Hey, I'm back, and so very sorry for not finishing my NCIS FF before I posted this one. I will, I promise, it's just that this one here wouldn't leave me alone until I'd at least completed the first part. Part one of the Misfit Series consists of thirty chapters and I'll post every few days. There won't be any long waits for new chapters this time, yay!

But here's a word of warning: Although this story can stand alone, its ending might not satisfy you. I plan to write a lot more, but I don't know whether I'll have the time or energy to do it soon.

This is also a Teen Wolf/Avengers crossover. I love both and found it a great writing exercise to try and get the banter between them right. If someone's OOC, I apologize. This story is purely for entertainment and as such I hope you'll like it. (It was intended to be a Sterek story, but the characters dictated that this must be a super slow, glacial burn. Therefore, if you do not like Sterek, this can also be read as a Stydia story.)

Which brings me to the last part of my author's note: THIS IS NOT BETA'ED! Beware of occasional spelling mistakes or wonky grammar. I did my best, but I'm neither a native, nor perfect. :)

Blurb: After Gerard beat up Stiles, the Sheriff doesn't believe his son's lies. The rest is (really incredible) history.

Three Misfits in New York

Chapter 1

It's over. Stiles knows it the moment he's finished spouting the crap about some kids beating him up after the lacrosse game. His father's face is tight with controlled anger, his brows drawn together just so. It's a garishly blinking neon sign indicating that he's one breath away from seriously flipping his shit.

"You want to try that again?" he asks, dangerously nonchalant. "Because I was there, and a lot of things were happening during that power outage, but kids from the other team sneaking away to beat someone up wasn't one of them. Their coach made sure they were all accounted for."

Stiles lowers his head, too tired to even swear. Instead, he looks at the wringing hands in his lap. "I ... I can't," he says quietly. "Just ... drop it, dad."

The sheriff sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. "You're covering for someone."

Since it isn't a question, Stiles only shrugs.

"Is it that Hale boy?"

"Dad-"

"No, son." The sheriff glowers. "If you're covering for a suspected criminal, you have to tell me. This," he gestures at Stiles' face, voice rising a little, "is not a fucking joke."

"I'm not, dad. I swear I'm not."

"So it's your friends then. What have they done?"

"Nothing! They didn't do anything!"

"Uh-huh."

They stare at each other. The sheriff sits still, face mildly expectant but otherwise infuriatingly calm, while Stiles fidgets in subdued agitation.

"You know, I have got all night for this," John says after long, painful minutes. "I'm done with hearing your excuses and lies. I also don't care that you want to protect your friends by not telling me who did this to you. This ends, now."

"Or what?" Stiles asks, rubbing at his tired eyes. "Will you take the jeep away? Cut me off from coffee? Ground me until I'm thirty?"

"Tempting, but unnecessary. Since I'm the fuck- the damn sheriff in this town, I'll just do what I should've done long ago and find out for myself. Maybe I'll start with Scott. That boy can't lie for shit. After I'm through with him, I'm sure that Martin girl would like to share, or perhaps I should just go directly after Hale. My deputies saw him around town with teenagers from your group and you did accuse him of murder. No matter how harebrained your schemes, your instincts are usually pretty good."

"Please don't," Stiles mumbles, exhausted. "I don't want you to ... " He falters. I don't want you get mauled by panicky werewolves. Or disembowled by Peter fucking Hale. Fuck.

"Don't you think that enough bad things have happened already? All you have to do is spill, Stiles," his father says, uncrossing his arms and leaning forward. His expression softens and a warm half-smile makes Stiles' eyes tingle. "We'll make this right, okay? All of it. And the bastard who hurt you won't know what hit him."

The thought of his dad squaring off with Gerard is the straw that breaks the camel's back. His insides clench at the imagined horror of the old man holding his dad at gunpoint. Forget werewolves, getting sliced open by crazed hunters is a hundred times worse.

"You can't," Stiles mutters. He swiped at his watering eyes. "It's too ... oh my god, just no. You can't." Still, it's tempting, so very, very tempting. He can feel himself relax into the belief that his dad really can make things okay again.

"I can and I will," John presses as if to cement that belief. "I have to. You're my son and I should've done something sooner." He catches Stiles' face in his hands and wipes the wetness from his cheeks. "I let you down, but no more. Alright? I'm here and we'll work it all out."

Stiles can't help himself. He leans into the touch, his shoulders slumping and his resolve crumbling. He is also sobbing, but at this point he is beyond caring. His father holds him like a child and lets him cry and snot onto his shirt.

"Good grief, this is serious, isn't it?" John sighs. "I'm so sorry."

"N-not your fault," Stiles hiccoughs. He's vaguely aware that he's squeezing the air from his father's lungs but he can't help it. It feels too good to be close to him again, to know that they'll be even closer soon.

Hopefully.

After he's cried out, his dad hands him a packet of tissues and puts a tall glass of water in front of him.

"Drink," he says. "It'll help."

While Stiles nurses his water, John orders pizza and calls the station to let them know that he's got urgent family business to take care of.

"You ordered a meat lovers," Stiles accuses upon his return to the kitchen, although it's half-hearted at best. His throat is simply too raw and swollen for proper chiding.

"I'm pretty sure I'll need my strength," the sheriff quips. He pulls Stiles to his feet. "Let's get you cleaned up. If you need painkillers, just say the word."

They set up camp in the bathroom where John carefully cleans and bandages Stiles' scrapes. Shoe-shaped bruises on Stiles' upper arms and chest lead to an investigation of his whole body and before Stiles can protest, his dad has found his smartphone from work and takes pictures of his bruises.

"We're going to do it the right way," he says and keeps the phone out of Stiles' reach. "I'll report this incident and have the station look for the perp. I'm sure that forensics can do something with this footprint." He looks at it and scowls. "It doesn't look like a shoe a kid would wear, and considering the size it clearly was a man. I also believe that it was someone who was at the game. Someone you know, perhaps."

Stiles bites his lower lip and slips on the clean shirt his dad has gotten for him. It's one of his work shirts and smells faintly like detergent and his cologne. It's weirdly soothing, like he wants to cocoon Stiles for a while.

"It was, am I right?" John continues his deduction. He taps away at his phone and Stiles knows that he's sending the evidence to Eileen, the station's officer who works the domestic abuse and juvenile offenders cases. "If he's older, you have to tell me everything you know about him, Stiles."

"I know. Because he'd do it again in a heartbeat." Stiles sighs deeply and steels himself for the inevitable. "I'll give you his name, okay, just not right now. There are more things you need to know, it's all connected. And it's dangerous. Like, really, tremendously, horrifyingly dangerous. Like it-will-kill-you dangerous."

They stare at each other. Finally, the sheriff exhales.

"Okay."

Stiles is stunned, the built-up anxiety leaving his fingers spasming involuntarily. "What. I mean, yeah? You believe me?"

"Unfortunately yes." Re-packing the first-aid kit, John snorts. "Your usual bullshitting doesn't leave you quite so twitchy."

The doorbell rings and John goes to get the pizza. Stiles makes himself useful by getting plates and glasses from the kitchen, as well as the homemade ice tea which his dad loves and would never suspect as being without extra sugar or artificial crap to enhance the taste.

They eat in the living room with the TV running. Watching the local news that are, of course, covering Jackson's death, is the last reprieve Stiles will give himself because, yeah. Jackson died. His dad is right. This is too much, he and Scott are in way over their heads, they need help.

After dinner, they slouch on the sofa. The TV is still on but the volume is so low that it's barely more than white noise to make the silence between them more bearable.

"I'm ready when you are," the sheriff prompts gently. "Will I need a stiff drink?"

"Definitely," Stiles mutters. "But I'd rather you didn't." He heaves another sigh, eyes firmly trained on his hands. "It's a long, complicated story, so ... feel free to ask for cliff notes if it's too much."

John contemplates him. "I have a better idea. Wait a minute." He gets up and returns a few minutes later with both arms full of pens, maps, a white board, several balls of coloured yarn and magnets. "Visuals, it's a thing."

Stiles gapes at him. "You want me to, like, brief you?"

"Seeing how I keep finding you at crime scenes ... yes. Do your thing."

They put up the white board and, after a few moments of consideration, get Stiles' pin board as well. There, Stiles pins up the map of Beacon Hills and strategically places the yarn and extra pins. On the white board, he writes down names.

"Okay, you asked for it. Man, I feel like giving a lecture ... alright. So, all of the things that happened in the last months? They started when Scott and I went into the woods to look for that half of a body that had you combing the woods ..."

He explains what really happened during that night, puts pins in the map where certain events happened and connects them all with yarn. Each of the involved people get a different color and soon there's an intricate web all over Beacon Hills while the white board is filled with background information regarding the different parties. John lets Stiles talk, although he often interrupts with incredulous questions and loud curses. Showing him Scott's transformation on his phone is, surprisingly, not the worst part.

When Stiles finishes with what happened right after the lacrosse game, he gets up and folds him into a tight embrace.

"Jesus, kid, that's one hell of a story," he mumbles into Stiles' neck. "No wonder you're so skittish all the time. God, I feel awful. You should've come to me, told me what was going on."

"I couldn't risk you getting hurt. The night at the station was horrible enough to give me nightmares until I die," Stiles replies and grabs his father as tightly as he can. "It was bad enough that the hunters go after kids. If they knew that you knew, they'd probably have killed you just to cover their tracks. And ... and maybe to hurt me and Scott. They're ruthless."

"Not as ruthless as I, believe me. I might have gone soft these last years, but I told you: this ends now."

"Is this the moment where you tell me that you're, like, a character from Mortal Combat who's gone underground or something?"

John snorts. "You'd love that, I'm sure. Sorry to disappoint, but I'm just a pissed-off father who has one hell of a lot to make up for."

"Me too," Stiles mumbles into his shoulder. "I'm really sorry about all the lies and stuff." He closes his eyes as his dad kisses his forehead fiercely. He doesn't want to cry, not again, but, well ... his dad gives the best hugs.

"And I'm sorry for not teaching you how to be smarter." They loosen the embrace and Stiles feels small under his father's watchful eyes. "We'll start tomorrow getting our shit together and I expect your input."

"Yeah, that sounds awesome. And scary. Are we ..." Stiles swallows thickly. "Are we good?"

The sheriff smiles in amusement. "Yes, we are. Chin up, son. Tomorrow, you're getting to troll Amazon like a fiend."

Later, in bed, Stiles can't help but mull over his dad's words and think that they sound alarmingly as if a complete overhaul of his life is in his near future.

End of part 1