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His dad takes him out for milkshakes, which is probably the first red flag. There’s definitely something wrong, because they don’t have time for milkshakes. There are supernatural things exploding all over town, people dying right left and center, his dad’s job is on the line, for crying out loud, and here they are at the quaint little hipster Soda Shoppe that opened up a couple of months back and is trying very hard to look authentic, or whatever.
Maybe Stiles should have ordered a root beer float.
"Okay, what’s wrong?" he challenges, pulling his straw out of his milkshake and jabbing it toward his father for emphasis.
"What? A man can’t take his son out for milkshakes? I thought you liked milkshakes." Butter wouldn’t melt on his dad’s tongue, but Stiles isn’t fooled.
"I do like milkshakes, that’s not the point. One," he starts ticking off points on his fingers, "milkshakes are bad for you, they’re full of fat and you’ll clog your arteries. Two, we’re kind of in the middle of a supernatural crisis, so it feels a little weird to just go out like this. Three, you haven’t taken me out for milkshakes since I was, like, eight. So I reiterate: what’s wrong?"
His father looks sheepish, but he rolls his eyes. "Nothing’s wrong. I mean, nothing’s… I wanted to, you know, talk. Without being interrupted. I figured here would be a good place to… it’s just that I wasn’t sure how to…" he pauses and scratches the back of his head a little, and Stiles resists the urge to lunge over the table and shake him until he spits out whatever is on his mind.
"Dad, whatever it is, you need to use words."
It’s really hard sometimes to remember that this man is the Sheriff, even though he’s wearing his uniform, because right now he’s busy clearing his throat and fiddling with his straw.
"If you, uh, were involved with someone, you’d tell me, right?"
Stiles freezes, straw midway to his mouth. "Um."
Now that he’s taken the first step, his dad appears to be going the in-for-a-penny-in-for-a-pound route. "Because, you know, I feel like I never really know what’s going on with you anymore, and there was all this--this stuff this year, and I know you thought I wouldn’t believe you, and part of it wasn’t your secret to tell, and I get that. I don’t like it, but I understand why you did it. But… I don’t want you to feel like there are parts of you that, uh, you have to hide. Because there aren’t. I mean, you don’t have to."
"Dad--"
"I just… I remember last year, when I caught you out with Scott and Danny, and I remember what I said, and I was just mad that night because you were sneaking around. But if… I wouldn’t be upset, or mad, or anything like that. You know that, right?"
Stiles snorts. Only his father would tie himself up in knots over this. "I know that," he says, and takes a sip of his milkshake.
"So… you’re not involved with Derek Hale, then?"
Stiles comes perilously close to snorting his milkshake through his nose. "What?" he sputters.
"I wasn’t trying to spy, but I saw you. The both of you, I mean. Outside the school the other night. I was on patrol."
The night he kissed Derek and Derek looked at him like he’d lost his mind and then Stiles chickened out and sprinted back to his jeep and they’d never spoken of it again. Awesome. Of course his father would have been patrolling at that exact spot at that exact moment. If the ground could open up right now and swallow him, that would be even more awesome.
"We’re not. I mean, you did see, but we’re not. That is, he’s not. Interested, I mean. Totally unrequited," he adds, and wishes he didn’t sound so bitter. "This isn’t exactly how I envisioned coming out to you."
"Was it the milkshakes? Was that where I went wrong?"
Stiles sighs. "No, actually, the milkshakes were a pretty good idea, all told."
When he looks up from where he’s been staring resolutely at the tabletop, he sees his father smiling at him, and in spite of himself, he smiles back.