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The sheriff turns to Laura and Derek, coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs with his arms folded. “You want to tell me what that was all about, Miss Hale?”
“Laura,” she says, giving him a winning smile, “Would you believe me if I said absolutely nothing?”
The sheriff’s take-no-bullshit expression speaks for itself. “No.” He opens his mouth to comment further, but his eyes are drawn across the lot to a bright blue Jeep. Two kids stand in front of it with their mouths agape. Laura hadn’t even noticed them pull into the lot, too focused on Argent and his friends. She curses under her breath. That sort of inattention would get them killed.
“You,” John says, pointing at the two kids, then at the ground in front of his feet. “Here. Now.”
Both boys shuffle over; the shorter one with the crooked jaw winces and smells of guilt. The other stares at her and Derek with wide-eyed curiosity.
Curious yelps when the sheriff yanks at the back of his shirt, his friend stepping to the side so he doesn’t get caught in the crossfire. Smart boy.
“Stiles, what the hell do you think you're doing?” The sheriff says, snatching the friend’s collar as he backs away with a well-practiced maneuver. “Don’t even think about it, Scott.” Scott hangs his head.
Stiles yanks forwards, attempting to remove himself from his father’s grasp. He chokes as his collar tightens around his throat.
“Standing,” he says, rubbing at his neck. “Didn’t know that was a crime.”
The sheriff raises his eyebrow. “No, but loitering is.”
“That's your takeaway from what just happened?” Stiles says, gesturing in a complicated hand signal Laura can’t even begin to decipher. “That?”
Sheriff Stilinski sighs the heavy, weary sigh of parents and their idiot children everywhere.
Scott sighs, too, hands shoved deep in his pocket. “Stiles.”
“What?” He points at Laura and Derek as if to say, can you believe this shit? “Scott, your girlfriend’s parents show up here guns blazing--” Derek jerks back a step; Laura places a hand on his shoulder. “--and you tell me you don’t want to know what the hell is going on?”
“None of your damn business, that's what." The sheriff shakes him by his jacket. "You told me you were going to Scott’s.”
“Technically, we are going to Scott’s, we just - happened to make a stop. On the way. After overhearing Allison’s dad having a suspect conversation about the Hales.”
“So rather than come straight to me, you decided to follow him. On your own. With no backup.”
“What do mean? I had Scott.” Sheriff Stilinski glares, and Stiles cringes, scratching at the back of his head. His father lets go, sending both of them tumbling forwards, using each other for balance.
“Get the hell out of here,” Sheriff Stilinski says.
“Absolutely.”
The sheriff walks Stiles and Scott back to the Jeep, berating them the entire way for whatever stupid, boneheaded plan you’ve cooked up this time.
“Let’s get out of here,” Derek says, turning back towards the Camaro. Laura takes hold of his arm as he wrenches the door open.
“No.” Derek stares at her, wide-eyed and incredulous. “I think we need help.”
Derek snorts. “From who, a fairy godmother?”
“Okay, first of all, don’t even joke about those flighty little fuckers." Derek rolls his eyes. “Second - not exactly what I had in mind.”
She gives the sheriff a pointed look across the parking lot. He was there, after the fire, a deputy then. He ushered her and Derek into the station, sitting them down on the chairs outside the sheriff’s office, tucking shock blankets around their shoulders with care and not making them talk.
In the days after, while she and Derek could do nothing but grieve, he kept the vultures at bay - only allowing one deputy at a time to speak with them, kicking the local and not-so-local reporters out of the station with a well-placed no comment. He even helped Laura with the custody papers for Derek and recommended a grief counselor.
Rumor has it that his actions after the fire were one of the many reasons for his recommendation as a candidate for sheriff. They took off before she could ever say thank you for treating us like human beings rather than broken kids.
Derek follows her gaze and barks a laugh.
“The sheriff,” he says, disbelief dripping from his words. “You want to tell the sheriff.”
Laura throws her hands in the air. “If you have any better ideas, I am open to hearing them.”
“The fairies would be a better idea than this.”
“Derek,” she sighs. She grips his shoulders, tilting his chin up until he meets her eyes. She wants to shift into her fur and crawl into his lap, huddle close and chase the sadness from his eyes. “We can’t do this alone. And I’m tired of running.”
“You realize I can hear you, don’t you?” The sheriff says as he approaches. Derek jumps backward, out of her grasp, and Laura slowly lowers her arms to her sides.
“I was counting on it, actually.” She could hear his heartbeat coming closer, footsteps on the pavement getting louder as he walked across the lot.
The sheriff throws her a dirty look, glances up at the doors to the station, and drags a hand through his hair. “Come on. I’m off-duty. We can talk this over somewhere more private.”
Laura raises an eyebrow. “Like where?”
“Somewhere with more liquor for one,” he mutters, and Laura bites back a snort.
She follows the sheriff all the way to his house. He waves them into the empty driveway, parking the cruiser out front.
The sheriff takes off his jacket as he enters the house, slipping it onto the back of a chair. He walks into the kitchen, grabs three bottles of beer, and pops them open. He places two on the coffee table.
“Sheriff--,” Laura starts, haltingly.
“Call me John,” he says, sitting down on the couch.
She nods, opening her mouth to speak, but only a strained noise comes out. Laura looks to Derek, who gives her a slow, resigned nod of his head.
Laura looks to the sheriff, his expectant face and relaxed, heartbeat steady, his scent woodsy and smelling faintly of lemon balm.
She sighs and takes the bandage off of her neck. The sheriff leans forwards.
“First of all - there’s something you should know.” Laura closes her eyes; takes a deep breath and counts to ten, lets the red of her eyes show.
“I’m a werewolf.”
John takes a calm, slow drink of his beer. “I know.”
Laura blinks the red out of her eyes and stares. “What?”
--
John orders pizza and gives her a basic run down. All the high-ranking officials in Beacon Hills knows the truth about the Hale pack, passed down from person to person over the years. The sheriff, the mayor, the county judge. Even Melissa, meant to act as a go-between should any werewolves end up in the hospital. All sworn to secrecy.
Laura glances at Derek, asleep on the couch and exhausted to his core. She almost fell out of her seat when Derek told John the Argents set the fire, chasing them halfway across the country before disappearing off the map. The fact that he could speak up without prompting, that he could sleep without Laura wrangling him into bed, says a lot about the sheriff and his home and how safe he feels here. How safe they feel here.
She grabs her beer off of the table and steps outside, heading to the back of the house. She stares at the trees, waving in the cool, autumn breeze, the leaves whispering in the wind. She closes her eyes and lets the light of the moon wash over her skin.
Footsteps crunch through the leaves in the grass, coming closer.
“Figured the two of you would have taken off by now,” John says.
Laura opens her eyes. “Thought about it.”
He looks out at the trees. “I meant to say this before, but - I'm sorry. About your uncle."
Laura swallows down another sip of her beer, ignoring her burning eyes. They haven't even been able to have a burial yet; the medical examiner couldn't release the body. The thought of her uncle on a metal slab in a cold morgue sends shivers up her spine, chest wrenching with a violent twist. "Yeah. Me too."
John's taps his fingers against the bottle, wedding ring clinking against the glass. "Where are the two of you staying?”
“In an apartment up on Grove.”
His head whips around. “You’re living in that deathtrap?”
“Technically, I own that deathtrap.” Laura takes a sip of her beer.
“Good, then I know where to send all the fines for the violated building codes.”
Laura laughs, a loud, unexpected sound. She shoots him a smile.
He stands at her side for a while, silent and contemplative before speaking. “Why don’t you stay here.”
“Here,” Laura says, eyebrows rising to her hairline. “In your house.”
“Well, I have a guest room. Might as well use it for something other than storage." He shoves his free hand into his pocket. "That and I doubt the Argents would storm the sheriff’s house. This is probably the safest place in Beacon Hills for you to lie low for a while.”
Her head spins; she presses fingers to her forehead, staving off a headache. “But your son--”
“You let me deal with Stiles,” John says, tone ringing with finality.
Laura turns back towards the trees, heart pounding in her chest. She could say no. Go back to their empty apartment, figure out a way to deal with the Argents on their own. Bury Peter. Keep watch over Derek. Stay on her guard.
She’s just so goddamn tired. Tired of looking over her shoulder, of expecting the worst, of needing to be alert every single second of every single day. Of being scared, being alone. Of everything.
“Yeah,” she says, swallowing hard. “Okay.”