SUMMARY: "Derek carefully and ever so slowly - he doesn't want to spook the sheriff, doesn't want those fingers to quick-release the snap and reach for his sidearm - brings up a hand to rub his jaw, his own eyes locking on the slight smirk which has appeared around the other man's mouth. He knows he's being toyed with, knows the sheriff tries to scare the crap out of him.

It's working."

OR: The one in which the sheriff thinks Derek is a mutated product of a traffic light and a rabid dog, and tortures Stiles by revealing his real name.

NOTES: A weird thingamabobby meant as another attempt to keep the Muse flexing and strengthening her atrophied muscles, so I can go ahead and finish the stories for those Hawaii 5-0 (2010) fans which have been (patiently, so patiently!) waiting for me to get back on track. Hopefully writing for TW will sharpen and hone those skills, so I can return and go full steam ahead.

Just bear with me, please.

It's cold outside.

Bitterly cold, as if the state of California has sneakily gotten up during the night and moved itself way up north. Somewhere near Alaska, most likely. Yeah, the cold is definitely identical to that which causes Inuit to go out and kill anything with a thick pelt, so they can skin it and treat it and turn it into something which will keep them toasty.

Inside the sheriff's house, though, it's warm. And in the bedroom upstairs, well, things are even warmer.

Getting hot, actually.

"Ohhh ... now this, this I like."

Stiles softly utters the words against Derek's neck, breathlessly nuzzling under his jaw while arching into him. The feeling of the werewolf's strong, broad hands on his back, stroking along his flanks sends shivers up his spine. They're lying on Stiles' bed, the teens hands roaming over Derek's naked chest - because even an army of crazed Wendigos wouldn't have been able to stop Stiles from ripping off the wolf's Henley so he could finally ogle those hallowed abs from up close - while the wolf's arms are wrapped around Stiles' upper body underneath the t-shirt and flannel button-down.

They both still have their jeans on. For now, anyway. Stiles can only hope his luck will bear with him, will stay with him a little longer, will help him steer this to the point where...

"I don't, actually" comes a voice. A very familiar voice.

Stiles jerks up, launching himself backward, and his head connects with the wall with a loud crack.

"Owww! Motherfu..."

His watering eyes - and he's not crying, no sir, but a head impacting with a wall equals pain, alright? - blink at the sheriff, standing ram-rod stiff with arms akimbo in the doorway of his bedroom. He watches his father - the man who shouldn't be here, as he had told his son the night before that he'd be gone all night, providing ample opportunity for Stiles and Derek to finally get their thing on - as the man raises an eyebrow.

"Don't like that, either. Language, kid!"

Derek silently tries to maneuver himself off the bed, tries to slink down unobtrusively to reach for his shirt which lies sprawled on the floor, then freezes when the older man's eyes snap to him and force him into a state of immovability. There's no doubt in Derek's mind the man was not just elected for his amiable character and good looks; there's ruthlessness and steel determination radiating from the elder Stilinski. His mind ticks over like a race engine, muscles tensing up in anticipation of the moment the man will reach for his gun and make him pay for touching his only child.

"You stay right there, son. The three of us are going to have a little talk."

Stiles' slumps back down in defeat, the moment shattered, and his sigh of regret - and, incredibly enough, annoyance; Derek can smell it on him - blows warm air into Derek's ear, and for just a second the wolf's instincts take over again, trying to go back to that pleasurable moment just a few minutes before, trying to recapture the heat and excited tingles coursing through his veins at the thought of mating and claiming and...

"Maybe, though, there should be four of us having that talk," the sheriff muses, eyes still locked on Derek.

Four? Derek's eyebrows draw down while he tries to interpret the words, because ... oh. Oh. Oh shit! He feels ice water running down his back as he gets it, and he utters a soft, sub-vocal whine as he lowers his eyes and feels his neck slightly bending as he ... submits? Jesus! The other man's no wolf, but the smell of superiority and anger and - oh God, Derek's so fucked! - utter rage he's currently radiating definitely equals a level of viciousness usually limited to elderly, well-established Alpha males, and Derek reacts instinctively.

Stiles, however, is not responding as he should.

Nope.

The kid has absolutely no sense of self preservation whatsoever, because not only does he look honest-to-God indignant at having been interrupted, but he still doesn't get the inuendo. Derek sometimes wonders whether it's possible that the teen's body is actually inhabited by two different personalities; one a brilliant analyst with synapses firing at lightning speed and the other, oh man, the other just plain stupid! Because he doesn't get his dad's innuendo. At all.

"Four? What do you mean four, Dad?"

The sheriff's eyes never leave Derek as he answers his mentally slow son.

"You know: you, me, young Hale there ... and my gun."

He drops one of his hands and almost absentmindedly and fondly lets his fingers trace the snap of his holster. Stiles follows the movement and as he finally does get it, his eyes go wide and get this horrified look in them as he flails, one elbow painfully connecting with Derek's jaw.

"Oww, fu... Dad!" wails Stiles.

Derek carefully and ever so slowly - he doesn't want to spook the sheriff, doesn't want those fingers to quick-release the snap and reach for his sidearm - brings up a hand to rub his jaw, his own eyes locking on the slight smirk which has appeared around the other man's mouth. He knows he's being toyed with, knows the sheriff tries to scare the crap out of him.

It's working.

The sheriff gives them "five minutes to tidy up, not a second more" and Derek is moving as fast as he can, anxious to not only comply with the order the sheriff bit out curtly before going downstairs, but reduce those awarded minutes into something significantly less. Like, three minutes.

Two, tops.

Anything to keep from further aggravating the sheriff, to keep the man from putting a bullet into the person he caught ravishing his child. Because even though those bullets normally can't kill werewolves - although they sure as shit hurt, and Derek hates the feeling of hot metal tearing through his flesh - Deaton still hasn't been able to determine where Stiles got his spark from. And wouldn't it just be Derek's luck if that particular gene happened to be donated by Stiles father, whose own spark would blaze into glorious and enraged being as he fired his gun with the intent to kill, and the sheer wish to do so would ...

Yeah, no.

Derek's not taking any chances.

He watches impatiently as Stiles sits on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the laces of his sneakers, managing to tangle them into a knot. Twice.

"Stiles ..."

The boy's doe eyes snap up at him, slightly confused. Then a gleam appears, an amused twinkle, and Derek just knows Stiles gets the reason behind him trying to speed things up. The gleam gets company from a smirk - and Derek has seen the twin of that smirk only recently, and just like then, this one does not bode well for his peace of mind - as a finger is slowly raised to point at him.

"You're scared of my Dad!"

Derek's eyes roll back so far into his head that the white of his eyes are all that's showing. Well duh! Of course he's afraid of the sheriff!

"Seriously? The big, bad wolf..."

Derek's soft growl is cut off as soon as it starts.

"Shush! ... the bad wolf is scared of the frail human, or no, the father of the frail human! That's ... that's awesome! Like, dude, no, not awesome but actually more like pathetic!"

It's instinctive, growling and letting his eyes bleed red, as the teenager sits there and actually laughs at him.

"Come on, Der. Don't you even find it a little bit ridiculous? You with the claws, and the *grrr* and all that. You know you'd be able to take him out - and hey, not suggesting that you do, OK? because I so totally would not be cool with that! - with just one swipe of your paw."

Derek huffs.

"Relax, man. He's not, like, going to shoot you. I think. No, probably not. Anyway, he's just worried, you know?"

Worried. Well, Derek's worried too. Worried that the sheriff actually will shoot him, and even though he's in no hurry to meet with that particular fate, he does want to get this over with.

"Just hurry up, Stiles. And ... shut up as well."

He opens the door for the teenager, instinctively taking a whiff as he saunters past. Stiles still smells a little indignant. Also, very confident. Derek's not so sure that's an appropriate feeling to have in the face of things.

"Relax, Der. I got this."

Derek's not so sure he does.

At all.

When the pair make their way into the kitchen, the sheriff is standing at the counter, holding a mug of coffee and gesturing for them to take a seat at the table. Stiles flops down like a puppet whose strings are suddenly cut, while Derek settles himself down on a chair as unobtrusively as possible, careful not to make any excess sounds or movements which might draw the sheriff's attent...

"What do you have to say for yourself, Hale?"

Well. That sure as hell didn't work out as well as it did in his mind.

Derek takes a quick glance at the pale blue-green eyes fixing him in place from above the rim of the mug and then stares down at his hands, desperately trying to come up with something, anything which will placate the older man. But he knows about the man's fine detective and interrogation skills - has been personally subjected to them on at least one occasion - and whatever lie or excuse he comes up with will no doubt be ripped apart by the sheriff.

If that's the only thing he'll rip apart.

So he decides to tell the truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. At least the abbreviated version of it.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

The shorthand version.

Stiles, however, is absolutely not OK with his father treating his - and how does he label Derek now; boyfriend? bed buddy? mate? - anyway, his friend like he's a suspect in a crime. And it's definitely not a crime, because he's eighteen. Well, almost eighteen. In less than three weeks, actually. So maybe it still is a crime, but not something his father should be this upset about.

"Dad ..."

The only reaction Stiles gets is his father lifting a hand while he continues to stare Derek down. And it would be funny to see the wolf reduced to a very insecure, anxious and nearly quivering mass in front of the sheriff - actually right at the level of blackmail material if Stiles had the guts to snap a quick picture - if it wasn't for the fact that Stiles is still pretty miffed about the whole coitus interruptus having happened. Without even having had the chance of the coitus part actually taking place.

"Dad!"

His father whips his head around, and by the look on his face he's clearly, very clearly not amused. Not even close, actually.

"Stiles, I'll get to you in a moment, but I'd appreciate it if you let me talk to young Hale here without interrupting. Okay, kid?"

Derek meanwhile is watching the two Stilinski's like he's a spectator at a tennis match, his head going from left to right and back again, and he looks so young and insecure at that moment - and Stiles is just stunned at how different that is from his usual, in-control self - that there's this instinctive urge to protect him. Even though Stiles is very much aware that Derek would be just fine and absolutely does not need a teenager to stand up for him.

So he disregards what his father says. Which, let's face it, is not all that uncommon, really.

"Come on, Dad, seriously, it's not that..."

"Świętek!"

Stiles gapes, face contorting in disbelieve and shock.

"Oh my God, how could ... Dad!"

He throws a quick, furtive glance at Derek, then grimaces as he catches the look of outright curiosity on the werewolf's face. When Derek's mouth opens as if he's about to say something, as if he's about to ask, Stiles lifts his hand and points a finger at him.

"No. Just no, OK?! This is something which will never, ever be discussed. No-go area, dude. Ever!"

He turns to look at his father again, frowning at the look on the sheriff's face. It's like his father- even though clearly still very angry about having caught his currently under-aged son in a compromising situation - is actually enjoying this whole situation. As if he doesn't care a hoot for his son's feelings; feelings that have been trampled and stepped on by this complete betrayal.

"You promised, Dad. You promised to not use that name again. It's, it's ..."

Stiles falters, completely dumbfounded in the face of so much treachery. It hurts! His own father, sticking a knife in his back. He glares at the man standing there with a bemused look on his face. And, oh look, now the knife gets shoved in even further.

"There's nothing wrong with that name, son. It's a perfectly acceptable abbreviation of..."

Stiles rams his fingers in his ears so hard he's sure his brain is now going round like a chicken on a rotisserie spit.

"La la la la ... not cool, Dad!"

Then he realizes he should've shoved his digits in Derek's ears.

Hard.

Because the man he was allowing to get all over his business is now wrapping his hand around the proverbial knife his father's holding and helping him shove it in even further by actually asking the sheriff to repeat what he just said. Stiles stares at him in utter horror, his fingers still blocking out most of the awful sounds but his eyes - and he's got very good eyes, completely capable eyes, thank you very much - follow every movement of Derek's mouth as he tries to wrap his lips around those horrible, horrible alien syllables his father has just uttered.

"Sweetoslaw?"

"Swee-ettis-law."

The sheriff calmly looks at Stiles, completely disregarding the state of complete shock his son is now currently in.

"Świętosław means 'worshipper of light'. It was my father's name; a very fine, traditional name."

Stiles now actually does want to die.

Yup.

He wants those daggers of betrayal shoved in just a little bit further so they'll puncture his lungs and penetrate his heart. He feels his mouth opening and shutting and opening again, feels the breath wheeze through his throat without actually managing to come up with any words. His father. His own father has just divulged that awful ...

"Stop acting like a child, son."

"Bu... but..."

Stiles looks down as one of his father's feet starts tapping out an annoyed rhythm. His father is annoyed. With him. After carelessly throwing his own son to the wolves - hah, joke! - his father is actually annoyed with him!

"It's a perfectly acceptable name, and you know it."

Stiles drags his eyes away from the hypnotizing foot and dares to throw a look at Derek. Derek, who now looks completely in control again and decidedly not horrified at hearing the soul destroying abomination which Stiles' parents affixed to their infant son; dumped on him when he was too tiny to defend himself against something which would completely ruin his life. Derek, who seems to take it all in stride and is not at all upset wi...

Hang on.

Stiles narrows his eyes, zooming in on Derek's mouth, then quickly flicking up to his eyes. There. He can see it. The small tick in the left eye. The tiniest quirk around the upper lip which signifies that ...

"Are you laughing, asshole?!"

The quirk around the wolf's mouth slowly evolves into a small smile as his eyes get a definite twinkle in them.

And that's it for Stiles.

"Traitors! The both of you! I'm ... this is disgusting and I'm not sticking around for this type of abuse!"

"Stay!"

The sheriff's snake-like move with which he grabs his son's collar and yanks him back down into his chair is so completely unexpected that Derek's self-control instantly vanishes and allows his wolf - which rears up at this threat to his mate! - to jump to the foreground.

He growls through his fangs, eyes bleeding red.

The sheriff whips around, then freezes.

Oh shit ...

There's a monster standing in his kitchen.

A monster with honest-to-God claws and sharp teeth.

Big sharp teeth, like, actual fangs.

The sheriff's gaping at Hale's mouth, and then knows all that drinking he's done right after Claudia's death has fried his brain somehow, obliterated whole clumps of grey cells, because he looks at the teeth poking from between the young man's lips and then at the kid's eyes - which he's pretty damn certain were some strange colored green just moments before, but apparently one of his parents must've been a fucking traffic light or something because they've now switched to goddamn red! - and back at the teeth, and the only thought which just spins 'round and 'round in his head is 'That's gotta be a dentist's wet dream!'

And the monster is staring at him with those eerie red eyes which keep snapping from the hand still gripping his son's collar back to his face, and it keeps flexing it's claws like some hyped-up, overgrown cat - only this isn't one of those milk loving critters but some inconceivable mythological beast - and it continues to growl at him with this soft, spine-chilling sound and all the sheriff's capable of, all he manages to do is just stare and stare and feeling his body become increasingly numb instead of grabbing his son to get the hell outta there and ...

"Jesus, kid. I sure as fuck hope you had your Rabies shots!"

It's the last thing the sheriff manages to mumble before somehow the floor is rushing up to meet him, as if it's dead set on lending him a full body support and ground him in this totally bizarre situation.

Then everything greys out.

"...ad?"

He frowns, trying to decipher the sounds which filter through the white noise enveloping his brain.

"Dad?"

The white noise is fading into the background as the voice - Stiles', his son's voice. Right. - becomes clearer. It sounds decidedly anxious. It also sounds like his kid is still alive, which is good, because there was, there was...

"Come on, Dad, you're scaring me!"

A dry, choking laugh escapes his mouth at those words. He's scaring his son? How about the freak show he now clearly remembers, a display of horrendous epicness which scared him so badly he fainted like some high strung debutante! OK, so the last of the triple night shift he just finished combined with the lack of sleep and maybe a few too many coffees may have added some weight to that, but Holy God did that scare the crap out of him!

He slowly opens his eyes, blinking fuzzily at Stiles' worried face hovering mere inches above his own.

"I'm ... I'm OK, son."

Yeah, no. That's a lie.

' OK' is way, way off at the other end of the spectrum of emotions.

He's currently stuck somewhere between being seriously freaked out and scared out of his wits.

Not even for himself, even though this thing suddenly materializing in his kitchen - and his mind is still refusing to acknowledge, still refusing to accept that, somehow, the creatures he always thought were restricted to the screen of late-night television or the pages of those cheap horror novels Stiles eats up, that those creatures have escaped their confines and are running lose in the real world - was enough to reduce him to a pitiful, fainting mass.

No, it's the knowledge that his son, his kid, has been running with these supernatural beings and kept it from him. Kept him in the dark about the fact that the monster which used to hide underneath his bed, the monster he would ritually have to chase out of his son's room every night for years after Claudia died, has decided to come out and play.

Has taken on a human form - well, okay, at least as far as outward appearances are concerned - and just earlier was not underneath but in his son's bed and calls himself Derek Hale.

Who he can now see staring at him from over his son's shoulder.

"You're sure? I mean, Dad ... you're looking decidedly no... oompf!"

The sheriff manages to scramble back to his feet and shove his son behind his back, causing the kid to fall flat on his ass, all in one move - executed slightly less coordinated than usual because, you know, the adrenaline and shock and monster! - while keeping his eyes fixed on Derek. Who now at least looks human again, apart from the eyes acquiring a definite red tinge.

"Wha... wha..."

Stiles sighs, meanwhile gently but determinedly removing his father's fingers from the front of his button-down.

"Wrong vowel there, Dad. Also, inflection. Not 'wha' but 'weh'. As in 'werewolves'."

It take a few seconds for the words to actually penetrate the sheriff's still over-stimulated brain, possibly because it refuses to absorb and compute the sheer absurdness of them. His son said 'werewolves'. As in, those creatures that change into a wolf whenever there's a full moon. Only, the sheriff knows - and that's only because that one new deputy just won't shut up about his hobby, involving telescopes and star charts and terms like aperture and, just ugh! - that there is no full moon right now, so how ...

"Wha ... werewolves?! That's ... that's just superstitious crap, kid! Like flying monkeys!"

Only right then his kid is getting up from the floor and then neatly side-steps the hand his father throws out to prevent him from actually walking towards the creature, and said creature - Hale, Derek Hale - has started growling and even snarling again when the sheriff tries to grab his son, his kid who apparently has suicidal tendencies because he actually smacks Hale and ... did the guy just yip?!

Stiles tugs Derek towards the table and proceeds to shove him down on a chair, patting his shoulder.

"Better stop the growling and eye flashing, Der. Not exactly conductive to lower the tension here."

Derek throws Stiles a dirty look before warily glancing back at the sheriff, who's standing there like a statue; mouth open and just staring. Sighing, Stiles sits himself down on another chair, then pats the one next to him while looking at his father.

"Come on, Dad; sit. I'll explain everything to you."

And the sheriff thinks that maybe, just maybe, that's all there's left to do now.

Maybe whatever his son is going to tell him will help him make sense of this; will help him get a grasp on whatever supernatural crap is taking place so his poor, mushed brain can finally compute what it has reluctantly registered. Find a neat empty bottom drawer somewhere in his mind's filing cabinets where he can stick the folder marked 'Fangs & Claws' with the side-note of eyes changing like a traffic light. And then he'll place a big, mental lock on that drawer and make sure to never, ever open the damn thing again!

Keeping his eyes on Derek - who has reverted back to completely looking human again, only the sheriff now knows that it's all a facade, that there's an actual monster lurking underneath the leather and the styled hair and the sculpted scruff - the sheriff cautiously takes the few steps to the table and slowly lowers himself in the chair next to his son.

"Alright. Let's talk."

And then he remembers the scene in his son's bedroom, the feeling of utter rage coursing through him when he saw his son, his under-aged child lying in the arms of this young man, this werewolf, and to his own surprise, amidst the feelings of shock and horror and anxiety currently flowing through his veins, the earlier anger manages to surface again.

So he unsnaps his holster, takes out his gun and places it on the table within easy grasp.

"There's still gonna be four of us in this conversation though."

Disregarding the exasperated sound coming from his son's mouth, the elder Stilinski watches as Hale cringes, then seems to fold in on himself and actually whines.

The sheriff smiles.