, at this point. Considering he’s best known among his peers for his sharp tongue and a borderline troubling disregard for social norms, it’s a bit of a surprise, but when it comes to empathizing with the genuinely downtrodden? Stiles is your guy.

Which is probably why they get called to deal with the vagrant in the woods in the first place, and that’s when all the trouble starts.

“We’re looking at a Caucasian male, early thirties, six foot three, maybe 180 pounds,” Abby rattles off. “The biker who reported him said he seemed disoriented and was staggering around. Wasn’t dressed for the weather, started shouting at her when she approached and offered to help, stuff like that. There’s a possibility he could get violent if someone got too close, so it’s good we’re picking him up. My guess is a drunk and disorderly, but might be harder drugs.” She sighs. Not how she wanted to spend her Friday night.

“Fingers crossed for anything but meth,” Stiles says wryly as he slides into the driver’s seat and starts up the patrol car.

The sun sinks past the ridge as they drive, and by the time they’re out on the trail the biker indicated, evening shadows have settled into the already-dim woods. The path is uneven and narrow. While Stiles seems to be keeping his footing relatively well – surprisingly, Abby wouldn’t have pegged him for an outdoorsman – Abby herself is devoting all her attention to not twisting an ankle.

“Jeeze,” she mutters, fifteen minutes into the hike and no sign of their vagrant. “They could install a few lights, don’t you think? Even with the moon out I can barely see my feet. Why do the crazies always pick th- oof!” she grunts, bouncing off of Stiles where he’d come to an abrupt stop right in front of her. “What gives?”

He’s staring up at the full moon, a perfect white circle shining through the branches, stark against the darkening sky. It illuminates a surprisingly wary expression on his face, one disproportionate the situation in Abby’s estimation. They’ve handled this type of thing together so often it’s routine.

“Y’know, uh, it is getting dark,” he says, the lightness of his tone belying his narrow-eyed expression. “How about you head back to the car and get the flashlights?”

“What? You’re the one who said they’d just ruin our night vision,” Abby argues incredulously. “And if I go back, it’ll be at least half an hour before I catch up to you. Longer, if you keep hiking out. What if you run into this guy alone?”

“Naw, I’ll wait for you right here,” Stiles says quickly. A blatant lie.

But before Abby gets the chance to pester him into telling her what’s really up, the sound of snapping branches distracts them both. A pale figure stumbles into view farther down the trail, his light t-shirt standing out clearly among the dark trees. The vagrant.

“Hey there, sir,” Stiles says loud and firm, stepping forward with his hand carefully resting on his holster. “This is the police, we’re here to help. Sir?”

“Stay back,” the stranger shouts, a guttural, half-human growl. The sound of it makes the hair on the back of Abby’s neck stand up, her animal brain screaming run.

Stiles edges forwards, putting himself between Abby and the stranger. His animal brain apparently isn’t working. “Can’t do that, sir. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” He unclips his gun as he speaks, every muscle on him tensed and ready.

The man’s almost doubled over, his back to them bowed and taunt, fingers gripping his own biceps with such force they almost look clawed. “Get away from me,” he shouts again, this time with something desperate in his tone. He glances back over his shoulder at them, as if to check if they’ve started running yet.

Abby gasps. For a second, the face she’d caught in the moonlight had seemed… wrong. Bulging and furred, monstrous. The man stumbles again, lets out a moan that’s half a roar.

“Stiles,” she hisses, pulling at his uniform. “Something’s off, this is weird. Let’s just go. We can block off the trail until morning and come pick him up then, with backup.”

But Stiles isn’t listening to her. His lips are parted, brows drawn in confusion. All the tense hesitation in his body has bled away, and his posture is open. His hand drops away from his weapon and he leans tentatively towards the stranger, rather than away.

“Derek?” he says in a small voice, too quiet for the man to hear from so far away.

Except the man freezes and turns his head to look at them, as if he somehow heard the name. His face looks human, now, and his voice is almost human, too, when he says, “Stiles?”

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