Play with it once, and it follows you home.

Stiles goes out on Christmas night. It's okay, he's seventeen now, and the Sheriff remembers enough about that age and the one right after it to know that sometimes these things get worse before they get better. He just tells him to be home by county curfew, puts the game on, and it's okay.

Except that when he finds Stiles' phone - forgotten on the kitchen table - and calls Scott to pass the message along, Scott dumbly repeats, "Stiles...?"

There's a beat, exactly the right amount of time for comprehension to dawn.

"Oh, Stiles! He's, uh, in the bathroom. We're, uh, playing Black Ops. I'll let him know, though, he was freaking out about it earlier."

After they hang up he likes to think he was a good dad, but truthfully he just doesn't know Stiles' phone's lock screen password.

Stiles is slow to get moving on December 26th. When he finally does roll out of bed and down the stairs he's loose-limbed and graceless, contentedly knocking back milk straight from the carton.

"How was Scott's?"

Stiles doesn't miss a swallow. "Good! Yeah! Yeah, we just played stuff for a while." He scratches a hand through scruffy hair. "Allison went back to Washington for Christmas, so, you know."

The thing is, Stiles has never been a good liar. But unlike every other person the Sheriff deals with every day, not just on the job, he trusts Stiles (and Scott) enough to know those lies aren't covering anything too awful. At least, he did, and then his son stole a police transport.

It hasn't been a great year.

He doesn't forget over the next week, even if it does fade into a low background hum of parental instinct. Stiles has done a lot of stupid shit in 2011, but something isn't sitting quite right and you don't muscle your way through years on the force and town politics without at least a little give to your instincts.

New Year's morning, Stiles tells him he's going out tonight.

"A party?" The Sheriff peers at him over his glasses and the newspaper.

Stiles goes to those sometimes, less so lately, but they have a rule about holidays. DUI checkpoints only cover so much, and Stiles has already lost two classmates to car accidents. Last year Stiles and Scott spent most of the day with him and then just went to a small, alcohol-free gathering at some other kid's house - the Sheriff had checked.

"Nah," Stiles says, catching a falling Cheerio with his mouth before it can hit the table, "just a thing at Scott's. You work tonight, right?"

"Third shift," the Sheriff lies.

Sometimes, when Stiles grins, he sees the way the healed skin stretches a hair differently over his left cheek.

Stiles does go to Scott's. There are a couple of other cars on the street, so the Sheriff loops back out of the neighborhood and heads to the station for his second shift wrap-up.

He actually does stay at the station that night - most of his friends are here anyway, celebrating if they're off-duty and being vindictive ticket writers if they're not. There's a solemnity in the air from the four scrubbed-off names on reused cruisers, but Sanchez brought some cheap spumante, bless him.

It nags at him as the clock ticks closer and closer to midnight.

"You alright, Sheriff?" his dispatcher asks in between bites of cake. She's new, not on first name basis yet. He waves her off.

"A bit tired," he replies, halfway truthfully. "I think I'm gonna call it early, sorry." There's a chorus of 'awww's from everyone around the station foyer, and the Sheriff grins as he gathers his stuff and heads out the door. "Hey, I worked all day! You all have a good New Year, I'll see you on shift bright and early." He pauses, then adds, "And don't let Bowen drive, she had three glasses!"

The night air isn't so cold he can see his breath, but it's enough to zip up his jacket for the walk to his car. He takes a deep breath as he unlocks it.

He's not being overprotective, that's not who he is, he's just... checking.

It's early enough that the streets are still pretty busy, everyone going out of their way to stay under the speed limit. He's stopped at a red light and so amused at the nervous drivers trying not to eye his cruiser that he almost misses the blue Jeep turning northbound into his intersection. Turning decidedly not toward home.

Goddammit.

If Stiles didn't notice him at the intersection, he definitely won't notice him following over a block and three cars behind. They head into the old, more abandoned part of town where the cars get sparse enough that the Sheriff has to hang way back while dread builds in his gut.

Finally, at the very edge of town, the blue Jeep veers into the parking lot of the abandoned train depot.

The force sends drug dogs out here every once in a while - skirting the 4th amendment, sure, but the place is abandoned - and never come up with any hits. There doesn't seem to be any real activity here, criminal or otherwise, so...

What the hell is his kid up to?

He cuts his headlights and drives on past, taking a wide loop around to the lot on other side of the street just in time to catch Stiles hopping out of his car and toward the old depot entrance.

He hasn't been on very many stakeouts. Sheriff work is about half clerical, half filling ticket quotas to set an example for his lazier deputies, and anything bigger than small-time drug busts usually get bumped to the bastards at State anyway. But he's still a cop, and he still has binoculars, even if the second the cold plastic touches his eyes, he shivers at how wrong this all feels.

Stiles paces around the entrance for a minute, phone to his ear before he smiles and hangs up. They only have to wait about thirty seconds before the depot double doors open and -

Derek Hale steps out.

The Sheriff immediately moves for his gun and the door handle, but Stiles doesn't startle at all. If anything it's Hale who's surprised. His hands are shoved deep in his jacket pockets, but he doesn't look upset. Doesn't have that scowl the Sheriff's used to at all, actually.

Stiles grins wide and bounds toward him, confirming a familiarity the Sheriff's suspected for months, if he's honest with himself. He and Scott haven't been particularly subtle about whatever the hell relationship they have with Hale, but...

But Scott isn't here right now.

Stiles says something, checks his watch, and this time his smile is softer and matches Hale's. They've moved into each other's personal space, and when the Sheriff sees his dash clock at 11:59, he swallows hard as realization seizes inside him.

Christ, he wishes he could say he's surprised when Stiles slips his arms under Hale's jacket and around his waist and Hale touches his son's face. He wishes more than fucking anything that his instincts were wrong when they kiss.

And it's a long kiss. Not a first one, and not an innocent one. They go on, falling into each other and smiling like Stiles is anywhere near old enough to understand what he's doing. Stiles says something close between them, and Hale laughs.

When he physically lifts Stiles, hands under his thighs and carrying him back through the open door while Stiles wraps his legs around him, the Sheriff finally looks away.

He should follow. He should go in right the hell now and pull Hale off his only son. He has a badge on his chest and probable cause to believe a crime is being committed and a gun on his hip, creaking under his grip, and -

Jesus Christ, his hand's on his gun. He takes a shaky breath and slowly unclenches, sliding both hands over the steering wheel. He can't go in there with a gun, not like this, because whatever Hale is doing to him Stiles thinks he wants it. Stiles is a child and doesn't know shit, but a voice in his head that sounds so gutwrenchingly familiar knows that nothing would be more destructive than waving a gun at his son's... whatever Hale is to him.

He chokes back bile.

He drives home.

He pours two glasses of whiskey before he throws the rest of the bottle away. It's in the trash, not down the drain, but he's rooted enough to his seat at the kitchen table and swept up in enough thought to avoid the temptation.

For a while he tries going over case files, watching the DVR'd game, but it's all just background noise as the hours creep by.

It's past 4am when the creak of the front door opening cuts through the silence, followed by a hushed, "Shit." Stiles deliberately closes the door more quietly, and the numbness of the past four hours starts to swell back into anger.

When Stiles pads across the kitchen to pour a glass of water, his mouth and throat are bright red.

"It's statutory, you know. It's a crime," the Sheriff says through gritted teeth.

Stiles swears and jumps about a foot in the air, hand over his heart, and flips on the light. "Dad?"

"Jesus, he's twenty-three."

The guarded but confused look falls off Stiles' face and his skin gets even redder. "Dad -" he starts, but the Sheriff slams his hand down on the table.

"You're a teenager! Did you forget Derek Hale was a murder suspect?" He can't stop himself, can't keep from raising his voice in the face of his son's monumentally stupid decisions. "Did you forget you accused him of murder? What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"It's not -" Stiles tries, but the Sheriff is not done, dammit.

"It's not what? The stupidest thing you've ever done? A crime? He can go on the sex offender registry for this."

Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair and quietly says, "You don't even know that we did anything."

"Christ, Stiles, I saw him pick you up and carry you into an abandoned building. What the hell else would you be doing?"

Stiles flinches and can't meet his eyes, chewing on his cheek and wringing his hands, eyes shining. He licks his stubble-burned lips out of nervous habit and looks so out of his goddamned depth that it clenches the Sheriff's heart like ice.

"I'm not a kid anymore," he says. "I'm not doing anything I don't want to do, and he's not a bad guy."

The silence they choke in isn't the most uncomfortable of their lives, but it's damn close. Everything, all his decisions as a parent - the drinks he's had, the lies he's looked the other way, the leniency and trust that was years too soon - it's crushing them both.

Finally, he asks it: "Did you have sex with Derek Hale tonight?"

There's a long, scalding moment where he thinks his son might try to lie again, but whatever weariness in Stiles' shoulders that's been hiding all year finally wins out, because Stiles just looks him in the eye and says, "Yeah, Dad. I did."

"Was it the first time?"

Stiles draws a breath. "...No."

"How long?"

"Dad, do we really -"

"How long, Stiles."

Stiles collapses into the other chair at the table, rapping his knuckles over wood and chewing on his answer. "A while."

"Sixteen..." the Sheriff breathes. He was on the force when the Hale fire happened, he remembers the awful stench and Derek and his sister wrapped in shock blankets, shaking to their bones as their lives smoldered around them. He still can't feel anything but disgust.

"It's not on him, okay?" Stiles says. "I probably pushed harder than he did, and he's not a bad guy, he didn't take advantage of me -"

"You were sixteen, of course he did," the Sheriff snaps. "You don't get that choice when you're sixteen."

"Are you freaking kidding me?" Stiles yells, so animated he nearly falls off his chair. "We're the only state that puts it that high! Everyone else in like all of America knows I'm not a freaking kid." And of course he's done the research - Stiles is a planner, a conspirator, and damn smart. The fact that he knew what he was getting into makes the Sheriff more than a little nauseated.

"Allison Argent's gonna be eighteen next month, does that make her a 'statutory rapist'?" Stiles continues, sneering airquotes and all.

The Sheriff does all he can to not punch the table again. "That's not the same, and you know it."

Something in his face must give Stiles pause, because he just sinks into the chair and mutters, "Legally, it is."

"Stiles -"

"I know," Stiles says. Maybe he even does. The Sheriff really wishes he hadn't thrown that whiskey away.

"Sometimes..." he says so quiet it's almost a whisper, and reaches over to take Stiles' hand, "it feels like I don't even know you anymore. I love you, son, so please, please just tell me." It feels like they're both drowning. "Tell me, is this what you've been hiding from me all year?"

Stiles stares at their hands and grips a little too tight. He can see the gears spinning in his head, sluggish from the hour and the strain. There's a battle going on - in this kitchen, yeah, but also in his son's head. He looks up, and because he has his mother's eyes, the Sheriff already knows.

"Yes," Stiles lies.

.

here have a pooted out work while i continue to piddle away at the biggest fucking fic ever ugh i am never going to finish. beta thanks to mjules and breenwolf! follow me on on tumblr at ademska iffn you want.

if you're curious, the sort-of-overheard dialogue was:

"You didn't have to come. I know you were at a party."
"...Yeah, I'm pretty sure if I tried to make out with Scott or Harley at midnight I'd just get punched in the face."
"You know, I think you're starting to feel too safe around me."
"Right, cause you're so big and bad. You totally didn't try to snuggle during Bad Santa last week."
"Stiles -"
"Twenty seconds."
-
"I mean if Billy Bob Thornton gets you going, I can totally put on a beer gut and-ohgod going inside works too."