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“So, and I wish to God I were making this up,” John says, gesturing with his tumbler of whiskey, “he steals a police van. A fucking police van!”
Peter can’t help it; he nearly spits out his beer, he’s laughing so hard. “You’re kidding me.”
John shakes his head. “He’s also copied every keycard I own. I found them under his bed. Most teenage boys have porn, for God’s sake. And most teenage boys don’t set up murder boards in their bedrooms. I don’t know whether he’s going to end up in the FBI or in jail.”
Peter shrugs. “Well, let’s be realistic, he could end up in the FBI either way.”
John laughs, and Peter taps his beer bottle to the glass of whiskey in a half-drunk toast. “And at least your kid has, you know, age to claim for his indiscretions. Neal doesn’t even have that excuse.”
“Hey, I heard that!” Neal yells from the living room, where he and Stiles are–well, Peter probably shouldn’t think too hard about what an art thief and forger is teaching the seventeen-year-old son of the local sheriff.
“Hey Dad, Neal’s showing me how to make counterfeit $100 bills!” Stiles shouts gleefully.
John groans a curse into his whiskey glass, and Peter facepalms.