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When Stiles had been little, he’d had trouble making friends. He’d been a little too loud and a little too enthusiastic for most of the kids to deal with. It had been worrying for a while, and the Sheriff still to this day wondered what would have happened to his little boy if Scott McCall hadn't moved into town and decided Stiles was going to be his brother. (“Brothers is better than friends, Mr S’linski,” Scott had said, a very serious expression on his face. "Brothers is like friends but forever. Now we’ll both always have someone to play superheros with and it won’t matter that everyone else is too dumb to see how cool Stiles is.” The Sheriff had told him it wasn't nice to call people dumb. He’d also given him a cookie and a massive hug.)
“Mark my words,” Claudia had said not long before she’d become too sick to say much at all, “Those boys will always be close, even if they’re miles apart. You don’t make a friend like that every day. Maybe once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky.”
She’d been right, as it turned out, even if she didn’t get to see it for herself. They stayed closer than the Sheriff had ever seen two kids be, and they only became closer when the whole werewolf thing had come about. Along with everything else.
Werewolves, kanimas, Peter Hale, evil witches, banshees, assassins, Peter Hale again, fairies – even, on one memorable occasion, a dragon – really the list went on and on. Add on top of that Stiles going away to college while Scott stayed in Beacon Hills to focus on his pack for a year and the Sheriff had had his doubts, but of course, his wife had always known best. If anything, the time apart had just seemed to make them closer.
One day the Sheriff will accept that every time he thinks those boys are as close as is humanly possible, they’ll inevitably become even closer, but it hasn’t happened yet. He thinks they might be doing it just to prove him wrong at this point.
When Stiles had finally come home for the summer a week ago, he’d been greeted by Scott flying out the front door, tackle hugging him to the ground, shoving his face in Stiles’ neck and just breathing him in for about 10 minutes.
The Sheriff would maybe have thought it was strange behaviour a couple of months ago, but he’d caught Scott trying to sneak in through the window of Stiles’ room while he was away too many times to think anything of it now.
(“I miss his scent,” Scott had admitted, pouting, the first time it happened. “Stupid werewolf nose. All those stupid Stanford people get to smell him every day and I bet they don’t even appreciate it!”
The second time, Scott had just said “Skype’s really letting me down, Mr Stilinski, I can’t hug him through the internet. You know he needs regular snuggles or he gets all twitchy. Who’s going to snuggle with him all the way over there, huh?” and started tucking himself into Stiles bed.
The Sheriff had foregone the cookie this time, gone straight for the hug - which had maybe ended with some manly sniffling from both of them - and told him to use the door the next time, the neighbours were going to notice someone routinely climbing through the window sooner rather than later, he like to live without that headache please.)
So, he isn’t at all surprised to come home from work after his fourth 14 hour shift of the week so far to find they’d decided to get their snuggle on. Mostly he was surprised it had taken this long.
It takes him a while to actually notice it’s not just Stiles sprawled across their couch, but to be fair to him, he isn’t really thinking about anything but finally getting some sleep and maybe liberating one of the cookies that Stiles thinks are well hidden behind the microwave.
When his mind does finally process that he definitely just saw at least three feet sticking over the edge of the couch, he smiles fondly to himself as he tip toes into the kitchen and pilfers a cookie while he has a chance.
He feels a little mournful when his cookie’s gone. It’d been so much easier to sneak in junk food while Stiles was away, but he knows he’d be laughed out of town if he tried to convince anyone that he’d rather have complete control of the contents of his cupboards than have his son home and glaring when donuts are so much as mentioned.
He makes his way back out to the living room, snagging a blanket on the way, and is half way to covering the boys up when he finally notices.
That is definitely not Scott McCall.
Now that he’s looking, he doesn’t actually understand how he ever thought the man his son’s lying on could be Scott, because the last time he saw him – yesterday – Scott didn’t have muscles like that. Or a beard. Or the face of Derek Hale.
Because that’s who it is, currently snuggling his only son. It’s definitely not Scott McCall. It is in fact definitely Derek Hale. Derek Hale the 26 year old. Who his son is currently lying on, head tucked under Derek’s chin, Derek’s hands clenched in the back of his t-shirt.
“Um,” the Sheriff says. He wasn’t prepared for this.
“What,” he tries again. He hasn’t slept in what feels like days, that’s definitely what he’s blaming his sudden lack of eloquence from.
He suppose it’s good enough though, because it has Derek blinking his eyes open and looking straight at him.
The Sheriff knows he probably shouldn’t be, but he’s quite proud of the fact he apparently still has the power to terrify people with a single raised eyebrow. At least, he does if the look currently on Derek’s face is anything to go by.
“Hello, Mr Hale,” the Sheriff says, trying not to laugh at the deer in the headlights look Derek can’t seem to shake.
“Um,” Derek replies, and the Sheriff feels his lips twitching. He thought the days of seeing Derek Hale nervous were over. He’s strangely happy to see a glimpse of the Derek he vaguely remembers from before the fire. He sighs at the thought, knowing making this any more difficult than it has to be is going to be no fun now.
“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but you see to have acquired a Stiles shaped barnacle.”
“I, um. Yes, Sir,” Derek says quietly, finally unclenching his hands slightly, sensing the Sheriff’s kind tone. “I definitely noticed.”
"Is there a reason my son's using you as a pillow, Derek?" The Sheriff asks after a a few seconds of silence.
“Oh! Uh, Yeah. Sorry,” Derek answers, “He fell asleep and I didn’t want to wake him up, and then I guess I fell asleep too. Uh, I should go.”
Derek shifts like he’s trying to slide out from under Stiles despite the death grip Stiles still has on him, which obviously does nothing except wake Stiles up.
Stiles doesn’t open his eyes, just rubs his cheek against Derek’s chest sleepily.
“No, no, no,” he mumbles. “Why the moving? It’s nap time, not wriggle like an annoying, muscle-y, bearded worm time. Why do you hate me, Derek? What did I do to deserve this?”
Sometimes he worries about his son’s mind, he really does.
He’s just about to make his presence known when he notices the scared look back on Derek’s face. Stiles must feel the tension of Derek’s body because he finally blinks his eyes open and looks up at Derek’s face worriedly.
“Babe?” he askes, and oh. Oh the Sheriff thinks, that explains the terror in Derek’s eyes a bit better then.
Derek’s mouth opens and closes like he trying to speak but all he ends up producing is a sound like a deflating balloon. The Sheriff takes pity on him and clears his throat. Stiles freezes momentarily before slowly turning his head to the noise.
“O-oh, hey there, Dad,” he stutters out. “Good day at work? We were just, uh, you know, napping. Like buds do. Because that’s what I just said. Bud. Um.”
“Of course,” he says fondly. “Well, you carry on napping with your bud, I’m going to sleep. We are talking about this when I’m not running on fumes. Derek, I expect you here for either breakfast or lunch tomorrow. Goodnight.”
He’s half way up the stairs when he hears what he guesses is supposed to be muffled whispers.
“Oh my God, did that just happen? Why didn’t you wake me up before he got here?”
“I was asleep, Stiles. He was already here when I woke up.”
“How? What happened to your amazing werewolf hearing? You’re usually such a light sleeper. Are you ok? What’s going on? Are you losing your werewolfitude again? Why didn’t you tell me?” Stiles has always been able to work himself into a panic quickly but the Sheriff’s almost impressed by how fast he got there this time. He’s starting to think his son might be a bit more serious about Derek Hale than he’s been assuming for the last 10 minutes.
“Stiles, calm down. I’m fine. I’m actually...” he trails off, and the Sheriff wonders is maybe he shouldn’t be hearing this, for some reason it feels like he’s intruding on something important, but he can’t seem to make his feet move.
“Baby?” Stiles asks, and that’s it, he’s definitely intruding. He’s going upstairs to sleep. Any second now, really he is.
“I’m really good, actually. It just takes more to wake me up, now that...” There’s a short silence, and the Sheriff doesn’t know why but he realises he’s holding his breath.
“Now that what?” Stiles asks, a softness to his voice that’s so much like Claudia it makes the Sheriff’s breath whoosh out of him. He makes his way up the stairs, but still manages to here Derek’s quiet reply as he closes his bedroom door.
“Now that I have someone with me that I trust completely.”
As he’s falling asleep, the Sheriff thinks about everything Derek’s had to deal with, how difficult it must be for him to trust anyone at all, never mind completely. He thinks about his wife saying once in a lifetime if you’re lucky, and knows that she wouldn’t have minded one bit being wrong about that one.