Chapter Text
“Who’s the, uh, new deputy?” Stiles asked nonchalantly. He leant his body against the counter his father sat behind and turned his attention to the window, where outside the new officer was parking his car beside the station. Stiles jerked his chin up slightly in an awkward greeting to the unfamiliar face, before deciding there was no way the man would see his kind gesture from so far away and turning his suave hair-smooth into an enthusiastic wave. He vaguely heard his dad sigh from behind him, but he was too distracted watching Deputy-Hot-Damn swagger his way across the parking lot.
“Parrish,” his father told him, and Stiles pulled a face – ‘Parrish’ sort of reminded him of The Crucible from English class, and therefore by association witch trials, and supernatural beings weren’t exactly on his priority list of things to be reminded of. The man got nearer, and Stiles saw that he had short blonde hair and a pair of Ray-Bans on, Captain-America-meets-Top-Gun style, and yeah – Stiles could probably manage to get over the weird religious connotations behind a name like ‘Parrish’ when he rocked that uniform so well.
Stiles swallowed when he realised he was staring, and turned his back to the window to busy his hands with straightening a pile of already tidy leaflets. He could feel his dad’s eyes on him, and after a moment he stared back indignantly. “What?” he exclaimed, the question sounding more like an accusation as he raised his eyebrows expectantly.
The Sheriff just sighed again, mirroring Stiles’ raised eyebrows and ignoring his son’s outburst.
When Stiles heard the door open, he turned and smiled - deftly knocking the leaflets with his elbow in the process, and he heard them clutter onto the desk behind him. His dad’s accompanying huff only made him smile wider; but it took Stiles’ moving a few steps towards the new guy for him to realise that nothing could have prepared him for Parrish taking off his sunglasses.
“Sir,” Parrish greeted Stiles’ dad, nodding politely over Stiles’ shoulder. He unzipped his jacket and Stiles had to forcibly remind himself to breathe and that it’s rude to stare, Stiles, god.
John sent his son an uneasy look as he came out from behind the reception desk to shake Parrish’s hand. “This is my son, Stiles,” he added after a moment, gesturing without turning, and Stiles could just imagine the apologetic expression his father was wearing.
“Hey,” Stiles said, too loud, lifting a hand in an unnecessary wave. Deputy Parrish’s eyes were shockingly green and so clear they looked nearly translucent, like the sun shining through the herbal tea Lydia drank every morning before class. Parrish’s face lit up when he smiled, cheeks dimpling as though he was trying not to laugh, and Stiles fell in love instantly.
The Sheriff turned, took one glance at the look on his son’s face, and groaned.