Chapter Text
One Year(ish) Later
It's a perfect summer day, the afternoon of Derek's housewarming. The sun is shining, there's a light breeze keeping the bugs away, and the heat wave broke only two days ago, ushering in much needed cooler air. Stiles couldn't have ordered better weather.
It's perfect in other ways, too, now that the house is done; smaller than the one he grew up in, built on the edges of the preserve instead of in the middle of it, with only four bedrooms instead of ten, but his pack is young and have families of their own. They won't need their own rooms for awhile, if ever, but it's good to be prepared, too.
It smells like them, now. Of old gym socks and lacrosse gear, Erica's hair spray and perfume, Isaac's raw anxiety and Stiles' favorite pizza rolls. It feels lived in and loved, comfortable, like home.
Stiles arrives with John, Melissa, and Scott in tow, all of them loaded down with grocery bags, smiles on their faces, warmth in their eyes. It's a surprise every time Melissa hugs him, still; less so Scott's dubious regard. Too busy ushering the boys out into the yard, Derek included, she doesn't seem to notice. "John and I can handle getting the food together," she says, pushing up her sleeves. You boys go out and enjoy the weather and all this work you've done." Scott and Stiles take turns pressing kisses to her cheek, and her light blush is so charming, Derek can't resist doing the same.
The party doesn't get into full swing until about an hour later, once everybody has arrived: Lydia and Jackson, Erica and Boyd, Isaac and Allison, Boyd's parents, Erica's mom, Isaac's guardian. It's small, but the teenagers are rowdy, filling up the empty space with their voices and laughter. The parents laugh, too, both at their kids and with them, and it feels weird, but also cozy and welcoming. Derek still has no idea what he's doing with his rag-tag, pieced-together pack, but the parents don't call him on his inexperience, which is more than Derek could hope for.
Each time the kids get together, they mingle more and more, forming the same sort of bonds Derek shared with his sisters and cousins. It's...it eases Derek's mind, watching them flourish. Sometimes Stiles catches Derek's eye and gives him a knowing smirk, like everything's going exactly according to his mysterious plan. It's something Derek tries not to acknowledge too often, to keep Stiles' ego from getting too big.
Once it's dark, the moon high and bright in the sky, the parents start nudging their kids toward clean-up, and even though they went through an obscene amount of grilled meat and chips and all the prepared salads brought to share, they're done within half an hour, thanks to two well-organized working lines, one for kitchen duty, the other for backyard cleaning. Derek bounces between the two to help, but Melissa keeps maneuvering him out of the way, her hand light on Derek's elbow.
"We've got this," she says. "You get to alpha them around all the time. Let us parents have a chance, huh?" She winks and continues, "Besides, this party is for you, you're allowed to enjoy that." It leaves Derek at odds; he's not going to lounge around on the sofa while people scurry around him, picking up abandoned plates and bottles. It wouldn't be right.
He heads outside instead, redirecting himself around Mrs Reyes' elaborate recyclables sorting, toward the darkest corner of the porch, where it's quiet and he won't — hopefully — be seen. He no sooner lets out a relieved breath than a racket rises up from his left and he lets out a low warning growl, red eyes flashing.
"Stand down!" Stiles yelps, hands held out in front of him. There's a garbage can lid at his feet and two overstuffed bags peeking out from the can itself. "I come bearing garbage, nothing nefarious."
Derek huffs an embarrassed laugh and replaces the lid for Stiles.
"I can't believe I snuck up on you," Stiles says, following Derek back to the corner, hands tucked under his armpits. "Better be careful. You could lose your werewolf cred for that."
"I heard you," Derek lies. "I just wanted to see your reaction."
"Bullshit," Stiles says, with a nudge to Derek's shoulder. The touch lingers, firm and warm. It's something Derek has noticed lately, now that he's around more, done with getting his G.E.D. and building the house, too; how Stiles always finds Derek's eyes on pack night, over somebody's head, and the soft smile Derek gets along with it, how Stiles touches last a beat longer, his fingers strong and sure. Derek wonders if it carries over from Derek being their, well, pet for lack of a better term, when Stiles was far freer with his affection.
What's surprising is how easy it is touching Stiles in return, almost like a reflex. In particular, Derek had a fondness for palming Stiles' buzz cut. It's longer now, Stiles having made the decision to grow it out, and Derek finds he misses the soft fuzz under his palm, the easy reminder that Stiles is still, for all intents and purposes, a teenager that doesn't need Derek's baggage just yet, if ever.
Every time they meet, that fact gets harder and harder to ignore.
"The party was nice," Derek says after awhile.
"Yeah," Stiles says. "We're getting better at meshing. Even Jackson seemed more comfortable. Someday, he might even be a real boy."
Jackson's "I heard that, Stilinski!" floats out of a window a few feet away, making Stiles cackle. Derek can't hold back a grin, either.
"You, too," Stiles says after he calms down. He turns a little, to face Derek, and leans his hip against the railing, arms crossed over his chest. "Becoming a real boy, I mean. If I didn't know any better, I would've thought you were having a good time, too."
Derek pretends to think on it, head tipping from side to side. "I guess, for a given value of 'good.'"
"So you're saying my plans are brilliant?"
"This was part of your plan?"
"Duh?" Stiles snorts and takes a step forward. "One of many steps in the difficult task of getting you integrated. And it's totally, completely, working." Stiles punctuates his point by poking his finger into Derek's chest. On reflex, Derek's hand reaches for Stiles' wrist and holds it close. There's a small voice in his head trying to remind me of why this is a bad idea, but Stiles' weight is louder, the thrum of his pulse underneath Derek's thumb addicting.
"One of many?"
Stiles licks his lips and falters a little bit closer, enough to slacken Derek's hold. "Yep." His eyes are dark, hidden in shadow like they are, all black and wanting, his blinks lazy and sweeping. His Adam's apple hitches as Derek takes a deep breath in and tilts his head down.
"Are there more steps?"
"Y-yup."
Derek bumps his nose against Stiles', hard enough to get Stiles to tip his head back. "And what's the next step?"
Stiles' dark eyes search Derek's face, his breath coming out in cool puffs over Derek's lips. He could close the distance himself, but he needs Stiles to want it more, just a little bit, just this once.
"Oh, fuck it," Stiles mumbles with a little bounce on his toes. His mouth is warm and dry, pressed against Derek's, clumsy and perfect. He doesn't quite know how to angle his nose yet, and his balance is wonky with Derek hanging onto his wrist, but it's— it feels right. It feels good.
It feels like a next step.