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Three – A Measure of Trust

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The fact that Stiles spends so much time hanging out at the police station, in the middle of his summer break, invokes a lot of pity in the officers on staff.

Mostly, it's just sympathetic glances or those pointed "So how are you doing?" kinds of questions. Probably they've all guessed the number one most likely reason he's there: he wants to be closer to his dad. And Stiles's dad is always either shut in his office or running around with cases, so their interactions are brief even here, where the sheriff spends most of his time. Which makes Stiles look like some poor, tragic figure, grieving his mother and clinging to his sort-of-absent-or-absentminded father.

Which is pretty much what Stiles is, probably. But that's also the image he's going for.

Officer Russell makes sure to save him a muffin from the morning staff meetings when he's around. Stiles knows all the cleaning ladies by name and occasionally lets them rope him into their daily gossip. Detectives Hart and Janire shoot the shit with him on break, talking about comic books or recent movies. Stiles even got a card signed by everyone in the office on his birthday.

Basically, Stiles is right in that sweet spot of "non-threatening boss's kid" (meaning people don't tell him what to do or that he should get lost), and "little lost puppy" (meaning they'll go out of their way to help or joke with him sometimes). Not to brag or anything, but he feels like he's pretty well-liked, mostly because he's never lost the ability to fake his old grin, and because his tragic backstory earns him bonus points. Most importantly, no one censors themselves around him. He fades into the space like an office plant, whether he's hanging out at reception or in the back office.

Over the next two weeks, Stiles sits, listens, and waits for his chance. He sees Peter occasionally at the Hale house, but a shake of his head is all that's needed for the werewolf to slink back off to wherever he'd been, unappeased. And Stiles sits in the shadow of the porch, distractedly running through his mother's notes, the timeline of fires in the county, new interdepartmental policies, increased EMS training.

And the outliers: the rap sheets of a few men, which Claudia must have gotten from his dad. Stiles has never found that connection, but some days, he pulls the papers out to have another look.

Today, Stiles leaves a late lunch salad for his dad with the office secretary and wanders off, fidgeting in his habitual niche in the bullpen, atop a row of hip-height filing cabinets lining the east wall. This is also coincidentally the only place with windows that let in the harsh afternoon sunlight. Deputy Connors, whose desk is closest, likes to compare Stiles to a cat chasing sunbeams. The metaphor isn't inaccurate.

Stiles has gotten pretty good at reading the atmosphere here, whether things are upbeat enough for him to draw someone into conversation, or whether the mood's too focused for interruption. But the officers seem sapped of energy today, lethargic and sluggish in their work.

"What is it?" Stiles asks Connors, a lean man with a squirrely beard. "There's no one here."

Connors, hunched over a report, shrugs without looking up. "There's a 417 in the county over. Sheriff sent backup to help out. It's under control now, but the rest of us are holding down the fort 'till they're back."

Stiles grunts. "Dad's out too?"

"No, he's in his office." Connors swivels to peer at him, resting one skinny elbow on the cushioned back. "Sure he'll have to come up for air sooner or later, man."

"Sure. Just had to check," Stiles says casually. His phone chimes, and he glances at it to find a text message from Peter Hale, whose number Stiles most definitely did not program into it. He idly wonders when and how Peter managed to get through his passcode. "I brought him a salad for lunch, so he's gonna hate me. I'm torn between staying to check that he eats it and leaving so he doesn't bite my head off," Stiles jokes.

Connors snorts. "That reminds me, you missed it. Yesterday, he ripped this reporter a new one for getting too pushy...you know that Channel 4 girl, the one with the blonde hair? Well, we're out on a call behind those shops on Oak Park and Veterans, the crime scene's real messy and all, and the Sheriff's—"

"Connors!" A voice barks, and both Stiles and Conners jump in unison. It's just Deputy Vargas, though, her face drawn into its normal expression of either irritation or disgust. "We just got a call for a domestic. Non-emergency, but we'd probably better get a jump on it. I'll fill you in on the road." Connors rises, and she turns to Stiles. "It sounded like the Sheriff was swamped earlier," she tells him. "Not sure he'll be out soon."

But Stiles isn't going anywhere, not now. With Vargas and Connors leaving, the only other officers in the bullpen are the two newbie hires and Deputy Thornton, who's half-dozing over his coffee. It's the best chance he's had in ages to slip into the filing room. "That's ok, maybe he'll take a break in a little while. If not, I'll head over to Scott's or something."

He's so excited that he doesn't even care about the pitying looks both deputies send his way. But Vargas hesitates and turns back before she gets to the door. "Stiles, I, uh...I was on a patrol a few days ago and thought I saw you on the preserve? You should be careful out there."

Stiles blinks. "It's fine. Scott and I just hang out with the Hales sometimes," he replies, feeling the weird taste of the words "hang out with the Hales" in his mouth. "We're not getting mauled by mountain lions or anything."

"The Hales are what I'm talking about," Vargas explains slowly. "They're not...you should be careful. Around them."

At this, Stiles perks up. "What do you mean?"

The corners of Vargas's mouth pull down further. "The oldest one, Peter—we almost got him on a B&E charge a couple months back, but the evidence didn't hold. He strikes me as kind of a sleazeball. And the other two aren't much better." Stiles finds himself surprisingly irritated for reasons he doesn't understand, but he gives her a slow nod. "Besides," she adds, before he can answer her, "does your Dad know you're spending time out there?"

This last question breaks the unspoken code Stiles has with the Beacon Hills Deputies. Namely: no one rats on Stiles for normal teenager stuff like skipping last period or a mention of underage drinking in one of his stupid anecdotes. Mostly because these were the kinds of things he'd always told his mom about when she was alive anyway, and she'd been so obviously unfazed that no one else had been bothered either.

"He doesn't," Stiles says slowly. "But he doesn't know a lot about me these days. We don't really talk much, as much as I try to get in his face, if you can believe it."

There's a flash of guilt on her face, which flushes pink. Stiles is oddly gratified that she nods stiffly and turns to go. Connor gives him a "Later, man," and then Stiles is alone.

Mostly, anyway. He glances at the new deputies and then at his phone, swiping to Peter's text.

Peter:
Updates?

Stiles pauses, then types out a response.

Stiles:
maybe soon
what did you do to make one of the deputies call you a sleazeball

He waits, but Peter doesn't message him back. The office is quiet.

When he was younger, Stiles always imagined the filing room would be kinda like the warehouse in Raiders of the Lost Ark: dim and dusty, with neatly stacked crates and documents labeled Top Secret. The reality is a bit messier. There are shelves full of files and cardboard boxes, with a consistent but convoluted filing system across the board.

Luckily, Stiles doesn't need to know the analog part of their system. He's just here for the computer in the corner. The room's for archives, not everyday use, and it's less likely someone will catch him accessing the database from here.

With a memorized login swiped from Deputy Tekka, he's in. It takes him a while to navigate the system, but he gets there eventually: Garrick Myers, 57 years old. His employment record up through the last few years has him climbing the career ladder in the insurance industry before an abrupt jump to bus driving a while back. As Stiles skims the rest of the report—financial info, drug testing, clean driving record—he realizes a potential reason for the jump. There, right in the criminal record: Myers was sentenced to supervised probation for several counts of insurance fraud. Two years ago. Right around the time of the Hale house fire.

Whatever the investigation uncovered hadn't dug up enough evidence to be made public, or to warrant an arrest...but it's enough information for Stiles to send Peter's way. More than enough, Stiles realizes as he skims the rest. The police suspicions were pretty intense, and Myers had been lucky there wasn't enough solid evidence to put him in jail. He'd been suspected of setting up arson fraud under the table, making it easy for desperate homeowners drowning in debt to pay him to set up a house fire, thus allowing them to take the ensuing insurance payout.

And he'd worked with at least a few other associates, too...Stiles's breath catches in his throat as he reads the rest.

"You're not supposed to be here," someone says from behind him. Stiles spins to find Vargas peeking into the room from the doorway, looking pissed. "What are you doing?"

"Just something I wanted to check online," Stiles says, quickly logging out before she can see the screen. "Uh, I didn't want to use someone's desktop computer, and my dad's still in his office, so…"

"You're not supposed to be here," Vargas repeats. "This is a filing room with evidence, and you're—"

"Right, got it, going," Stiles interrupts loudly, playing the part of the obnoxious teenager. "My phone died, I was just on Facebook—uh, and I thought you were on call?"

"False alarm. Get lost, Stiles," the woman sighs, and Stiles slinks out of the room. He looks back to see her turn to the computer, hopefully just to shut it down, and cringes. That didn't go as well as he'd hoped, but…

He pulls out his phone. There's a message from Peter.

Peter:
Some people don't understand my charm, I'm sure.

Stiles ignores this to type out his response:

Stiles:
i'm coming over now

A few moments pass as Stiles shoulders his backpack and heads outside. The door to his dad's office is wide open, the room dark.

Peter:
You found something.

Stiles:
don't sound so surprised

.

"It might actually be nothing," Stiles says as soon as he walks through the door. Peter, unfazed, steps back to let him inside the house. "I was kinda freaking out at the time 'cause one of the deputies caught me at the computer, and taking the whole ride over here to think it over made me realize it might just be me jumping to conclusions with what I saw, but I don't think so. Or I guess that's why I want to talk to you about it…"

"What is it, Stiles?" Peter interrupts, amused.

Stiles looks around. "Uhh, you don't want to do the whole soundproofed room thing? Where is everyone?"

"Training. What is it, Stiles?"

"Okay." Stiles pulls his backpack over his shoulder, dumping it on the coffee table to grab the files he carries around pretty much all the time now. "I wish I'd had a chance to print that guy's background check, but you're just gonna have to hear me out…" He takes a deep breath, then describes all he'd read, about Myers' record and employment.

Peter nods tolerantly. "As suspected."

"Right, I know. Except at the end. Where it mentioned his associates in his little house fire fraud ring." He sets a stack of papers in front of Peter. "Two guys, Reddick and Unger. They're small-time criminals, but they have pretty long rap sheets and a bunch of experience with arson. Relatively small-time stuff, always abandoned places or buildings that were empty at the time. Seems like they did it for fun, and I guess with Myers they just happened to graduate to getting paid for having fun. They're actually behind bars at the moment, for a probably unrelated arson they did a few months ago."

It takes Stiles a moment to realize he probably shouldn't be referring to arson as having fun in front of someone whose family died in a fire, but Peter seems not to have noticed. He flips through the files, his interest level climbing in a way that's almost palpable. His expression grows suddenly intent, more primal, as if he's moving along the spectrum between man and wolf before Stiles's eyes. At last, he looks up, features morphing back into something a little less threatening. "I thought you hadn't had time to print."

"That's the thing. I didn't print these. They're some of the files that were on Mom's desk when she died." He sees Peter digest this information, peering back down at the mugshots of the two men. "I could never figure out how those documents matched up with anything else, just these random criminal background checks, which by the way she definitely had Dad pull for her or something, so really I shouldn't be getting any shit from him for this, but…" he coughs. "Anyway. I think...this is it. This is how they fit, maybe: Mom's investigating these fires, putting together reports of all the types of fires in the county over the past few years, she realizes something's going on, that some of these fires are arson being covered up. She's got insurance reports pulled up too—I mean there's no reference to Myers specifically, but she had stuff about the company he was working for, so maybe it was just a matter of time before she did figure that out, and if someone realized she was getting close then this could be why she died." Stiles swallows, realizes he's babbling, half-crazed. His hands are shaking, so he clasps his knees. "This could be why she died," he says again.

"Because she connected these men…" Peter flips through the rap sheets, eyes darting from page to page. "These men, who were committing arson right around the time of the fire here...to my family's murder."

The house is very quiet. Stiles wonders if it's that weird soundproofing that makes the words seem to float in the air between them, preserved by the dark living room walls.

"I think I need to tell my dad," Stiles says quietly. "This was all fine when I didn't have anything to go on, but now...this is maybe serious. It's more real."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Peter replies, and Stiles tilts his head. "This might be above your father's paygrade. It might not be safe for him."

"He's the sheriff of Beacon Hills," Stiles retorts indignantly.

Peter rolls his eyes. "I know who he is. But think, Stiles: what reason would these men, suspected of insurance fraud via acts of arson in empty houses, have to murder an entire family in a single night? And to murder a family with no agreement to pay them in return for an insurance payout? Think about who has the most to gain, Stiles, if an entire family of werewolves dies in a house fire."

Stiles blinks, realization creeping over him slowly. "You think...you think whoever did this knew you were werewolves. You think it was hunters?" Stiles stares. "Who, the Argents? Allison's people?"

"I've told Scott to stay away from that girl," Peter growls.

"Allison's got nothing to do with it," Stiles says firmly. "And I say this as someone with every reason to hate her, because she's totally eating away at my time with my best friend. You can't hate Allison Argent. It's impossible, I've tried. She's too full of rainbows. If her family's anything like her, it wasn't them, either."

Peter gives him a loaded look.

"Don't do that," Stiles scowls.

"What?"

"You're writing me off, just now. Like, he doesn't get it, or you're remembering, oh, he's just a kid. I promise you that the Argents—okay, well, I don't know any of them but Allison, but she isn't in on it, at least."

"Fine," Peter sighs irritably. "Maybe the baby didn't help. And I've run into her father, Chris, often enough to think he might actually be a decent human being under all that grimacing. The rest of them are absolutely suspect, and I can say so with the same vehemence you have about your friend Allison."

Stiles nods slowly. "So, what do we do?"

"We are going to do nothing," Peter replies. "With the way things have turned out...perhaps it's best if you lay low for a while. If, in fact, someone murdered your mother for making the same connection you just did, it's better that you don't make it obvious that you know anything."

Stiles looks at Peter suspiciously. "Okay. Then what are you gonna do? You can't kill them or something, dude."

"I never promised I wouldn't," Peter replies, his face like ice.

"I never said never. I'm saying not now. You're right, there's something more going on, and those guys didn't just magically decide to change their M.O. one night. But until we know what happened for sure, we can't tip anyone off. After we have the whole story, you can do whatever you want."

The werewolf looks at Stiles appraisingly. "I thought you'd want them in jail. Being the Sheriff's son, after all."

"I'd want them in jail if I thought they'd actually make it into jail. But if they've come this far and gotten away with it...they're really good. And they're willing to do a lot to not get caught. Better off dead," Stiles says coolly. "Better to be sure."

Peter nods, still studying Stiles. After a few seconds, he suddenly tilts his head as though listening to something. He gives Stiles a smile that should probably be creepy. "You really ought to stay here in the house for a while," he says. "Just to be safe. Humans can be exceedingly fragile."

"No, thanks," Stiles replies instantly. "This isn't really my place."

Peter hums. "It could be."

The front door creaks open. Laura and Derek step into the house, panting. Stiles can hear the other betas squabbling outside on the porch. "Uncle Peter," Laura says, sweeping sweaty hair from her face, "why are you inviting Stiles to stay with us?"

"Just looking out for one of our newest pack members," Peter replies smoothly. Stiles raises his eyebrows, mouthing the words Pack member?

"Everything okay?" Derek asks. His eyes slide from Peter to Stiles, expression dubious.

"Fine," Stiles retorts, pulling the rap sheets from Peter and slipping them into his bag. "Just talking. Anyway, I gotta go...I dunno. Do something else far away from this place."

He swings his backpack over his shoulder, stepping past them and out of the door. On the porch, the betas call out greetings as he heads down the grassy stretch to his Jeep.

"Stiles." He turns to find Laura standing at the edge of the porch, one hand gripping the banister. She still seems a little breathless, probably from whatever training they'd done, and maybe...a little guilty too? "You know if you...if something's wrong and you did need somewhere to stay, the door's open."

He's so surprised that his gaping expression lasts long enough to be rude. Laura's face closes up again.

"Yeah, yeah, that's—uh, that's good to know," he says.

She nods and retreats back into the house. Stiles turns, walks across the grass and gets into his Jeep, wondering what hellish realm he'd just temporarily crossed into.

.

If Stiles were to rank the most unlikely things to be happening when he got home, his father calmly eating a salad at the kitchen table would probably be number one. As in, even above Stiles checking the mail to find his long-lost Hogwarts letter had finally arrived.

Stiles had noticed the police cruiser in the driveway, of course, but he'd assumed his dad was locked in his office as usual, or on his way out for the night shift.

"You gonna shut the door?" his dad asks calmly, ignoring Stiles's raised eyebrows as he spears a tomato with his fork.

"Uh, yeah. Right." Stiles locks it behind him and steps awkwardly into the kitchen. "You're...home for dinner?"

"Something like that," his dad replies amiably, like this is normal. Like they're the kind of family that eats dinner at the table instead of hunched over a desk while multitasking. He takes a long sip from his bottle of beer. "Even though this is the lunch salad you brought earlier. Today, I learned salads get even more sad after a couple hours."

Stiles snorts. "Maybe if you remembered to eat on a real schedule like other human beings, you wouldn't have this problem. Why don't you just eat one of those fit meal TV dinner things?"

"We're out of them, actually."

"Ah, my bad," Stiles says guiltily. "Meant to go to the grocery today, just got kinda...distracted."

"No," the Sheriff replies, shifting in his seat. "It's my fault, Stiles. You shouldn't be taking care of everything all the time, I'm just…"

"You're busy, though. I get it."

His dad rubs at his jaw. "Deputy Vargas caught me as I was heading out today," he adds, apropos of nothing. "She told me you were hanging around the filing room. On Facebook."

"Oh my god. That was—I can't believe she basically tattled—"

"You know that room is off limits."

"I know, Dad, it's just that—"

"And I know you hate Facebook."

Stiles pauses. "I do hate Facebook," he admits. "It's trying to know everything about me. I don't even want to know everything about me."

"What were you really doing, then?"

At this, Stiles hesitates, looking at his father doubtfully.

His father nods slowly, looking pained. He sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. "This isn't working, is it?" For a weird second, Stiles thinks he's talking about the salad. "Pretending. Like this."

"What are you talking about?"

His dad scrubs his jaw "I'm pretending I need to be working as much as I do. When I'm really just...making myself busy. Throwing myself into all these cases."

"Dad." Stiles says, and then he closes his mouth.

"It's been a year." His father's eyes don't quite meet his. "It's been hard, but I've been pretending it hasn't been hard on both of us, and I...I'm pretending that you're fine, because if you're fine, then I don't have to think about it either. And that's not working, is it?"

"No," Stiles replies finally, swallowing. "It's not working."

"And you're pretending...well, I guess that part I'm not sure of. Because I can't remember the last time we talked."

Stiles's throat is tight. "Um. This is really, like...sudden."

His dad pushes away the limp salad and kicks out a chair for Stiles to sit down at the table. After a moment, Stiles obediently sinks into it. "What are you up to, Stiles?" he asks gently. "Tell me what's going on with you."

It's such a loaded topic that Stiles's mind momentarily blanks, not sure which direction to run in. "Uhhh…Am I in trouble?"

His dad snorts. "Depends, but...probably not." Which Stiles interprets as I feel guilty enough that you might get a pass for now. "You can start with today, with Vargas. What really happened?"

Stiles gives his dad a long look. "Okay. Don't freak out." He studies his dad, just to be sure he's obeying the instruction, and then adds quickly, "I've been looking into what happened with mom."

The sheriff sighs, but then he nods. "I thought that might be it."

Stiles waits for him to start chewing him out, but nothing comes. "What...that's it?"

His dad looks amused. "It's been a while. I figured you must have made copies of her things when you stopped sneaking into her office. I thought...there was no harm in it, and you weren't doing anything to hurt yourself. Other than the occasional snooping around the station."

Stiles winces, realizing he hasn't been as sneaky as he thought. "It just seemed like there was more to the story than all the official stuff. That guy dying in his cell like that, and it was so random...do you really believe that's how things happened?"

"With police work, a lot of the time the most obvious answer is what happened, Stiles," his dad says slowly, frowning. "With...with your mom's case, I never knew if there was anything unusual, or if I just wanted it to seem that way." He swallows. "Did you...find anything?"

Stiles remembers Peter's warning: it might not be safe for him. But if they're being honest—and it looks like, suddenly, they are—this isn't something Stiles can keep from his dad. And he's not sure he wants to. "Until recently, nothing but dead ends. Until today. 'Cause yeah. I think I found something."

He explains the new link between Myers and the rap sheets on his mother's desk, the conspiracy to commit fraud maybe growing into something more.

His dad looks worn by the end of it. "So you're thinking that it's somehow connected to the Hale house fire?" he confirms. Stiles nods. "Vargas mentioned you were spending time up there. Is that because...are you working with them?"

Stiles squashes another flare of irritation at Vargas, but he nods again. "I am now. I think it makes sense."

"Not sure they're the best influence, Stiles. Peter Hale's slipped two breaking and entering charges in the last three months." He gives Stiles a piercing look. "And you don't need any encouragement there, breaking into office computers..."

"That's—not fair," Stiles splutters angrily. "I mean—"

"You're just a kid, Stiles."

"Someone has to do something," Stiles growls, surprising himself with his own vehemence. "Or the truth never comes out. People just never know what happened, or who knows something, or what they know. Someone has to do something."

"And that has to be you?" his dad asks. Stiles realizes, a beat before he continues, that this isn't just about the police reports anymore. "Do you...feel like you're the one who has to get answers? For your mom, for...for other people?" He pauses. "How far are you going for this, Stiles?"

Stiles deflates, feeling the warmth of the air around him, the flush of his own face. "I...I'm not…"

But his father is giving him the same stare he probably uses on suspects, not an accusatory glare but a knowing look, like he's already aware of what Stiles has done and is waiting for him to say it aloud. Stiles knows how this works, and why it works, but he can feel it working on him all the same.

"I've been...sometimes, yeah. A little."

"Ellery?" his father says. "Fosters?"

Stiles nods, biting his lip. "And Rousseau. Palanen. Tanner."

His dad takes another long swig of beer. When he sets it down, Stiles pulls it away from him. His father doesn't protest. "Shit. I knew it." And then: "Stiles, Palanen stabbed her own husband and children. And you just went up to her on the street?"

"I'm careful, Dad. I always do it so they don't see me coming, and when I start asking questions, when I turn up the heat, they can't really do anything to me, or anything at all. They answer my questions, and I let them go. And then they're fine, they...well, Ellery went over to the station right after, so he was still, you know, having the whole heat stroke thing. But the others recovered first or whatever. And I've never let it go all the way—I let them go, and that's all."

"I've never seen it," his dad says slowly. "Your mom never used her powers in the traditional way, as far as I know. She could play with temperature, and with her job she learned to work with fire—got the sense that isn't normal for poludnica, actually—but as strong as she was, she never used her powers on people at all, I don't think. Not ever."

Stiles squirms in his seat a little, looking away. His dad puts a hand on his arm. "Not what I mean, Stiles. I mean she could have used them in the traditional way if she'd wanted. If she'd needed. And I guess I always felt better knowing that she had the power to defend herself if she ever had to. I like knowing that about you, too."

"Oh," Stiles says quietly. After a moment, he adds, "Are you going to tell me to stop?"

The sheriff sighs. "Would you?"

"I don't know," Stiles says honestly. "I don't know if I can. I never used to...like, need it this much. But I think that now, without knowing what happened to mom, it helps to do this. Whenever I can get answers from someone else, someone who's done something and is getting away with it...I just need to know the truth, sometimes. I need them to...to get what they deserve. Not all the time, but like—I mean, everyone knew about Ellery, but he was just...untouchable. For cops, I mean. In the normal way."

His father nods. "Yeah. That was a hard one on us, too, knowing without being able to pin anything on him. And obviously, I haven't exactly been upset to have the guys who slip through the cracks magically decide to come in and confess their crimes," he adds, smiling wryly for a beat before sobering. "But Stiles...you have to promise me you'll never do this alone again. I don't have to be there in the room with you—probably better if I'm not, considering. But you tell me who you're seeing and where you're going, and I'll hang around nearby. I don't want you running into anything you can't handle."

"That's...actually, that's fair," Stiles says, surprised but not displeased. "I bring the heat, you bring the getaway car." He pauses. "So. This is police-sanctioned vigilantism, now?"

"Let's not put labels on anything," his dad says, but he grins a little, and Stiles grins back. Then, his dad glances at the bottle, heaves a long breath, and looks back at Stiles. "So. Garrick and Unger are still doing time for a separate arson," he says, and at Stiles's surprised look, he adds, "I've been through your mom's papers, too. That leaves Garrick Myers guy. If you're thinking of…"

Stiles tilts his head. "I am," he confirms. "I mean, Peter's looking into it, or at least he's looking into...ugh, that's another thing we should talk about later. But yeah, now that there's this new, actual lead, I'm definitely questioning Myers."

"Alright. Not without me, you aren't. Let's figure out where and when." It's been a while since Stiles has seen his dad like this, his head pulled up high, expression brimming with determination. It makes Stiles think of all the hero-worshipping he used to do as a kid, wanting to be a cop like his dad, wanting to be his dad. "I'd rather you weren't involved," the sheriff confesses honestly, "but...you're probably the best chance we've got at finding answers without throwing up red flags. If anyone's still watching, still trying to cover something up. I can't start asking questions at work. But you can ask questions behind closed doors." The sheriff pauses. "And what about Peter Hale?"

Stiles shifts guiltily. "I mean, technically, that part's not my secret to tell." For about five seconds, he considers this, thinks about his dad's existing knowledge of the supernatural, and then adds: "But...fuck it. Okay. The Hales are totally werewolves. Yeah, don't look at me like that; that's apparently a thing, too, because why not. They don't know about me, it's just a totally unrelated thing, and I only found out about them because Scott got bit and now he's one, too. That's why we're up there all the time, because Scott needed a pack, and they're helping him learn to control his instincts. And so Peter's thinking it's linked to the supernatural world, or specifically with these werewolf hunters who are in town, so he's going to do some digging, which is better for us because werewolves can actually survive a bullet if anyone goes after him like they did mom. Or certain kinds, anyway, so here's hoping no one's shooting the wolfsbane stuff that can kill him."

The sheriff opens his mouth. Closes it. Leans across the table to reach for the beer, which Stiles pulls away from him. "Okay," his father sighs, folding his arms. "Looks like we have more talking to do."

.

.

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wow hey i just remembered, i know nothing about insurance, arson, or the law so i'm not sure why i'm here

also if there's a plot hole with any of that stuff i love you very much but i please be gentle when telling me, thanks