Archive of Our Own

Author: reedenryete

Title: “Full Circle”

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Derek/Stiles

Summary: John watched Stiles and Derek over the rim of his coffee mug, wondering if that’s how he and Claudia looked like back then, young and awkward, fumbling clumsily into their relationship.

Word Count: 6,900+

Warnings: Family-filled fluff. Run on sentences. Intermittent vagueness. And once again, parentheses abuse, because I seem to think that’s how Stilinskis process their thoughts.

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Sheriff Stilinski loved his son, he truly did. Save for his wife whom he loved just as much, there was no one else in the world he loved more than Stiles.

He loved his son, even when he clogged the toilet at four-years-old by flushing his superhero action figures down the drain. The day before, John and Claudia had taken him to the water park and Stiles figured it would be nice if his toys got to ride the same “swirly, splashy, fun ride” he did. John knew the water park would be a bad idea. Claudia elbowed him as he muttered under his breath.  

He loved his son, even when he took a permanent marker and doodled a monocle and top hat on the sheriff’s driver’s license.  Six-year-old Stiles thought his dad was fancy. The self-pleased, tooth-gapped smile Stiles had on his face just melted away the frustrated, building tension in John’s shoulders. “Fancy that! Our baby is an artist!” Claudia sniggered at her own joke and encouraged more of Stile’s…masterpieces. She wasn’t helping.  
He loved his son, especially when he buzzed his own hair off, and made a mess of the bathroom in the process, at eleven-years-old because he knew his Mommy was sad about being sick and losing her hair. He didn’t want her to go through it alone. Considering Stiles had no idea how to use the razor clippers, it was choppy, it was sloppy, but mostly it was perfect. Claudia gave Stiles a tender kiss on his nose and gave John a watery smile over their son’s head. John didn’t let go of either of them that night, Stiles’ face buried in Claudia’s neck, and Claudia’s buried in his.

And when his son confessed at seventeen that he’d been lying to his father and that he’d been missing curfew to help a band of misfits annihilate things that went bump in the dark, he still loved him. Even when Stiles, on top of that, added the existence of werewolves.  Oh, and that his best friend, Scott, was a werewolf. And that actually, Dad, a lot of his friends were werewolves, or some other inhuman thing that could potentially kill you. And that his very human son ran wild with them, and was apparently learning how to do magic.

Yeah, heavy stuff.

It was times like these John particularly wished Claudia were here, because while he would be hyperventilating into a brown paper bag or gulping down a bottle of Jack in a panic, Claudia would rub his back with soothing motions and probably say something ridiculous like, “At least now if he comes out as gay and wants to stroke a rooster, not egg a hen, we can handle it.” She always made him bark in scandalized laughter, no matter what hand of cards life dealt them.  

(Which by the way, he did handle it quite nicely when Stiles eloquently declared “that, uh, I’m gay. Bi? Whatever. I like dicks and chicks. -- I mean! Dad, crap, would you just -- I’m freaking out here. Say something, please!” She would have been proud that regardless of his strict, military upbringing, John didn’t just shove Stiles back into that rainbow-color-coordinated closet. He shoved Stiles into a tight embrace instead.)

Despite all of these things, Sheriff Stilinksi loved Stiles.

Some people may have found that hard to believe because, well, Stiles was so mindlessly chatty, infuriatingly quick-witted, stubbornly persistent, unfailingly accident-prone, and just…so beautifully Stiles.

But Stiles was the light of his life. Admittedly a loud, glaring, obnoxious, painful light at times, but his light nonetheless.

From the moment his newborn was bundled into his arms and those big, brown eyes, so trusting and warm, opened and locked with his, John -- who very valiantly did not weep with joy, thank you very much, Claudia -- was lost.

(Little did he know Stile’s cute, innocent, brown eyes were actually shining in mirth with all the ways he would torment his father in the future. But that would be a story for another day.)

John was torn between wanting to climb dangerously tall trees with him and wanting to roll him around in a protective bubble forever.

Stiles made the choice for him when he decided to live a life filled with werewolf shenanigans.

Shenanigans meaning running in the dead of night with aforementioned group of supernatural teenagers trying not to become dead themselves, all the while avoiding nasty claws, sharp teeth, cursed spells, psycho hunters and legal authorities.

The sheriff sighed.

He wished he could say this was Stiles’ creative, overactive imagination talking. That this was a side effect of Stiles’ former Adderall medication. Hell, the sheriff almost wished Stiles engaged in “normal” teenager stupidities, like smoking weed after school or getting detention for skipping class, if it meant he didn’t risk his life every damn week like it was a regular calendar event. Ahh, yes, Self-Sacrifice Sundays and Murder-Me-Not Mondays? Sure, I’ll just jot that down in my planner next to Tea-Time Tuesdays.

(He could hear Claudia tut-tutting from Heaven. When she was alive, she’d get upset at John for risking his life every week in the police workforce. “Like father, like son. Can someone say Karma?” she would sing-song, a wry, amused smirk on her lips, yet in the end, it’d be more “Like mother, like son” because her brown eyes would shine with mischief identical to Stiles’.)

Anyway, he had to accept that Stiles chose not to live in a protective bubble, even if he burst John’s bubble at the same time.

Stiles still chose to climb things, though. Except it wasn’t dangerously tall trees Stiles opted to climb, but a tall, dangerous werewolf who went by the name of Derek Hale.

(Again, how he discovered that about his son would be a story for another day, but if John were honest, he never wanted to think about it. His eyes still burned and his brain was still scarred. Going by Derek’s shifty glances around the room and how he curled into himself as if he wanted to be swallowed in wolfsbane, and how Stiles crumpled into a wallowing ball of mortification with a cry of “Oh, my god, Dad, teenage boy here! Door? Knock! I can’t believe this,” it was safe to say no one wanted to think about it. Family breakfast the next morning was the second most excruciating moment in John’s life, the first being the time he had gone to Claudia’s father to ask for her hand in marriage.)

Whoops, maybe Stiles’ ADHD was hereditary after all, because that was beside the point. Back on topic.

John loved Stiles.

And Stiles loved Derek.

Curse those big, brown, beseeching, “Dad, please don’t kill me. Or my boyfriend. Think, what would Mom do if you took away my first real chance at romance? Stop scoffing, Derek, I’m trying to save your life!” eyes. Just like when Stiles was born, John was lost.

If this meant the sheriff was going to have to tolerate that an accused murderer who ran around naked under a full moon and who could only communicate in grunts and eyebrow wriggles was dating (John pinched the bridge of his nose with a tight sigh at the word) his underaged and only son…then so be it.

Damn it, Claudia, why did he have to inherit most of your genes? He couldn’t stay mad at him.

John was still not okay with this.

Not at all.

On the other hand, he couldn’t lie. Derek was slowly worming his way into his heart, but he’d never admit it. Never.

A big bad wolf who could easily shred him to bits but instead shrunk uncomfortably into a shy, stutter-speeched boy with one withering squint from the sheriff? It was fun. It was way too easy. It was like getting the twisted glee of kicking a puppy. (Heh, dog jokes.) Perhaps it was cruel to intimidate someone so “emotionally constipated,” as Stiles would say. Maybe John was a sadist.

But he wouldn’t throw Derek to the wolves just yet. (Two jokes back-to-back? Maybe Stiles got his clever word play from him, not his Mom!)

Especially because Derek was trying so hard. To please him. To show him he wouldn’t hurt his son. To soldier through John’s fishing trip invitations (read: coercions) despite being so socially awkward. 

To prove to him that he loved Stiles as much as John did.

Which the sheriff thought was near impossible, because Stiles was Stiles, but Derek chose his son because he was mindlessly chatty, infuriatingly quick-witted, stubbornly persistent, unfailingly accident-prone, and beautifully Stiles, not in spite of it.

Also, it didn’t hurt that Derek brought him bacon burgers and averted his eyes as John would eat them when Stiles wasn’t in the near vicinity.

So gradually, John, who had only had room in his heart for Claudia and Stiles, was opening and gathering a teensy, tiny, itty bit of space for a scruffy Hale. (A too, too old Hale, he reminded himself, trying to close Derek off from his heart again…but those bunny teeth became endearing. Uhh…think, John, think…oh, yes! Hate Hale for having more facial hair than you ever could. Yeah. Jealousy always makes people dislike others.)

Right, so back on topic. Again.

Derek loved Stiles.

Not that Stiles knew it yet, because c’mon, in what world would Derek Hale use actual words, but the sheriff knew.

He saw it every day.

In Derek’s fond huff, even as he grumbled at his son’s idiocy. Which John couldn’t blame him, because even he had to admit Stiles did not have very enhanced self-preservation instincts.

In the casual brush of Derek’s hand on Stiles’ lower back as he bid him goodbye. In how he instinctively let Stiles slide into the diner booth first, furthest away from the door, a protective gesture that went over his son’s head.

In the way he did his best to listen intently to Stiles as he rambled incessantly about an obscure factoid on the Internet, while he looked over at John, his eyes silently screaming, “Please help me. Make him stop.” John would just smirk, absolutely not sadistic at all.

In the way he thrust his jacket into Stiles’ arms at slightest shiver from his son who detested the cold, and the way he manhandled Stiles into said jacket when Stiles squawked indignantly, determined not to be “the cheer captain who wears her quarterback boyfriend’s letterman.”

In the way, when Stiles thought he was asleep after a long shift at the station, Derek growled that no, he wouldn’t stop putting himself at risk to keep Stiles safe, and that he would die for him over and over again, so stop getting pissed at something that you know is never going to change.

In the way that Derek’s breath hitched when Stiles threw it back in his face and said expect him to do the same, because this thing we have is a two-way-street, so shut up, you asshole, because you’re going to be protected by me as much as you’re protecting me.

In the way Derek would warily look around when he knew John was home before he kissed Stiles chastely, because even though the sheriff may not have werewolf senses, he could still see and shoot a bullet through Derek’s leg in a heartbeat.

Years later, even now, the sheriff could see it.

They’ve come a long way, Stiles and Derek in their relationship, and John accepting their relationship. It helped that Stiles was no longer a teenager and in his early 20s, but details, details.

Today one of those breakfast Sundays. (A tradition that began after The-Not-to-Be-Mentioned-Time-John-Walked-into-the-Derek-and-Stiles-Show.)

Stiles was back home for break from his senior year at college, and the sheriff and Derek went back to pretending they didn’t hang out in Stiles’ room consistently for the mutual reason of missing the hyperactive Stilinski.

John studied them from the dining table, a curious and nagging feeling itching at the back of his mind.

Stiles was peeking into the oven at his “healthy, but delicious, I swear, Daddy-O!” bran muffins before he hip-checked the door close with a satisfied hum. He wiped his hands on a nearby rag, looking over his shoulder to face Derek who was hovering close to the kitchen island, glaring down apprehensively at the bowl of pancake batter as if it insulted his mother.

The scene that played in front of the sheriff was comfortable. It was routine. It made his chest swell with a sense of completeness that at times it was pinchingly painful.

Stiles and Derek were not paying any him any heed while they muttered in short, furious whispers. They bickered over Thanksgiving plans, Derek not wanting to invite chaos into his loft, and Stiles demanding that because he was obviously living with Derek after he graduated, he should be allowed to have a say in their home, and he says Derek shouldn’t seclude himself on a day perfect for getting fat without judgment.

“C’mon, when was the last time we all got together? Don’t you want Ms. McCall’s pumpkin pie? One night of indulgence won’t turn your abs into flab, Derek!” Stiles protested, his voice trailing off in a whine, as his finger jabbed repeatedly into Derek’s midsection.

The werewolf frowned, furrowing his brows in a way his son could read like Sign Language, before his fingers wrapped around Stiles’ wrist.

“Stop poking my stomach.”

“And besides, if that happened, I’d still think you’re hot. I’d become a chubby chaser!”

“Stiles.”

John’s crowfeet wrinkles creased even more in amusement, watching Stiles and Derek over the rim of his coffee mug. He sipped down his chuckle when Stiles began shooting off bullet notes of arguments and seemingly bulldozed over a defeated Derek, who simply rolled his eyes and kissed his son’s temple in agreement, if only to get him to stop yakking.   

Suddenly, that curious and itching feeling in his brain locked the final puzzle piece in place. Realization kicked him hard in the chest so much his heart ached with longing.

Stiles and Derek reminded him so much of he and Claudia.

It seized his insides, gripped at him, and he was teetering, unsure if it was ripping him apart with agony or putting him back together with the fragments he thought he lost when Claudia died. He didn’t know if this was another gaping wound or a healing. He didn’t know if he wanted to sob with sorrow or joy.

Derek’s gaze flickered over at John quickly, as if sensing the abrupt falter in his heartbeat. It went unnoticed by Stiles, who was still laughing loud and full at his and his sourwolf’s earlier conversation.

The sheriff closed his eyes and sniffed back the stinging behind his lashes, taking a deep breath, pretending as though he was only inhaling the aroma of his morning cup. John shook his head subtly, an unspoken request for Derek to ignore it if only to prevent Stiles from worrying. The man turned away in respect, leaving John to quell his own emotions.

After a few brief moments, the sheriff collected himself, the tautness in his muscles relaxing as forced himself to enjoy the company of his son and his…possibly-maybe-eventually-future son-in-law? John blanched. (Still not as pale as he got the time he walked into Derek and Stiles naked, but it was pretty close.)

When he opened his eyes again, Stiles was leaning up against Derek, snickering delightedly as he crowded the werewolf into the counter. His nose tickled along Derek’s back and forth, his arms wrapped around Derek’s neck, clearly entertained that the older man looked like a deer in headlights, unsure of what to do with this public display of affection because Stiles, are you crazy, your father is sitting right there. Derek’s fingers flexed indecisively at Stiles’ waist.

John gave his son a deadpan stare.

“The only thing I want to see sizzling in the kitchen are those pancakes, Stiles. Stop giving Derek a heart attack. I’ll sacrifice myself -- give me a heart attack with greasy bacon, in his place.”

Stiles only laughed louder. He reached around his boyfriend to grab the pancake batter and marched off to the stove with a mock-salute. But not before whipping Derek’s tush with a towel and telling him to wash the dishes that were already piling up in the sink from their cooking. Derek scowled in response, but stiffly turned around to do as commanded.

The sheriff rested his chin on a propped hand, wondering if that’s how he and Claudia were back then. Young and awkward, fumbling clumsily into the relationship they stumbled into, but so unbelievably happy it made everyone around them sick.

Seeing Stiles and Derek squabble over Thanksgiving dinner plans sent him back in time when he and a pregnant Claudia squabbled over what color to paint Stiles’ room. He wanted a simple blue, while she wanted some sort of puke-mint-green or not-so-blinding-yellow, in order not to subject her child to gender roles. He himself had simply rolled his eyes, and kissed her temple in agreement, if only to get her to stop yakking.

John quirked a smile at the thought.

Claudia was always two steps ahead of the curve.

Stiles was so much like her, sometimes it hurt him to stare at his boy.

Vivacious. Chirpy. Unique. Defiant. Spunky. Daring. A mouth that got him in trouble. Claudia was written all over him.

When Stiles managed to get into hijinks that John didn’t approve of, he would frown and grouse, “He’s your son.” Claudia would beam smugly in response with her arms crossed and an easy, confident lean in her hips before proudly saying, “And no one else’s.”

Luckily, the same way Stiles had Derek to get him out of trouble, Claudia had John no matter what situation she talked herself into. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with at Stiles’ Parent-Teacher conferences.

Oddly enough, the sheriff pondered as he stared at Derek carefully, who was aware of John’s watchful gaze if the nervous tick in his shoulders while he squeezed liquid soap onto the dish sponge was anything to go by, he and Derek had a lot more in common than he thought.

In fact, John Stilinski could have been a Derek Hale. The only thing he was missing was a clusterfuck of emotional baggage and a sociopathic ex-girlfriend burning down his house.

Anyway.

He and Derek were succinct, straight to the point. They were both muscled, if he did say so himself. (He served in the army before he joined the police force, okay? He’s in tip-top shape for someone his age. Just because he was graying a little didn’t mean he couldn’t compete with Hale in the looks department! …Except maybe in a facial hair contest, damn you, Derek.)

They were both blunt, almost rude. Or John was, until Claudia softened him.

The sheriff shifted his gaze to Stiles, who was brazenly belting to the songs blasting on the radio with a whisk as a microphone. Derek snorted, a hint of a grin twitching at his lips. Stiles was clearly on his way to softening Hale, more than he already had.

As a trivial, but no less amusing coincidence, he and Derek had green eyes, while Claudia’s and Stiles’ were brown.

He and Derek also lived a life of danger, which goes without saying, considering John’s profession and, well, Derek’s entire existence.

Yet through it all, Claudia and Stiles were there, not to be deterred. They were their greatest adversaries, never holding back a biting tongue when they felt John or Derek were wrong, but also their strongest allies, never letting John or Derek waver when they needed the strength to make things right. They were unafraid and unapologetically loving, constants in the ever changing, volatile world of chasing the bad guys. When he and Derek would run into the danger, it was Claudia and Stiles who would make sure they’d come home safe.

They were bare, open, honest and unashamed. They felt fully, wholly and wore their hearts on their sleeves like a proud tattoo that branded them, not a weakness like everyone else was too terrified to expose.  

He was proud of Stiles for being like his mother. That he had her fire, her will. But there was one thing he didn’t want them to have in common.

Dying too soon.

One day, John thought he lost the loud, glaring, obnoxious light of his life. When Melissa called him saying Stiles was in the hospital after a severe car accident, it was like someone with a sinister smile blew out a candle and in a whoosh surrounded him in terrifying darkness.  

He didn’t know how he made it to the hospital in one piece, how he didn’t have a car accident himself, recklessly speeding and making jerky lane changes. He felt as though the whole world was spinning so fast and then suddenly froze to a lurching stop -- he couldn’t stand upright or find balance. He was dizzy with despair, dread and distress.

When he got to the room, seeing his son asleep, beaten and bruised, hooked up to IVs and a mask, looking more machine than human, John couldn’t breathe, because no, no, no, he couldn’t lose him, he couldn’t lose Claudia, he couldn’t lose them again.

He didn’t even realize his knuckles were bleeding until Derek grabbed his wrist.

Somehow the sheriff had ended up in a hallway down from where Stiles’ was recuperating, trapped in a wall-punching daze. Through the tears that stung unshed at the brim of his eyes, John saw his sore, lacerated skin. Derek’s grasp on his on hand, inhumanly strong enough to stop the sheriff from hurting himself, but also surprisingly gentle, was the one touch that made everything stop spinning.

Derek’s veins blackened, leeching the pain away from John’s fist.

They both looked up from their hands and locked glances.

John saw his own green eyes staring back. Eyes that were pained, broken. And then it hit the sheriff that he wasn’t alone. Like him, Derek had no one else. Like him, Derek thought Stiles was the light of his life. Like him, Derek was trying to be strong.

He could see it. Derek was just as wrecked as he was, but as soon as he saw John falling apart…he shifted gears to hold both of them up.

John felt his heart tighten and his eyes sting for a different reason.

Derek was bewildered. Rattled. Feral.

He was just a poor boy.

The same way John blamed himself for Claudia’s death, Derek hated himself for Stiles’ injuries. The way John swore he would always protect Claudia, he knew Derek fiercely promised to never let anything happen to Stiles. But the same way he couldn’t have prevented Claudia’s cancer, Derek couldn’t have prevented Stiles’ car accident from happening.

In an instant, John grabbed Derek’s hand and tugged him close. Derek weakly let himself be pulled in. The sheriff enveloped him bone-crushingly tight, the same way he would have held his son. He had to let Derek know.

“This is not your fault, do you understand?” John said, his voice choked and raspy.

After a moment of hesitation, he felt Derek’s imperceptibly small nod.

When Melissa found them, she had to draw the sheriff aside. With her co-worker hovering at her shoulder, she apologetically informed Derek that currently only family members had visiting rights, yet the fierce look in her sights said that as soon as the staff wasn’t paying attention, she’d remedy that immediately.

She told John later that it was Derek who found Stiles first, who heard his heartbeat stop cold and scented him out. Who pried Stiles out of his death trap of a jeep after a drunkard nailed him in a hit-and-drive, and who held him in his arms before the medics arrived.

Derek saved Stiles' life.

Hours later, John stopped in his tracks, somewhat surprised that Derek was still the waiting room. He was pacing in circles, hands in pockets, head down, almost whimpering in frustration. He looked like an impatient dog that knew its owner was on the other side of a closed door, but couldn’t get through. All dog jokes aside, it was sad, painful and almost pitiful.

That was when John decided.

The sheriff walked right up to him and clapped Derek on the shoulder. The werewolf jumped slightly, caught off guard and mildly alarmed.

Before the younger man could speak, John leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“The window three rooms to the left of Stiles’ is easier to jiggle open from the outside. None of the nurses will be down that hallway until the next shift after visiting hours are over. I’ll tell Melissa to leave it unlocked for you.”

When he straightened and took a step back, Derek gaped at him with widened eyes.

The sheriff shot him a skeptical, knowing look. He didn’t understand why Derek was so shocked that he figured out that the werewolf was going to sneak in. Because one, John was a law enforcer, two, Derek was so obviously predictable, and three, he was Stiles’ Dad. He was always prepared and had ESP for these sort of things. Just because he never called Derek out on all the times he’d sneak into Stiles’ bedroom didn’t mean he was oblivious.

John felt a small smile twitch at the corners of his lips.

“I don’t care what these doctors say. We might not be blood. But you’re pack, or whatever you call it. You have every right to see him as I do.”

He turned on his heel and began walking out before he could see Derek’s reaction.

“Take care of him tonight. I’ll get the day shift,” John called lightheartedly, waving two fingers in the air as a farewell salute. He also used the hand Derek had sucked the pain from, silently telling him he was okay.

When Stiles was back on his feet and went back to college with a rental car, John and Derek wordlessly approached each other to restore his Mom’s old jeep.

John was startled into the present when a plate of pancakes slid in front of him. It had organic blueberries scattered on top in the shape of a smiley face.

“Zoning out there, Dad. Trying to ignore the gay loving baking in your kitchen?” Stiles beamed, folding his arms on the table and resting his chin on them.

John and Derek, unimpressed, did not even attempt to disguise their eye-rolling.

“Aww, the two most important men in my life showing me how much they love me!” Stiles cooed, clutching a hand to his chest. “My heart is aflutter!”

Derek swept into the seat beside Stiles, his hand cupping the back of Stile’s neck and briefly tugging the short hairs he found there in a teasing warning.

“Let your father eat in peace. And don’t forget the bacon he asked for.”

“Um, excuse me? Who are you even? Are you trying to spoil him and be the number one son? Kill him with cholesterol so he can’t cockblock us ever again? Don’t enable him, Derek!”

John tuned them out once more, idly grabbing a fork and knife. As he cut into his breakfast, he watched the two go back-and-forth, comfortable in each other’s presence, although Stiles’ muscles strained as if he was tamping down every urge to slide into Derek’s lap. Derek looked no better, barely restraining himself from pulling Stiles in.

They were so sickeningly, sweetly domestic that the sheriff thought Stiles should be more concerned about his blood sugar levels, not his cholesterol.

If someone told John years ago that he’d be tolerating the coupley-interaction between his son and his older, fanged boyfriend before lunch, he would have personally admitted that person to the nearest psych ward.

But seeing Stiles so happy…what more could a parent want?

He remembered a time he thought Stiles would never be happy again.

His son had come home just before ten, oddly silent, and drudged up the steps. His room door closed with a quiet click. The sheriff looked up from his case files, eyes squinting with worry. He stacked his papers together with a few taps, took some last few swipes of his beer bottle (Stiles devoid of emotion? He knew he needed to go into this with liquid courage), and headed upstairs.

John knocked, hesitant and soft.

When there was no reply, he cleared his throat.

“Stiles, I’m giving you two minutes and then I’m coming in.”

A muffled groan and the squeak of bedsprings, most likely Stiles rolling over to plant his feet on the floor, answered him.

The door cracked open, barely a sliver of Stiles’ face peeking through.

“What’s going on in there, son?”

Stiles shook his head.

“Nothing, I --“ His voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again, “I’m good, Dad. Gonna sleep it off. Don’t want to talk about it.”

John exhaled deeply, disappointment etched in the wrinkles on his face. Stiles cringed, sensitive to his Dad’s sadness, especially when he was still wrapped in his own.

“We don’t have to talk, Stiles. Just let me in.”

He meant more than just into the room.

The fight seeped out of Stiles’ shoulders with a shuddery breath.

The sheriff coaxed his way inside, patient in the manner Claudia would applaud him for, and led his son to his bed. He sat down beside him.

They were both awkward and rigid.

After a long pause of uncomfortable uncertainty piling between them, John wrapped his arm around his son and eased Stiles’ head into his lap, something he hadn’t done since Stiles was a kid. A comfort Stiles hadn’t gotten since Claudia passed away.

He ran his hand through Stiles hair, fingers threading through the strands that grew longer from that old buzz cut. Ever since Stiles met Derek, his hair grew longer, as if his son was finally letting go of the more painful memories of Claudia. The sheriff gulped at the symbolism.

“I’m not as good as your mother was at this kind of stuff. So, you’re gonna have to work with me, kid.”

Stiles choked on a laugh.

“Mom would think we’re both being stupid.”

But that seemed to do the trick, because it was if the sheriff had broken the dam.

What started as a leak broke into a flood, as Stiles crumpled into John’s embrace. His arms curled around his Dad’s waist, his face in John’s stomach as he sobbed, his shoulders shaking with every heaving inhale.

All John really understood was that Derek and Stiles fought viciously. They weren’t together anymore.

Stiles sat up after a long while, cheeks tear-streaked and eyes puffy. He sniffed and fiercely rubbed his nose across the sleeve of his hoodie. He released a self-deprecating chuckle and shrugged hopelessly.

“I think I just had my first heartbreak, Dad.”

John had witnessed the most gruesome cases in his near half-a-century alive. As a veteran in combat, he had seen bloodshed and flying limbs. As a sheriff, he had seen the most cruel abuses and attacks.

But seeing Stiles so ruined frightened him the most.

It was hard getting him to eat after that. His boy was already a scrawny, self-proclaimed “147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones.” That was the last thing he needed. He was listless, unfeeling -- his whole spirit was subdued.

He came home on time every day. He didn’t stay up late at night once he finished his schoolwork. He holed himself up in his room. Not a single “Hey Dad, guess what?” fun fact of the day appeared at breakfast for weeks. Not an utter of his animated laughter trickled out for even longer.

The only person aside from his father who Stiles talked to was Scott. The sheriff and Scott shared helpless, wounded looks every day. When Stiles thought he was asleep, he could hear his son’s stifled cries into a pillow, and he had to pretend the next morning that he didn’t when Stiles would smile at him in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

This is what John thought he wanted. For Derek Hale to leave Stiles alone. For Stiles to never miss curfew and never risk his life. But this? This was him not even living.

It didn’t make sense. It didn’t add up. As a sheriff who put clues together every waking moment, there were no signs he spotted that would have led to Derek and Stiles breaking up. Nothing. While most fathers in his position would just assume the older man got bored of dating a teenager, something just wasn’t right. His gut instincts were screaming at him.

This was not just a Lydia-Martin-meltdown. In the grand scheme of things, Lydia Martin meant nothing.

Derek Hale on the other hand? Derek Hale meant everything.

His son was suffering. It looked like his son lost half of his soul.

So, when the sheriff happened to catch sight of Derek at the grocery store, a livid, blind rage swept over him. It consumed him, ate at him with resentment and the awful feeling of wanting to punch Hale’s nose in possessed him.

In three easy strides, he crossed the aisle and yanked the back of Hale’s leather jacket, forcing Derek to swing around --

And he came face-to-face with the most miserable-looking man he had ever seen.

A soundless wheeze escaped John between his teeth.

Derek looked horrible. Even worse than Stiles, if that were possible.

Looking at Derek hurt him so much, he had to wince.

Derek’s eyes were red-rimmed and the bags underneath could hold all of Stiles’ textbooks. His clothes were in a disarray, his muscles were feebly lax and tense all at once. He looked disoriented, unfocused, overcome. He looked like lost his purpose.

He looked just like the young boy he found standing numbly after the Hale fire.   

“What are you doing?” John murmured, weak and worried. It wasn’t the angry what are you doing he expected to bellow. He couldn’t. Not when Derek looked like he purposefully waited for John to grab him. Looked like he wanted John to punch him.

And then a memory punched John in core, instead.  

He knew that stare of regret Derek gave him.

John himself saw it in the mirror as a young man, when he ended his relationship with Claudia to spare her from becoming a military wife. To spare her from the agonizing years, months, weeks, days, minutes, seconds of praying for his life while he was serving overseas, waiting for him to come home -- if he did. To spare her from constant moves and having to uproot her life over and over again, from missing the comfort of familiarity.

To give her a better life with someone else.

The sheriff recognized this story. Recognized how it felt to want to let go of someone who loved you so selflessly, someone you swore to yourself that you didn’t deserve.

John wasted precious months, almost a year of happiness with Claudia. The love of his life, his angel who left too soon. There was not enough time for that. He wasn’t going to let Derek make the same, stupid mistake, not if he could help it.

“No, oh, no you’re not,” John demanded, gripping Derek’s shoulders. He shook him roughly. “You snap out of this.”

The sheriff pointed a finger at Derek’s face, almost snarling.

“You’re going to fix this. You’re not going to get to be some sort of martyr, hurt everyone involved, and live with it like it’s okay. You know why?”

Derek watched him expressionlessly.

“You respect him, right? Do you treat him -- consider him your equal?” John barked out.

Not even a moment later, Derek’s eyes shone, frantically distraught.

“Of course,” he replied with conviction, despite how scraped his voice sounded due to his dry throat, probably from disuse.

John released the breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding.

Good. That was practically a love confession in the form of a swooning sonnet from Derek. This the sheriff could work with. 

“Then you need to respect his decision. It was his choice, Derek,” John said, staring at the man imploringly. “Not mine, not yours, but his. He chose this life. He chose the witches, the demons, the ghouls. He chose the danger. He chose your relationship. He chose you, Derek. He. Chose. You.”

The sheriff freed the younger man, who stayed in his hold even though he could have broken away effortlessly. He watched indecision filter across Derek’s face, as the werewolf clenched and flexed his fists over and over. He could even see a hint of claws peeking through.

Silence dragged on.

Then Derek’s jaw tightened. He met John’s stare and nodded resolutely. 

“Don’t take that choice away from him,” John said.

He stepped around Derek to grab bags of chocolate doughnuts.

Hale raised an infuriatingly questioning brow at his sugar-powdered selections.

“Don’t take this choice away from me, either,” the sheriff griped, “I deserve this.”

Later that night, John pretended he didn’t hear Stiles’ window slide open, or the quiet shuffle of feet across the carpet, or the hushed apologies.

Especially the moans of pleasure.

He was just grateful that on second thought he swung by the gas station to buy a pair of earplugs before he got home. And a bottle of NyQuil to knock himself out with.

This time John was caught off guard when Derek plopped pieces of bacon, deliciously dripping with grease, onto his near-empty plate.

The sheriff glanced up and Derek smirked at him, his amusement clearly saying that he had won the Bacon-Battle he had going on with Stiles.

“If my Dad dies, you’re paying for his funeral, you carnivoristic heathen!”

John shook his head with a snort.

To his right, Stiles was stuffing cheekfuls of breakfast into his mouth, more syrup than pancakes, and Derek was on his left, enjoying a cup of tea with conservative sips.

John chuckled.

He couldn’t deny it was still pretty damn weird sitting here like this, but shit, if this wasn’t the good life, then what was?

This was family.

This was home.

He knew he wasn’t imagining things when he felt the gentle pressure of Claudia’s hand squeezing his.

And years later, five years to be precise, when he and Stiles were eating breakfast at the kitchen table while Stiles was torturing himself over how to propose to Derek, John sat there like a good father, supportively nodding at all of his ideas. (Little did Stiles know, Derek had already asked him for Stiles’ hand months ago and was going to beat him to the punch later in the week. John decided to be merciful on Derek, because he was still scarred from the time he had to ask Claudia’s father for permission, remember? Oh, and Stiles died when he found out, complaining -- and secretly enjoying, although he would never say it -- that Derek went about it like Stiles was some stupid, medieval maiden.)

And a year after that, when Stiles was in the middle of his wedding speech, John was a part of the collective groan in the reception hall once Stiles ridiculously announced, “I knew when my Dad first locked Derek in handcuffs, my life became a Kanye West song -- it was a ‘Love Lockdown.’”

Some time down the road, John still loved his son, he truly did. Save for his wife whom he loved just as much, there was no one else in the world he loved more than Stiles.

Except now Stiles was about to have some serious competition.

Big, brown eyes, so warm and trusting opened and locked with his. His adoptive granddaughter was finally here and bundled in his arms, so unlike Stiles who was a swaddle of swinging limbs. This baby girl was more like Derek -- no fuss, taciturn and topped with a dark head of hair, but John -- who very valiantly, again, did not weep with joy, thank you very much, Stiles -- was lost.

“Claudia,” his son stated happily, throat swollen with emotion, beaming with watery eyes. “Derek wanted to name her Claudia, so I told him our next girl would be Talia.”  

Derek looked at John shyly, almost as shy as he did when he first dated Stiles, suddenly embarrassed and wondering if he had overstepped his boundaries.

John couldn’t hold back his tears after that.

And years, years later, when the sheriff accompanied Stiles and Derek to Talia’s Parent-Teacher conference (adopted or not, she had to be Stiles’ kid. Only she would get excited for school supply shopping like Stiles did. Her persnickety “Ew, Grandpa, why did you buy me wide-ruled paper? Who does that? #DoesNotWant” said it all), he watched as Stiles gladly let Derek rain a seething rampage on the poor woman who dared to say Talia wasn’t gifted. John rolled his eyes, almost wanting to tell Stiles to grab a hold of Derek’s leash and make him heel, but he already accepted he was sadistic. Still, this was a bit of an overkill.

Instead, John sighed and said with a shrug, “He’s your husband.”

And Stiles, with a smug smirk, arms crossed against his chest and an easy, confident lean in his hips proudly said, “Damn right. And no one else’s.”

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