I do not own Teen Wolf. Sterek would be a sure thing if I did...

The first time it happened, John Stilinski was certain he must have been seeing things.

After all, who would believe him if he said he saw – what seemed to be – a grown person drop to the ground outside his living room window and land perfectly on their own two feet?

Probably no one.

He'd lose all of his street cred down at the station in thirty seconds flat.

But that is what he saw. At least, he thought that was what he saw.

Maybe he'd better book in for his much-overdue eye test. He was the Sheriff, and so he couldn't really afford to be experiencing sight problems when he had to track down bad guys all day.

Although he wouldn't mind having the excuse of getting out of the mountains of paperwork that were currently sitting patiently on his desk.

But, it was probably just a branch. It wasn't like he'd been staring in the exact spot whatever-it-was fell past. Without a doubt it was just his overly-tired mind playing tricks on him. After all, he'd just arrived home from a double shift and was taking the first sip of his delightfully strong coffee when it happened.

It couldn't have been a person, anyway. If Stiles had a friend over, they would have just used the door like a normal, tax-paying citizen. Or the child of a normal, tax-paying citizen.

Sure, he was the Sheriff, but he wasn't that scary. He'd only ever made grown men cry in the interrogation room down at the station. And that was only once, but still. Regardless of the fact that it was a hardened, shop-lifting thirteen-year old with a bowl cut, he'd had a pretty solid Sheriff's reputation from that moment on.

He would know if he had an intruder in his own house; he was paid to look for that kind of stuff for a living. Stiles was upstairs, anyway. With his son being a bit of a loud-mouth and being able to produce the kind of weird noises only he did, John certainly would have heard if there was someone in the house who shouldn't have been.

He sighed, squinting at the window as he took another sip of his decadent coffee. Now that he really thought about it, maybe his eyesight was a bit blurry.

Yeah, perhaps he'd better call the optometrist first thing in the morning.

The next time it happened turned out to be less than a week later.

The Sheriff was sitting at the dining room table, ironically reading the mail he'd just received from the optometrist giving his eyesight the all clear.

He'd been looking at the single sheet of paper in surprise when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Jumping up from the table, he hurried through to the living room, looking out the window for any evidence of…evidence.

Seeing none, he frowned. It was definitely the same sort of object or movement or human form that he'd seen the week before. No doubt about it.

He couldn't have been seeing things. Not the same thing twice in less than a week.

Not a branch, then. Or any sort of animal. Unless Beacon Hills had a drop-bear population that he didn't know about.

He thought that was unlikely, though.

That only left one option. It had to have been a person.

As he had been last week, Stiles was upstairs in his room. So he would definitely know if it was an intruder. And to be burgled twice in one week by the same person? Seems a bit strange.

They were dealing with either of two things.

One, someone had a weird fascination with trespassing onto the Sheriff's property, or two, the person – whoever it was – was a friend of Stiles'.

But, again, why wouldn't Stiles tell him if he had a friend over? And why not use the door?

Hmm.

He was beginning to suspect his own son of foul play.

The Sheriff crossed his arms as he looked out the window.

Looked like it was time for some detective work, John Stilinski style.

The third time was just two days later.

It was midday on a Saturday, and the Sheriff had not long arrived home from the night shift. With it only being the early hour of noon, Stiles was undoubtedly still sprawled across his bed, dead to the world.

The Sheriff had stopped by the diner on the way home and picked up his favourite BLT burger as a reward to himself for surviving the dreaded midnight shift. His mouth watered as he took a seat at the table and pulled the wrapped delight from the paper bag, the smell instantly wafting through the dining room.

He pulled the day's Beacon Hills Tribune across the table toward him and unrolled it, smiling smugly at a picture of himself on the front page leading a bloodied and handcuffed drunk to the squad car after a bar fight on Thursday night. What a shambles Beacon Hills would be without him.

Unwrapping the burger, he lifted it to mouth.

And paused.

He cocked his head, listening carefully. He could have sworn he heard muffled laughter.

Hearing nothing but the sound of his tastebuds singing out, the Sheriff set his eyes upon his burger once more, certain the noise must have come from one of the neighbours.

He opened his mouth, the burger getting closer and closer and closer and –

There it was again.

That black blur, moving in the corner of his vision.

He just wanted to eat the burger, darn it.

Sighing, he put down the carby, salty and heartwarming (literally) pile of goodness and stood from the table, moving to the window once more.

It was definitely, without a doubt, a human.

Stiles had to be in the know.

He clicked his fingers in realisation. Of course. Why hadn't he seen it before?

The person – whoever it was – dropped down from roughly the area where his son's window would be.

So his own son was keeping something from him.

Well.

As long as it wasn't drugs, he wasn't too worried.

That didn't mean he was going to let it go, though. He would wait it out, see if Stiles came to him.

If not, whenever the Sheriff's patience ran out, he would do some digging and find out for himself.

Decision made, he sat back down at the table and sank his teeth into the almost-cold burger.

The next time he saw it, he decided to start a tally.

It was Tuesday morning and Stiles was up in his room, hopefully getting ready to go to school.

As they had done previously, the person dropped past the window before rapidly disappearing from sight.

Sheriff Stilinski stood from where he was watching the morning news and strode through to the kitchen, coming to a stop in front of the fridge. He used the side of his hand to wipe away the shopping list (which so far consisted only of 'beer') from the small whiteboard attached to the refrigerator and uncapped the marker.

IIII

Four times it had happened, and all he'd managed to work out was that it was almost definitely a person. One that dressed in black – or at least dark – clothes.

And one that had some sort of connection to his son.

He re-capped the marker with a small click, certain that he would figure it out soon.

The next three times happened over the course of about two and a half weeks.

While it seemed that their 'visitor' was visiting less frequently, the Sheriff was not going to persuade himself of that fact. Considering that he often spent more than twelve hours away from the house at any one time, he really had no idea how many hypothetical strokes he could add to his tally, which currently stood at seven. Besides that, how many times had they dropped past the window when the Sheriff had his back turned, or using the bathroom, or sleeping?

The only other fact that he knew was true was that the guest only ever visited when Stiles was in the house, at least when the Sheriff was there anyway.

He'd long ago accepted the idea that this person was a friend of Stiles'.

Initially the Sheriff thought that perhaps he had himself a lady-friend, but he'd quickly dismissed that idea. Unless the girl did some serious weights or was on steroids, it was unlikely that the visitor was a female.

Except if Stiles liked that in a girl, but he'd never seen any indication of it.

It was probably lacrosse related. Despite typically only keeping the bench warm, Stiles never shut up about his spot on the team.

The Sheriff was glad, though. He was proud of his son.

Maybe he was just discussing tactics with one of his buddies. Yeah, that was most likely it. And he didn't like bothering the Sheriff every time he came over to the house, so he chose to climb through the window instead.

Hmm. Perhaps not.

Every theory he came up with just seemed a bit…flawed.

Oh well. Sooner or later he'd figure it out.

The next time was the eighth occurrence of the strange act.

Again, the Sheriff was sitting on the couch in front of the television. It was four-fifteen on a Friday afternoon and, thankfully, it was his rostered weekend off.

He heard a loud thud come from upstairs followed by a hushed yell and then silence.

The Sheriff cocked his head curiously and stood, making his way toward the staircase. He stopped at the base. "Stiles?"

There were more hushed words before his son's voice called out. "Uh, yeah dad?"

"Everything ok up there?"

"Yep, everything's fine! Just dropped a textbook."

"Alrighty then." Accepting this, the Sheriff shrugged and turned back towards the couch. He was halfway down into his seat when the black flashed by the window again.

He sighed as he sank down into the comfort of his favourite recliner. He was willing to place money on the idea that Stiles had not, in fact, dropped a textbook. It seemed more likely that their guest had knocked something on the way out the window.

Was it normal to not be too concerned by the fact that there was someone in his house, repeatedly, and that he had no idea who it was?

Considering he was the Sheriff, probably not.

Taking a mouthful of his cold beer and reminding himself to add another stroke to the tally, he vowed to do some digging.

Before it had a chance to happen again, the doorbell rang on Saturday afternoon. The Sheriff opened the door to reveal Scott and decided to take matters into his own hand and use his authority to get answers from his son's best friend.

He nodded at the boy. "Scott."

"Hey, Mr. S."

"Stiles is in his room."

Scott grinned his typical, boyish smile as he moved inside the house. "Thanks, sir."

"I was just wondering if I could have a moment first, Scott. There's something I want to talk to you about."

"Uh, sure." Scott looked confused as he moved towards the couch the Sheriff ushered him towards. "Is something wrong?"

He decided to come right out with it. "Have you ever done drugs, Scott?"

The boy seemed to choke on air before composing himself. "Um…no?"

"You sure? Because you don't sound it."

Scott cleared his throat. "That depends. Are you asking as my friend's dad or as the Sheriff?"

Well played, Scott. Well played. But two could play at that game. "Would it change your answer?"

Ha. Had him there.

"Well…no. I guess not."

The Sheriff smiled and nodded expectantly.

"Alright, I have. But it was only once, I swear, and I didn't really like it so I haven't done it again!"

At least he owned up to it. "What about Stiles?"

Scott balked at the sudden change of spotlight. "No, sir. He always says he's afraid of what he'd do if he was on drugs. That he's crazy enough as it is."

The Sheriff almost laughed with relief at Scott's honesty. "Well, I think you and I can both agree to that, Scott."

Scott laughed awkwardly and glanced towards the stairs.

"Alright, you're free to go."

The boy smiled, looking relieved.

"On one condition."

His smile faltered.

"Mention this conversation to Stiles and I mention it to your mother. Got it?"

Scott suddenly resembled a bobblehead on crack. "Yes, sir. My lips are sealed."

As he watched Scott bound up the steps, the Sheriff frowned, feeling almost disappointed. So it wasn't drugs, which was good – excellent actually – but now he was almost back to square one.

Maybe next time, he'd approach Stiles.

Subtly, of course.

The next time it happened, as it turned out, Stiles approached him.

The figure had dropped not even a full minute before when Stiles entered the kitchen, heading straight to the fridge to get the milk, a weird smile on his face.

He faltered slightly before opening it and grabbing the bottle. As the door closed, he turned to face his father, his expression curious.

"Hey, dad? There's something I've been meaning to ask you."

The Sheriff looked up from the newspaper. "What's that, son?"

"What's this tally on the whiteboard for? I noticed it a couple of weeks ago and it just keeps growing."

You tell me, son. You tell me.

Sheriff Stilinski sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, looking at the eight (he hadn't yet had a chance to add the newest stroke) marks displayed on the board. He decided to be reasonably truthful.

"That," he pointed to the number, "is the amount of reports I've had in the last fortnight about trespassing."

Stiles raised his eyebrows in question. "Trespassing?"

"Yeah. You know," he leant forward and rested his elbows on the table, "people being on other people's property without their permission."

Stiles had been pouring the milk into his cereal bowl when he looked up and noticed the pointed look coming from his father. A look of…almost understanding flashed across his face before it disappeared. "Uh…who reported them?"

Oh, yeah. He was definitely guilty. But of what, the Sheriff still didn't know.

"Oh, you know, just concerned citizens." More like one concerned citizen.

"Right." Stiles nodded slowly. "So why is it on our shopping list whiteboard and not at the station?"

The Sheriff took a long drink of his coffee before answering. "I'm doing a bit of digging into it myself. Taking on a more personal approach."

"Right." Stiles looked at his father strangely for a long moment before glancing at the clock. "Well, I have to be going or I'll be late for school."

"You haven't even touched your breakfast yet."

He slung his bag onto his shoulder as he backed out of the room. "I'll grab something at school. I just remembered I have a lacrosse meeting. See you later, dad!"

The Sheriff smiled in satisfaction as he heard the front door slam shut. Stiles had all but confirmed what he already knew, but the confirmation felt good nonetheless. There had definitely been a look of almost worry on his face when he pointedly mentioned the trespassing.

He was quite proud of himself for thinking on his feet, really.

This detective work was really starting to pay off.

The tenth time it happened, the visitor slipped up.

Perhaps it wasn't intentional on their behalf, but it gave the Sheriff a bit more information to go on.

When they'd dropped past the window again just before Stiles left for school on Thursday morning, Sheriff Stilinski had been on the phone to one of the officers down at the station who couldn't seem to remember simple arrest procedure. He was facing the window, looking out at the bright morning sky when it happened.

The Sheriff's eyes had widened and he stepped quickly the final few steps toward the window, although he knew their guest would be long gone.

He blocked out Officer Daley's voice for a moment as he replayed the occurrence through his mind. While the figure was the same shape as usual, they had lacked the fully black disposition they'd always previously had.

The legs were the same, dark-clad legs as before. That had not changed. But instead of the torso of this human also being clothed in black, they had on a plain t-shirt. A white one.

And the Sheriff was able to confirm two things.

One, the visitor was most certainly a man.

And two, he looked to be too old to be a friend of Stiles' from school.

It wasn't that he'd seen the intruder's face, but the body was far too built for that of a high-schoolers, unless they were on some serious juice. But he didn't have the build of a teenage boy, more like a man in his twenties.

The Sheriff dismissed Officer Daley quickly, not even remembering if he told him the correct procedure or not. He walked through to the kitchen and threw the phone down on the bench as he picked up the marker and added his tenth stroke.

It wasn't drugs. It couldn't have been, not after what Scott said. But what other reason was there for there being a young – while still older – man in Stiles' room?

Perhaps the only way he was going to find out was if he did a little bit of trespassing himself.

Under the guise of collecting his son's dirty clothes to do a load of washing, the Sheriff stepped into Stiles' room after his son left for school, his breakfast abandoned downstairs.

He really wanted some answers. Desperately.

His eyebrows lifted in surprise as he realised that – for possibly the first time in Stiles' life – his room was actually quite tidy. The large bed was unmade and there were a couple of things lying around that seemed homeless, but, apart from that, the room was mostly in order.

It was highly likely that his son was actually the most unorganised person the Sheriff had ever known, which made the state of his bedroom such a cause for surprise.

Hmm. Why the sudden change?

He chuckled to himself. Maybe this mystery man was a housekeeper.

The Sheriff took a few steps around the room, his eyes grazing over the objects on Stiles' desk and bookshelf, looking for anything that could give him some sort of hint as to what the visitor visited for.

He frowned. Everything seemed innocent enough. There was no secret drug-making chemistry lab hidden under the bed or behind the door. Although that was good as it again just reinforced that it wasn't drug-related.

But he just wanted something, anything. He didn't want to have to snoop around in his son's room but apart from asking Stiles' himself, there was not a lot left for the Sheriff to do.

Pursing his lips, he folded his arms across his chest in disappointment. Just as he turned to the door thinking his time would have been better spent continuing to eat his breakfast, he spotted something half-buried by the unmade sheets on Stiles' bed.

A jacket sleeve.

Sheriff Stilinski stepped over to the bed and pulled it out, raising his eyebrows.

It was a leather jacket.

Immediately, he knew it did not belong to his son. Stiles spent every dime he had trying to keep that Jeep of his roadworthy and so clearly would not be able to afford a genuine leather jacket.

He almost pumped his fist in the air at the sudden development.

Holding the garment up in his hands and surveying it, he realised that it being there was probably the reason he'd been able to get a clearer look at the visitor just ten minutes before.

So he'd obviously left it behind.

The Sheriff grinned. Clearly he'd want it back then.

He could use that to his advantage.

Curling his fist around the jacket, he headed back out of Stiles' room and down the stairs, feeling pleased with his latest find.

Victory was in the air, he could smell it.

The eleventh and twelfth times passed without further incident over the next five days and, unfortunately, the jacket hostage failed to become leverage on its own, so the Sheriff had to make it happen.

A naturally patient man John Stilinski was not.

Stiles arrived home from school Monday afternoon, just before the Sheriff was about to go back down to the station for his second shift that day. His son was in the kitchen making a sandwich when he walked into the room, leather jacket in hand.

"Hey, kiddo."

Stiles didn't look up. "Hey, dad."

He almost smiled, feeling a thrill at the events that were about to unfold. "This yours?" He held up the jacket. "I found it when I was doing the washing the other day."

Stiles lifted his head and started at the sight of the jacket. "Where did you find that? I've been looking for it."

"Oh, so it is yours?"

"No," Stiles shook his head as he walked closer and took the jacket from his father's hands, "A friend of mine lent it to me. I've been meaning to give it back."

The Sheriff raised his eyebrows. "Must be a good friend. That thing looks pretty expensive."

He almost smirked at the way Stiles avoided eye contact.

"So, who was it?"

Stiles put the jacket down on the bench and returned to his sandwich. "Just a friend, dad. No one you'd know."

"A friend from school?"

"Uh," he only hesitated very briefly but the Sheriff caught it, "Yeah. A friend from school."

"Right." The man nodded, eyeing his son suspiciously. "Well you better make sure he gets it back. He's probably missing it."

"Yeah. Thanks, dad."

"No worries, kiddo. I've got to head out to work now. You gonna be ok here? By yourself?"

"Dad." Stiles looked at him evenly. "I'm fine here every other time you go to work. This one won't be any different."

The Sheriff couldn't help but feel disappointed that he hadn't reacted more to his subtle hints. "Alrighty, then. I'll be home in the morning before you go to school."

"See you later, dad."

He picked up his keys from the bench and headed towards the door. "Bye, Stiles. Make sure you do your homework."

"Yeah, yeah."

It wasn't until he was getting into the squad car that the Sheriff realised he'd left his radio on the table by the front door.

He paused as he opened the front door of the house, hearing Stiles' voice from the kitchen.

"Yeah. My dad had it."

The Sheriff listened eagerly, having no reservations about eavesdropping on his son's conversation when he knew he was keeping something from him.

"I don't think he knows anything. How can he? We've been careful."

He was obviously on the phone to this mystery 'friend'. There was a few seconds of silence before Stiles spoke up again.

"You coming over? Yeah, I want you to." He laughed softly at something the guy said. "Alright, see you in a bit."

The Sheriff took this as his cue to leave and slipped back out the door, radio in hand. He grinned as he climbed back into the car. So he had Stiles on edge. Maybe Stiles didn't think he actually did know anything, but now that the thought was there he would be more paranoid.

Excellent.

The next time it happened, Sheriff Stilinski thought that perhaps it was time to take things a step further.

It was Thursday morning, and so after Stiles left for school, he decided to take a trip down to the hardware store.

He returned thirty-five minutes later sporting a large grin and a bag of goodies he'd grabbed for half price off the discount table.

Cracking his knuckles, he set to work.

It was not until later that afternoon that he was truly able to reap the rewards of his actions.

He was sitting at the breakfast bench in the kitchen, sorting his never-ending pile of bills into 'Paid' and 'Unpaid', the former being the significantly smaller pile.

Stiles arrived home, sweaty and red-faced from lacrosse training, his schoolbag slung over one shoulder.

The teen quickly dismissed his father as he grabbed a snack and headed upstairs, much to the glee of the Sheriff.

He sat still, bills forgotten as he wondered how long it would take his son to notice the changes.

Not long, as it turned out.

He heard an indignant noise come from his son's mouth from all the way upstairs, followed by a cry of "Dad!"

The Sheriff grinned to himself, being careful to wipe the evidence off his face as Stiles came down the stairs three at a time.

"Dad!"

"What's up, son?"

He didn't move from his seat at the bench, and within seconds Stiles was standing on the other side of the counter, giving him a strange look.

"Why is there a lock on my window?"

The Sheriff swallowed a mouthful of his coffee casually before replying. "There's a lock on every window, son."

Stiles flailed his arms around, squinting his eyes at his father. "Why?"

"Well," he put down his coffee mug with a soft 'clunk' and looked at Stiles over the top of his reading glasses, "remember that tally on the board?"

Stiles looked at the whiteboard on the fridge – which was steadily growing bigger – uncertainly before focusing back on his father. "Uh, yeah."

"You never can be too careful."

"Wh – No one's going to break in, Dad."

He drained the last of his coffee and eyed his son pointedly. "Trespassing is not the same as breaking in. There's quite a big difference, actually."

"I think you're kind of missing the poi – "

"Am I?"

Stiles noted the look he was giving him for a long minute before scratching his head. "I'm confused. I think I'm gonna go upstairs and do my calculus homework, it'll probably make more sense than this conversation."

"You do that, son."

He turned to leave the kitchen but the Sheriff stopped him.

"And Stiles? You're not a prisoner, you know. The locks are on the inside."

He smirked to himself as he turned his attention back to the bill in front of him. The paranoia was sure to be settling into Stiles' mind by now. It had to be.

The Sheriff knew the locks wouldn't stop the visitor from visiting, but he liked the idea that it might have Stiles thinking he was onto him.

His son was nothing if not paranoid.

He arrived home from a long shift on Sunday afternoon to see two used plates and two glasses sitting in the kitchen sink.

Knowing Scott was out of town with Melissa for the weekend, he took the liberty of adding another stroke to the whiteboard.

The fifteenth and final time the Sheriff witnessed the figure dropping by the window, he simply rolled his eyes and went back to packing his bags. All the sheriffs from the towns in Beacon County were required to attend a seminar in Sacramento in two days' time, and since John had to work a shift before he left the following afternoon, he was packing early so he wouldn't have to rush it.

He was in the living room collecting his spare pair of reading glasses when the all too familiar occurrence happened.

"Hey, Stiles?"

He called out to his son, turning when he heard him thundering to the top of the stairs.

"Yo?"

"You sure you're going to be ok here by yourself while I'm gone? Maybe I should call up Melissa, I'm sure she'd be fine with you staying there for a couple of nights."

"What, no, dad, that is completely unnecessary. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Hmm. The Sheriff decided to put the feelers out. "Are you sure? I just feel like you've been locked up in your room so much lately. I barely know what's going on with you anymore, kid."

Something akin to guilt flashed briefly across his son's face before he answered. "I've been busy, dad. You know, school and…stuff." He gestured vaguely with his hands.

Here was his chance. The perfect opportunity. "'Stuff'? You're not doing drugs, are you Stiles?"

Cue eye roll. "No, dad. C'mon."

"Not making 'em?"

"No."

"Dealing 'em?"

"Dad, no. Nothing drug related, I swear. Scout's honour."

"You're not in a gang?"

"Yes, actually. It's called the Beacon Hills Brotherhood and we spend our nights creating magnificent displays of 'street art' and pass our days roughing up kids for their pocket money."

There was a pause. "You are joking, right?"

"Dad."

"Right, sorry." The Sheriff scratched the back of his neck awkwardly before dropping his hand. "You're not, ah…"

Stiles looked at him blankly for a moment. "What?"

"You're not, like, selling yourself on the internet are you? For money?"

"Selling myself?"

"Yeah, you know, doing…" the Sheriff gestured vaguely, "stuff... for an anonymous audience who are willing to pay – "

"Ew, dad, gross. Please stop talking."

" – because I know these sorts of things exist and a lot of people view them as a legitimate source of income and – "

Stiles slapped his hands over his ears. "Seriously, dad. You need to stop talking. Like three sentences ago."

" – I know how much you love that Jeep and how much it costs to – "

"DAD. Stop. Talking."

The Sheriff clamped his mouth shut.

Stiles actually looked almost physically sick. His mouth was open, his face twisted in an odd manner. He took a deep breath and closed his mouth. "I can't believe you'd think I've been sitting up in my room doing that."

"Well, sitting would work but I imagine there's probably a lot of different ways – "

"I think I actually might vomit."

The Sheriff smiled inwardly, pleased with the results and the little bit of fun he'd had in the meantime.

Stiles exhaled a deep breath and looked down to the bottom of the stairs. "Dad. I'm not involved in drugs. I'm not a part of some ruthless Beacon Hills gang. And I'm definitely not prostituting myself on the internet."

"I must say I'm glad to hear it."

"Let me just generalise and tell you that I'm not involved in anything illegal, ok? You have a perfect, law-abiding son right here."

The Sheriff sent his son a levelled look. "Well, somehow I doubt that."

Stiles shot him his own look in return.

"But, if you think you'll be fine here while I'm gone, I believe you."

"Can I just go the extra step and convince you that the house won't have turned into a drug lab or a brothel when you get back?"

"Pleased to hear it." He nodded at his son for a moment and then clapped his hands together. "Right. You're free to go back to…whatever it is you were doing."

Stiles drummed his hands on the railing before pushing backwards so he was standing straight. "Hey, I was thinking we could have pizza for dinner. You know, our last meal together until you get back."

"Have I ever said no to pizza? I'll call. Meatlovers?"

Stiles rolled his eyes fondly. "Duh."

The Sheriff barely refrained from fist pumping the air as he walked through to the kitchen.

"Don't get the cheesy crust though! That's something your arteries can do without!"

He sighed in defeat at Stiles' call before smirking. He'd said nothing about garlic bread. Or hot wings.

As he listened to the dialling in his ear, he put a stroke through the third cluster of lines on the whiteboard.

The sheriff pulled into the wet driveway beside Stiles' jeep eight hours or so after he'd left for the conference and cut the engine. It was nearing 9pm, and he had returned from Sacramento after the meetings had been cancelled when only a handful of officers showed up for the first one. Apparently there were too many delayed flights due to the bad weather.

He pulled his unused overnight bag from the backseat and dashed up the stairs onto the porch to escape the ruthless downpour.

He hadn't told Stiles he was coming home, he remembered as he put his key in the lock. Hopefully Stiles had eaten already and the sheriff would have free reign of the kitchen. He'd stopped for a burger break at a diner on the highway a couple of hours before, but hey, how was Stiles going to find out? He certainly wasn't going to mention it.

The first thing the sheriff saw when he pushed open the front door was the pizza box and soda cans sitting on the coffee table in the living room, and hey, no fair, because why was Stiles allowed to have pizza two times in three days when poor old pops almost got crucified if he had it once in a blue moon?

The second thing he saw was his son with his tongue stuck down Derek Hale's throat.

Well.

The two broke apart in surprise a split second after the door opened and stared at the man in shock.

The sheriff blinked. Twice. Three times.

Stiles' gaping mouth opened and closed several frantic times before he finally settled on,

"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE IN SACRAMENTO!"

The sheriff flinched at the unexpected volume. So did Derek, from his compromising position underneath Stiles on the couch.

His boy was nothing if not an initiator.

The sheriff took a step into the room and shut the door behind him, muffling the sound of the rain from outside.

"Nice to see you too, Stiles." He looked at Derek, who was now trying to sit upright despite the fact that Stiles was still laying on top of him. "Derek."

He met his eye, looking only slightly intimidated. Brave kid. "Sheriff."

Now Derek was pushing his shirt down from where Stiles had obviously pushed it up his body in the throes of their…shenanigans.

The sheriff only just managed to not roll his eyes. Give me strength.

"Dad – " Stiles began.

"So." He looked between the two of them. Stiles was now scrambling to sit up and get off the well-built body beneath him, Derek's hands – that were still on his waist – assisting him. John narrowed his eyes. "Derek Hale? He's the black blob?"

The sheriff heard Stiles' confused "huh?" at the same time as Derek's also confused "sorry?"

"You know," he continued, crossing the room to stand in front of the window, "the one that climbs out of your window and drops to the ground somewhere about…oh, here?"

He gestured vaguely.

There was a beat or two of silence before Stiles smacked Derek on the chest. "You jump down in front of the living room window?"

"Oh, yeah," Derek said sarcastically, rubbing a palm to his chest, "because clearly I'm the one that needs to be more subtle."

The sheriff watched with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles continued, lowering his voice and aiming it at Derek, "And what, you didn't think to warn me before he walked in the door?"

"I wasn't exactly paying attention seeing as I wasn't expecting anyone to come and sort of had other things on my mind."

Other things. The sheriff almost snorted.

"You still should have heard." Stiles grumbled.

The sheriff intervened, almost feeling as if he should defend Derek, the adult (wearing pyjamas) who was clearly well-associated with his very teenage son (also wearing pyjamas). "Now, Stiles, there's no way either one of you would have heard me over the sound of the rain."

Stiles rolled his eyes (at what, John didn't know) and looked sideways at Derek.

The sheriff sighed, the ripened fruits of his detective labour all amounting to this moment.

"So that's it then. There really are no drugs?"

Stiles shook his head.

"No gangs?"

"Nope."

"No internet prostitution?"

Derek looked slightly alarmed.

"Nope."

The sheriff hummed. So in the end it had all come down to a case of teenage hormones. A relationship.

He couldn't but feel slightly disappointed.

Some detective he was.

A thought occurred to him. "How'd you do it, Derek?"

"Sir?"

"Jump off the roof. Pretty risky if you ask me."

"Oh – "

"Derek was a track star. Long jump." Stiles butted in. "You know, good at landing on his feet."

He hummed again, making a mental note to detective the backside out of that fact later on. "Right."

Well.

The sheriff pulled off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack, making sure to adjust his holster after he did so.

"Right." He said again. "Carry on, boys."

Stiles looked kind of grossed out.

"Not with – that, Stiles! Just…whatever else you were planning on doing tonig – "

Derek and Stiles both suddenly developed a case of Avoiding Eye Syndrome.

"TV!" The sheriff spluttered, obviously realising what had really been planned for the night, had he not returned home. "I meant something like watching the TV. Or playing computer games. Or reading the dictionary. I don't care!"

Neither looked at him still.

John ran his eyes over both of them, settled on the couch in their pyjamas. "Derek. Since you were obviously planning on staying the night, you are still welcome to, however you will now be staying in the downstairs guest room."

Derek hesitated momentarily. "Thank you, sir."

"It's John," he said back and Derek nodded in reply. "And there will be strictly no touching below the waist, and no – "

"Dad, stop talking."

" – secret midnight rendezvous'."

"Dad."

"And no love declarations tapped out in Morse code through the walls."

Stiles opened his mouth to protest.

"Don't look at me like that Stiles, you memorised Morse code for Lydia before, remember?"

The slightly weird expression Derek side-eyed Stiles with almost made him giggle with glee.

"And I expect you both out here for breakfast at six-thirty sharp in the morning, so that we can continue our chat before Stiles goes to school."

They both grimaced at that, though to Derek's credit his was much more masked.

"That will be all. I'm going to get some scotch and then sit in the dining room and pretend not to keep an eye on you, alright?"

He walked forward to the coffee table and picked up the pizza box that had three pieces remaining in it, keeping his eyes locked on Stiles' the whole time and daring him to say something about it.

He didn't.

The sheriff smirked as he walked into the kitchen, placing the greasy goodness in the microwave and leaning back against the counter.

As the seconds ticked down, he spied the tally on the small whiteboard on the fridge. Crossing the kitchen, he reached one hand up to wipe it away.

He paused at the sound of the television coming on in the next room.

On second thoughts, maybe he'd leave it there.