Moderate Ado About Absolutely Nothing
Dec. 3rd, 2014 09:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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suicaTitle: Moderate Ado About Absolutely Nothing [also available on AO3]
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairing: Sterek, Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Jackson Whittemore, Sheriff Stilinski, Allison Argent, Lydia Martin, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd, Isaac Lahey
Prompt: Stiles is worried because he's not sure where he, as a human, fits into a pack of werewolves, and it seems like he's being excluded. (It's 50% concern for his well-being / 50% asshole teenage werewolves.) Stiles tries to worm his way in. Derek has noticed and tries to fix it by doing everything but talking. Nobody is good at being part of a pack yet.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“No no no no no, you’re saying it all wrong. Like this: Y-E-S, yuh-eh-sss. Yyyyeeeeessss.”
“Hilarious. But my answer is still no.”
Stiles decided it was time to switch tactics. Time for the intolerable whining voice. “Deeeerek, you can’t be serious. You can’t greet a delegation of werewolves with a few bags of chips and a pizza.”
“I never said I’d be greeting them with anything. This isn’t a social dinner, it’s a peace negotiation. At most, I’ll be serving water.” Derek leaned back against the porch of the newly rebuilt Hale House, hands in his pockets. He was ostensibly watching the treeline, waiting for the betas to come back from their run, but Stiles could see that most of Derek’s attention was on their conversation, and Stiles himself was more focused on maintaining the relaxed slope of Derek’s shoulders and the soft smile in his eyes than on winning their ridiculous argument.
“Oh my god, Derek. You need something to provide small talk, something to ease the way into the heavy issues. Water won’t cut it.”
“If we’re that desperate for useless conversation, I’m sure we’ll be able to fall back on polite discussions of the weather and snide comments on one another’s clothing.”
“You’d think so, but I’m not entirely convinced you’ll be wearing clothing. I’m starting to forget what you look like when you’re wearing a shirt.”
Derek crossed his arms over his (clothed) chest, unimpressed.
“Come on, at least let me make some canapés. Like those little sandwiches or mini-quiches or something. Ooooh, and I can serve some mini-cheesecakes, and--”
“No, Stiles. I know what you’ll do with even the smallest leeway--I’ll say you can prepare a vegetable tray and pick up a shrimp ring, and then we’ll suddenly be buried under a 20-course meal and you’ll have to roll us out of the room.” Derek paused, tilting his head to one side. The betas must be back from their run. Derek continued, smirking slightly, “The Spry Pack will be up in arms over how we incapacitated their peaceful ambassadors, and then war, Stiles.”
“God, you’re dramatic,” replied Stiles, grinning in full appreciation of the irony of that accusation. “I’m only human, Derek. What damage can I really do to a bunch of werewolves?” Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles saw the betas burst from the treeline, but as he spoke, they froze, looking stricken, and rather than approach to check in with their alpha, they huddled together in a group, muttering amongst themselves. “Oh, no. Derek, your puppies are having another one of their issues. Go fix it.”
Derek rolled his eyes at Stiles. “You fix it. Maybe they’re upset that you aren’t greeting them with canapés.”
“Fuck you,” snorted Stiles. “So, what, I have to deal with them when they’re being insecure little rage monkeys, but you’re perfectly fine with taking responsibility for them when we’re just chilling and talking and spreading pack joy over a movie?”
“Of course--it’s important that we stick to our strengths,” Derek said, deadpan.
Stiles laughed, and as he jogged off to deal with whatever bitchfest the betas were having this time, he saw Derek smile at him, warm and fond.
The whispering cut off when Stiles approached, and he frowned, suddenly concerned. The betas usually included him in their rants--which were normally centred on their alpha--and tended to expect him to fix everything. The fact that they were keeping quiet around him now suggested that he was the problem, which was an idea that Stiles didn’t like at all.
“Hey, guys,” he began uncertainly. “What’s up?”
Scott give him a big, painfully forced grin. “Nothing’s up. At all. Everything normal here,” he said.
Stiles stared at him. “Right. I can definitely see that. How’d your run go?”
“Great!” Erica chimed in, voice dripping with false enthusiasm. Her left eye was twitching.
“...Okay,” agreed Stiles carefully. He made a mental note to remind Derek that the betas were under no circumstances to participate in any part of the upcoming negotiations. They were so unsubtle it looked physically painful. “Guys, you know you’re going to spill over our pack dinner anyway, so you might as well tell me now so we can avoid spending the whole first half of our meal in a state of awkward silence.”
“There’s nothing wrong, Stilinski.” Jackson had his arms crossed over his chest and looked as indifferent as ever, but he couldn’t quite meet Stiles’ eyes. “Anyway, you’re not coming to the pack dinner tonight.”
Stiles sucked in a breath, fury spreading through his body. He’d thought Jackson had been getting better, but apparently he’d spent the last few hours running backwards. “Excuse me?”
“Tonight is a werewolves-only gathering. You’re not invited.”
“Not invited? Where the fuck do you get off, telling me--”
“Stiles,” Scott interrupted quickly. He wasn’t looking directly at Stiles, either. What the hell was going on? “Please, just. Not tonight, okay?”
“Because tonight is for pack, not hangers-on,” Jackson added. Scott turned to glare at him, but Stiles noticed that he wasn’t disagreeing.
Stiles stilled, feeling cold seeping into his veins. “You--You--Are you for real? You can’t be--”
“I’m serious, Stiles. We all are.”
Stiles looked from beta to beta, observing the guilty but firm expression on all their faces. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He turned around and could see Derek frowning sharply, his mouth thin and unhappy. He gave Stiles a small nod, and Stiles knew what he was saying.
Back off. Give them some space. We’ll clear things up soon enough.
But they’re mine, Stiles wanted to argue. I’m supposed to be the one to clear things up.
Still, he dipped his head once in submission, then turned around and walked away, head held high. Derek had better have all this fixed by morning, or else.
--
Derek didn’t have it all fixed by morning.
When Stiles tried to call first Scott, then Erica, then the others, he learned, one-by-one, that everyone had unshakeable plans for the day which could absolutely not include him.
Stiles glared at his bedroom wall, sulking, as he set his phone down on his comforter as gently as possible--after all the crap he’d taken for being the bearer of bad news, he knew better than to blame the messenger, and anyway, he went through too many phones as it was to let this one die in a tantrum.
He’d think it was all a conspiracy to keep him from learning about some sort of special surprise--the betas were notoriously bad at keeping presents and surprise parties a secret--but his birthday was long finished, and there were no holidays approaching that could justify the sudden avoidance.
So what was going on?
He tried not to think of Jackson’s insinuation. Stiles was pack, damnit--he’d been there since the beginning, and he pulled his own weight.
He didn’t realise he was holding his phone again until he heard the automated ringing in his ear and Derek’s voice answering, “Stiles.”
Stiles let out a slow breath. “Derek.” He wasn’t sure how to ask, wasn’t even sure what he wanted to ask. Derek seemed content to wait through the long silence as Stiles fought to find the right words and, when that failed, listened as Stiles finally choked out, “I--I’m pack, right?”
“Stiles--”
“I mean, I know I’m pack. I am. You can have human members in a pack, right? Of course you can. I know you can. And that’s what I am. Aren’t I?”
Derek sighed. “Stiles. Stop worrying. They’re not thinking clearly.”
Stiles felt some of the tension drain out of him, and he closed his eyes, ready to relax the subject with a joke, when Derek continued.
“I understand where they’re coming from--”
Why the fuck would you say that?
“--But I think they’re going about this the wrong way--”
Obviously.
“--And they need some time to figure that out for themselves.”
You didn’t answer my question, Stiles wanted to say, but he bit his lip, trying to hold himself together.
“You doing okay?”
“Yeah, fine, I’m only living my third worst nightmare,” Stiles snapped, then immediately regretted it.
Derek said nothing for a moment. “It’ll all work out.”
“I know,” Stiles sighed. “I’m sorry. I just want it to all be worked out now.”
Derek chuckled low in his ear, and Stiles smiled for the first time in what felt like forever.
--
The next morning, Stiles decided that he was tired of just waiting around for a bunch of stupid werewolves to get over themselves. He was going to go crazy proactive on their asses.
He started with cookies, of course. Cookies were, after all, the traditional edible bribe.
He’d moved on to brownies by the time the Sheriff came home, sniffing the air with great interest.
“What’s the occasion?” the Sheriff asked, looking around at the huge amount of sweets cooling on every available surface in the kitchen.
Stiles didn’t look up from where he was carefully spreading chocolate icing over the tripled batch of chocolate brownies. “The pack is having some kind of pissyfit at me, so I’ve decided to bake my way back into their hearts.”
The Sheriff raised an eyebrow. “I see,” he said calmly. “I wouldn’t mind pretending to be angry at you if this is the sort of reward I could expect.”
Stiles glanced up at him and smiled brightly at the Sheriff’s hopeful expression. “Sure, Dad! I found this amazing low-fat, low-sodium, low-sugar oatmeal cookie recipe that I’ve been dying to try.”
The Sheriff made a face. “I’ll pass. Hope everything works out for you.” He turned toward the door with one last yearning glance at the baked goods.
“So do I,” Stiles whispered.
--
Stiles split the heaps of cookies and brownies into six giant tupperware containers, one for each lupine pack member, and headed out with a delivery route already planned out. As it happened, though, he didn’t make it past the first stop.
Scott opened the front door, obstinate expression already set in place, while Stiles was still pulling the first of the containers out of the jeep.
“Oh, great,” said Stiles brightly, unable to miss the fact that the entire pack of sorry-I’m-busy-today betas were crowding in behind Scott, “everyone’s here. I can just deliver everything in one go!”
So Stiles carried five the of the containers up to the front door and shoved his way in, almost dropping the precariously-balanced stack before Isaac took it from him, muttering something derogatory under his breath. Normally, Stiles wouldn’t take whatever Isaac had said to heart, as theirs was a pack ripe with unfelt insults and sass, but under the current circumstances, Stiles couldn’t quite keep from feeling hurt.
“What do you want, Stilinski?” Jackson asked, feigning boredom.
I want to know why Scott and Derek aren’t kicking your ass for being a little shithead, Stiles didn’t say. Barely. And they claimed he had no filter.
“Oh, you know. I happened to be baking today, and I went a little overboard, and then I thought, ‘hey, who do I know who’s always hungry?’ And it was like--werewolves! So I thought I’d stop by to drop them off.”
The betas frowned at him disapprovingly. Stiles refused to let his cheerful facade fade in the face of their Total Downer Syndrome.
“How convenient that you guys just happened to all be here!” Stiles continued, allowing his smile to sharpen. “How’d you manage to find time in your busy schedules to meet up?”
At that, the betas--finally--began to shift guiltily. Only Jackson met his accusation without hesitation.
“We weren’t busy, we just didn’t want you here,” he responded bluntly. The other betas turned to glare at him, but he continued before they could interrupt. “You don’t seem to get it, Stilinski, so let me dumb it down for you: us werewolves, you human. Understand? You don’t belong here.”
“What Jackson is trying to say,” Scott said, scowling at Jackson, “is that we just need some werewolf time. We have different, you know...”
“Experiences,” supplied Boyd.
“Needs,” smirked Erica.
Scott grimaced, but soldiered bravely on. “Whatever, we’re just, werewolves are just different, right? So there are some things that we can only do and talk about together, without any humans around. Like how sometimes Lydia and Allison go off and have ‘girl time’ and ban anything with a y-chromosome from following? And how sometimes we get together for bro time? It’s like that.”
Stiles stared at him. “Werewolf time. That’s what you’re going with. You need werewolf time.”
Scott flushed, but nodded firmly, sticking to his story.
Even if Stiles hadn’t already had all of Scott’s tells memorised by the time they were seven, he would still know that Scott’s story was bullshit, purely by virtue of it not applying to the current situation in any way, shape, or form.
Still, Derek had said to leave the betas to it, to let them work through this on their own, and the betas certainly seemed determined to do just that.
“Okay, then,” Stiles said, “I’ll just be on my way, then.” He made an aborted effort to reach the door before abruptly changing his mind. “No,” he said. “No, you know what? We are going to settle this shit right now.” Stiles turned on his heel and marched right past the stunned betas, snatching the tupperware containers up from the coffee table where Isaac had placed them and carrying them into the kitchen. “I’m going to heat these up now,” he told them. “Because they resemble a fresh-from-the-oven experience more closely when they’re served warm. But when I come back out, we are going to have words, and you are going to tell me exactly what’s going on.”
The betas just stared at him as he stomped off, their mouths flapping uselessly.
When Stiles reentered the living room with a tray of steaming desserts, the betas were still huddled together in a corner, arguing softly.
But not quite softly enough.
The ironic thing about werewolves’ super hearing was that, at least when it came to his pack, they tended to either assume that their human friends could hear everything they could, and therefore got irritated when they realised Stiles had somehow failed to hear a new development that had occurred in a whispered conversation on the other side of the lacrosse field, or they assumed their human friends were functionally deaf, and therefore were unable to make out any noise that occurred at a lower decibel than 85*, which, really, guys?
The betas’ current conversation was happening in the 40-50dB range, and was clearly audible to Stiles as he set the tray on the coffee table and fiddled with it, pretending to be completely focused on the arbitrary arrangement of the cookies and brownies.
“--be a moron, McCall, Stilinski is human, he can’t--”
“I know that, Jackson, I just mean we could--”
“He just can’t do the same things as us, Scott,” was Isaac’s input. “He’s not as fast, he’s not as strong, he can’t heal like we can...”
“I know, I mean obviously we can’t let him come to our training meetings anymore, but what are we going to tell him?”
Oh my god. Fuck them so hard. They were cutting him out because they thought he wasn’t good enough? Like he couldn’t keep up with them or something?
Stiles thought back to what Derek had said over the phone. ’I understand where they’re coming from...’
Oh really, now. Somehow, the thought that Derek agreed with this stupidity was what infuriated Stiles most of all.
He straightened up from where he’d been stooping over the coffee table and turned to the betas. “Hey, I just remembered that I still have to run over to Derek’s to deliver his cookies. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” He smiled at them brightly. “You know, for training?”
Boyd shoved Scott, who stepped forward cautiously. “Actually, Stiles, we were thinking that--”
“Okay, bye then!”
Stiles heard Scott calling after him, but he was already out the door.
--
When Stiles showed up to training bright and early the next morning, he was determined to kick some werewolf ass.
Things didn’t quite go according to plan. That is to say, the training session was an absolute disaster.
Stiles knew he wasn’t as fast as the betas, knew he didn’t have their endurance or their magical healing abilities; he hadn’t wanted to pretend to be something other than human, he’d just wanted to prove to them that he could do the same things they could, though not as quickly or as easily. He’d wanted to prove to them that he could keep up with them.
As it turned out, he really couldn’t keep up with them. At all.
“You don’t need to do this,” Derek told him after, holding out a hot water bottle. His face was all frowny and miserable.
Stiles didn’t see why Derek had any right to be miserable. After all, Stiles was the one in unadulterated agony right now. He’d foolishly turned down Derek’s offer of a massage earlier, trying to tough it out in front of the betas, but he was regretting it now. What had past him been thinking?
“Fuck you,” Stiles groaned, curling around the hot water bottle. “I’ll do whatever it takes for them to admit that I’m pack.”
Derek’s mouth curled down angrily, but he didn’t say anything more on the subject.
--
Stiles’ noble self-sacrifice at the training meeting didn’t have any noticeable effect on the betas’ opinions. They continued to block his every attempt to participate in pack events, even pack events that had less to do with pack politics and governing and more to do with eating pizza and watching terrible movies.
Obviously, his work was not yet finished.
“How did the pack respond to your edible plea for acknowledgement?” asked the Sheriff as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Did you manage to bake over the rift that had grown between you?”
And people thought his dramatic flare and unwarranted sarcasm had come from his mom. Really.
“Not too well. They’re still ignoring me.”
The Sheriff nodded sagely. “Yes, cookies have been losing their hold on the young people. Maybe you should try a chocolate pie or a cheesecake.” He dipped one of his rationed cookies into his coffee and bit into it with a look of bliss.
Stiles brightened as his father’s words sparked a memory. “I could make canapés!”
The Sheriff rolled his eyes as he continued to munch on the cookie. “No need to get too fancy.”
--
The betas tensed when they noticed his presence as they returned from their final run of the day. Even Derek looked a little upset, the jerk, before noticing the folding tables laid out in front of the porch. His nose twitched.
“What’s all this?” Scott asked when they’d come up to the house.
Stiles beamed and waved his arms vaguely in the direction of the tables heaping with food. “Canapés!”
Derek glared at him.
“I had been thinking about what kind of refreshments we should serve while the Spry Pack delegation is visiting, and I was hoping you guys would be willing to give me your opinions.”
“Stiles--” began Derek, his expression darkening further.
“Here, have a mini-quiche,” said Stiles quickly, shoving one straight into Derek’s open mouth. Derek’s scowl remained, but he chewed obediently.
When Stiles looked back to the betas, it was to see that they’d already made an admirable start on demolishing the mounds of food he’d laid out. He wasn’t surprised.
“So.” Stiles turned toward Derek, but consciously made the effort to keep his voice from dropping into that private tone that he so often fell into when speaking to Derek. He wanted this conversation to be eavesdropped on. “I spent some time yesterday preparing some proposals to submit to the delegation. I looked up some precedents and stuff, and I drew up a few drafts for you to look at.”
He’d expected Derek to be pleased that he’d gotten a head start on the more formal side of the preparations, that Derek would be happy at his diligence and impressed with his efficiency.
Derek didn’t look pleased. If anything, he looked even more upset.
“Stiles,” he said, tone urgent. “I had thought we’d work on that together.”
“I have it all here for you to look over, if you don’t think I did it properly,” replied Stiles, a little stung. “Of course we can change whatever.”
Derek breathed out sharply through his nose, eyes not leaving Stiles’, staring at him with a strange intensity. “Stiles. I know you can do it on your own. I just thought--I wanted us to write it together.”
“Oh.” He could tell from Derek’s expression, though, that that was not the response he was looking for, that Stiles was missing out on some important part of the conversation. “I--Sorry. I didn’t know.”
Stiles looked back at the betas, though in the face of Derek’s disappointment, he felt that no reaction of theirs could move him, be it their intended awe at his demonstration of brilliant resourcefulness in the service of his pack, or their mocking sneers at Derek’s response to said brilliant resourcefulness.
In the end, it didn’t matter. The betas had gotten involved in some sort of vicious food fight that involved catching the projectile canapés with their mouths. They hadn’t heard any of his conversation with Derek, for better or for worse.
--
“How’d the canapés go?” asked the Sheriff.
Stiles just glared at him balefully and tried to drown himself in orange juice.
The Sheriff nodded as though he’d expected nothing different. “I told you to go with a cheesecake.”
--
Thankfully, not all of Stiles’ friends were stuck-up jerks who roamed the woods in the light of the full moon.
...Okay, so they actually were, but not all of them were werewolves, was where he was going with that.
He tried to subtly shift the shopping bags to alleviate some of the weight on his cramping arm and nearly dropped the whole load. Lydia only shot an icy glare at him before returning to her deliberation between two almost identical pairs of shoes, but Allison took pity on him.
“Are you guys feeling a little hungry? There’s a vegan deli nearby that I’ve been meaning to check out--Stiles, I bet their sandwiches would be great for your dad.”
Stiles gave Lydia his most pathetic begging face, and either his practised pleading stare had gotten considerably more adorable recently, or Lydia was hungry enough to overcome her natural desire to make him miserable, because she didn’t argue with the plan.
By the time they were seated with their food and surrounded by a wall of shopping bags, the conversation had returned to fashion. Stiles had been zoning out a little--a lot--during the discussion of the new colours for the upcoming season, but he tuned back in when he heard Allison say, “And it can be so frustrating, the way he never seems to let me do anything or come to anything pack-related. I guess it’s nice that he cares about me so much that he’s trying to protect me from getting hurt, but it’s not like I can’t take care of myself, you know? It just reaches a point where you need to put your foot down and say enough’s enough, right?”
Stiles didn’t hear Lydia’s commiserating response. His mind was suddenly whirling.
Scott was treating Allison the same way he’d started treating Stiles--he was trying to protect her by leaving her out of pack events. Just like he was doing to Stiles.
Stiles wanted to hit himself for not realising it sooner. Of course the betas were just being overprotective assholes. He’d always known they were unbelievably stupid, of course they would decide this was the best way to keep him from getting hurt. And of course Derek would be able to “understand where they’re coming from”--Derek was, after all, as stupid as any of them.
“Sorry, guys, I have to go,” Stiles said, probably interrupting one of them, but unable to care. “I just remembered that I have a… thing. A really important thing. Right now.”
Allison smiled at him knowingly, and Lydia just rolled her eyes. As Stiles dug around for some cash, he pretended he couldn’t hear Lydia’s muttered, “Finally. I thought we were going to have to write it down in neon pink and glue it onto Derek’s naked back before he’d clue in.”
--
Stiles showed up at the next pack meeting ready to rip the betas--and Derek--a new one, but he arrived at the Hale House to see a line of petulant betas all holding notebook paper covered liberally in writing.
Stiles stared. “Uh. Hi?”
“Derek said we needed to apologise.” Scott’s expression was a little sullen as he waved his paper at Stiles.
A written apology? That was sort of… adorable.
“He said that we were being cruel and unreasonable,” added Isaac, clearly doubting the argument he was parroting.
Erica was scowling. “He’s just pissed because we were cutting into his private Stiles time.”
“Like it’s our fault that you aren’t putting out,” scoffed Jackson.
Stiles felt his whole face turning red. “This is a terrible apology. Jackson, I want you to know that if I had a rolled up newspaper, I’d be using it to smack you on the nose right now.”
Stiles felt the air shift at his back and knew from the betas’ expressions that Derek was now standing behind him. “Go run,” Derek said.
The betas let out a uniform groan.
“But we just finished our run!” complained Scott.
“So go out and run again.”
“But Derek--”
Derek must have let his eyes flash red, because the betas suddenly quieted.
“You’re all going to run. And you’re going to keep on running until you can apologise to Stiles properly.”
The betas looked slightly more contrite, and Scott was evening opening his mouth to deliver the first of the apologies when Jackson raised his eyes in defiance and announced, “I’m not going to apologise.” Derek’s scowl deepened, but before he could interrupt, Jackson continued. “No matter how much you make me run, I’m not going to apologise for trying to keep him safe.”
This extremely faulty argument was clearly affecting Derek, so Stiles decided that it was time to take over.
“I appreciate the thought, I guess, Jackson,” he said, “but, dude, what a stupid idea. Even if I couldn’t take care of myself, even if you guys didn’t need me to keep you safe, even if I were actually directly in danger right now… you do realise that pushing me away just means that you guys won’t be around to protect me if I ever am in trouble, right?”
The entire pack froze, apparently completely dumbfounded, as though this thought had never occurred to any of them before.
Stiles squeezed the bridge of his nose. These guys, seriously.
“Why don’t we all go inside, and then I’ll make some dinner. Sound good?”
Without a word, the betas all padded into the house.
Stiles turned to Derek, who was still staring at Stiles in unmitigated horror. Stiles rolled his eyes. “Really? I would have thought that reasoning would have been why you were mostly on my side through this.”
At Stiles’ words, Derek seemed to shake himself free of whatever elaborate horror story he’d been imagining. “I’m always on your side, Stiles.”
“...Sure. And?”
Derek shrugged. “I just--you have to make your own choices. We can’t make them for you, even if we don’t agree with them. Anyway--” Derek’s eyes caught Stiles’, and he gave a slow, easy grin. “--Pack should stick together.”
Stiles hugged Derek then, long and slow and warm. Because he could.
“Hey,” whispered Stiles. “I hear from an extremely unreliable source that you’re totally into me.”
“Jackson is a little shithead,” replied Derek. “Don’t believe anything he tells you.”
Stiles flushed and nodded quickly, beginning to pull away.
“But,” continued Derek, holding on fast, pulling Stiles even closer. “It’s true that I am… ‘totally into you.’ If I have to phrase it that way.”
Stiles smiled into Derek’s shoulder. “You definitely do.”
Right at that moment, it felt like everything was sliding back into place, where it belonged.
--
“You look happy, son,” the Sheriff commented, squinting at Stiles over the top of his coffee mug.
“Yeah, I finally got everything sorted out. Ugh, they’re such idiots, Dad.”
The Sheriff didn’t look overly pleased at his son’s reconciliation with his close group of friends. “So no cheesecake, then?”
Stiles gave him a look.
“No cheesecake,” the Sheriff acknowledged mournfully.
--
The betas were out running again. Stiles leaned back against the porch next to Derek and sighed contentedly, relieved at the return of normalcy. He reached over to grab Derek’s hand, entwining their fingers together.
He saw Derek’s smile out of the corner of his eye, and he couldn’t help but say, “So, Derek.”
“Hmm?”
“I still can’t decide--spinach quiche, or broccoli and cheddar quiche?”
Derek’s eyes rolled upward, but Stiles noticed that his smile had grown wider. “Stiles. No.”
END.
--
*See Decibel Comparison Chart
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairing: Sterek, Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Jackson Whittemore, Sheriff Stilinski, Allison Argent, Lydia Martin, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd, Isaac Lahey
Prompt: Stiles is worried because he's not sure where he, as a human, fits into a pack of werewolves, and it seems like he's being excluded. (It's 50% concern for his well-being / 50% asshole teenage werewolves.) Stiles tries to worm his way in. Derek has noticed and tries to fix it by doing everything but talking. Nobody is good at being part of a pack yet.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“No no no no no, you’re saying it all wrong. Like this: Y-E-S, yuh-eh-sss. Yyyyeeeeessss.”
“Hilarious. But my answer is still no.”
Stiles decided it was time to switch tactics. Time for the intolerable whining voice. “Deeeerek, you can’t be serious. You can’t greet a delegation of werewolves with a few bags of chips and a pizza.”
“I never said I’d be greeting them with anything. This isn’t a social dinner, it’s a peace negotiation. At most, I’ll be serving water.” Derek leaned back against the porch of the newly rebuilt Hale House, hands in his pockets. He was ostensibly watching the treeline, waiting for the betas to come back from their run, but Stiles could see that most of Derek’s attention was on their conversation, and Stiles himself was more focused on maintaining the relaxed slope of Derek’s shoulders and the soft smile in his eyes than on winning their ridiculous argument.
“Oh my god, Derek. You need something to provide small talk, something to ease the way into the heavy issues. Water won’t cut it.”
“If we’re that desperate for useless conversation, I’m sure we’ll be able to fall back on polite discussions of the weather and snide comments on one another’s clothing.”
“You’d think so, but I’m not entirely convinced you’ll be wearing clothing. I’m starting to forget what you look like when you’re wearing a shirt.”
Derek crossed his arms over his (clothed) chest, unimpressed.
“Come on, at least let me make some canapés. Like those little sandwiches or mini-quiches or something. Ooooh, and I can serve some mini-cheesecakes, and--”
“No, Stiles. I know what you’ll do with even the smallest leeway--I’ll say you can prepare a vegetable tray and pick up a shrimp ring, and then we’ll suddenly be buried under a 20-course meal and you’ll have to roll us out of the room.” Derek paused, tilting his head to one side. The betas must be back from their run. Derek continued, smirking slightly, “The Spry Pack will be up in arms over how we incapacitated their peaceful ambassadors, and then war, Stiles.”
“God, you’re dramatic,” replied Stiles, grinning in full appreciation of the irony of that accusation. “I’m only human, Derek. What damage can I really do to a bunch of werewolves?” Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles saw the betas burst from the treeline, but as he spoke, they froze, looking stricken, and rather than approach to check in with their alpha, they huddled together in a group, muttering amongst themselves. “Oh, no. Derek, your puppies are having another one of their issues. Go fix it.”
Derek rolled his eyes at Stiles. “You fix it. Maybe they’re upset that you aren’t greeting them with canapés.”
“Fuck you,” snorted Stiles. “So, what, I have to deal with them when they’re being insecure little rage monkeys, but you’re perfectly fine with taking responsibility for them when we’re just chilling and talking and spreading pack joy over a movie?”
“Of course--it’s important that we stick to our strengths,” Derek said, deadpan.
Stiles laughed, and as he jogged off to deal with whatever bitchfest the betas were having this time, he saw Derek smile at him, warm and fond.
The whispering cut off when Stiles approached, and he frowned, suddenly concerned. The betas usually included him in their rants--which were normally centred on their alpha--and tended to expect him to fix everything. The fact that they were keeping quiet around him now suggested that he was the problem, which was an idea that Stiles didn’t like at all.
“Hey, guys,” he began uncertainly. “What’s up?”
Scott give him a big, painfully forced grin. “Nothing’s up. At all. Everything normal here,” he said.
Stiles stared at him. “Right. I can definitely see that. How’d your run go?”
“Great!” Erica chimed in, voice dripping with false enthusiasm. Her left eye was twitching.
“...Okay,” agreed Stiles carefully. He made a mental note to remind Derek that the betas were under no circumstances to participate in any part of the upcoming negotiations. They were so unsubtle it looked physically painful. “Guys, you know you’re going to spill over our pack dinner anyway, so you might as well tell me now so we can avoid spending the whole first half of our meal in a state of awkward silence.”
“There’s nothing wrong, Stilinski.” Jackson had his arms crossed over his chest and looked as indifferent as ever, but he couldn’t quite meet Stiles’ eyes. “Anyway, you’re not coming to the pack dinner tonight.”
Stiles sucked in a breath, fury spreading through his body. He’d thought Jackson had been getting better, but apparently he’d spent the last few hours running backwards. “Excuse me?”
“Tonight is a werewolves-only gathering. You’re not invited.”
“Not invited? Where the fuck do you get off, telling me--”
“Stiles,” Scott interrupted quickly. He wasn’t looking directly at Stiles, either. What the hell was going on? “Please, just. Not tonight, okay?”
“Because tonight is for pack, not hangers-on,” Jackson added. Scott turned to glare at him, but Stiles noticed that he wasn’t disagreeing.
Stiles stilled, feeling cold seeping into his veins. “You--You--Are you for real? You can’t be--”
“I’m serious, Stiles. We all are.”
Stiles looked from beta to beta, observing the guilty but firm expression on all their faces. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He turned around and could see Derek frowning sharply, his mouth thin and unhappy. He gave Stiles a small nod, and Stiles knew what he was saying.
Back off. Give them some space. We’ll clear things up soon enough.
But they’re mine, Stiles wanted to argue. I’m supposed to be the one to clear things up.
Still, he dipped his head once in submission, then turned around and walked away, head held high. Derek had better have all this fixed by morning, or else.
--
Derek didn’t have it all fixed by morning.
When Stiles tried to call first Scott, then Erica, then the others, he learned, one-by-one, that everyone had unshakeable plans for the day which could absolutely not include him.
Stiles glared at his bedroom wall, sulking, as he set his phone down on his comforter as gently as possible--after all the crap he’d taken for being the bearer of bad news, he knew better than to blame the messenger, and anyway, he went through too many phones as it was to let this one die in a tantrum.
He’d think it was all a conspiracy to keep him from learning about some sort of special surprise--the betas were notoriously bad at keeping presents and surprise parties a secret--but his birthday was long finished, and there were no holidays approaching that could justify the sudden avoidance.
So what was going on?
He tried not to think of Jackson’s insinuation. Stiles was pack, damnit--he’d been there since the beginning, and he pulled his own weight.
He didn’t realise he was holding his phone again until he heard the automated ringing in his ear and Derek’s voice answering, “Stiles.”
Stiles let out a slow breath. “Derek.” He wasn’t sure how to ask, wasn’t even sure what he wanted to ask. Derek seemed content to wait through the long silence as Stiles fought to find the right words and, when that failed, listened as Stiles finally choked out, “I--I’m pack, right?”
“Stiles--”
“I mean, I know I’m pack. I am. You can have human members in a pack, right? Of course you can. I know you can. And that’s what I am. Aren’t I?”
Derek sighed. “Stiles. Stop worrying. They’re not thinking clearly.”
Stiles felt some of the tension drain out of him, and he closed his eyes, ready to relax the subject with a joke, when Derek continued.
“I understand where they’re coming from--”
Why the fuck would you say that?
“--But I think they’re going about this the wrong way--”
Obviously.
“--And they need some time to figure that out for themselves.”
You didn’t answer my question, Stiles wanted to say, but he bit his lip, trying to hold himself together.
“You doing okay?”
“Yeah, fine, I’m only living my third worst nightmare,” Stiles snapped, then immediately regretted it.
Derek said nothing for a moment. “It’ll all work out.”
“I know,” Stiles sighed. “I’m sorry. I just want it to all be worked out now.”
Derek chuckled low in his ear, and Stiles smiled for the first time in what felt like forever.
--
The next morning, Stiles decided that he was tired of just waiting around for a bunch of stupid werewolves to get over themselves. He was going to go crazy proactive on their asses.
He started with cookies, of course. Cookies were, after all, the traditional edible bribe.
He’d moved on to brownies by the time the Sheriff came home, sniffing the air with great interest.
“What’s the occasion?” the Sheriff asked, looking around at the huge amount of sweets cooling on every available surface in the kitchen.
Stiles didn’t look up from where he was carefully spreading chocolate icing over the tripled batch of chocolate brownies. “The pack is having some kind of pissyfit at me, so I’ve decided to bake my way back into their hearts.”
The Sheriff raised an eyebrow. “I see,” he said calmly. “I wouldn’t mind pretending to be angry at you if this is the sort of reward I could expect.”
Stiles glanced up at him and smiled brightly at the Sheriff’s hopeful expression. “Sure, Dad! I found this amazing low-fat, low-sodium, low-sugar oatmeal cookie recipe that I’ve been dying to try.”
The Sheriff made a face. “I’ll pass. Hope everything works out for you.” He turned toward the door with one last yearning glance at the baked goods.
“So do I,” Stiles whispered.
--
Stiles split the heaps of cookies and brownies into six giant tupperware containers, one for each lupine pack member, and headed out with a delivery route already planned out. As it happened, though, he didn’t make it past the first stop.
Scott opened the front door, obstinate expression already set in place, while Stiles was still pulling the first of the containers out of the jeep.
“Oh, great,” said Stiles brightly, unable to miss the fact that the entire pack of sorry-I’m-busy-today betas were crowding in behind Scott, “everyone’s here. I can just deliver everything in one go!”
So Stiles carried five the of the containers up to the front door and shoved his way in, almost dropping the precariously-balanced stack before Isaac took it from him, muttering something derogatory under his breath. Normally, Stiles wouldn’t take whatever Isaac had said to heart, as theirs was a pack ripe with unfelt insults and sass, but under the current circumstances, Stiles couldn’t quite keep from feeling hurt.
“What do you want, Stilinski?” Jackson asked, feigning boredom.
I want to know why Scott and Derek aren’t kicking your ass for being a little shithead, Stiles didn’t say. Barely. And they claimed he had no filter.
“Oh, you know. I happened to be baking today, and I went a little overboard, and then I thought, ‘hey, who do I know who’s always hungry?’ And it was like--werewolves! So I thought I’d stop by to drop them off.”
The betas frowned at him disapprovingly. Stiles refused to let his cheerful facade fade in the face of their Total Downer Syndrome.
“How convenient that you guys just happened to all be here!” Stiles continued, allowing his smile to sharpen. “How’d you manage to find time in your busy schedules to meet up?”
At that, the betas--finally--began to shift guiltily. Only Jackson met his accusation without hesitation.
“We weren’t busy, we just didn’t want you here,” he responded bluntly. The other betas turned to glare at him, but he continued before they could interrupt. “You don’t seem to get it, Stilinski, so let me dumb it down for you: us werewolves, you human. Understand? You don’t belong here.”
“What Jackson is trying to say,” Scott said, scowling at Jackson, “is that we just need some werewolf time. We have different, you know...”
“Experiences,” supplied Boyd.
“Needs,” smirked Erica.
Scott grimaced, but soldiered bravely on. “Whatever, we’re just, werewolves are just different, right? So there are some things that we can only do and talk about together, without any humans around. Like how sometimes Lydia and Allison go off and have ‘girl time’ and ban anything with a y-chromosome from following? And how sometimes we get together for bro time? It’s like that.”
Stiles stared at him. “Werewolf time. That’s what you’re going with. You need werewolf time.”
Scott flushed, but nodded firmly, sticking to his story.
Even if Stiles hadn’t already had all of Scott’s tells memorised by the time they were seven, he would still know that Scott’s story was bullshit, purely by virtue of it not applying to the current situation in any way, shape, or form.
Still, Derek had said to leave the betas to it, to let them work through this on their own, and the betas certainly seemed determined to do just that.
“Okay, then,” Stiles said, “I’ll just be on my way, then.” He made an aborted effort to reach the door before abruptly changing his mind. “No,” he said. “No, you know what? We are going to settle this shit right now.” Stiles turned on his heel and marched right past the stunned betas, snatching the tupperware containers up from the coffee table where Isaac had placed them and carrying them into the kitchen. “I’m going to heat these up now,” he told them. “Because they resemble a fresh-from-the-oven experience more closely when they’re served warm. But when I come back out, we are going to have words, and you are going to tell me exactly what’s going on.”
The betas just stared at him as he stomped off, their mouths flapping uselessly.
When Stiles reentered the living room with a tray of steaming desserts, the betas were still huddled together in a corner, arguing softly.
But not quite softly enough.
The ironic thing about werewolves’ super hearing was that, at least when it came to his pack, they tended to either assume that their human friends could hear everything they could, and therefore got irritated when they realised Stiles had somehow failed to hear a new development that had occurred in a whispered conversation on the other side of the lacrosse field, or they assumed their human friends were functionally deaf, and therefore were unable to make out any noise that occurred at a lower decibel than 85*, which, really, guys?
The betas’ current conversation was happening in the 40-50dB range, and was clearly audible to Stiles as he set the tray on the coffee table and fiddled with it, pretending to be completely focused on the arbitrary arrangement of the cookies and brownies.
“--be a moron, McCall, Stilinski is human, he can’t--”
“I know that, Jackson, I just mean we could--”
“He just can’t do the same things as us, Scott,” was Isaac’s input. “He’s not as fast, he’s not as strong, he can’t heal like we can...”
“I know, I mean obviously we can’t let him come to our training meetings anymore, but what are we going to tell him?”
Oh my god. Fuck them so hard. They were cutting him out because they thought he wasn’t good enough? Like he couldn’t keep up with them or something?
Stiles thought back to what Derek had said over the phone. ’I understand where they’re coming from...’
Oh really, now. Somehow, the thought that Derek agreed with this stupidity was what infuriated Stiles most of all.
He straightened up from where he’d been stooping over the coffee table and turned to the betas. “Hey, I just remembered that I still have to run over to Derek’s to deliver his cookies. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” He smiled at them brightly. “You know, for training?”
Boyd shoved Scott, who stepped forward cautiously. “Actually, Stiles, we were thinking that--”
“Okay, bye then!”
Stiles heard Scott calling after him, but he was already out the door.
--
When Stiles showed up to training bright and early the next morning, he was determined to kick some werewolf ass.
Things didn’t quite go according to plan. That is to say, the training session was an absolute disaster.
Stiles knew he wasn’t as fast as the betas, knew he didn’t have their endurance or their magical healing abilities; he hadn’t wanted to pretend to be something other than human, he’d just wanted to prove to them that he could do the same things they could, though not as quickly or as easily. He’d wanted to prove to them that he could keep up with them.
As it turned out, he really couldn’t keep up with them. At all.
“You don’t need to do this,” Derek told him after, holding out a hot water bottle. His face was all frowny and miserable.
Stiles didn’t see why Derek had any right to be miserable. After all, Stiles was the one in unadulterated agony right now. He’d foolishly turned down Derek’s offer of a massage earlier, trying to tough it out in front of the betas, but he was regretting it now. What had past him been thinking?
“Fuck you,” Stiles groaned, curling around the hot water bottle. “I’ll do whatever it takes for them to admit that I’m pack.”
Derek’s mouth curled down angrily, but he didn’t say anything more on the subject.
--
Stiles’ noble self-sacrifice at the training meeting didn’t have any noticeable effect on the betas’ opinions. They continued to block his every attempt to participate in pack events, even pack events that had less to do with pack politics and governing and more to do with eating pizza and watching terrible movies.
Obviously, his work was not yet finished.
“How did the pack respond to your edible plea for acknowledgement?” asked the Sheriff as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Did you manage to bake over the rift that had grown between you?”
And people thought his dramatic flare and unwarranted sarcasm had come from his mom. Really.
“Not too well. They’re still ignoring me.”
The Sheriff nodded sagely. “Yes, cookies have been losing their hold on the young people. Maybe you should try a chocolate pie or a cheesecake.” He dipped one of his rationed cookies into his coffee and bit into it with a look of bliss.
Stiles brightened as his father’s words sparked a memory. “I could make canapés!”
The Sheriff rolled his eyes as he continued to munch on the cookie. “No need to get too fancy.”
--
The betas tensed when they noticed his presence as they returned from their final run of the day. Even Derek looked a little upset, the jerk, before noticing the folding tables laid out in front of the porch. His nose twitched.
“What’s all this?” Scott asked when they’d come up to the house.
Stiles beamed and waved his arms vaguely in the direction of the tables heaping with food. “Canapés!”
Derek glared at him.
“I had been thinking about what kind of refreshments we should serve while the Spry Pack delegation is visiting, and I was hoping you guys would be willing to give me your opinions.”
“Stiles--” began Derek, his expression darkening further.
“Here, have a mini-quiche,” said Stiles quickly, shoving one straight into Derek’s open mouth. Derek’s scowl remained, but he chewed obediently.
When Stiles looked back to the betas, it was to see that they’d already made an admirable start on demolishing the mounds of food he’d laid out. He wasn’t surprised.
“So.” Stiles turned toward Derek, but consciously made the effort to keep his voice from dropping into that private tone that he so often fell into when speaking to Derek. He wanted this conversation to be eavesdropped on. “I spent some time yesterday preparing some proposals to submit to the delegation. I looked up some precedents and stuff, and I drew up a few drafts for you to look at.”
He’d expected Derek to be pleased that he’d gotten a head start on the more formal side of the preparations, that Derek would be happy at his diligence and impressed with his efficiency.
Derek didn’t look pleased. If anything, he looked even more upset.
“Stiles,” he said, tone urgent. “I had thought we’d work on that together.”
“I have it all here for you to look over, if you don’t think I did it properly,” replied Stiles, a little stung. “Of course we can change whatever.”
Derek breathed out sharply through his nose, eyes not leaving Stiles’, staring at him with a strange intensity. “Stiles. I know you can do it on your own. I just thought--I wanted us to write it together.”
“Oh.” He could tell from Derek’s expression, though, that that was not the response he was looking for, that Stiles was missing out on some important part of the conversation. “I--Sorry. I didn’t know.”
Stiles looked back at the betas, though in the face of Derek’s disappointment, he felt that no reaction of theirs could move him, be it their intended awe at his demonstration of brilliant resourcefulness in the service of his pack, or their mocking sneers at Derek’s response to said brilliant resourcefulness.
In the end, it didn’t matter. The betas had gotten involved in some sort of vicious food fight that involved catching the projectile canapés with their mouths. They hadn’t heard any of his conversation with Derek, for better or for worse.
--
“How’d the canapés go?” asked the Sheriff.
Stiles just glared at him balefully and tried to drown himself in orange juice.
The Sheriff nodded as though he’d expected nothing different. “I told you to go with a cheesecake.”
--
Thankfully, not all of Stiles’ friends were stuck-up jerks who roamed the woods in the light of the full moon.
...Okay, so they actually were, but not all of them were werewolves, was where he was going with that.
He tried to subtly shift the shopping bags to alleviate some of the weight on his cramping arm and nearly dropped the whole load. Lydia only shot an icy glare at him before returning to her deliberation between two almost identical pairs of shoes, but Allison took pity on him.
“Are you guys feeling a little hungry? There’s a vegan deli nearby that I’ve been meaning to check out--Stiles, I bet their sandwiches would be great for your dad.”
Stiles gave Lydia his most pathetic begging face, and either his practised pleading stare had gotten considerably more adorable recently, or Lydia was hungry enough to overcome her natural desire to make him miserable, because she didn’t argue with the plan.
By the time they were seated with their food and surrounded by a wall of shopping bags, the conversation had returned to fashion. Stiles had been zoning out a little--a lot--during the discussion of the new colours for the upcoming season, but he tuned back in when he heard Allison say, “And it can be so frustrating, the way he never seems to let me do anything or come to anything pack-related. I guess it’s nice that he cares about me so much that he’s trying to protect me from getting hurt, but it’s not like I can’t take care of myself, you know? It just reaches a point where you need to put your foot down and say enough’s enough, right?”
Stiles didn’t hear Lydia’s commiserating response. His mind was suddenly whirling.
Scott was treating Allison the same way he’d started treating Stiles--he was trying to protect her by leaving her out of pack events. Just like he was doing to Stiles.
Stiles wanted to hit himself for not realising it sooner. Of course the betas were just being overprotective assholes. He’d always known they were unbelievably stupid, of course they would decide this was the best way to keep him from getting hurt. And of course Derek would be able to “understand where they’re coming from”--Derek was, after all, as stupid as any of them.
“Sorry, guys, I have to go,” Stiles said, probably interrupting one of them, but unable to care. “I just remembered that I have a… thing. A really important thing. Right now.”
Allison smiled at him knowingly, and Lydia just rolled her eyes. As Stiles dug around for some cash, he pretended he couldn’t hear Lydia’s muttered, “Finally. I thought we were going to have to write it down in neon pink and glue it onto Derek’s naked back before he’d clue in.”
--
Stiles showed up at the next pack meeting ready to rip the betas--and Derek--a new one, but he arrived at the Hale House to see a line of petulant betas all holding notebook paper covered liberally in writing.
Stiles stared. “Uh. Hi?”
“Derek said we needed to apologise.” Scott’s expression was a little sullen as he waved his paper at Stiles.
A written apology? That was sort of… adorable.
“He said that we were being cruel and unreasonable,” added Isaac, clearly doubting the argument he was parroting.
Erica was scowling. “He’s just pissed because we were cutting into his private Stiles time.”
“Like it’s our fault that you aren’t putting out,” scoffed Jackson.
Stiles felt his whole face turning red. “This is a terrible apology. Jackson, I want you to know that if I had a rolled up newspaper, I’d be using it to smack you on the nose right now.”
Stiles felt the air shift at his back and knew from the betas’ expressions that Derek was now standing behind him. “Go run,” Derek said.
The betas let out a uniform groan.
“But we just finished our run!” complained Scott.
“So go out and run again.”
“But Derek--”
Derek must have let his eyes flash red, because the betas suddenly quieted.
“You’re all going to run. And you’re going to keep on running until you can apologise to Stiles properly.”
The betas looked slightly more contrite, and Scott was evening opening his mouth to deliver the first of the apologies when Jackson raised his eyes in defiance and announced, “I’m not going to apologise.” Derek’s scowl deepened, but before he could interrupt, Jackson continued. “No matter how much you make me run, I’m not going to apologise for trying to keep him safe.”
This extremely faulty argument was clearly affecting Derek, so Stiles decided that it was time to take over.
“I appreciate the thought, I guess, Jackson,” he said, “but, dude, what a stupid idea. Even if I couldn’t take care of myself, even if you guys didn’t need me to keep you safe, even if I were actually directly in danger right now… you do realise that pushing me away just means that you guys won’t be around to protect me if I ever am in trouble, right?”
The entire pack froze, apparently completely dumbfounded, as though this thought had never occurred to any of them before.
Stiles squeezed the bridge of his nose. These guys, seriously.
“Why don’t we all go inside, and then I’ll make some dinner. Sound good?”
Without a word, the betas all padded into the house.
Stiles turned to Derek, who was still staring at Stiles in unmitigated horror. Stiles rolled his eyes. “Really? I would have thought that reasoning would have been why you were mostly on my side through this.”
At Stiles’ words, Derek seemed to shake himself free of whatever elaborate horror story he’d been imagining. “I’m always on your side, Stiles.”
“...Sure. And?”
Derek shrugged. “I just--you have to make your own choices. We can’t make them for you, even if we don’t agree with them. Anyway--” Derek’s eyes caught Stiles’, and he gave a slow, easy grin. “--Pack should stick together.”
Stiles hugged Derek then, long and slow and warm. Because he could.
“Hey,” whispered Stiles. “I hear from an extremely unreliable source that you’re totally into me.”
“Jackson is a little shithead,” replied Derek. “Don’t believe anything he tells you.”
Stiles flushed and nodded quickly, beginning to pull away.
“But,” continued Derek, holding on fast, pulling Stiles even closer. “It’s true that I am… ‘totally into you.’ If I have to phrase it that way.”
Stiles smiled into Derek’s shoulder. “You definitely do.”
Right at that moment, it felt like everything was sliding back into place, where it belonged.
--
“You look happy, son,” the Sheriff commented, squinting at Stiles over the top of his coffee mug.
“Yeah, I finally got everything sorted out. Ugh, they’re such idiots, Dad.”
The Sheriff didn’t look overly pleased at his son’s reconciliation with his close group of friends. “So no cheesecake, then?”
Stiles gave him a look.
“No cheesecake,” the Sheriff acknowledged mournfully.
--
The betas were out running again. Stiles leaned back against the porch next to Derek and sighed contentedly, relieved at the return of normalcy. He reached over to grab Derek’s hand, entwining their fingers together.
He saw Derek’s smile out of the corner of his eye, and he couldn’t help but say, “So, Derek.”
“Hmm?”
“I still can’t decide--spinach quiche, or broccoli and cheddar quiche?”
Derek’s eyes rolled upward, but Stiles noticed that his smile had grown wider. “Stiles. No.”
END.
--
*See Decibel Comparison Chart
Tags:
- archive warnings: no archive warnings,
- canonverse: pre-s3a canon-divergent,
- character: allison argent,
- character: derek hale,
- character: erica reyes,
- character: isaac lahey,
- character: jackson whittemore,
- character: lydia martin,
- character: scott mccall,
- character: sheriff stilinski,
- character: stiles stilinski,
- character: veron boyd,
- cycle: 002,
- fanfiction,
- genre: angst,
- genre: humour,
- genre: romance,
- pairing: derek hale/stiles stilinski,
- rating: t,
- series: teen wolf,
- tropes: failwolf!derek,
- writing challenges
no subject
Date: 2014-12-03 02:44 pm (UTC)