Chapter Text
Stiles wakes up to a soft hand patting the side of his face that isn’t smushed into his pillow.
He blinks open one eye to catch a glimpse at his alarm clock, and, wow. 6:13 in the morning is really fucking early, Stiles thinks, even for a regular, you-are-doomed-to-be-tired-all-day Monday.
“Wasgoinon,” he rasps groggily, simultaneously remembering that it’s his birthday today.
That in turn makes him wonder why he’s woken up to only Lydia’s dainty figure, instead of being crushed beneath the weight of his entire family. Stiles is not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
“We made a deal last year, remember?” Lydia speaks up once she deems him awake enough to follow.
Stiles is in fact not following. At all.
“Huh?” he inquires dumbly.
Eloquence is just not a thing this early in the morning, alright?
Lydia rolls her eyes and lays it down for him.
“On your last birthday, you made me promise that this year I’d wake you up before the mob could give you another heart attack. You’ve got about,” she checks her wristwatch, “…two minutes before everyone comes barging in, so,” she waves a hand at him, “pretend to be asleep or you’ll spoil their fun.”
“Huh,” Stiles agrees, eyelids already starting to droop again. Lydia snorts, but bends down to kiss his forehead, long red hair brushing over his face.
“Happy birthday, babes,” she tell him and slips out of the room before Stiles can even mumble his thanks.
~
True to Lydia’s words, Stiles’ finds himself half-surrounded by and half-buried beneath all of his siblings only a few minutes later. At least, this year he was prepared. Not like one year ago, when he’d woken up screaming and flailing, because oh my god what is happening why is he being crushed who broke into the house, and ended up pushing several kids off of his bed.
So yeah, definitely an improvement to his 17th birthday. Also because there is cake. An honest to god homemade chocolate fudge cake with clotted cream on top; Stiles could cry.
“Ohhh my goddd,” Stiles groans delightedly at the possibly-diabetes-inducing monstrosity, which is being presented to him by both Erica and Isaac, because apparently it’s too heavy to be carried by only one pair of ten-year-old arms. Stiles is going to die a sugary death.
“Can I have a slice? Pleeeease?” Scott begs as soon as Stiles has blown out all eighteen mismatched candles on his cake in one go, accompanied by the cheers of his younger siblings.
“Not yet, sweetie,” Lydia says, “It’s too early for cake. Everyone can have a slice after school. But,” she continues when Scott immediately whips out the puppy eyes, lifting the nine-year-old up under his armpits and dumping him on top of Stiles, “you can all give Stiles your presents now.”
“Awesome,” Stiles agrees with a grin, scooting backwards on his bed until he can sit up against the headboard.
Scott cuddles up in his lap, always a bit clingier in the morning. Stiles would lie if he said he didn’t enjoy it a little bit. Hugging Scotty is like hugging pure sunshine. Metaphorically speaking, of course, Stiles considers the real deal a little dangerous for his pale skin.
“Boyd made the cake,” Lydia informs Stiles, nudging the teenager next to her.
“Obviously,” Stiles says, “I can’t wait to eat that, man, it looks amazing.”
“We helped!” Erica calls, gingerly placing the cake on Stiles’ desk with Isaac, both the twins’ arms staring to get weak from holding it so long. They bound back across the room and settle at the foot of the bed on either side of Allison. The twelve-year-old sits cross-legged on top of the duvet and shoots a dimpling smile at Stiles. To his left, pressed close to the side of the bed, Malia starts growling a little, until Stiles lifts his arm to allow the girl to squeeze onto the bed right next to him.
“Boyd made you something else,” Kira faux-whispers and hip-checks said boy on her way to the bed. She has four-year-old Liam in her arms and carefully sits him down on Stiles’ other side. “He’s just too shy to give it you.”
“Am not,” Boyd says mildly and trusts out a thin, square, neatly-wrapped parcel.
At 15 and 16 years respectively, Kira and Boyd clash exceptionally rarely, unlike the rest of them. Stiles just smiles and accepts the present, aware of how Boyd doesn’t really like being in the center of attention. He proceeds to peel of the gift wrap and fish-mouths at the revealed item. It’s a framed painting, charcoal and aquarelle, as far as Stiles can tell, and shows the artistically drawn head of a wolf.
“This is beautiful,” Stiles whispers after several beats of silence.
“I know, right?” Lydia gushes, not able to stop herself, “but we had to persuade him to even give it to you, he thinks it’s “mediocre”.” She scoffs as though personally insulted.
“Mate,” Stiles says earnestly, “Boyd. It’s perfect, I can’t believe you made that. Thanks, bro. Really.”
Boyd smiles (honestly smiles, with teeth and all, which is nearly as great as the present itself) and then steps back to allow everyone else their turn.
Allison gives him the newest Marvel movie on DVD, Kira a burgundy-colored hoodie. From Erica and Isaac he gets a set of self-made bracelets and a very glittery card. He also ends up with an impressive stack of crayon pictures, courtesy of Scott, Malia and finally Liam.
“Aw, this is so pretty, babywolf,” Stiles praises enthusiastically, squinting at several stick figures over the top of the youngest boy’s head. “Now let’s see, who’ve we got here…?”
“This is you,” Liam explains seriously, points at the middle figure and proceeds to clumsily identify each stick figure with a member of their family. By the time he’s finished, Stiles is both enlightened and touched, but also fairly aware of the time. It is a school day, after all.
“Awesome,” he exclaims, “Thanks a lot guys, you’ve really outdone yourselves this year!” He looks at Lydia. “I kinda lost overview, to be honest, but if that was everyone we should probably go downstairs and figure out breakfast-“
“Breakfast is ready and waiting,” Lydia interrupts reassuringly, “but that sure wasn’t everyone.”
She reaches behind Boyd’s broad form and grabs one remaining and conspicuously quiet preteen by the back of his t-shirt. Jackson grumbles in protest but it doesn’t do much to shake her off.
“Ally, Boyd, come on,” Kira pipes up loudly, “let’s get everybody down for breakfast, or we’re all gonna be late for school by the time Stiles makes it out of bed.”
“Oi!” Stiles calls out good-naturedly, but doesn’t protest when the three of them pluck several kids off his bed and out of his arms, and usher them out of the room. Lydia, Stiles and Jackson are the only ones remaining.
“Go on,” Lydia says, dragging the thirteen-year-old closer as Stiles finally swings his legs out of bed.
“Morning, grumpy-face,” Stiles says and grins up at the boy. Jackson harrumphs and trusts a box wrapped in newspaper at him.
“Happy Birthday, asshat.”
“Language!” Lydia chides and cuffs him gently over the back of the head. Stiles is painfully aware that Lydia is the only person, probably on the whole planet, that can keep the menace that is Jackson under control. He has yet to figure out what her secret is.
Sorcery, probably.
“Sorry about yesterday,” Jackson mumbles then, eyes fixed on the bandage on Stiles’ upper left arm that hides several long scratches. “I lost control.”
Stiles’ eyes widen in surprise.
“I know,” he says after a beat, starting to tear at the newspaper, “It wasn’t your fault. These things happen in a house full of claw-y people, I’m not mad.”
Jackson nods and looks everywhere but at Stiles as the older boy rips off layers of the “Beacon Hills Times” and ends up with a shoebox. Which contains, more or less surprisingly, a pair of shoes.
“Are these- Are you giving me my own chucks? I’ve been looking for these, what-“
“He fixed them,” Lydia supplies helpfully and wraps her arms around Jackson from behind, propping her chin on his head.
The kid scoffs and starts to blush once Stiles catches on and lifts one shoe up to examine it with his mouth hanging open. His favorite ratty old chucks might still look fairly ratty, but all the holes are gone and there are new laces and the color is mostly back to the original white.
Stiles is stunned.
“How on earth did you do that?”
Jackson shrugs. “YouTube tutorials.”
“He came up with the idea himself,” Lydia chirps conspiratorially, “He spent hours on them. Isn’t he sweet?”
She shoots Stiles a look that makes him jump into action.
“So sweet,” he agrees to Jackson’s obvious horror. “They look great, buddy, thank you!”
With an almost predatory grin, Stiles puts the box and shoes aside.
“Come here!”
"Nooo,” Jackson whines immediately, fruitlessly trying to flee, but Lydia pushes him forward.
Stiles gets on his feet and engulfs Jackson in a bear hug, smushing the younger boy’s face into his chest. Jackson huffs and puffs before going limp in the embrace, trying his best to seem unbothered while Stiles peppers the top of his head with kisses.
“Let me go,” he grumbles, “They’re just shoes, can you stop being so embarrassing?”
“Where would be the fun in that?” Stiles questions, and Lydia laughs along with him.
“Come on, let the poor boy go,” she chuckles, “You’re shattering his pride.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Stiles relents, still grinning, but in the very last moment before he lets go, Jackson throws his arm around his ribcage, squeezes tightly for two seconds, then scurries out of the room at top speed. Lydia and Stiles are left shaking their heads fondly.
“That boy,” Stiles says, “is going to give us so much trouble."
“And his puberty has only just started,” Lydia agrees but seems mostly unperturbed by this. Well, it’s not her Jackson uses as a scratching post, Stiles figures. But if truth be told, he can’t really stop riling up Jackson either; it’s just too much fun. Maybe his dad is right and he is in fact rather eight than eighteen, mentally speaking.
“Here,” Lydia speaks up then, grabbing something leaning against the doorframe. “That leaves me.”
Stiles accepts the longish parcel with a frown.
“I thought we agreed that we wouldn’t give each other anything this year!”
“This was necessary,” Lydia waves him off, “Also, you gave me a new dress for my birthday, so quit complaining and open you’re present.”
“Because your favorite one got ripped apart by that harpy,” he mumbles under his breath, but he recognizes his defeat and complies, bringing a brand new baseball bat to light.
“Since your last one shattered over that troll’s head,” Lydia offers lightly. “This one is made from aluminum, still very light and easy to handle, but less likely to break into a million pieces.”
“Thanks,” Stiles exclaims excitedly, “Really, it’s perfect. You’re brilliant.” He pulls Lydia close in a one-armed hug. “Now tell me, how does it feel not to be the oldest anymore, huh?”
“Sweetheart, just because we’re both eighteen now doesn’t mean I’m not still older than you.”
“Only by three weeks,” Stiles grumbles, but grins at his sister nonetheless. “Twins should be the same age. Feels better.”
“We’re not twins,” Lydia says exasperatedly, but she can’t really hide the smile tugging at her lips.
“Yes we are. As good as.”
“… Yeah, as good as.”
~
The kitchen has apparently decided to rudely ignore Stiles’ birthday and is as chaotic as any other day.
Half of yesterday’s dishes are still in the sink, because nobody could be arsed to do them. To get from one end of the kitchen you have to push your way through half a dozen, more or less awake kids and teenagers, and the general morning chatter is principally joined by the ancient radio above the stove. The volume control of said radio has been broken for years now, which is why the music is always just a fraction too loud, but no one has the heart to throw it out because it belonged to Stiles’ mum. Stiles has always had a soft spot for the tinny sound of it, anyways.
“There’s scrambled egg on the stove,” Allison informs him from where she sits at the table and makes a PB&J for Scott, who is impatiently waiting next to her.
Stiles nods in acknowledgement. “Thanks,” he says, grabs a fork and a piece of toast and starts to eat right out of the oversized pan. Lydia sends an admonishing look his way, but is thankfully too occupied with braiding Erica’s hair by the fridge to do anything about it.
“Guys, has anybody seen my textbook?!” Kira calls out, rushing in from the living room with only one arm in her shirt. “History textbook? Anyone?”
“Uh, I think Malia might’ve used it as a pad to draw on yesterday…” Lydia muses, without taking her eyes of Erica’s blonde locks. That girl is always on top of everything and Stiles finds it enviable.
“If she’s torn it apart I’m gonna break something,” Kira panics and rushes back out.
“What about breakfast?” Stills shouts after her but gets no response.
“Jackson!” Allison shrieks instead, a scandalized look on her face as she watches Jackson take a huge bite out of the sandwich she was so meticulously preparing. “That’s Scott’s!”
The teen opens his mouth to deliver what was surely supposed to be a rude comeback, but Lydia catches his eye across the room. All she has to do -literally all she has to do- is raise one perfectly-groomed eyebrow, and Jackson drops the sandwich back down onto Allison’s plate.
“Why, thank you,” the girl says sarcastically and sighs when Scott immediately makes grabby hands for the food. Jackson waits until Lydia turns her back to pull a face at Allison, who sticks her tongue out in return.
It doesn’t take much these days to set the two kids off against each other. Stiles watches with narrowed eyes, but thankfully it doesn’t escalate into anything worse than grimaces.
“Alright,” he says instead, shoving the rest of his toast into his mouth and passing the pan to Boyd. The clock above the door shows two minutes to seven.
“We’ve got twenty-two minutes; everybody who’s still in their pajamas, come with me!” he all but screams above the noise.
Erica and Isaac hurry to put their plates in the sink, dodging around Boyd who is calmly eating his eggs by the stove. Lydia, by now perched next to Liam’s high chair that they still haven’t gotten rid of, is watching the youngest boy eating cornflakes with eagle eyes.
“Don’t forget Malia.”
“Where’s she?” Stiles asks, glancing around as he gulps down a glass of OJ.
Lydia points.
Lydia points at the kitchen table, in fact, and Stiles is momentarily confused, until Boyd stick out his foot, lifting he tablecloth with the tip of it. At once, a low growl sets in.
“Aha,” Stiles goes loudly, crouching down to peek under the table.
He’s met with a sight to behold: Malia, tiny for her six years, sits cross-legged on the floor between four pairs of legs and munches on a bagel, entirely unperturbed by the feet around her. (Even though Scott is dangling his around with no coordination at all and hits Malia’s shoulder every so often.)
“Hey there, cutie,” Stiles chuckles, “Wanna come out so we can both get dressed?”
Malia considers this for a moment, stuffs the rest of the bagel into her mouth and nods.
“Cool,” Stiles says and holds his arms out. Malia darts out from under the table at top speed and topples both of them over as she collides with Stiles.
“Oh god,” he groans, lying flat on his back, “We’ve gone down, oh god.”
“Stiles,” Erica giggles, coming to stand above them, “Stiles, we’ll be late if you don’t hurry up.”
“Right you are, pretty,” Stiles agrees quickly, heaving both himself and Malia up of the floor. “Lydia-“
“I’ve got the boys,” the redhead assures calmly. “You guys go get dressed.”
“Cool,” Stiles repeats, already groaning under Malia’s weight. “You’re starting to get a little heavy, there,” he tells her jokingly and gets a growl for it.
Malia obviously doesn’t budge, but chooses to contently dangle from Stiles’ shoulder. It can’t be all that comfortable, but Stiles has long since accepted that his youngest sister is one of a kind; her actions are not to be questioned. He leaves her hanging, quite literally, and shoos the twins up the stairs with his remaining arm.
“It’s not exactly warm today, so if you wanna wear a dress, Erica, only with thighs,” Stiles calls after her and Isaac as they disappear into their shared room. “Be ready in five!”/p>
He wanders into the kids’ room that Malia shares with Scott and Liam, and drops the girl onto her bed.
“Whatcha wanna wear today, love?”
“Dun-ga-reeees,” Malia says slowly, blinking up at Stiles with wide eyes.
He grins, because it’s her first word today and it’s before nine a.m. Which may sound weird, but Malia isn’t very big on talking, especially not in the early morning. She’s also not big on school, trust, or people in general.
Anyway, Malia likes to resort to growling only, so it’s progress.
Stiles gets the clothing as per request and helps his sister fasten the clasps on her tiny jeans-overall.
“Ready to go? Awesome, go wait downstairs with Lyds, okay?”
Malia nods and runs off.
Stiles, who is still in his pajamas, makes a quick detour into the bathroom. A few minutes later, walking back to his own room, he promptly runs into Erica, who is waiting patiently by his door.
“What’s up with you, pretty?” Stiles asks her, shouldering his door open backwards to keep is eyes of the blonde./p>
“Can you button it up, please?” She asks sweetly, turning around to show off the open backside of her pink dress.
“Sure, come here,” Stiles agrees distractedly, sitting down on Lydia’s bed instead of his own by accident. “Why didn’t you ask Isaac to help you? He hasn’t locked himself into the bathroom again, has he?”
“No, he went back down to find Scott,” Erica grouches and Stiles can practically hear the roll of her eyes, even though she’s standing with her back to him. “Also, he doesn’t like to do my buttons, he’s too impatient.”
“There are a lot of buttons on this one,” Stiles amends, but Erica only hums noncommittally. “You’d better hurry,” she tells Stiles, turning around after he finally managed to fumble the top button close, “You’re own deadline is in three minutes.”
With that, she dances out of the room, dress all proper, and leaves Stiles sitting on the bed quite dumbly. And he’s still in his pajamas, goddammit. He opens his (remarkably smaller) side of the wardrobe and looks for something clean to wear.
In the end, Stiles really only has his father to blame for his situation. These days, he generally blames everything on his father (not in a particularly angry way, just out of spite, really), because if Stiles’ social life doesn’t fall victim to his own poor sense of self-preservation and/or his sarcasm, it falls victim to his family. All the time, really. And said family is entirely his dad’s fault – well, not in the biblical sense, more in a let’s-adopt-a-bunch-of-supernatural-kids-because-we’re-such-good-people sense.
Stiles obviously wasn’t consulted.
It all started with Lydia, who was at that time two years old, baby-Stiles’ best daycare friend and watched her parents die in an armed bank robbery. Sheriff Stilinski and his wife ended up adopting Lydia, and her and Stiles grew up being as-good-as twins. Which would have been fine and great all around, because Stiles would be absolutely lost without the awesome and hyper-intelligent goddess that is his sister.
And that’s what it was for nearly eight years. Sheriff Stilinski, his wife Claudia, Lydia and Stiles, living happily ever after. A likely story.
But then they found a very bloody, very dead body in the woods, right on top of a gigantic tree stump, and to say that there were consequences would be an understatement.
The Stilinski family lived in blissful oblivion one more month, until what they would later found out to be werewolves (honest to god, furry, howling-at-the-moon werewolves, Stiles remembers thinking it was the coolest thing ever, ha) massacred a family and left nothing behind except for a recently bitten infant. Also known as Scott.
Another year later, Sheriff Stilinski and his department rescued a twin pair of werewolf-toddlers from their abusive father and took them in as well. Stiles knows that his mother had already been aware of her fatal illness at that time, but she’d always felt that family was a privilege and they were lucky enough to have it.
(It just so happens that, while Beacon Hills would otherwise be a thoroughly ordinary and boring Californian small town, any and all committed crimes are largely related to the supernatural world – and therefore, so are all the orphans. Stiles feels like this should have been an more important part of the equation – not because he has prejudices, god no, it’s just that it’s his 146 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones that have to deal with the wolfy consequences.)
“It’s what she would have wanted,” the Sheriff had told Stiles and Lydia, shortly before they adopted Allison and Jackson into their ever-growing family and only months after Claudia Stilinski’s death. Stiles can still hear his gruff voice, weighted down with grief and, that specific night, a little too much Whiskey.
“It’s what your mum would’ve wanted, she’d’ve wanted us to help. They’re just kids, they’re just kids and they deserve a family and we can be that family. That’s what she used to say.”
And from thereon it just went blow after blow. Or kid after kid. Allison and Jackson were soon followed by Boyd, Liam and Kira, albeit one at a time. In between Scott and Malia (whose family died in a werecoyote-induced car crash two years ago), they had a very steady quote of 1.25 kids per year, Stiles reckons. A quote that brought them to be Beacon Hills unofficial, number-one orphanage of the supernatural kind.
So here are they now. Three adults (as of today) against nine children. One Sheriff, one Banshee and one Stiles against six werewolves, one kitsune, one werecoyote and a huntress.
His mum would have loved this. She would have loved the full house and the inevitable teamwork, the bonding and the tremendous chaos that is driving Stiles round the bend.
She’d’ve loved all of it, Stiles is sure.
“Just think about what you’d do without Lydia, yeah, sweetie?” she had said one night, years and years ago, lightly brushing over Stiles’ head and looking over to Lydia’s sleeping form, curled up in chair by the hospital bed. “You’d miss her, don’t you think? Maybe one day you’ll feel the same about the others. I know you’re a great big brother, baby. Always remember that it’s the right thing to do. Remember that for me. And besides, what could go wrong?”
What could go wrong?
Stiles considers that a rhetorical question, really, because the last ten years have given him enough material to fill an entire book with everything that could possibly go wrong. Mostly because everything that could go wrong, has gone wrong.
Also because after all the things Stiles has seen in his short life, he sports a general nothing-is-impossible attitude, which mixes greatly with his creativity. So if a three-headed, gigantic snake with wings and poisonous fangs should ever happen to cross his path, Stiles is prepared. At least mentally, he’s still having how-do-I-fight-it problems with everything that can fly, since Stiles himself might be far from defenseless, but he’s also decidedly wing-less.
Anyway, as long as the newest catastrophe doesn’t involve flying or mind meddling (also not really Stiles’ thing), he’s good. Especially now that he’s got a new bat.
“Stiles!” Lydia suddenly calls up the stairs, pulling him out of his thoughts. He grabs a Hoodie and his schoolbag and hurries into the hallway.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m coming,” he calls, cursing himself when he catches sight of the clock on the wall.
7:25, they’re official late and Stiles will have to speed if he wants to get everyone to school on time and he’ll definitely have to try not to get caught by his dad or one of his deputies doing so. (Again.) Stiles sprints down the stairs in an uncoordinated flail of limbs. At the bottom, all ten of his siblings are crowded around the front door, looking up at him in expectation.
Liam toddles over to be picked up, Jackson sticks his tongue out for no apparent reason and Lydia smiles at him. She holds out his car keys.
“Come on, birthday boy, we’ve got places to be.”
So yeah.
Stiles is good.
+++
At school, everyone is a little less nice to Stiles, to say the least.
He doesn’t share a single class with Lydia on Mondays, so he doesn’t even have his sister for comfort as Harris, who obviously doesn’t give a flying fuck that it’s Stiles’ birthday, spends a whole five minutes ranting about Stiles’ inability to keep his hands off the Bunsen burner.
“Next time, I’ll just let you go ahead and burn your eyebrows off, Stilinski. At least I’d have something to laugh at, then,” Harris finishes with and consequently manages to destroy most of Stiles’ good mood.
Next to him, Danny clicks his tongue.
“I dunno, man,” he says quietly, once the teacher has finally turned his back on them, “I think Harris would rock the whole eyebrow-less style way better than you.”
Stiles snorts, promptly receiving another nasty look from Harris. He smiles at Danny though, because Danny is awesome and generally too nice for this world, and Stiles appreciates the effort.
~
Later, they join Heather and Sydney at lunch, all four of their trays filled with mostly unidentifiable food.
“I think this was supposed to be mac and cheese,” Sydney says faintly, poking at it with her plastic fork.
Stiles gags a little and tries to think of Boyd’s heavenly chocolate cake that’s waiting for him at home.
“And I always thought you can’t screw up mac and cheese,” Heather deadpans, listlessly poking around in her plate. Then she pushes it away decidedly and digs into her salad instead. Stiles can absolutely relate.
“I think you can’t screw it up if you use real cheese, ” Danny contributes with a shrug and takes a bite out of his homemade sandwich with gusto. Which is not something Stiles can relate to as he braves a spoonful of disgusting cafeteria food.
“I don’t think these are real noodles either,” he says feebly and jumps when somebody new suddenly drops into the chair next to him.
“After three and a half years, shouldn’t you have learned not to touch the Monday mac and cheese?”
“Hope dies last,” Stiles says loftily, “Hi, Cora, to what do I owe the displeasure?”
Cora grins wolfishly. “I’m just here to wish you a happy birthday, asshole.”
“Aww, that’s so sweet of you, pumpkin,” Stiles simpers sarcastically, “And what’s the real reason?”
Cora rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Boyd ditched me to go train in the gym or some shit and since you’re the only other person in this entire room that I talk to, you’ve just won yourself fifteen minutes of my precious presence,” she informs him and now it’s Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes.
He’ll never understand how so much sass can fit into a sixteen-year-old girl.
Then again, he’s met Laura, so maybe it runs in the family.
“Boyd would never ditch you, you drama queen,” he says, “He’s way too smitten with you. Dunno why, though, you’re a pain in the ass.”
“Right back at you,” Cora snarks, but she can’t really hide the faint blush that’s creeping up her cheeks.
“Thanks,” Stiles nods solemnly, deems this conversation as finished and proceeds to gulp down the repulsive pasta (he manages a quarter until he starts to feel nauseated). Cora just sits with him in companionable silence until his class mates have rushed off towards the library, the gym and their significant other respectively. The she slides over her own huge lunch box.
Stiles stares at it.
“It’s leftover pizza,” Cora informs him nonchalantly, “Derek’s made it.”
“You’re offering me your food,” he says flatly.
“It’s too much for one person anyway,” she shrugs, but Stiles buys none of it.
“You’re literally a predator. You can eat for five, I know it and I’ve seen it. You’re sharing your food with me because you like me!” Stiles gushes, delighted.
“Alright, I’m taking this back,” Cora says coolly and makes to grab the container.
“No, no,” Stiles, laughs, blocking her off, “it’s true! You even waited ‘til my friends were gone so no one would know you actually have a heart! Oh, this is golden.”
Cora narrows her eyes at him and Stiles knows enough female werewolves to recognize the impending danger, but this is too good to let go. Makes for high-class blackmail material, Stiles thinks gleefully, grin wide as he bites into a slice of cold pizza and chews obnoxiously in Cora’s direction.
“Oh, please,” she scoffs, but her eyes soften ever so slightly. “I don’t like you. I pity you.”
“Weak,” Stiles comments dismissively, “You can do better than that.”
Cora doesn’t answer at once, but waits until Stiles has finished his slice.
“Tastes good?” she asks innocently, which is wrong by nature.
“God, yes,” he answers nonetheless, because even cold, this pizza is practically divine. “You’ve saved me from death through starvation.”
“I should hope so,” Cora smiles dangerously, “Derek would skin me alive if I’d left his favorite little human to die from food poisoning.”
Stiles splutters. “Wha- I’m not Derek’s little human, or Derek’s favorite- I’m not Derek’s anything, actually, why are we talking about Derek?”
Smooth, Stilinski. Very smooth.
Cora seems to think along the same lines. She raises a single eyebrow and stars him down until Stiles can feel the color raising on the back of his neck and starts to squirm. He’s only slightly pathetic.
“Sure,” Cora says deliberately, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see if Boyd needs some help.”
“Oh, yeah,” Stiles calls after her. His dignity is pretty much shattered here, nothing left to save, but that doesn’t mean he can’t bring Cora down with him. “You go see if your boyfriend needs some help showing off his ridiculous muscles!”
She doesn’t even turn around on her way to the door.
“Don’t let your boyfriend hear that, honey,” she calls over shoulder though, and she is the fucking worst.
“You suck!” he shouts, but Cora is gone and all it gets him is a bunch of Freshmen staring at him indignantly.
“And he’s not my boyfriend!”
~
Hours later, when Stiles leaves the school at 15:30, Derek Hale is leaning against his jeep in the parking lot. Because of course he is. Stiles just can’t catch a break, can he?
How is this his life?
Unfortunately it’s a little too late for a calculated retreat, Derek has already spotted him amongst the students spilling out of the building after the last period. So, Stiles puts on his brave face and a whole lot of confidence that he doesn’t have, and wanders over to Derek.
“Derek, my man,” Stiles says loudly, “What brings you here on this delightful afternoon?”
Oh bollocks.
If he gets any more awkward today, he might as well start digging a hole into the ground to swallow him.
Derek cocks an unimpressed eyebrow (another thing that definitely runs in the Hale family) and unceremoniously thrusts a plastic container at him.
Stiles blinks.
It’s a maximum-sized pack of strawberry-flavored Twizzlers, the biggest pack available in stores. After the first moment of total confusion, Stiles’ stomach does a little swoop. Derek Hale just gave him his favorite sweets. On his birthday-
“Laura sends her best wishes,” Derek says, interrupting Stiles admittedly not very manly inner monologue.
Laura-?
Of course. The present is from Laura, who is the Alpha of the Hale pack and also the only Hale that openly likes him. Stiles is so pathetic, it’s not even funny anymore. Why, why on earth would Derek Hale, stoic grumpiness personified, give him a box of strawberry Twizzlers, god-fucking-dammit.
“Why is Laura giving me Twizzlers?” Stiles says, going for nonchalance.
“Because it’s your birthday,” Derek says and Stiles gives him a duh kind of look.
“And why is she sending you to give them to me?”
“Because she’s in Oregon meeting with Satomi and her pack.”
“Is that the scary old Japanese lady who originally was going to take Kira in?” Stiles wonders, idly popping the lid of his box and pulling out a red-colored piece of heaven.
Derek audibly clears his throat as he starts to suck on the Twizzler.
“That’s the one,” he says, a little hoarse.
Stiles feels like offering a cough drop, but luckily he doesn’t have any and is spared the epic fail that offering Derek Hale a freaking cough drop would undoubtedly be. He rips half of the licorice candy off and chews it down.
“And how does Laura know when my birthday is or what my favorite sweets are?”
Derek raises both of his eyebrows this time. “Are you forgetting that we have most of your younger siblings over once a week for training? It’s not exactly hard to get them to talk about you.”
Ah, right, there was something there.
A few years ago, after the umpteenth time the Sheriff had to cover up one of the kids uncontrollably wolfing out in public (and replace a dozen pieces of furniture in their house that didn’t survive contact with werewolf claws on various occasions), he decided that his children needed to learn some control.
Enter Laura Hale and what little was left of her pack after the infamous fire. Being allies was kind of inevitable, what with the Hales and the Stilinskis being the only two werewolf packs in the area (luckily so), but they also made a deal concerning the kids. Now, they go visit the Hale house every week in pairs for control and self-defense training.
“Okay,” Stiles nods, cramming the rest of his Twizzler into his mouth in one. “Thanks, I guess. I mean, tell Laura I said thanks, it was very nice of her.”
“I will, but, uh-“ Derek says quickly, throwing out an arm when Stiles tries to get into his Jeep.
“Er,” Stiles says dumbly, staring down at Derek’s huge hand on his chest.
“There’s something else,” Derek finishes, going back to stoic and grumpy in a heartbeat.
“Of course there is,” Stiles says under his breath, which is a little redundant, what with Derek being a werewolf with super-hearing and all that jazz.
Derek harrumphs. “Laura wants me to let you know that the mauled body found in the woods last week fell victim to a rouge Omega. We took care of him last night, so there’s no need for you to worry, but Laura believes we should tell you because we’re allies.”
He sounds like he swallowed a script, but Stiles isn’t going to complain. By now he’s just really tired.
“Oh, okay,” he says slowly, “Good job?”
“Tell your dad he can close the case. Mountain lion,” Derek says flatly, ignoring Stiles’ last comment.
“Oh, he’s going to dig that,” Stiles says, deadpan, and brushes past Derek to open the driver’s door the other man was leaning against earlier. He hesitates before climbing in, though.
“Can I give you are ride somewhere?” he says, because he’s just that nice.
“I’ll run,” Derek says vaguely, “But you should probably wait for Lydia if you don’t want her to rip your head off.”
With that, he actually does run off into the directions of the woods behind the school, leaving Stiles to stupidly stare after him until Lydia reaches his side.
“What was Derek doing here?” she asks in passing, hopping into the passenger seat. “Ooh, Twizzlers, awesome, we were out.”
~
When Stiles pulls up at the house, he knows immediately that something is wrong.
Normally, Monday afternoon is a a special kind of hell, because the Sheriff is at the station like most days and Stiles and Lydia are the last ones to come home. That gives the rest of the kids a good three hours to wreak havoc.
They can’t hear anything on the way up the front walk, though. No screaming from the backyard. No concerning bangs from inside. No shouts from upstairs where Erica and Isaac or Jackson and Allison should be fighting.
Silence.
Lydia glances at him warily as Stiles pushes the door open with dread.
Nothing happens.
The Sheriff is sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper. Because he cancelled his afternoon shift. Because of Stiles’ birthday.
Right.
Liam and Malia seem to be playing Draw and Rip at the coffee table.
It’s a game that Stiles invented after the umpteenth time Liam was in tears after Malia had destroyed one of his precious drawings in her need to use claws on basically everything. So now Liam is drawing crude monsters and crayon blobs with huge teeth that Malia is supposed to rip apart in order to “protect” them.
Stiles thinks his idea was pretty awesome. Even though it costs them a lot of paper, but it’s not like Malia wouldn’t find anything else (and possibly more expensive) to shred.
Their dad smiles at them a little confusedly. “Something wrong, or are you planning on standing frozen in the threshold all afternoon?”
“I was expecting to be hit by something, to be honest,” Lydia says mildly.
“Or someone,” Stiles adds, “It’s a common occurrence.”
“Ah well,” his dad says, getting up from the sofa and coming over to give Stiles a strong hug. “Happy birthday, kiddo.”
“Thanks, dad. You know I’m not technically a kid anymore, though, right?”
“You keep thinking that,” the Sheriff says with a chuckle, mussing up his hair.
Lydia, however, is not that easily distracted.
“Where is everyone?” she inquires, narrowing her eyes as though she doesn’t buy the peace at all.
“Scott is doing homework with the twins, Ally’s working on an arts project that she’s not very fond of, Kira and Boyd were picked up half an hour ago and I’m having Jackson cleaning his room,” the Sheriff counts off proudly and Stiles is indeed very impressed.
And suspicious.
Peaceful vibes generally don’t survive very long in this household.
“Picked up by…?” Lydia asks, confused.
“It’s Monday, sweetheart,” their dad reminds her, “Laura took them to the Hale house for training.”
“Laura is in Oregon,” Stiles says automatically and the Sheriff frowns.
“Pretty sure it was her I saw in the car, kiddo.”
Stiles falters.
He’s not able to dwell on what that means, however because Scott comes crashing down the stairs with Isaac hot on his heels.
“Did I hear “cake”?” he shouts obnoxiously and the sheriff winces.
“Pretty sure you didn’t,” Lydia says coolly, “because nobody said anything about cake.”
“But Stiles got home - hi, Stiles - and that means we can finally eat the cake!”
“Cake,” Malia cries approvingly and runs over to pull on Lydia’s skirt.
“To the kitchen, then,” Lydia sighs, very obviously preparing for a general sugar rush.
“Onwards!” Stiles calls, because frankly, he plans on joining that rush. It’s his birthday, after all.
Jackson and Erica come downstairs as well, doubtlessly catching the important parts of the conversation with their werewolf hearing.
“Me too,” Liam shouts, dashing over and barreling into the Sheriff’s legs. They march into the kitchen and making sure everyone gets an equally big slice, while leaving over enough for Boyd and Kira and making sure the cake doesn’t end up on the floor or walls, is a pretty messy affair.
Apparently it’s a loud one too, because all of five minutes later, Allison stomps in as well, fuming.
“Guys!” she shouts, loud enough to make everyone fall silent in surprise, “I’m trying to concentrate up there, what is even going on-?”
“Cake,” Scott supplies helpfully, smiling angelically at her and holding out a plate. “Want some?”
“Prepare for a sugar rush,” Lydia adds, wiping her hands on a paper towel with a grimace.
“It’s arts, what do you even need to concentrate for?” Jackson jeers before Allison can react to anything at all.
Stiles snorts, “Don’t let Boyd hear you say that.”
~
One hour later, when Stiles, Lydia and the Sheriff are sitting on the kitchen table, drowning in kids high on sugar, there’s a loud bang followed by a crash from the living room.
“I’m sorry!” Scott hollers half a second later.
The three more-or-less adults groan into their coffees.
“Please tell me it wasn’t the lamp next to the couch,” the Sheriff calls back.
“I can totally say that if it makes you feel any better,” Jackson’s dry voice resounds, “Doesn’t make it any less true.”
More groans.
“I knew it was too good of a day to be true,” Stiles deadpans, grinning wearily.
Lydia shrugs, “Look at the bright side. At least it wasn’t the TV.”
“Yet.”
“Pillow fight!” Isaac screams in the other room, unwittingly supporting Stiles’ point.
Apparently there was more sugar in that cake than they thought. And god knows what else. Well, Stiles figures, Boyd just doesn’t do things by halves.
Chocolate fudge cake more like chocolate fuck-you’re-gonna-regret-this.