#John/chris | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mommalosthermind · 2 months ago

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Am I poking through wips to remind myself I am not, actually, shit at words? Yes. Did I make the mistake of flipping through an extremely long sterek WIP I abandoned (redacted) years gone due to “this is at least two books, fuck my life, how do I untangle this to make it coherently two books instead of cramming it all together” insanity only to realize I still love this idea so much I wanna bite things? Also yes.

Am I sharing a chunk that doesn’t even have stiles or Derek in it? Yes again.

Anyway. Here’s uhhh a little over 2k presented with no context other than my brain is itching:

Sheriff’s name is John- Hints of prior John/Chris. Absolutely unbeta’d and unedited because if I start that I’m gonna end up chin deep in the wrong wip again and I! Am! Resisting!

John settled a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Alright, kid,” he said on an exhale, rubbing at his chin hard enough to stretch his mouth. “One more time, okay?”

The kid nodded at his own feet, fingers twisted in the dirty, torn hem of his shirt, but didn’t turn to the map until John took a half step to the side.

Crossing his arm would only intimidate the kid further. Leaning against the desk, projecting as much calm as he could, might’ve been one of the most difficult things he’d ever done.

His hands ended up in his pockets as Scott studied the map spread out on the desk for the umpteenth time.

It’d been bad enough when Alice and Jorge came in to declare Erica missing. Knowing that somewhere out in the Preserve, his idiotic, impulsive, big-hearted son—his fingers curled into fists inside his pockets to keep them in place.

Not that shaking him would really give any answers. Scott, for all he might as well be John’s second kid, wasn’t Stiles. He couldn't explain anymore than John himself.

And truthfully? John should have known Stiles would hare off after her the second he found out. Self loathing felt an awful lot like heartburn.

One light brown finger tapped a black line, drawing him out of his useless head. “We went this way,” Scott spoke hesitantly, glancing up at John as his finger followed an old access road. “And parked around here.”

“Looks about right,” John agreed, laying his own finger on a secondary gray line, perpendicular to Scott’s. “We found you over here, ‘bout half a mile away from the Jeep.”

Scott nodded, standing taller with John’s confirmation, face crinkled in concentration. Good. A confidence boost would mean a clearer head.

The boy walked John through their path through the woods, pointing out the general location of all the places they’d looked for her. He indicated the rough areas where they’d found her jacket, her bag, the shelter. But no matter how John phrased his questions, Scott couldn’t come up with any other places Stiles might take her.

“No other forts?” John asked again, already knowing the answer. “Fire pits or whatever that you think you’ll get in trouble for?”

“No, sir,” Scott repeated, firm as his gaze tracked over the map and its maze of pins. “But Stiles knows the trails better than me.”

That stalled him. “Really?” Stiles had all but lived in those woods as a kid, always wandering off with Claudia or Erica. Why wouldn’t he share that with Scott, too? “You boys don’t hang out in the woods?”

Scott shook his head, fluffy hair flying. “I’ve only ever been to the swimming hole behind the Lacrosse field, really. But Stiles was pretty confident out there, so maybe he knows a place that I don’t.”

A quick rat-a-tat-tat on the door jam accompanied a deputy lurching into the room. “We got a ping!” Diana announced, waving a paper in the air.

Throwing a hand up to quiet her, John turned to Scott. “Thanks, son.” He managed to scrounge up a smile that sat wrong on his face, but Scott didn’t seem to notice. “You did good, I’m proud of you. Why don’t you head on home, I’m sure Mel’s half out of her mind by now.”

Scott winced and stepped away, before pausing.

“We’ll find them, Scott. Do me a favor, and stay out of the woods. I don’t need to go looking for more teens, please.”

With a nod and a wave, Scott was gone, and John turned to snatch the paper from Diana’s hand. “Get Summers to give the kid a ride to make sure he actually goes home this time,” he ordered, waving her out of the office. It took a few minutes to track down the right coordinates on the map, but once he’d stuck a bright red pin into the spot, he sagged into his chair.

Knuckles rapped on wood in a familiar pattern- two fast, tiny pause, one.

Everything in him froze. Cursing himself for the tightness of his shoulders and cursing Diana’s inability to shut the damn door, he raised his head. No matter how blank he fought to keep his face, the wry twist at the edge of Chris’ mouth marked it a wasted effort.

He let his own mouth curve, more grimace than smile as he sat up and pushed away the strangeness seeing Chris always brought up. He was a father first, everything else came never.

Across from him, Chris settled into the visitor’s chair, a clunky wooden thing picked for its uncomfortableness, and dropped a white takeout box to the side of the map.

“Uh?” It smelled good, and John’s stomach gurgled.

Chris didn’t bother hiding his grin. “Knew you hadn’t eaten. Figured I might as well get something on my way.” He nodded toward the container. “Bacon burger, no tomato, extra fries.”

Just like that, the tension lingering in his shoulders dissipated. It’d always been hard to stay at odds with him. Well. Until it wasn’t hard at all.

“Don’t think I can eat,” John confessed, even as he pulled the box closer.

“You need to,” Chris said mildly, only a hint of steel in his voice. Two cups appeared on the desk next, one beside Chris, and the other prodded closer to John with one long finger. “Coffee. From the little bakery on Oak.”

When was the last time someone had taken care of John? Not Stiles, not the kid who should’ve been worrying about pimples and grades instead of John’s alcohol intake, but an adult. An equal.

John pulled the coffee to himself, feeling as though it was something larger than a cup of caffeine.

“Walk me through this,” Chris said, getting up to push the food closer to John as he leaned a hip on the edge of the desk, his eyes roving over the map.

Before he quite knew what he was doing, he’d downed the entire cup and stuffed half the burger down his gullet, between catching Chris up to speed. He tapped the red pin, shoving the remaining food away with his other hand. “This is the last time his phone managed to make contact with a tower. But it doesn’t make any sense. This is miles away from where Scott left them.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Chris murmured, shifting to get a better look at the map. It brought him another inch closer to John.

For his part, John snorted, and couldn’t decide if he wanted to throw Chris out of his office just for daring to exist, or bury his head in the man’s lap and scream.

“There used to be a homeless camp here,” Chris added after a moment, brushing at a point not too far from where they found the Jeep. “And a huge tree house thing…” He trailed off, eyebrows pulling together as he thought. “Over here. And the dogs brought me to this junction,” Chris tapped at an unmarked part of the map, not too far from the bridge the boys had crossed. “Plus, the river loops in that area. They might’ve gone there, for water.”

Wordlessly, John added a few green pins, before letting one hand drop to the desk. The other rubbed at his temple. The Preserve was enormous. They could be anywhere.

“Hey.” Fingers ghosted along his arm, pressing close only to pull away and leave John feeling more alone than before. “Look at me.”

Bright, clear blue eyes pierced straight into his core when he mustered the strength to obey.

“We’ll find them,” quiet but fierce, Chris’ promise wound into his soul. “I’m not giving up. Ever. We’re going to bring them both home, John. I’ll find your boy.”

Snared in the endless sky of Chris’ gaze, John’s resolve crumbled. “It’s my fault,” he managed to force out, his fingers digging into the desk. “I should’ve known he’d go after her—”

“Stop,” Chris turned to John, his coffee settled down out of the way. Callused fingers, so different from the ones John used to know, slid over his wrist. The cautious pressure of Chris’ thumbs along his skin proved as grounding as ever, and he couldn’t help his shudder, or the way his eyes slid shut.

When he managed to open them, Chris’ face blurred at the edges. He blinked until Chris came into focus, distracting himself for a moment by comparing this new face, with its creases and graying hair, to the one he’d had engraved on the inside of his eyelids since he was fifteen years old. It wasn’t fair that Chris remained as regal and beautiful as ever, the only one of the two of them able to compare to Claudia.

All of the worries and strain in John’s life turned him into a bloodhound, tired and full of jowl.

“That’s my baby, out there,” he found himself saying. He hadn’t meant to, but once he started he couldn’t seem to stop, too caught up in the crystalline understanding, the ghost of something he’d once taken for granted, in Chris’ somber eyes. “That’s my—he’s all I’ve got left, I can’t—I can’t lose him—”

A shadow crossed Chris’ face, breaking the spell. John turned away, his eyes on his desk as he struggled to regain his composure. That wasn’t Chris’ role in his life, hadn’t been for longer than he’d been a father. He couldn’t afford to make that mistake again.

When the rough hands on his wrists fell away, John closed his eyes and breathed through the ache. Stiles needed him. Stiles came first, always. He wouldn’t let this man shatter him a second time.

But then one hand slid into his hair, smoothed the strands back as it made its way down to curl around the nape of John’s neck. Heat along John’s side meant Chris had slid closer, his fingers pressing on the knobs of John’s spine.

Against his will, he gave a splintered noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sob. Another press of Chris’ fingers, and he shattered, curling until his forehead rested on Chris’ thigh.

“You’re not alone,” Chris murmured, holding tight to his nape, as his other hand scraped soothingly over his scalp. “Not anymore. I’m not going anywhere.” Chris gave an uneven inhale. “Not again.”

It was a promise he couldn’t trust, but one he hadn’t known he craved until he realized the wetness under his face came from his own tears, soaking into Chris’ jeans.

Neither of them mentioned John’s breakdown, or Chris’ careful, vehement declaration. They sat, pressed together, Chris’ hands steady over John’s skull and spine, until his breathing evened out and the need to scream, to break things, to rage until the world resumed its order, passed.

He pulled away first, scrubbing at his face and clearing his throat. Wordlessly, Chris slid off the desk, and settled back into his own chair. He’d always been uncannily good at that, reading what John needed. Sometimes before he’d had time to figure it out himself.

“That’s my boy,” John repeated, exhausted. “God, Claudia would—” He closed his mouth on the rest of his sentence with a click of his teeth.

Chris’ next breath was shaky, and his voice wasn’t quite right when he spoke, but the intensity, the sheer scope of Chris’ ability to invest himself was clear. “She’d be proud. Of both of you.”

When John chanced looking, Chris’ eyes were far away and sad. “Your son went out and found the Reyes girl, and it sounds like he was doing his damndest to take care of her. Kid sounds just like his old man. Claudia—” It was Chris’ turn to clear his throat. “—Claudia would’ve been a damned peacock. Once she was done murdering you both, anyway.”

Those sharp, too knowing eyes lanced straight into John, pinning him into place with a wealth of things John couldn’t parse. “Between Stiles, the BHPD, you, and me? We’ll bring him home, John. Trust me.”

“Always have,” John murmured, rubbing at his temples to relieve the ache in his eyes. “Even when I shouldn’t.”

There was a beat of silence, and then a cool voice he’d hoped to never hear again. “Good to know, Johnnyboy, since us Argents know that land better than the trees themselves. We’ll find those kids, one way or another.”

John sat up in time to catch Chris’ eyes rolling. “Not helpful, Dad.”

Gerard ignored them both, stepping into the office uninvited to peer at the map. One gnarled finger touched the red pin. “Near the old Hale property, isn’t it?”

John grunted his agreement. “Close enough. City tore it down after the fire, though. Nothing there now.”

Gerard hummed. “Well, guess we’ll see in the morning. If that boy has half the sense you two think he does, he’s hunkered down for the night. We’ll head out with daybreak. Let’s go, Christopher.” The old man turned to go, pausing on the threshold to eye his son, both eyebrows raised.

Staring Gerard down, Chris rose, before turning his back on his father to lean over and run careful fingers through John’s hair, smoothing it back out. “We’ll find them,” he repeated, low, blue eyes nearly black as his hand cupped John’s neck.

When he left, John put his own hand over the spot that still bore Chris’ fingerprints. They’d find his kids. There wasn’t any other acceptable outcome.

#sterek #John/chris #do they have a dedicated ship name? I dunno #sheriff’s name is John I will not take criticism #my writing #lost writes

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