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“You know you have to tell your dad sometime,” Derek says, peeling an old and faded Chiquita banana sticker off of Stiles's dashboard.
“What do I have to tell him?” Stiles is playing stupid, but Derek can see the muscle of his jaw flex, how his hands grip the steering wheel tighter.
“Stiles...”
“That in the last year I: found out werewolves really exist, including in the form of my best friend; have almost died repeatedly and in horrific ways; and that killer my dad was chasing last year was a formerly crispy, very crazy Peter Hale. Who wanted me to do his bidding." Stiles pauses to finally take a breath. “You mean something like that?”
“I would leave out... all of that.”
Stiles laughs. “Of course you would.”
“I’m not talking about the werewolf stuff and you know that.”
“So you mean the part where I have officially closed the book on pining after Lydia Martin and have instead opened up the very secret diary of Derek Hale which, *surprise!* included hearts and flowers and you crawling through my window at night so we can swap spit?" Stiles looks over at him and sighs. "Why are you so gung ho for me to tell my dad? Isn’t all this sneaking around kind of hot?”
“I’d like to be able to walk through your front door once in a while. And considering one of the last times your dad saw me he was arresting me for murder, don’t you think he might not take it too well if he finds out somehow that I've been making out with his only child behind his back."
“When you put it that way, this all sounds so torrid.” Derek looks at him funny and Stiles's ears and cheeks turned distinctly pink. "Fine. So basically you want me to tell my dad so that he doesn’t shoot you, right?”
Derek sighs. “Yes, self-preservation is one of the reasons.”
Stiles pulls over to the side of the road and throws the Jeep into park. “Telling parents. Parent. My dad. This is a big step, right? So does this mean we’re --”
“Just shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles's shirt and pulling him over, almost onto the passenger seat, and kissing him.
Stiles’s fingers are knotted in Derek’s hair and Derek has his hands in Stiles’s back pockets when they hear the knock on the jeep's window.
Derek sees the flashlight first, and then he sees the sheriff, standing at the other window outside the driver's side door with a dumbstruck look on his face. Derek jerks back, pulling his hands from Stiles’s jean pockets, his heart in his throat. Stiles turns his head to look behind him and the surprise in seeing his father propels him up out of the driver’s seat and straight over into Derek’s, his hands almost pinwheeling in the small space.
“Dad!”
“Stiles,” Sheriff Stilinski says, his voice too calm for a man who’s just seen his son making out on the side of the road with a guy who had, relatively-speaking, recently been accused of murder.
Derek wonders if he’s going to get shot again.
“Dad, wow, timing. Yours is... horrible and perfect and hey, guess what, I’m dating Derek Hale. Can he come over for dinner?”
Someone is looking out for Derek, because the sheriff doesn’t go for his gun. He sighs a sigh that Derek knows well. He looks at Derek and then at Stiles and then back to Derek--it’s a cop’s look, and a father’s. Derek holds his breath.
“Stiles, we need to talk,” the sheriff says at last. “Now.”
Stiles nods and slides back over to the driver's side. Before he exits the car he turns back and grabs Derek's hand, squeezing in a reassuring way that is for himself as much as it is for Derek. “Um, if you could not with the super listening...”
Derek nods. Stiles gets out of the jeep and walks towards his dad.
-----
Derek keeps his promise. He watches out the side mirror as Stiles smooths his shirt and wipes his hands on his jeans as he joins his father by the hood of the sheriff's car. When they start talking, Derek looks away, grabbing a book out of Stiles's bag--To Kill a Mockingbird--and starts reading.
Scout's pushing Walter's nose into the dirt when Stiles slaps his hands against the window, making Derek nearly jump out of his skin.
"Oooh, for once I scared you," Stiles say, a wide grin plastered across his face as he slides into the driver's seat.
"I take it it went well?"
"Yeah, no, it went fine. My dad isn't going to turn your head into a trophy to mount on the wall. I will be doing dishes until my hands are naturally wrinkly, but I can handle it--" The patrol car slowly rolls by and Stiles throws his father a salute as he passes. "Annnd, he wants you to come over for dinner on Thursday. You free?"
"I think my schedule’s clear.”