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Stiles is on call but in his and Derek's bed trying to get some sleep when the call comes across the scanner. He lurches up when he hears 'hostage situation,' 'Beacon Hills Bank,' and 'Detective Hale,' in the same sentences and his fingers start trembling immediately. He's out of bed and getting dressed to go in to the station, already on his way out the door by the time his dad calls him.
"We need our best shooter," the Sheriff says. "He's killed three already. If he doesn't give up then..." He trails off for a moment.
But Stiles knows exactly what he means. If the man keeps waving the gun around, if Derek can't talk him down, then the bank robber is Stiles' to take care of.
==
He's eight years old the first time any type of gun is placed in his hands. His dad looks at him with a fierce, hard shine to his eyes and says, "I don't care what anyone else says, BB guns are not toys, Stiles."
Stiles understands the gravity of the situation when his dad says that the gun is never to be pulled out when his dad isn't right there, and he never leaves the safety off, and he always makes sure to check the gun before and after using it to make sure the clip and chamber are both empty.
He's broken a lot of rules in his life (before and after being given the gun) but he never breaks rules when it comes to guns, and the sharp relief in his dad's face makes Stiles proud.
His dad lets him shoot a .38 Smith & Wesson when Stiles is ten, and by the time he's thirteen he's a pro at shooting the 9mm, too. There's a shine in his dad's eyes that reads pride when Stiles goes to the station target room and outshoots all of his dad's detectives and deputies without breaking a sweat. It's a bonding moment for them and when his mom dies, it centers Stiles, focuses him and distracts him from his grief.
Having to think about aim, targets, the way the sight is a little to the right, or a little high, it pulls him back down to earth and forces him to concentrate. Cleaning the guns, pulling them apart and putting them back together, winds Stiles back down.
When Stiles is sixteen, his dad introduces Stiles to the sniper rifle, and contrary to what Stiles tells everyone about Lydia Martin being his first love, the sniper rifle is his true first love.
Its sleek feel underneath his hands, it's sharp sights, the way the recoil barely affects him when he's shooting, how easily it ejects bullets, another one already seeming to already be sliding into the chamber. When he walks into the target room the first time and it's sitting there waiting for him, his dad says, "I thought you might like more of a challenge," and Stiles' heart skips a beat because he is excited.
His lips curl up. "Sure," he says, "a challenge."
Unsurprisingly to everyone but Stiles, it's no challenge at all, but it is what he's best at.
For his seventeenth birthday his dad take him to the Beacon Hills Police Academy and lets him run through the courses, but when he gets to the sniper station, Stiles spend hours shooting, belly on the ground shooting low, on his knees on the roof shooting high at different targets set up, and every trainee enrolled in the academy is impressed by him. Stiles can't help but feel extremely proud.
He goes to Beacon Hills Community College to get an associate's degree in Criminal Justice, before he enrolls in the Beacon Hills Police Academy. He goes through the steps there, passing everything with flying colors, and then he enrolls in sniper school. It’s never been Stiles’ desire to leave Beacon Hills, so he stays right there in town, with his dad and Scott and the rest of his friends, and because he has an in (his dad isn’t afraid to use his powers to get Stiles a job) he’s hired on the spot for the Beacon County SWAT team.
Mostly he stays in Beacon Hills, but occasionally he’s called in to other towns of Beacon County, too, if it’s really important. He makes good money and he gets to do something he loves while shooting, and that’s what counts.
His second love comes in the form of one to-be-Detective Derek Hale, who graduated the police academy in New York and decided to come back home and spend time with his family. They meet on a kidnapping situation, where the father has already killed the mother of a four year old girl, and is holding the girl at gunpoint. Stiles is suited up, ready to head up to the roof of the tallest building across the street, when Derek pulls up and gets out of the cruiser. He’s in a police uniform because he still hasn’t heard the results on his Detective’s test, and he’s in Stiles’ dad’s cruiser with him. The Sheriff rushes out and runs over to Stiles.
“Keep him alive, Stiles,” the Sheriff tells Stiles, and Stiles arches a brow. “Well,” the Sheriff adds, “I mean, I know you know what you’re doing. Just a reminder, you know,” his dad scratches the back of his neck. “I know you get upset with the kid-cases.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ll stoop to their level,” Stiles says, irritated. “I do my job and I do it right.”
Derek stands next to his dad and squints at Stiles. “Wait,” Derek pauses. “What is your job?”
The Sheriff snorts. Stiles eyes him. “Who are you?” he asks snippily. He doesn’t like people judging him for his job. Stiles already knows how it works: everybody hates on the SWAT team because it’s like they’re telling officers and detectives they’re not good enough. He already gets enough hate from most of the guys down at the station.
The Sheriff scrubs at his face with a hand before gesturing to Derek, who Stiles still hasn’t been formally introduced to. “Stiles, this is Derek Hale. Derek Hale, this is my son.” He adds, “The best sniper the SWAT team’s got.”
Stiles tries not to blush, and instead stares straight at Derek. Instead of saying anything about the SWAT team, Derek stares at Stiles a moment, contemplatively, before he says, “Well, let’s see what he can do then,” and leans back against the cruiser. “There’s a lot of good SWAT members back in New York, you know?” He arches a brow at Stiles, and Stiles straightens up and taps a booted foot against the pavement.
“If you’re challenging me,” he says, “I wouldn’t advise it.”
The Sheriff sighs. Stiles’ sergeant yells, “Stilinski, we don’t have all day!” He comes over and shoves the huge microphone into the Sheriff’s hands. “Give him a warning, Sheriff. Buy us time for Stilinski to get up on the roof,” he jerks a finger over to the building that Stiles will be on top of. Stiles swings his rifle over his shoulder, eyes Derek one more time, before nodding to his dad.
“See you in a few,” he says, and gives him a half-assed salute before crossing the street to the other building.
It takes Stiles ten minutes and his dad giving the man in the apartment building three warnings, before Stiles places his sight on the man’s right wrist, right above where he’s holding the gun to his daughter, making sure the little girl won’t be in any harm’s way. He shoots, there’s the muted sound of pain, and Stiles takes another shot to the shoulder to send him down before the man hurts the little girl. The rest of the SWAT team rushes into the apartment and Stiles’ sergeant scoops her up, screaming and all, to run her down to the Sheriff.
Stiles breathes out.
“Good work, Stilinski,” he sergeant says over the radio, and Stiles gives him a thumbs up from on top of the roof, when he notices the sergeant looking up.
“I try my best, Sarge!” Stiles yells down, and the sergeant shakes his head.
His dad and Derek Hale are squinting into the sun, staring up at him, and his dad is shaking his head as Stiles packs his rifle back up and makes his way through the building and out the door towards them. The Sheriff claps him on the back. “Nice one, son.” Stiles grins at him. Then he narrows his eyes and turns to Derek. Derek eyes him before holding his hands up.
“Nope, you got me,” he says, flashing a smile that is probably dangerous to the human race if they witness it once, Stiles thinks. He’s ready to melt into a puddle of goo at the sight of it. “You’re the best,” Derek continues, and Stiles’ heart flutters.
He shrugs. “I like to be modest about it.”
The Sheriff snorts. Derek says, “Maybe you could show me sometime.” And Stiles blushes.
“Sure,” he says, “I’m always in the training room… you know. Training. Stop by sometime.”
The Sheriff claps his hand against his face and shakes his head in what is probably pure embarrassment for Stiles’ inability to handle social situations. To be fair, Derek doesn’t seem to be able to handle social situations any better, what with all the offending comments towards Stiles’ mad skills.
It doesn’t seem to matter, though, because less than a week later Derek does come down to the training room while Stiles is there, cleaning his rifle and making sure his sights are adjusted just right. Somehow instead of showing Derek how, exactly, a sniper rifle works and is different in comparison to your standard handgun carried around by all Beacon Hills police officers, Stiles finds himself getting naked.
On the locker room bench.
With Derek Hale.
Where his friends and coworkers and family have allbeen to change sometime in the last twenty four hours.
Stiles seems to find that hotter anyway.
He and Derek settle into a routine of working and dating and sleeping together fairly quickly, and before Stiles knows it, two years have passed, he’s moving into a tiny two bedroom walkup right in the middle of Beacon Hills, close enough to work and his and Derek’s family, with Derek. Stiles has always been happy with his life, for the most part, but Derek makes it that much happier.
==
“Sarge,” Stiles says, already suited up, strapping the last Velcro strap to his Kevlar vest up as the sergeant appears before Stiles. His eyes are squinted in the way that says he’s really, really nervous about the situation that’s about to go down. Stiles can always tell when the Sergeant thinks it’s going to be an easy in and out, or when he thinks it’s going to get messy fast.
It’s already pretty messy if SWAT is being called in, but it’s routine for them to be called in for all bank robberies. Or hostage situations. Both of which these are, Stiles reminds himself.
“What’s Hale doing here anyways?” the sergeant asks Stiles, leaning back against the SWAT truck while Stiles checks to make sure everything is in place on his rifle.
Stiles grimaces. “We got bills to pay, too, Sarge. He was paying his final car payment.” Stiles can spot the Camaro from here, its black paint glinting in the sunlight. The Sergeant clicks his tongue and shakes his head.
“He isn’t armed, is he?”
“No, but everyone knows who he is,” Stiles replies quietly, focusing on his task at hand. The sergeant studies the surrounding buildings for a moment, then turns to Stiles again.
“What’s your best angle? Guy seems to be sticking to the right side of the bank. Makes it easier that the entire bank is all glass,” he says thoughtfully.
Stiles glances around, then points to the tall building that houses Beacon Hills’ newest café, the one that Danny and Jackson opened together three months ago. Stiles can see Danny standing on the sidewalk taking in all the action. “That one,” he points. The sergeant claps him on the back.
“Get up there. Make sure your earpiece is in. Let me know when you’re in position.”
Stiles gives a knife-edged sharp grin, full of promise and hardness. “You bet.”
He heads over to where Danny is standing, and taps him on the shoulder. “I need to borrow your roof.” Danny looks at Stiles, then he looks up at the top of his building, and back down to Stiles again. Stiles shrugs and offers him a smile.
“You did this on purpose,” Danny accuses. “Now my roof – and my building – are in danger.”
“They’re not, I promise.”
“You’ll explode something,” Danny says.
“Absolutely not.” Stiles tries to look affronted, but he knows that Danny’s referring to that time at the senior prom after-party where Stiles decided it would be good to (drunkenly) make his own fireworks, and ended up setting Danny’s tuxedo jacket on fire and almost blowing up Jackson’s Porsche. He shifts on his feet. “Danny,” he says, feeling anxious, knowing that Derek is in the bank without any backup at the moment.
“Okay, okay,” Danny says and digs his keys out. “Door to the roof,” he adds, shoving the right key into Stiles hands. “Just go straight up the stairs, it’s the only door on the last floor.”
Stiles breathes out and starts running inside. He tries to ignore the gasps and questions coming from the remaining people inside the coffee house, instead running straight for the stairwell.
He’s not even breathless by the time he hits the fifth floor, running on adrenaline and the need to get Derek out of the bank. He sets the rifle up, says into his earpiece, “Getting a lock on him now, Sarge.” There’s the crackle of static before his sergeant comes over the line.
“To the left. Waving the gun around like an idiot. Handing the mic over to the Sheriff now, Stilinski.” Stiles trains his sights to the left inside the bank and sees the robber, waving the gun around and shouting hysterically at someone – Derek, Stiles sees – he’s waving the gun and shouting hysterically at Derek. Stiles swallows. Down below him he hears the shriek of the mic coming on before he hears his Dad’s voice giving warning to the bank robber.
“Get ready,” his Sergeant says quietly in his ear. “He’s not giving up.”
He’s not, Stiles can see it through his sights. Instead he’s aiming the gun at Derek, finger on the trigger. “Sarge,” Stiles swallows.
“Last warning,” the Sergeant promises calmly over his comm. Stiles aims the rifle so it’s trained for fatal injury in case the perpetrator decides to fire his own weapon. There’s silence, and then there’s the sound of the gun firing, aiming for Derek’s chest.
“Go, go, go!” Stiles’ Sergeant is shouting over the comm, but Stiles doesn’t even need the go ahead. A neat pinprick of a bullet hole spreads like a spider web across the bank’s front window as the bullet races towards the bank robber. It hits him dead center, sending him to the ground, weapon falling before him. The rest of the SWAT team is already rushing inside, clearing the scene.
Greenberg lifts Derek, bleeding and all, up and runs him out, dropping his own rifle to the ground as he rushes him out to the EMTs. Stiles doesn’t even pack his own rifle up, just ejects the clip and runs back down the stairs in a full sprint, only half afraid that he might take a tumble down five flights of stairs.
He bursts into the coffee shop, and runs out the door, shouting to Danny, “Don’t let anyone up to the roof, it’s unlocked and there’s still a high powered sniper rifle sitting up there,” as he runs down the street to Derek. He barrels into his dad’s chest.
“Stiles! Stiles!” the Sheriff shouts.
“Dad – Dad, I need to – there’s still – can you – please,” he gasps out, clutching at his sides, breathless.
“You have to calm down,” the Sheriff says. “Go to the ambulance, they’re waiting for you. Where’s your –”
“ – The roof, my stuff is still on the roof,” Stiles says at the same time, and the Sheriff pats him on the back.
“Go,” he says. “I’ll get your stuff.” Stiles nods and pushes past his dad towards the ambulance.
“What’s the stats?” he asks the EMT, climbing up into the ambulance.
“Arm, through and through, lost a bit of blood,” the EMT replies, trying to clean Derek up. Derek is awake, gritting his teeth against the pain. He looks up, eyes pain dazed when he sees Stiles.
“Stiles –” he gasps as the EMT pokes him with the needle in the arm. “Jesus,” he hisses.
“You’re fine,” Stiles soothes. “You’re just fine.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “Some sniper you are,” he snarls through the pain, which is how Stiles knows Derek’s going to be just fine. He’s always grumpy when he gets shot – which, sadly, has been a lot since coming to Beacon Hills, for some reason. “I still got shot.”
“Maybe I just wanted to take care of you for a while.” Stiles offers him an innocent grin. Derek rolls his eyes and yelps when the EMT prods him particularly hard.
Stiles breathes out a huge sigh of relief and grips Derek’s hand the entire way to the hospital.