Chapter Text
Stiles had never really thought about having a pet. Well, no, that's a lie- every kid has imagined having a pet at one point or another. He had asked to get a puppy once when he was eight. His dad had taken a seat on Stiles' bed, sat him on his lap, and told him that they were a bit too busy right now to get a pet, what with mommy being sick all the time. It wasn't fair to the animal, he had said, if we don't pay attention to it because of all that was going on. "Maybe in a year or two, champ," he had said as he rubbed his big hand down Stiles back.
Of course, his mom didn't get better in a year or two. She would get better, her face would glow with health, and then she would relapse and everything would tumble down again. Stiles didn't really care about getting a pet then- he would have much rather just had his mom.
She died when he was thirteen. His dad never smiled, hardly talked; mostly just sat at the kitchen table, staring at the ring he wouldn't take off his finger and sipping from a never empty glass of whiskey. He forgot to make dinner a lot of the time, and the laundry basket overflowed. Those used to be his mom's jobs. It had taken Stiles a week to realize that they were his jobs now. His mom wasn't there anymore to take care of her boys; now it was up to Stiles. He made spaghetti a lot because it was easy to make, and went through quite a few loads of tie-dye socks and underwear before he got the hang of the washer machine, but he did. His dad's brown bottles mysteriously started disappearing, until finally the sheriff started drinking a glass of milk with his pasta every night.
Life in the Stilinski house trudged on. The idea of a pet never even crossed Stiles' mind.
Stiles wasn't exactly popular when he got to high school, but he never really minded. He always had Scott by his side (not the brightest crayon in the box, but he played Xbox with him every weekend, and listened when Stiles gushed over the cute dress Lydia had worn that day, and understood his need to have M&Ms on his pepperoni pizza- Stiles couldn't ask for a better best friend). Yes, it was a tragedy that Lydia Martin wouldn't acknowledge his existence, but he was working on it- his five year plan was definitely going to work, he knew it. Of course, when sophomore year hit and Danny Mahealani came to school with strong arms and a six-pack, Stiles began reconsidering that plan- but that's not the point. The point was, Stiles was a pretty happy kid his freshman and sophomore year.
And then Allison Argent moved to town. She was smart and cool and absolutely beautiful (though not as beautiful as Lydia, of course). Scott fell head over heels; he went the whole nine yards, with the angelic choir singing and hearts in his eyes and everything. And, surprisingly enough, Allison liked him, too. So they got together, and became the world's most disgustingly cute couple.
Stiles was happy for his bro- it was a miracle that someone like Allison Argent even looked Scott's way. And Allison turned out to be a really sweet girl; Stiles gave her his full best friend stamp of approval. He just wished he didn't have to become the lonely third wheel in their relationship.
"Where's Scott these days?" his dad asked one morning over breakfast. "I haven't seen him around lately." Stiles sighed, and then launched into the tale of Scallison and their totally under-appreciated Third Wheel. When the story came to an end, Stiles shoved a whole waffle in his mouth and his dad said, "I'm sorry, son. That's pretty rough."
"Ter meh abourit," he grumbled around his waffle.
"You know, I've been working a lot lately," the sheriff commented, and his son nodded in agreement, still trying to chew the waffle in his mouth (shoving an entire waffle in his mouth? Probably not his brightest idea). "And I figured with you hanging out with Scott all the time, you'd be alright for the most part. But I've noticed you've been hanging out at home more- which is fine, I'd rather have you here than doing drugs or something somewhere else- and I don't feel comfortable leaving you alone all the time."
"Dah, erm fine," Stiles grumbled out, spraying waffle bit out of his mouth, but his dad kept on going.
"I was thinking, maybe you'd want to head down to the animal shelter this weekend and pick out a dog to take home. I mean, you wanted a dog when you were little, right? I'd just feel more comfortable if you weren't completely alone all the time."
Stiles stared at his dad, mouth hung open (and wasn't that a lovely sight), before trying to chew and swallow his food quickly, choking on it, and eventually just spitting it all out on his plate. "Are you serious? You think I should get a dog?"
"I think it might be a good idea. You'd be responsible for it, obviously- and you don't have to get one, I'm just suggesting it- but I think it might be good for both of us."
Thoughts flew through Stiles head, different scenarios and things he'd have to take care of (and, if he was being honest with himself, more than a bit of excitement), until he said, "Yeah, okay. A dog sounds good. I'll go Saturday morning."
And that was that.
The Beacon Hills Animal Shelter is very loud on Saturday morning when Stiles gets there. The younger pups are especially rowdy- they bark and spin in circles when they see Stiles, nudging his hand through the cage for a petting or a treat.
“Take your time,” the woman at the front desk tells him. “Get a feel for all the dogs, so you know which one you want. Things like this shouldn’t be rushed.”
So Stiles walks down the rows of cages, stopping to kneel in front of dogs that look like they might fit the bill. There’s a golden doodle puppy that’s almost as spazzy as he is, tripping over paws that he hasn’t grown into yet, and a wheaten terrier that nuzzles into his hand, seeking affection. They’re both adorable, but they don’t quite fit, so Stiles moves on.
He’s almost at the end of the last row, thinking to himself that maybe today just isn’t the day to get a dog, when he sees it. It’s a rather big black dog, with huge paws and fur that’s slightly matted. The info tag on the outside of the cage says its a male Saarloos Wolfdog, which sounds just about right to Stiles- the dog certainly looks like a wolf. It says that it was found on the street about two weeks ago; he’s had all his shots, and has a clear bill of health. It also says ‘not recommended for children’, which, ok, that sounds a bit cautionary, but Stiles has a thing for stray dogs (just look at Scott- hell, look at himself).
He’s just laying curled up in his cage, leaning against the chain link wall in the far corner, away from any visitors. Stiles kneels down and stares at it for a moment. “Hey there, big guy. You doing okay in there?”
There’s a pause, a moment where nothing happens and Stiles thinks that maybe the dog is just gonna ignore him and that’ll be that. But then the dogs shifts a bit, and his head turns toward Stiles and his eyes open to reveal sharp hazel eyes that stare him down. If he’s honest with himself, Stiles feels like he’s being judged by this dog (but then again, there would be some serious judging going on if someone had woken him up from his nap, so he really can’t blame him). Still, there’s something about him that just clicks in Stiles’ mind, and so he decides to introduce himself.
“I’m Stiles,” he says as he grabs at the chain link to steady himself. “Sorry for waking you up, I just wanted to see you a bit.” The dog snuffs through his nose and settles his head down, but does not take his eyes off of Stiles. “I’m looking for a dog. I mean, I suppose you knew that, since I’m here and all. But uh, so, I’ve looked at the other dogs here, and they’re all cute and adorable, you know, but they didn’t really fit- I mean, they didn’t feel right. But, I don’t know, you’re kind of different. It’s weird, cause all you’ve done since I woke you up is judge me, which I get, sorry again, but. You feel right somehow, I guess.”
As he’s rambling, the dog slowly shifts up into a sitting position, so that they’re both more or less seeing eye to eye, and stares at him. They stay like that for a few minutes, just looking at each other, until the woman from the front desks walks up behind him, asking if he’s found anything he likes. Maybe it’s just Stiles’ overactive imagination, but it looks like the dog gives him a small nod of his head, as if approving of Stiles decision.
“This one,” he says, not even looking up to say it.
“Are you sure? There are a lot of other dogs here, maybe you should look around a bit more.”
“No, this is the one,” he says, finally breaking eye contact with the dog to look up at the girl with a smile on his face. She smiles back. “Let’s get him ready to go then. Come with me and we’ll settle the paperwork.”
As they walk back down the row, she tells him that the dog doesn’t have a name yet, since he was picked up off the street. She explains that he got his shots done while he was knocked out, but he wouldn’t let anyone near enough to give a bath or brush his fur, so maybe that’s something to think about when they get home. When they get to the front, another girl hands him a list of things he’s gonna need, like a dog bed and a proper leash and different types of food he might like, toys he might enjoy, as well as a number for the local vet for check-ups and emergencies. Stiles fills out the paperwork, and the girl says, “We’re really glad you picked him. To be honest, you’re the first person he’s let near him without growling. We think he went through a lot of pain before someone found him.”
“He must be lonely,” Stiles says quietly, thinking that maybe they’re more alike then he thought. A man comes around to the front desk with the dog following behind him, a serious look on his face as the leash is passed to Stiles. “He’ll be okay now.” He finishes the paperwork, hands over his dad’s credit card, and rings up his new friend. “Thanks for everything,” he calls behind him as the two of them head out the front door.
“Guess our next stop is Petco. Gotta get you a few things. Dogs are allowed in Petco, right? I mean, it’s ‘Petco, where the pets go’ so they’ve gotta let you in, it’s in their slogan. You can help me pick out your stuff, show me which toys you want,” Stiles says as they cross the parking lot. Taking his keys out, he opens the passenger door, and turns around to pick up the dog, only to watch as he jumps up right into the seat, circles twice, and settles in.
There’s- Stiles sees something on his back, underneath the fur. He goes to touch it, but the dog gives a low growl. “Easy there, big fella. I’m not gonna hurt you- I only want to look, alright?” The dog gives him a weary look, one that says no funny business, but stops growling. Stiles reaches out again, slower this time, and pets the soft dark fur out of the way. It looks almost like a tattoo, three swirls connected to each other. “Huh,” he says, rubbing his hand over it once more before he closes the door.
“I’ve gotta come up with a name for you. I can’t just keep calling you ‘the dog’ in my head, that’s demeaning.” He pauses for a moment as he rolls out of the parking lot, and then lets a snort. “Imagine if I named you something like Barney. ‘I love you, you love-” A louder growl escapes his dog, and when Stiles glances over he sees that the dog’s baring his teeth as well. “Alright, alright. No Barney. Touchy, touchy,” he mutters. They keep driving along, listening to the radio as they go, until they finally pull up in front of the pet store. “How about Ace?” This earns him a look from the seat next to him. “What? Do you even know who Ace is? That’s Batman’s trusty kick-ass dog. He lead a hard life in a dog-fighting ring until Batman swooped in and saved him, and he was Bruce Wayne’s companion ever since. Until Terry came along, but that’s not the point. I like that name- it’s a strong name. Ace is okay, right?”
A moment of silence, two, and then he gets a quiet woof.
“I’ll take that as a yes. C’mon Ace, time to get your essentials. Who knows? Maybe there’ll be a nice lady dog in there for y- I’m kidding! Stop growling at me!”