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John sits next to Melissa on a long table in the back room at Alan Deaton's clinic, hands dangling between his knees, and says, "I can't wrap my head around this. This is crazy. They're just children."
"Special children," Alan says. His hands are palm-down against the exam table in the middle of the rom, his fingers flat and straight. John appreciates the gesture, but he isn't really expecting the vet to draw on him. From what he understands, Alan is dangerous in ways that don't require a license to carry concealed.
"But still children. They're not prepared for this kind of responsibility."
"And yet each of them chose to accept this kind of responsibility." Alan watches John for a long moment, and then his eyes shift over to Melissa. Then Argent, who's propping up the wall by the door, his expression carefully bland and pleasant. "Each of them chose to die in order to save you. To save this town, and everyone who lives in it. I would say that makes the term 'child' somewhat arguable, wouldn't you?"
"You have met Stiles, haven't you?"
Melissa says, "John, that's not fair."
It's the first time she's spoken since they sat down, and she's not wrong, but she's not entirely right, either. "No, that's not what I mean. You know him -- hell, he spends more time at your house than he does mine. He'd give a kidney to a stranger on the street. Of course he chose to -- to do what they did. He doesn't know how to think of himself first yet. And he's not -- he's not like Scott, and he isn't trained, like Allison." He shakes his head. "He shouldn't have to deal with this, none of them should. They're too young to understand the consequences --"
"Allison understands the consequences," Argent says quietly. He's got a bullet in his hand, and he spins it across his fingers, watching it catch the light. He doesn't meet anyone's eyes.
John thinks back to the aborted explanation Stiles tried to give him, with the chess board and the sticky notes. Allison's part of the story hadn't been one hundred percent heroic. At least, not if you're on the side of the werewolves -- and apparently, now they all are.
Christ. Werewolves.
John hasn't actually thought of Stiles as a child for a long time. Kid, maybe. Young adult -- emphasis very heavily on the young. But the fact that Alan has a point, that they all have a point, doesn't make that point any less disturbing. He rubs a hand over his face and wishes, not for the first time or the last, for a drink. Of course, now that he really has a reason, he can't have one. He's got to stay at the absolute top of his game from now on, because his town is a beacon and his kid's some kind of lighthouse keeper.
"I don't like it," he says finally. It's not a full surrender, but he can feel the others relax, like a collective sigh going up all around the room.
"Think about how I feel," Melissa says with a lopsided grin. "My kid's sixteen -- and in permanent, desperate need of a shave and a manicure."
"Jesus, Melissa." John leans back against the wall with a choked laugh.
"My daughter's in love with him," Argent says with a cold eyes and a narrow, unpleasant smile. John nearly flinches; he can suddenly see exactly why Stiles is creeped out by the guy.
"Sheriff," Alan says, "I understand the temptation to think of Stiles as less prepared for the responsibility he's chosen than Allison or Scott may be. But I believe the opposite may be true. While both Allison and Scott have specific advantages when it comes to physical defense, Stiles is not without his own spark of power. Within a certain sphere, he may be better equipped to serve in the role he's chosen than either of them."
"Because he's like you."
"He has the potential to be," Alan acknowledges, with barely even a wobble in his calm expression. "We could say his feet fit the path. Whether he chooses to follow it..." He spreads his hands wide. "That's entirely up to him."
Melissa reaches over and squeezes John's hand. "We missed it," she tells him. "Whatever moment there was, when we could have done something to stop any of this... if there ever was a moment like that, we missed it. Now we just have to love who they are, and hope for the best."
"And we can protect them," Argent says. He nods at Melissa, like he's sealing a promise, and then at John. "All of them. We can do that, too."
They're just children, John thinks again, and he knows he's right. He knows it, in his heart, in his bones. He's terrified for Stiles, and he's a little terrified of Stiles -- of whatever the hell crazy thing he'll do next. But John's a multitasker; he gets it from his kid. He can be scared to death and proud as hell at the same time. He's going to have to be.
"I'm in," he says, because if Stiles is in, John is in; of course he is. "Where do we start?"