Chapter Text
The trouble with Stiles is that he's a good kid.
The Sheriff hauls people into jail for a living, so he's seen a lot of kids at their worst. He always feels a little tinge of regret, a little pang of sorrow that only a father would know, but he does his job. He arranges the evidence and sets the charges against them.
When Stiles and Scott were involved in the Whittemore debacle he heard what people would say: he can't even handle his own kid.
The truth is that if he thought for a second that Stiles had acted out of malice, if he'd even suspected his son had done it to be cruel, he would have been harder on him than he's ever been on those other troubled kids.
He may not have had the whole story back then, but he'd still known in his heart that Stiles never did anything maliciously. He always got in the most trouble when he was helping someone out. Stiles' mother had been the exact same way.
He's always jokingly called Stiles' a trouble-maker, but he really never was. He did all his homework without being asked, he never cut school, he didn't smoke or do drugs. He never stayed out all night.
Or, at least, he hadn't.
So when it started, the Sheriff had cut him a lot of slack, allowed him this little rebellion. He didn't hold on too tightly because what if Stiles slipped out of reach completely, then where would he be? Stiles has never needed him to tell him what was best for him—more often than not, Stiles has been the one taking care of him.
But now it's his turn.
Stiles may be home now, and all but healed, but the Sheriff's not going to forget just how very close it had been. It's time to lay some ground rules.
"I don't understand what's happening here," Stiles says, looking honestly confused as his eyes go from Derek to him and back again, like seeing them in the same room truly isn't registering.
"I invited Derek for breakfast," the Sheriff says. "So we could talk."
Stiles looks rightly suspicious, and he turns back to Derek. "Don't be fooled," he warns. "This is obviously some sort of ploy to get access to a breakfast menu without my supervision. Don't let him sweet-talk you into believing he's allowed bacon."
"We're having it here," the Sheriff says, before Derek can respond. "And you're staying."
"In that case you're getting oatmeal," Stiles says, without missing a beat. "And don't even think about sugar."
"Sit," the Sheriff says, pointing to the chair beside Derek. Stiles drops into it with a sigh. "I have questions."
"But I told you everything!" Stiles cries indignantly. "Do we really have to go through this all again? Shouldn't we just look ahead?"
"Stiles, in your version of events no one has ever been in danger except for, and I quote, 'the really really bad guys that no one cares about anyway.' I need to know the truth about what we're dealing with." The Sheriff leans forward, turning his attention to Derek. "Is my son in danger?"
"No!" Stiles shouts, at the same time Derek answers, "Yes."
Stiles jerks in his seat, in a not so subtle move the Sheriff knows means he's just kicked Derek underneath the table. Then Stiles smiles at him, which isn't nearly as reassuring as he probably thinks it is. "Danger," he laughs. "What is danger? We're all in a constant state of danger if you want to over think it! I could be hit by a bus, or I could be walking down the street and get crushed by a baby grand piano."
The Sheriff raises an eyebrow. "Seriously, that's how you reassure me? You want to compare the threat of werewolves to falling pianos? We're not living in a Laurel and Hardy film."
"No, but you don't know, it could happen!" Stiles says. "It probably happens in Jackson's neighborhood all the time."
"I'm starting to regret wanting you here for this," the Sheriff says. "Why don't we see what Derek has to say?"
"Derek's not much of a talker, actually," Stiles says. "He's really more of a 'speaks with their eyes' sort of werewolf."
"Stiles," Derek says tightly. "Shut up."
Stiles crosses his arms and glares, but surprisingly he does go quiet. Derek runs a hand through his hair, seemingly gathering his thoughts, and then he meets the Sheriff's eyes.
"He is in danger," Derek admits. "So are the others. I can't change that, but I can do my best to protect them. I tried to protect them by staying away, but they just became targets anyway. I truly believe we're stronger together than we are apart."
"Yes, that," Stiles says. "And they need me! I'm kinda the brains of the operation."
"I don't know what part of that I find more terrifying," the Sheriff says.
"Stiles is very…useful," Derek says grudgingly, and the Sheriff can hear all that's going unsaid just as clearly. He remembers watching his son in that hospital room, his cool, detached focus as he worked out how to stop that woman in her tracks.
And then he did it, just like that.
"And the…magic thing?" the Sheriff asks. "Do I need to be worried about that? Is my son going to turn into Sabrina the Teenage Witch?"
"Okay, that's just uncalled for," Stiles complains. "What is with everyone comparing me to girls?"
"It's the teenage and witch part that concerns me, Stiles," the Sheriff says.
"I'm not a witch!" Stiles protests. "Or a wizard, even. Deaton says those are all misnomers!"
"Deaton?" the Sheriff snaps. "The vet?"
"Yeah, he's kind of my Giles," Stiles says, and then frowns. "Great, now I'm doing it."
"You're not distracting me that easy," the Sheriff says firmly. "What does Deaton have to do with any of this?"
"You know Sabrina the Teenage Witch but you don't get a Giles reference?" Stiles asks in disbelief. "You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Deaton helps us sometimes," Derek says quietly, and the Sheriff turns towards him, having almost forgotten he was there. Stiles tended to have that effect, and he's fairly certain it's entirely intentional. "He uses magic sometimes himself."
"It's not like I'm going to be flying around on a broomstick. Trust me, I checked, it's not a thing," Stiles says. "I can just do stuff, sometimes. Or make things happen, if I really want them to. That's all."
"That's all," the Sheriff repeats incredulously. "That sounds like an awful lot to me."
"It's not enough," Stiles says, sliding down in his chair. "Because right now I’m sort of wishing I could make myself disappear."
Derek reaches out and grasps Stiles arm, narrowing his eyes at him. He doesn't say anything, but the Sheriff thinks he's starting to understand the non-verbal secret language the other man shares with his son. That looks seems to say: don't you dare.
Which is probably the best opening he's going to get for his next concern.
"Okay," he says. "So I accept that most of the people my son knows are werewolves. We can talk more about the magic thing, and exactly what a Giles is later." Stiles winces, but gives a nod. "That just leaves one last thing."
The Sheriff turns his focus completely on Derek. "What, exactly, are you intentions with my son?"
"Intentions?" Stiles echoes in disbelief. "No, dad, no, let's just go back to the part of this conversation where we talk about how my life is always in danger. Because you have no idea. I mean, this one time, I was stuck in a pool with Derek for like two hours—and that is probably not the best example to lead you away from this line of questioning, is it?"
Derek flashes Stiles another glare, and Stiles' mouth snaps shut. It's a neat trick. Derek turns back to him. "I'd like your permission to date him," he says, his tone strangely formal.
The Sheriff really hadn't expected an admission, and from Stiles' deer in the headlights expression, he's guessing he hadn't either. "You want my permission," he says.
"Yes," Derek answers.
"And if I don't give it to you?" the Sheriff asks.
"Then I'll respect your wishes," Derek says. "Until Stiles is old enough that it's his decision."
"Yeah, see if I even want you in a couple years, after this," Stiles says sullenly.
The Sheriff leans back and watches Derek. He believes him—he might not be able to keep Stiles' from the dangers of hanging around with werewolves, but if he told Derek to stay away from his son he thinks he would, at least as much as possible.
But he knows he doesn't have that right.
"It's not my permission you need," the Sheriff says. "I trust Stiles' judgment, and if he wants to date you, that's up to him."
Stiles' mouth falls open. "What?" he asks. "You're serious? Just like that?"
The Sheriff flashes a fierce grin, one that has Stiles' eyes widening and even Derek edging back. "Oh no, not just like that," he says. "There will be rules. Three very important ones, in particular. And there will be consequences for breaking those rules."
"I'm not going to like these rules, am I?" Stiles asks with a wince.
"I trust you, Stiles," the Sheriff says. "But I also know you'll get in over your head to help someone. And I should have been there for you. I haven't been, but I can promise that's going to change."
"You've always been there for me!" Stiles protests.
"You've been off fighting creatures in the middle of the night," the Sheriff snaps. "You've been nearly killed and you've nearly killed and it's all happened right under my nose."
"Sir," Derek starts, but the Sheriff shakes his head.
"What's done is done," he says. "I know you kids have been trying your best, but you're not in this alone anymore. If something happens, I want you bringing it to me. I don't want you handling it alone. Are we clear?"
"Yes," Derek says.
"Good, because that's rule number one," the Sheriff says. "Rule two, Stiles, is I want you home by eleven on school nights, and twelve on the weekends. I will be calling home to check if I'm at work. And don't try that call-forwarding thing, either. I'll know if you do."
"Yeah, about that. See, the thing is—" Stiles starts, but Derek squeezes his arm.
"That sounds reasonable," Derek says.
"I'm glad you think so," the Sheriff says. "Because if either of those rules are broken and my son ends up hurt, I have a nice little supply of wolfsbane bullets, courtesy of Stiles."
"Dad!" Stiles protests.
"Understood," Derek says. "And rule three?"
"Don't break his heart, or I'll make you wish I'd only killed you," the Sheriff promises.
Derek nods slightly in acknowledgement. "I promise you, Sheriff, I will protect Stiles in any way I can."
"Lovely sentiment," Stiles says. "Kind of leaves out how half the time it's me protecting you, but whatever."
"Even from himself," Derek says wryly, ignoring Stiles completely. "If that's possible."
The Sheriff laughs, suddenly seeing how Derek and Stiles might fit together, after all. "Then I wish you luck," he says. "I've been trying to manage that all his life."
"Okay, not that this hasn't been fun and not traumatizing at all, but how about we move on?" Stiles says, standing up abruptly. "Anyone want that oatmeal?"
"Sounds good," the Sheriff says, even though it doesn't, because that's how they work. He lets Stiles take care of him, and he takes care of Stiles. He's still not sure quite where Derek fits in—but the Sheriff has always loved a good mystery.
He'll figure him out eventually.