He's just wrapped up a case, more or less. It's officially cold, but as far as the sheriff is concerned it's closed. He's got the local veterinarian to thank for that, along with—and he'll never get used to this—Stiles and his friends.

John is packing the files into a box and labeling it for storage when Parrish knocks.

"Do you have a minute?" The deputy lowers his voice, as though he doesn't want those in the office behind him to hear.

John puts the lid on the box and slides out from behind his desk. "Sure. Come on in and close the door."

Parrish lets out a breath and hides a smile as he pushes the door shut behind him. "Thanks, Sheriff."

John leans against his desk. "So what's up?" His heart is beating faster than it should. He likes Parrish, likes that he seems to take most of the weirdness in stride, that he doesn't ask too many questions John can't answer. He doesn't want to lose him. "I hope you're happy here, but if you're not, I want to know about it."

"I am." Parrish white-knuckles the back of the visitors chair. "This isn't about work."

"Good." John relaxes for a moment, but his relief is short-lived. Maybe there's questions coming he can't answer. "Spit it out, then. What's the problem?"

Parrish's head jerks up. "No problem. I was wondering if you wanted to go for a drink after work."

The sheriff blinks. It's not something he does. After Claudia died, he got into the habit of being home for Stiles as much as possible.

Stiles isn't a child anymore. He's way past the age he needs his dad to be home every night. Half the time, Stiles isn't home himself. "There's a place on 4th we used to go, but it's been years," John says. "We could ask the others, make a night of it."

"Actually," Parrish says, and his cheeks are pink. "I was hoping it would just be the two of us. Somewhere quiet."

John stares as he processes Parrish's words. "This is a date. You're asking me on a date?"

Parrish swallows hard. "Am I fired?"

"What? No, of course not." Pictures flick through his thoughts, scenes that place Parrish beside him in a bar, in his house, laughing with Stiles. An image sears itself into his mind, one of Parrish in his bed. His face warms. "It's been a long time since anyone's asked me out."

Parrish presses his teeth into his lower lip and says nothing.

"Okay," John says. "Yeah. I'd like that."

Parrish grins. "Great." He drops his head, looks down at his uniform. "I guess straight after work wouldn't be appropriate, but I was thinking—"

"Give me an hour to go home and get cleaned up. There's a place on the other side of town." He remembers going to the scene of a break-in a few months back. "Quiet. Serves imported beer in fancy bottles and much better food than the bar on 4th."

Parrish nods and smiles. He turns to leave.

"Hey, Parrish?"

Parrish stops, his hand on the door handle. "Yeah, Sheriff?"

"Do you like older men? Is that what this is about?"

A wide smile spreads over Parrish's face and he shakes his head. "I like you."

The bartender is the same guy who reported the break-in. He's the owner, but the sheriff can't remember his name. It's on a report back at the station, he knows that much. He's not sure the guy can place him, though, because his eyes keep coming back, lingering. The sheriff feels like he's being studied and it's not helping his already frayed nerves.

He's been held captive by a darach, faced oni and stared into the empty eyes of the thing that inhabited his son. He's looked down the barrel of a gun too many times for this thing with Parrish to scare him.

And yet, he sits at the bar, nursing an imported beer, and tries to pretend that his palms are slick with condensation instead of sweat.

"What?" he says, the next time the bartender looks.

He's tall, thin. Dark, straight hair that falls to his shoulders. "I don't want any trouble," he says. There's a sharpness to some of the consonants that might be the lingering remains of a British accent. "I run a clean place. No one gets hurt. Everyone goes home happy."

The sheriff squints in confusion, then rolls his eyes. "For God's sake, man. I'm off duty, in case the lack of uniform didn't make that clear." He lifts his bottle. "I'm just a guy, having a beer, waiting for a friend."

The bartender narrows his eyes, and there's confusion there too for a moment. He cocks his head to the side, as if he's listening. He reminds the sheriff of Derek Hale for a second, until he smiles and the comparison ends. "A date," he says. He lifts his eyes, scans the ceiling. "And you chose my place by chance." He laughs.

"I chose it because I've seen your kitchen."

The bartender grins. "Our menu caters for the particular dietary needs of my clientele. It's unique."

The sheriff's face falls. "Oh god. Is it vegan or something? Because I was hoping for a steak."

The bartender barks out a laugh, throws his head back. "Oh, you'll get your steak, Sheriff. Though my new chef does an amazing vegetarian dish for one of my customers. Very high in iron." He almost winks, might have winked if the sheriff hadn't blinked right at that moment and missed it.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm late, I know—"

The sheriff looks up as Parrish slides onto the seat beside him.

"I couldn't find the place. Would you believe it's not listed in any directory? I drove in circles for ten minutes, was just about to call your phone—"

"It's okay," the sheriff says. He can't help but smile at the bright excitement in Parrish's eyes, at the pink flush on his cheeks. "Want a beer?"

---

"This is nice," Parrish says. They moved to a booth, closer to the front of the bar. It's not as dark here as it is further back, but not as bright as under the lights. "Quiet." He grins. "Is this as strange as it feels?"

The sheriff shrugs. "I don't make a habit of dating my deputies, if that's what you're getting at."

Parrish drops his eyes to his beer, both hands wrapped around the bottle. "Or men?"

"Or anyone. After my wife died, I got used to being alone." The sheriff drains his bottle, sets it on the edge of the table and waves at the bartender. "You're not the first man I've dated. Or even the youngest."

Parrish lifts his head. There's a curious smile on his lips.

"Of course I was in college at the time, and I'm not sure that what I got up to back then actually qualifies as dating."

A fresh beer appears on the table before him. He didn't notice the bartender walk over, and when he looks up, the man is already slipping back behind the bar.

The sheriff sighs and reaches for the menu, pushes it across the table. "Hungry, Parrish?"

Parrish looks up from the laminated card. "You should probably call me Jordan."

"Right. Jordan." The name rolls off his tongue naturally, like it belongs there. His face warms and he's glad for the low light to hide the flush of his skin. "I hardly hear my own name anymore. I think everyone's forgotten I have one."

"John," Parrish says, drawing the single syllable out into something warm and sensual, couples it with a look to match.

The sheriff blinks and swallows hard. "So, what'll you have, Jordan?" He leans back on the seat, his pants suddenly a little too restrictive. "I have it on good authority they do a fantastic vegetarian thing."

Parrish gives him a quizzical look, then bends his head. "What are you having?"

"Steak. And not a word to my son. What he doesn't know won't hurt me."

"Sure." Parrish grins down at the menu. "Steak sounds good. I'll have that, too." He frowns. "There's some strange stuff on here for a bar. 'Iron fortified protein shake'? What's up with that?"

"Maybe they're trying to attract the gym crowd."

"I go to the gym three times a week and I've never ordered a protein shake at a bar."

The sheriff's eyes track across broad shoulders, taking in the way Parrish's shirt pulls across well defined biceps and a muscular chest. He's suddenly very aware of his own softness. "Obviously it's for the guys who go every day."

As he lifts his head to get the bartenders attention, the man pushes a large tumbler full to the brim with something creamy and white across the bar. There's a middle-aged man in a white business shirt on the other side. He has far more softness than the sheriff has ever had to worry about. "Huh," he says. "He look like a gym addict to you?"

Parrish lifts his head and narrows his eyes. "No, sir. He does not."

They turn to each other, stare for a moment. Then the sheriff shakes his head and laughs. "Are we really doing this?"

Parrish flushes. "I think we are." He drops his head, and when he lifts it, he's smiling. "Hey, at least it's not awkward silence."

---

They're half-way through their meal before the sheriff realizes he doesn't recall ordering. He stops, stares down at perfectly cooked steak and the spinach salad that looks like something Stiles would serve him. He looks at Parrish's plate, the slight pink of medium rare in contrast to his own well done. He recalls discussing their orders, but has no recollection of the bartender coming to take it.

"Huh," he says.

"Sheriff?"

"John," he corrects. "Nothing, more weirdness. Maybe I'm losing my mind."

"No," Parrish says. "No, I don't think you are."

John looks up. Parrish's eyes are on the back of the bar, focused and intent. He resists the urge to follow Parrish's gaze, years of experience guiding him to act natural. He lifts his beer to his lips, lets it hover there. "What is it?"

Parrish's eyes flick to John's face. He brings his hand up to hide his words. "This place, you've got no idea what's going on here?"

The sheriff shakes his head, a tiny movement that could be anything, but which he knows Parrish will understand. He takes a drink from his bottle, puts it back on the table.

"Good," Parrish says. "Because I'd hate to think you brought me to a sex club on purpose."

The sheriff coughs, chokes on beer, barely avoids spraying it across the table. "It's a what?" he says, all concern for staying unnoticed gone in his shock.

Parrish gives him a look, then shifts down to the end of the table. The seats curve around to become one at the wall. Parrish beckons, a smile on his face that isn't quite him.

The sheriff follows.

When they're side by side, Parrish leans in, brushes his lips over John's cheek, and then whispers in his ear. "Look around. People disappear in twos and threes into the back. I've seen a couple of them go back there twice, with different people."

The sheriff scans the room with his face lowered. It's hard to concentrate on what he's seeing with Parrish's breath warm on his neck. A woman drains her glass and seems to steel herself to rise and approach a man sitting alone at a table with nothing on it.

He stands, takes her by the elbow, and leads her into the back.

John watches for a few moments more, then he wraps his hand around the back of Parrish's neck and pulls him close. It's not real, just an excuse to whisper to him, but when his lips brush over Parrish's mouth, he can't help the tiny gasp that escapes. He swallows, closes his eyes, tries to calm his breathing. "It's a brothel," he whispers. "The workers don't have a drink in front of them, it's a signal. They never leave. I didn't see them come in, either. No wonder the owner was so shifty."

Parrish's reply is breathy and stilted. "They don't look the type, though. One of them looks like someone's mom."

They need to leave. John needs to settle the bill and apologize to Parrish for the ruined date, so they can spend the rest of the night writing reports.

He hesitates. It might have been easier to move if they weren't so close. Parrish's skin is warm under his palm, his lips, parted slightly as he takes labored breaths, are flush and inviting.

John leans in the half-inch he needs to bring them into contact. He closes his eyes and lets out the softest moan as Parrish's mouth opens for him. For a brief few seconds, he forgets that they've walked right into a case and apparently he can't get away from work no matter what he does.

Someone clears their throat.

Parrish jerks back, slides across the seat so there's a good foot between them. The sheriff lifts his head.

"It's not what you think," the bartender says.

The sheriff lifts one eyebrow. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The bartender smiles, showing his teeth. "Yes you do," he says. "I can assure you, there's no sex on the premises. It's one of the rules."

The sheriff gives up the pretense. "'I run a clean place,' isn't that what you said? 'Everyone goes home happy'?" He flicks his eyes toward the back room. "If I go back there, are you telling me I won't find people having sex?"

"I imagine you'd be very surprised to see what happens in the back, Sheriff. When you came in tonight, I assumed you already knew. We know you have connections to the new alpha—"

The sheriff gives him a look, and the bartender's eyes flick to Parrish and back again, so quick the sheriff almost misses it.

"I see," the bartender says.

Parrish lets out a heavy sigh. "John," he says. "It's okay."

The sheriff looks at Parrish in alarm. "You know?"

Parrish shrugs. "Weird things happen in this town."

The sheriff leans back in the seat and sighs. He looks back at the bartender. "What the hell is going on here, Mister..." He searches the recesses of his mind for the man's name, but he still can't find it.

"Anton," the bartender says. "I thought you might have worked it out on your own by now. You know things exist that can't be explained. Your problem, Sheriff, is that you don't want to believe what your instincts are plainly telling you."

"Sheriff," Parrish says, reaching out and holding John's forearm in a white knuckled grip. His breath rushes out of him. "They're vampires."

"Vampires, Parrish?" The sheriff takes a few steps down the street, stops and turns on the spot. "What the hell do you know about vampires? What do you know about any of this?"

Parrish looks back at him, a frown creasing his forehead. "I don't know anything," he says. "But sometimes in this town, guys with swords materialize out of thin air. Cold cases pile up, strange, ritualistic killings. I catch words like 'pack' and 'alpha' in a context that makes no sense, or it didn't before tonight." He shakes his head, looks back toward the bar. "I don't know if vampires are real, or if it just means I'm going crazy, but did you see him smile when I said it? Did you see his teeth?"

The sheriff can't get the image out of his head. When Anton grinned, exposing long, pointed eye teeth, his heart stopped for a moment.

He sighs and starts walking again. "It's not the first time I've seen a set of fangs, kid. It won't be the last."

Parrish drops his eyes to the pavement as he catches up. "So vampires are real." He shakes his head, looks up. "How do we deal with vampires?"

"We don't. You're going home. I'm going to see someone who might know something about Anton and his friends."

Parrish stops walking, turns to face the sheriff. "No way. You can't cut me out of this. You know about this stuff, but I'm pretty sure you're the only one at the station who does. Now I know, too. That's gotta be a good thing, you don't have to be the only guy in town who deals with it."

"I'm not. But I'm damned if I'm going to just hand something like this over to a bunch of teenagers. Especially on a school night." He rolls his eyes. "I've got work to do, Parrish. Just go home, forget everything." He puts his hand on Parrish's shoulder, gives it a squeeze. "I'll make it up to you, I swear."

Parrish shakes his head. "I can help you with this. I can—"

He stops cold, and there's something in his eyes when he wraps his arms around the sheriff's neck and presses close.

As hair rises on the back of his neck, the sheriff starts to speak, is about to ask if the vampire is behind him, when Parrish kisses him. The blood in his brain rushes south, and the thought almost slips away with the heat of Parrish's mouth, the taste of his tongue.

Parrish pulls back. His pupils are big and dark, his eyelids are heavy. "Come home with me," he says, his voice like honey. "Please."

The sheriff doesn't know if that's why he nods, why he allows Parrish to pull him past the cruiser parked on the street and around the corner. But there might be a vampire right behind them.

He snaps out of it once they're in Parrish's truck and the engine is running. "Listen, Jordan," he says, as Parrish pulls away from the curb.

"He stepped onto the street outside the bar," Parrish says, eyes focused on the road. "I figure he could hear anything we said. And your car is kind of a giveaway. I don't think he followed, though. How fast can vampires move on foot?"

"I'm gonna err on the side of caution and say fast. So I'm stuck with you now?"

Parrish grins. "I'll drop you at the station if you order me to. Pretend I don't know anything." He glances away from the road for a second to make eye contact. "I would like a real kiss first. These fake ones are driving me crazy."

The sheriff clears his throat. "That felt real enough to me."

"Yeah. So did the one in the bar." Dimples form on Parrish's cheeks, and his eyes flick toward the sheriff again. "Still, it would be nice not to feel like we're being watched."

"Deal." He feels his skin warm as he imagines it, not having to pull away to share a whispered observation, or to resist the urge to look behind him. To know that it's real, and not just a cover.

"Good." Parrish's hands slide over the wheel as he turns a corner toward the station. "But hear me out. You know I spent time in the archives when I started here. Looked at some of the old files?"

"Yeah." It's standard procedure, a way of familiarizing new staff with the filing system.

"A lot of unsolved cases." Parrish gives the sheriff an apologetic look. "Missing persons, mysterious deaths. You know that already. But I remember seeing more than a few where the victims bled out. Bite marks. Most of them written off as animal attack. And I guess they just got lost in all the others, you know? But they're fresh in my mind, so I thought I'd mention it."

The sheriff blinks. He had a whole pile of 'animal attack' files, alongside the kanima pile and the darach pile. He'd been putting possible vampire attacks in the werewolf pile, and he didn't even know it. "All right, Parrish. But I don't want anyone else asking questions. You stay in the car, I'll get the files, and we go back to my place and sort through them."

Parrish pulls up outside the station, cuts the engine. "Isn't your kid home?"

Normally, that wouldn't be a problem, but he's got a chance to keep Stiles out of it for a change. "Got a better idea?"

"My place," Parrish says. "I straightened up and everything."

The sheriff lifts an eyebrow.

Parrish grins. "Just in case."

John smirks. "Okay. Sit tight. I might be a few minutes. I've gotta make a call."

---

"I know Anton," Deaton says. "He's not a killer."

The animal clinic is dark, everything is bare surfaces and shining steel, as though the doc was about to lock up for the night. The sheriff crosses his arms over his chest and chews on the inside of his cheek. "You knew," he says. "There's been vampires in this town for however long, and you knew."

Deaton shrugs. "Anton's been here a long time, since Derek's great-grandfather was the Alpha. He's never caused a problem, and neither have his children. I understand he chooses them carefully."

"Children?" The sheriff pulls a face.

Parrish steps forward. "Alpha of what, exactly?"

Deaton looks at Parrish, a confused expression on his face, then flicks his eyes back to the sheriff. "Those he turns. Why is he here?"

"Because I've got this." Parrish sets a file folder open on the exam table, fans the reports out in two piles. He indicates the larger of the two. "Animal attacks, all with a single bite, all bled out." He turns to the other. "Missing persons, all with a connection to Anton's bar."

Deaton steps closer, leans in to examine a photograph. "This is new." He looks up at the sheriff. "I generally see the ones who have been torn apart. I think you know why."

The sheriff nods. "These are careful, tidy. Bodies dumped in the lake or buried. It's not a full moon thing."

He glances up at Parrish. There's a curious look on the deputy's face, determined. John can almost see the working of his mind as he pieces the clues together.

"No." Deaton shakes his head, then turns his attention to the missing persons reports. "These, though, I might be able to explain."

"Anton's previous chef," the sheriff says, dragging the top sheet off the pile with one finger. "Disappeared at the time of the break-in. I thought he might have done it, cleaned out the safe and run, but Anton swore there was nothing missing. He seemed more upset about the dirty floor."

"He was a vampire," Deaton says. "And he was murdered."

"Let me guess," Parrish says. "Vampires turn to dust when they die?"

Deaton nods. He pulls out the next sheet. "This man was a security guard. Worked nights. He had a family."

The sheriff leans in to read. "Reported missing by his wife, never came home after work one morning. Employers said he stopped checking in at three AM." He looks up. "He was a vampire, too?"

Deaton nods as he flicks through the remaining files. "All of them were." He lifts his head. "They're all Anton's, all vampires he made. There's only one reason he might kill his own, and that's if they started killing humans. They had no reason to. Many of them have families, jobs. They're no different from you or me, except that they need a little human blood to live. And Anton provided them with donors. Willing donors."

"Then who's killing these people?" Parrish says, his hand hovering over the first pile of reports. "Another vampire?"

"How far do they go back?" Deaton asks.

"We've got some in the car that go back five or six years," the sheriff says.

Deaton nods. "Once there was no pack here, it left the town unprotected. I think it's time to tell Scott."

"No," the sheriff says. If Scott gets involved, so does Stiles. "If there's a murderer in my town, I'm going to be the one to deal with it. I don't know what it takes to kill one of these bastards, but at least until we find who's doing this, we're keeping the kids out of it." He gathers up all the files, shoves them back into the folder. "Come on, Parrish. We've got work to do."

---

"I've got a theory," Parrish says as he drives them across town toward his apartment. "And you can tell me I'm crazy, but it's the only one that makes sense, especially after finding out that vampires are real and the local vet is the go-to for info on the supernatural."

"Let me hear it," the sheriff says. "I'd believe almost anything at this point."

"Werewolves. There are werewolves here in town, and your kid is one of them." Parrish keeps his eyes on the road.

John smiles, half in amusement, half in relief that Parrish is only half right. "Stiles is not a werewolf."

"Dammit." Parrish sighs. "But the doc said 'Scott'. That's the name of Stiles' friend, right? And you said 'keep the kids out of it' and all the stuff about pack and alpha and something about the full moon?" He glances over. "I don't have anything else for that."

"Scott was bitten a little over a year ago," John says. "A lot has happened since then, but now he's the alpha, and a seventeen year old boy and his pack is all that stands between this town and whatever supernatural bullshit rears its head. Unfortunately, where Scott goes, Stiles goes. And my kid knows more about this stuff than I do. I want to protect him from that stuff, as much as I can, so if you can help me do that..."

He trails off, looks down at his hands where they twist into the fabric of his pants. "That's probably too much to ask."

"It's not," Parrish says. He pulls into a driveway, turns off the engine. "They might know more about it, but we've got training. I've seen far scarier things than vampires and werewolves."

"The werewolves aren't the bad guys," the sheriff says. "At least, most of the time they're not."

"If we're to believe the doc, neither are the vampires." Parrish pops the door, but turns before he gets out. "He thought Anton might kill his own if they got out of hand. Do we just trust that his vampires aren't eating people?"

The sheriff reaches into the back seat, pulls out the box of files he took from the station. "No," he says. "We find out for ourselves."

It's not long before Parrish's small kitchen table can't hold the files they need, and they migrate to the floor. They've got three piles now.

Deaths by vampire attack. A single bite, body drained of blood and dumped or buried in the woods.

Missing persons with a connection to Anton's bar. They could be human or vampire, because if there's no body, there's no way to know.

Finally, there's a pile of cases they've decided are unrelated. One of them was an incident with a barbecue fork that shouldn't have been filed under unsolved cases at all.

The sheriff places another unrelated case file on the coffee table, and reaches for his beer. He watches Parrish as he crawls on hands and knees over the carpet, brow furrowed in concentration.

There's a dozen files spread out, and Parrish's attention flicks from one to another. He pulls one out, casts it aside, and returns his focus to those that remain.

"What've you got, Parrish?" the sheriff asks, leaning back against the coffee table and resting his beer bottle on his thigh. It leaves a damp ring on his pants.

"It might be nothing." Parrish pulls two files out of formation, hands them over. "Bar on the edge of town. A guy says the victim was supposed to meet him there. We found the body in a dumpster on the other side of town. The other victim told a friend he was going there, never turned up for work the next morning. Found a week later in the lake." He pulls up another. "This guy worked late at his office, half a block from the bar, the night he was killed. He was found in a shallow grave in the preserve." He waves his hand over the rest of the files. "All these have got a connection to that bar. Not Anton's."

The sheriff lifts his beer to his lips. It's gone warm, but he swallows it back anyway. "What is it with these vampires and bars? Shouldn't they be hanging out in graveyards or something?"

Parrish's lips twitch in a brief smile. He drops his eyes. "None of the murders have got any connection with Anton. But the missing persons?" He lifts the pile and hands it over. "Every single one of them either worked there, or was a regular." He shakes his head. "And if they're vampires, all the stereotypes are out the window. The chef, and the security guard, for a start. Then there's the woman. Two adult kids. But check out the photo. She looks like she's still in her twenties."

The sheriff flicks through the pile, pulls out the one with the photo of a young, attractive blonde attached. "Forty-four years old?" He scans down the page, turns it to the page stapled behind. "Hang on." Something tightens in his chest as he sees the photocopied page with the logo of Beacon County Hospital at the top. "She was diagnosed with cancer sixteen years ago. Terminal." He flicks back to the first page. "Her kids would have been six and...and eight." He looks up. "He saved her life. He made sure her kids didn't have to grow up without a mom."

Parrish picks up the rest of the pile, looks through the files. Eventually he puts them all down. "Security guard was a car accident. The chef was cancer, too. The vet was right, our vampire isn't a bad guy."

The sheriff is still reeling, knowing that there was something that could have saved Claudia. Stiles didn't have to grow up without his mother. "Right." He shakes his head to clear it. It doesn't work, doesn't stop his heart from beating hard enough that he can hear it in his ears.

Parrish gets up off the floor and steps over the piles of papers, drops into a crouch beside him. He tugs the woman's file from the sheriff's shaking fingers. "Are you okay?"

The sheriff looks up. "Why her?" he asks. "Why not my wife? My kid? How is that fair?"

Parrish shakes his head. "It's not." He puts the file behind him on the floor, then turns back around. He balls his hands into fists and bites at his lower lip. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." The sheriff shakes his head, drops his eyes. "I shouldn't be laying this on you." He looks up, almost drowns in Parrish's eyes.

"It's fine." Parrish's eyes flick over the sheriff's face. He opens his mouth, as if he's about to speak, then closes it as if he's changed his mind. He looks away.

"Jordan," the sheriff says. "Come here." He reaches out with his free hand, wraps it around the back of Parrish's neck and pulls him down.

This time, there's no one watching. The tiny grunt Parrish lets out as he leans into the kiss shoots straight to the sheriff's groin, twisting his stomach into knots on the way.

John hasn't kissed someone like this in years. Like he's starving for air, and Parrish is the only one who can make him breathe. He savors every one of the small, desperate sounds that Parrish makes before he pushes him away.

It's hard, but he does it, one hand on Parrish's chest so he can feel the quick beat of his heart. "We can't do this," he says.

Parrish's eyes are wide, pupils dilated. His lips are slick and red. "What?"

John closes his eyes, takes deep breaths. "We have to get out of here and finish the job."

Parrish whines and drops his head, searches for John's lips again. The kiss is hot and quick. "I don't want to. Vampires can wait till tomorrow."

John shakes his head. "Vampires in daylight. No. We've got to do this now."

---

"I thought you might be back," Anton says. "You'll forgive me if I was half afraid you might bring company. I sent my friends home."

The sheriff scanned the bar as they entered, noted the lack of any faces that had been there before. There's a couple eating at a table up the front, demonstrating none of the behaviors they noticed earlier. Other than that, the bar is empty.

"The chef," John says. "He's still here?"

"He left." Anton wipes down the spotless bar with a clean towel. "Closed the kitchen after..." He waves a hand toward the couple eating. "I'm the only one here."

The sheriff clears his throat. "I'm going to need names," he says. "Your staff, your regulars. Human and otherwise."

Anton's head jerks up. "I can't do that."

"It's not an official case," the sheriff says. He leans on the bar, tries to seem unthreatening. "Who would believe us anyway? I swear to you, those names will go no further than the two of us."

Anton shakes his head. "They trust me with their privacy. I can't betray that."

The sheriff sighs and pulls himself up. "We're trying to help you. Someone's killing your people. Leaving them nothing more than a pile of dust. Unless..."

"Unless you're the one killing them," Parrish says. "You keep them on a tight leash, don't you, Anton. They get hungry, go looking for all-you-can-eat and people die. Real people. And you clean up the mess. You've got a good thing going here, you don't want that disturbed."

"What?" Anton's expression is pure shock, as if the thought of killing his own is unfathomable. "I would never— I couldn't. Even if it were true. It's not. I would know." He drops his towel, leans across the bar. "I swear to you, Sheriff. My vampires are not killing people in this town."

John glances up at Parrish, who lifts an eyebrow. He turns back to Anton. "Someone or something is. Clean bites, draining them of blood. Dumping the bodies. Sounds like a vampire to me."

"It's not mine," Anton says, shaking his head. He swallows, takes deep, heaving breaths. "There must be another one here." He looks up, and there's fear in his eyes. "I thought... I thought it was a hunter. There are hunters here. If a hunter catches one of mine alone..."

"The hunters I know aren't interested in vampires," John says. "This guy was in your kitchen. He killed your chef. Couldn't you smell him or something?"

"No," Anton says. "I know the scent of my own bloodline, and this place is thick with it. I wouldn't know another one if I passed him on the street. Not until he revealed himself to me."

"Great." The sheriff sighs. "There's a vampire killing people and we've got no way of finding him or knowing it's even him when we do."

"That's not true," Parrish says. "The other bar. It's a start."

The sheriff nods. He crosses his arms and leans on the bar. "Anton," he says. "If I wanted to kill you, how would I do it?"

Anton stares back at him, doesn't even flinch. "Wooden stake through the heart."

"Are you kidding me?"

Anton shakes his head. "You'll want to be sure he's a vampire, Sheriff. I imagine it could get a little messy if you try that on a human."

---

The contrast between Anton's place and the dive at the edge of town is stark. The floor is sticky and the only food here is a few faded bags of chips on a shelf and stale looking nuts on the bar.

The bartender recognised the sheriff immediately. He gave him the whiskey he ordered on the house, then watches him from the corner of his eye as he serves further down.

John turns, scans the room. Parrish leans over the pool table, lines up a shot, shoots a cocky smile at the bearded guy in ripped, faded jeans looming over him. John's eyes keep moving, never lingering long enough to indicate he knows Parrish at all. As he takes in the rest of the space and the people in it, he's left with a single thought. Parrish looks so incredibly young.

It shouldn't make his heart twist like it does. Stiles is a lot younger, and he's been involved in this stuff for far longer than John's known about it. Stiles has supernatural creatures on his side, though. Parrish doesn't.

He starts to wonder if he should have let Deaton call Scott. With a few werewolves on the case, they'd have this wrapped up in no time, they might even be able to sniff the vampire out. He makes a decision. Once they check this place out, he'll talk to Scott.

He feigns disinterest when Parrish appears at the bar a few feet away. There's a girl with him, small, blonde, wearing a short skirt and long boots. "Lets get out of here," she says, leaning up with her palm pressed to Parrish's chest.

"Sure," he says, and rests his cue against the bar. As he pulls away, he looks over the girls head, gives the sheriff an almost imperceptible nod.

"That girl," the sheriff says to the bartender after they leave. "She a regular?"

The man shrugs. "Comes in a couple times a week. Always leaves with a different guy—or girl." He grins. "She's not picky. That guy's about the prettiest I've ever seen her with."

John throws back the trickle of whiskey in the bottom of his glass. "Thanks," he says, and slips out after them.

The street light above the bar flickers at random intervals. There's a pair of tail lights growing smaller up the street, and the sound of distant traffic. There's no sign of Parrish or the girl.

Then there's a shout. The sheriff takes off running in the direction of the sound.

He almost runs right past the alley. He catches the glow of pale skin from the corner of his eye, and skids to a stop.

There, just visible in the shadows, Parrish sits on his heels. Half of Anton's broken broomstick hangs loose in his hand. It's tipped with blood. There's blood on his collar, and he sways as if he's about to fall.

John gets down there, crouches in front of him, grips him by the shoulders. "Where is she?" he asks.

Parrish, glassy eyed, drops his gaze to John's feet. "You're standing on her. What's left of her." He lifts his eyes, locks them to the sheriff's face. "She kind of exploded."

The sheriff turns Parrish's head to the side. There are two puncture wounds in his throat, blood trickling. "You let her bite you? Are you insane?"

"I had to be sure." Parrish huffs out a laugh and lifts his makeshift stake. "Still messy."

John takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. "Are you okay?" He pulls Parrish to his feet. "We should get you to the hospital."

Parrish shakes his head. "Nah. She'd only just got her fangs in me. I'm just..." He grins. "I just killed a vampire."

"I wish I'd been here," John says. He fishes a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and presses it to the side of Parrish's throat. He runs his hands over Parrish's chest and arms, just to reassure himself that there are no other injuries.

"Come home with me," Parrish says, his voice thick and breathless. "I mean it, this time." He leans into John's touch, searches out his lips, and kisses him, wet and filthy.

John's mind skips forward to tugging Parrish's clothes off him, to skin moving against skin between clean sheets.

"Come on," Parrish says, pulling away, tugging him toward the mouth of the alley. Then he pulls up short.

John turns to see what's stopped him. Silhouetted in the bright space between walls is the figure of a young man. The street light flickers and he disappears.

The hair on the back of John's neck stands on end.

"You killed my sister." The words are a hiss from behind, then Parrish is ripped from his grasp, dragged backwards into the darkness.

Instinct kicks in, and the sheriff follows Parrish and the boy down into the pitch black. He reaches for the gun he's not carrying, pulls his own makeshift stake out of his jacket and grips it tight. He can't see a thing, but a choked off grunt of pain drifts out of the dark, and he follows it.

A shape appears, a dark outline with too many limbs. John takes careful steps toward it, focused on the barely-there glow of pale fingers clamped tight around a fragile throat.

"I can choke the life out of him," the vampire hisses. "I can break his neck." The voice rises in pitch to a screech. "He killed my sister."

The sheriff tucks his stake into his back pocket, holds his hands palms forward. "Your sister was killing people. We couldn't let it keep happening."

John's eyes start to adjust to the darkness, bringing Parrish's face into sharp relief. There's no fear in his expression, but he's gasping for breath as the vampire's fingers restrict his air supply. Parrish's nails scratch at the vampire's hand as he tries to get free and fails.

John's fingertips tingle as blood flows from his extremities to his heart. "Was it just her?" he says. "If you've never killed anyone, you can walk away from this. You don't have to hurt him, please."

He watches as Parrish's hands go limp, fall to his sides. His eyelids droop as the vampire tightens his grip, cutting off all oxygen.

The sheriff darts forward, a single thought wiping all others from his mind. He could have ordered Parrish to stay out of it, and he would have been safe.

The vampire drops Parrish, and he crumples. John doesn't have time to check for a pulse. Parrish could be dead or dying, but all John can do is reach for the stake in his back pocket as the vampire blurs and then hits him hard in the chest.

The stake falls out of his hand, and the sound of wood hitting pavement rings through the alley as it bounces and rolls away.

"I didn't want this," the vampire says, cool, fetid breath washing across John's cheek and over his throat. "Never asked for it, not like she did. And my mom just gave it to her."

The sheriff gets his hands on the kid's shoulders, tries to push him away, but he won't budge. "Your mother," he grunts, straining against the immovable body holding him against damp brick. "She's a vampire, too."

"She's dead. Amy didn't like the rules." The boy gets a hand on John's neck, tips his head to the side to expose his throat. "So she killed our mom, and she killed her friends, and she killed all those people."

"You don't have to do this," John says. "You cleaned up after her, didn't you? You hid the bodies. She was a killer, but you're not."

"I never bit anyone before," the vampire says, his mouth open over John's throat. Sharp teeth scratch the skin as the vampire moans. "But I'm hungry, and without her I can't—"

John cries out as fangs break through his skin. He fights, but strong hands bruise his biceps and keep him still. And then, as quickly as the pain flared through him, it's gone, replaced by a lightheaded rush as the vampire sucks at the wound.

It hits him that this is why people line up at Anton's to get bitten. There's a kind of thrill to the surrender he feels right now. If this kid doesn't stop, John's going to die, and he almost doesn't care.

Without realizing that he'd closed them, something makes him open his eyes. He sees Parrish behind the vampire, stake in his hand, eyes wide and staring. There's a question there, and fear, as he seems almost reluctant to run the vampire through.

John can guess why. The vampire is slim, and his body is pressed close as he holds John to the wall. It could go right through if Parrish misjudges. He could kill John by accident, or he could infect him.

"Do it," John mouths, careful not to let so much as a breath out with the shape of the words.

Parrish screws up his face and strikes. John feels the broom handle sink into the vampire's back, both of them rocking with the force Parrish puts behind it.

The vampire bites down, hard and painful, then pulls his fangs free of John's throat in shock. The stake comes out the front of him, and John gasps because he's sure it's broken his own skin.

He'll worry about that later. As he watches the vampire explode into dust, he slumps, slides down the mossy brick wall as his legs go out. Dust rains down over him, and he coughs as he breathes some of it into his lungs.

He's lost blood, he knows that. That's why he's tired, why he wants to close his eyes, why he lets his eyelids fall. And Parrish is right there, hands on him, warm and tugging at the front of his shirt.

John opens his eyes and looks down. "Not really the place for it," he says, as he watches Parrish undo his shirt buttons, one by one.

"No," Parrish says, worry on his face and in his voice. "I felt it go right through, felt it hit you."

The sheriff gropes at his chest. There's pain, but no broken skin, no blood. "I'm fine."

Parrish lets out an audible sigh of relief. "We should get out of here. There might be more of them."

John shakes his head. "She only had two kids."

Parrish still helps John to his feet. "What?"

"The girl." John's head spins when he gets up, but he breathes through it. He lets Parrish hold him until the dizziness passes, then he pats Parrish on the chest before he steps away. "The girl's name was Amy. The woman, the vampire who disappeared? Amy was the name of her daughter. She turned her kids, and Amy killed her. Killed the others. I dunno, maybe they knew."

"That's awful," Parrish says. His shoulder brushes John's as they walk, slowly, out of the alley. "Why would you do that to your children?"

John blinks, the flickering street light seeming very bright as they emerge from the shadows. "If I stayed like this while my kid got old and eventually died, I think I'd go insane. I can't imagine anything worse."

Parrish nods, then he turns his head, exposing his throat. There are marks on his skin, dark bruises that hint at the shape of the vampire's hand as he choked the breath out of him.

"That's going to take some explaining at the station." John puts his hand on Parrish's shoulder and drags his thumb over the worst of it. There's the vampire bite there too, smears of blood surrounding the punctures.

Parrish lifts his head, smiles. "Just tell them we've got matching hickies."

John snorts and puts his hand between Parrish's shoulder blades, gives him a gentle push in the direction of his truck.

---

It's coming up two in the morning when they finish stacking the last of the files in cartons to return to the station. "I'll go see Anton tomorrow night," John says as he lies the last file on top and puts the lid back. "I'm beat."

Parrish drops his own box to one side of the front door, then crouches where John kneels on the floor. "I'll come with you." There's a furrow in his brow. "Normally I'd write a report after something like this, but this isn't normal, is it? I should be there when you close it."

John's eyes linger over the bruising on Parrish's throat. He remembers the sharp twist in his stomach when he watched Parrish go down. "You shouldn't have been there in the first place."

"I was just doing my job."

"Vampires aren't your job, Parrish." John sighs. "I almost got you killed."

"I'm fine." Parrish reaches out, drags his fingertips over the small tear in the front of John's shirt. Blood stains the broken fibers, but it's not the sheriff's. "So are you." He looks up, and there's profound relief in his eyes.

"I would have let him do that to Claudia," John says, and the words, the thought, it comes out of left field, rises up with the knot that's been sitting down low in his stomach. "I would have condemned her to watch us get old and die while she stayed the same." With that admission, comes a profound release of the anger that the option wasn't available to him at the time, and the relief that it wasn't, that he would have been making a huge mistake.

John chokes as his lungs tighten, and his shoulders shake as he tries to stifle his sob. Hot tears squeeze out from beneath eyes shut tight. "Sorry."

"It's okay." A warm hand touches his cheek, and soft, warm lips come down on his own. He lets it out, all that fear and frustration, moans into Jordan's mouth. He twists his hand into the front of Jordan's t-shirt, pulls him close, surrenders to lips and tongue and teeth and heat. He gives in to the need to be close to someone else, another warm body, even if just for a few moments.

"You should stay," Jordan says when they break apart for air. His chest rises and falls with labored breath, but his eyes are clear and sure. "I want you to stay."

John wants to. More than anything else after the night they've had, he wants to fall asleep knowing that Parrish is within arms reach. He needs to know that he's safe. "Jordan," he says, and his throat locks up around the word. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." A blush colors Parrish's cheekbones and he drops his eyes. "We don't have to—" The pink on his cheeks brightens, and when he lifts his gaze he's almost grinning. "We can just sleep. It's been a long night."

Parrish's hair is still damp. John could have gone straight home, blood and vamp dust and all, but he took the first shower. He should have gone home and fallen into his own bed, but his car was still in town, and if he's honest with himself, he didn't want to leave.

John snags the towel from the back of a chair, drags an edge along Jordan's hairline to catch the last few drops of moisture. "I think that's a good idea," he says.

---

The sheets are clean and crisp, stretched tight over the bed made with military precision. There's a street light outside the window, casting a faint glow through the curtains and into the room. The distant rumble of pre-dawn traffic mingles with the sound of Jordan's labored breath and his body moves with every inhale, every exhale, chest rising and falling under John's hand.

"Relax," John says, urging him to sleep for the third time since they slipped under the covers. If he would only sleep, maybe John would be able to clear his mind enough to do the same.

Jordan takes a deep breath, lets it out slow as he nods again. He tucks his chin into his chest and leans closer, presses his face into the space between the pillow and John's shoulder. "Can't sleep," he mumbles. He stills for a moment, then lifts his head, looks up with wide, unblinking eyes.

They look black and liquid in the semi-dark. His lips are parted, inviting, and as John stares, Jordan licks the lower, tongue sliding out slow to wet it.

"Dammit," John mutters, twisting his fingers into the front of Jordan's t-shirt as he leans in.

He must have been kidding himself to think that he could fall asleep here. The way he wants right now is almost new, certainly fresh, and invigorating. Part of it is relief, that they're alive, that they both came out of the events of tonight relatively unharmed. There's a need to celebrate that fact, to prove to himself that they're both still breathing.

Every kiss makes his heart beat faster, makes his blood pump harder. He can hear it rushing in his ears right now, as he licks hungrily into Jordan's mouth, savoring the taste of coffee and toothpaste. He swallows every soft, barely audible moan Jordan lets out, and he arches into Jordan's hands as they shift over his body.

John wraps a hand around the back of Jordan's neck, holds his head, never breaks the kiss as he rolls them both and settles between Jordan's thighs. The other hand slides down Jordan's side, fingers skirting the waistband of his briefs, then he grips Jordan's muscled thigh and pulls it up to bracket his hip.

Jordan gasps and jerks his head back. "Fuck." He lifts the other knee on his own, holds on with both arms around John's shoulders, rocks his hips. "Oh my god, John." He sighs and moves his hips again, a slow roll as he rubs his cock the length of John's. "Is this okay?"

John lets out a sound of disbelief. "Are you kidding me?" He finds Jordan's lips, kisses him, quick and clumsy. "You're the one pinned to the bed by an old man, shouldn't I be asking that?"

Jordan shakes his head. "I am completely okay with this." He leans up for another kiss, then hooks his ankles behind John's knees and moves again. "I want it. I want you. God. So much."

John lets out a moan of his own and drops his head into Jordan's throat, licking carefully over the bruising visible even in the almost-darkness, sucking kisses into the unmarred skin beneath Jordan's ear. He holds Jordan's hip, fingers splaying out over the firm flesh of his ass, and he rocks against him, slow and rhythmic.

Every time Jordan's breath hitches, every time his moans get a little higher in pitch, John's cock gets a little harder. He starts to think about how warm and good Jordan would feel inside, but he can't bring himself to stop what he's doing. He keeps moving between Jordan's spread thighs, until his soft cries get frantic and desperate and blunt fingernails dig into the flesh of his back.

"I'm gonna come," Jordan whimpers, legs clamping down on John's hips as if to keep him still. "You have to stop."

John gives his head a little shake. "Want to hear you," he says, his voice low and thick. He's not near coming yet, but this is too good. Jordan feels good underneath him, he sounds and smells and tastes so good. "Let me make you come." He holds Jordan by the hips and grinds against him, long and slow.

Jordan's moan is low and drawn out and tortured, and his hands grip John's shoulders like he's holding on for dear life. His lips move against John's cheek as he pants and gasps. "Want you to fuck me," he whispers. "Want to come with you inside me."

"Oh, shit." John jerks his hips, kisses Jordan hard. "I'm gonna do that," he says against Jordan's slack, gasping mouth. "But come for me. Right now. Please."

Jordan whimpers and arches his back. When he falls back to the mattress, he lifts his legs higher, wraps them around John's hips, and he moves. He writhes, his whole body undulating while his face relaxes in pleasure. Then he stiffens in John's arms, thighs tightening around John's hips, and he lets out a strangled whimper as he starts to come.

The muscles in Jordan's stomach tense and release, over and over. Dampness wicks onto John's underwear as he presses close to where come soaks Jordan's briefs, wet and warm.

He pulls away when Jordan shudders and goes limp, legs falling back to the mattress. He's flushed and gasping, and when John lies his hand on Jordan's chest, his heart is beating fast and hard.

Jordan opens his eyes. He reaches out, pulls John down into a slow, lazy kiss. "You made me come in my shorts, you bastard." Then he grins, eyes closing again. "Condoms are in the drawer. Hurry up." His grin gets wider. "Before I fall asleep on you."

"I can wait," John says, even though he thinks maybe he can't.

Jordan opens his eyes, rolls them, the grin still plastered across his face. Then he grimaces, and reaches down to wriggle out of his briefs.

John watches in fascination as he peels them off, revealing a softening, but still plump and pretty cock. Semen glistens on the head, and John barely thinks about it before he shifts down the bed to get close. He takes Jordan's briefs out of his hand, uses a clean corner to wipe away the worst of the mess from the skin and hair around his dick, then drops them off the edge of the bed. He wraps his hand around the base of Jordan's softening cock, and he swipes his tongue across the head.

It's been a long time, but the salty bitterness is pleasantly familiar. He pulls Jordan's cock into his mouth, lets it sit on his tongue as Jordan gives a little shiver and stretches to pull off his t-shirt.

Jordan threads his fingers into John's hair as he starts to get hard again. He soon fills John's mouth, and the gentle pressure from his hand guides John to start to move. Jordan twists again, there's the sound of a drawer opening, and he pushes a plastic bottle into John's hand as he lifts his knees up, spreading his thighs.

John lifts his eyes. Jordan looks down at him, eyes wide, lips parted. His hand slides from John's hair to the collar of his shirt, and he pulls. "Please," he breathes. "God, John. Please."

John swallows hard. He sits up on his knees, scooting forward to rest between Jordan's spread thighs. He peels his shirt off over his head and shucks off his boxers. He's got a beautiful young man laid out before him, all long, lean, defined muscle. He spares a brief thought for the differences between them, but it's fleeting. Jordan wants him, his eyes are on John's cock, and he moans and presses his teeth into his lower lip as his knees part just a little more.

It's like an unconscious movement when he does it, his hips shifting at the same time to bring him just a little closer. "Please."

John puts a hand on Jordan's knee, drops his head to mouth at smooth skin over twitching muscle on the inside of his thigh. Then he snaps the cap on the lube and smears a little on his fingers.

When John touches Jordan, a featherlight slide of fingertips over his hole, Jordan's eyes fall shut and he sighs. John puts a little pressure behind the touch, and his fingertip slides into tight heat.

Jordan reaches up, wraps a hand around the back of John's neck, and he rolls his hips, taking John's finger all the way to the knuckle. He tips his head up, pulls John down and kisses him, wet and clumsy. "More."

John's ability to think is gone by the time he gets three fingers deep inside Jordan's body. The hot wet slide wipes his mind clean of anything but the need to get his cock in there. He pants against Jordan's mouth, not even able to kiss him anymore, all he can do is swallow Jordan's soft grunts and desperate moans. "I need—" he gasps as his hips rock against the inside of Jordan's thigh. "I want to—"

Jordan lets out a desperate groan and grasps John's wrist. He shudders as he pulls John's hand free, then rolls toward the cabinet. He upends a box into the drawer, grabs a condom as it falls, and tears at the foil with his teeth. "Been thinking about this for so long." He rolls the condom onto John's dick, smears it with lube. "I'll be writing reports, and you'll walk past, and all of a sudden I'm as hard as anything and all I can think about is how badly I need you to touch me."

"Jesus." John knows he's not going to be able to think of anything else from now on. He pushes Jordan down onto his back as he imagines pulling him into his office, locking the door, fucking him on the desk. He puts his hands beneath Jordan's knees and pushes them into his chest. His eyes slide down the backs of Jordan's thighs and lock onto his slick, open hole, rubs the head of his cock over the entrance to Jordan's body, and then he pushes in.

So tight. So hot. "Goddammit." John can barely think, can barely hold back the urge to thrust hard and deep. He groans with the restraint it takes to stay upright.

Jordan moans, his head jerking back onto the pillow as he arches off the mattress. There's a hand splayed out on John's chest, holding him in position. Slowly he relaxes, the hand slides down and slips around John's waist, pulls him in. "That's it," he breathes as John sinks in deep. "God, yeah."

John stares down into eyes that are bright and fevered. It's lighter than it was before, close to dawn, and he can see the color. "God, you're beautiful," he breathes, then pulls back and sinks deep all over again. He pulls Jordan's legs around his hips, and wrapped up in him, cock deep inside his body, John feels safe and warm and right. There's something like pain coiling in his belly, a tight twist of emotion and he's pretty sure this is too quick. "What have you done to me, kid?" He leans forward and swallows the questioning whimper as Jordan lets it out, kisses him hard as he rocks into him, over and over again.

When he slips a hand between them, Jordan's stomach muscles are clenched tight. His cock is hard, leaking onto his belly. John wraps his hand around it, jerks it a couple of times. "Come on," he says. "Show me. I wanna feel it." His spine fuses as he arches back, so damn close himself.

Jordan's arm tightens around John's neck, he pants out small, high pitched gasps, and then he stiffens, his body going rigid mid-writhe. Come spills over John's fist and he cries out as Jordan's body clamps down on him in hard, rolling spasms.

John's heard about your life flashing before your eyes when you know you're about to die. It's like that, except it's all Parrish. Scenes spark in his mind, the first moment John laid eyes on Jordan and he wondered how long it would be before Beacon Hills killed this one, too. The fear that gripped him even then, because Jordan looked far too young. He remembers asking him why he came here, marveling at the lack of fear and thinking it was foolhardy, because John knew better.

He remembers sitting slumped on the floor, poison running through his veins, his heart breaking because he'd done it, he'd gotten Parrish killed.

It all flicks past so quick, and then there's Parrish, cheeks red, lips wet, fingers clutching the back of a chair so hard his knuckles are white.

John opens his eyes, looks down. It's the same pink flush on Jordan's cheeks, the same wet, kiss-swollen lips, the same eyes, bright and open and vulnerable. And John sees him go down again, sees him slip from the vampire's hands, cast aside like he was dead already.

And as he comes, he chokes on all that feeling, the fear and the affection and the desperate need to never, ever, let go.

---

He's warm, exhausted, right in that perfect moment of sated almost-sleep when the body beside him shifts.

"I have a confession to make," Jordan says.

John grunts and opens one eye.

It's past dawn, and the glow of early morning sun through the curtains illuminates the side of Jordan's face. He licks his lips and closes his eyes. His fingertips stroke small, slow circles on the bare skin of John's chest. "I wanted this from the moment we met." He smiles, licks his lips. "You hardly said a word, couldn't have seemed less interested in me, professionally or otherwise. But I liked you. I knew I liked you more than I should have, but I couldn't make myself stop thinking about you."

"I was plenty interested," John mumbles into the pillow. He drags himself up onto one elbow. "Soon as you left the room I opened your file—"

Jordan laughs, smiling wide, eyes sparkling. "You just wanted to know how old I was."

John shrugs. "True. Come on. You don't look much older than my son." He cringes. "Jesus. Can we pretend I didn't just say that?"

Jordan grins and drops his eyes. John's phone starts to ring.

He finds it on the bedside table. "Stiles," he says into the phone, a little breathless.

"Where the hell are you?" his son demands. "I called the station, the frickin hospital—"

"Calm down," John says. "I'm fine. I'll be home later." His eyes move over Jordan's naked body, almost visible beneath the sheet. "By lunchtime. Promise."

"Where are you?" The tone of Stiles' voice shifts from panic to curiosity. "Why didn't you come home?"

"I didn't have my car."

"It's not here. I checked."

John smiles. "I left it outside a vampire bar in town."

"What the hell, dad? Vampires? What were you doing at a vampire bar?"

"I was on a date?"

Long moments of silence pass. "Oh my god. Did you get laid?"

John catches a few muttered words, 'therapy' and 'disturbing' and 'crisis'. He rolls his eyes. "Goodbye, Stiles."

"Dad, vampires? We need to talk—"

"I'll see you later." John ends the call, cutting Stiles off mid-sentence, puts the phone back down on the bedside table. Then he turns back to Jordan and slides back down onto the bed beside him.

Jordan bites his lip. "Is he not gonna like this?"

"He'll be fine. I think he's more interested in the vampires." He cups Jordan's cheek in his hand, drags a thumb over his lips. "I should have let him know I wasn't going to be home last night. I got distracted."

Jordan nods. "Vampires."

"It wasn't the vampires." John leans in to capture Jordan's lips in a kiss, slides a hand beneath the sheet and over bare skin.