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"Are you sure you don't need me along, as backup?"
Stiles looks up from where he's sprawled on the couch with his laptop to find Derek hovering over him, favoring him with that concerned-eyebrows look that's really freaking adorable. "With my dad?" He snorts. "No, think I've got that covered."
"You sure? You whined for twenty minutes the last time you two got back from Home Depot."
Stiles makes a face. "He looked at power tools for like an hour and a half! Anyway, we're just going to canvass the outdoor garden area. He's really looking forward to finally having someone competent to help him with that landscaping project he's been wanting to do for the last five years." He waggles his eyebrows. "And I'm looking forward to watching that someone competent working in the yard and getting all sweaty while wearing what I hope is a very form-fitting tank top." Preferably white, if Stiles is feeling greedy. And made of thin material.
Derek's eyebrows do a thing that's sort of amused, that makes an interesting combination with the way he rolls his eyes. "I'll see what I can do. If you're good." He snorts a little. "But I am not playing 'Miguel the sexy gardener' with your dad right there."
"Ew, no, dude. Miguel is my cousin, remember? It'd have to be, I dunno, Carlos, or Gary, the sexy gardener."
"Gary?"
"What? Don't be racist. There are non-Hispanic gardeners." Stiles can't help but grin at the look Derek gives him, the one that says he'd like to be annoyed, but is trying to hard to be not-so-obviously amused at the shit Stiles says. Stiles likes that look. It's a lot better than the ones he used to get, years ago, like the glare Derek would throw him that Stiles knew meant he was trying not to just reach over and strangle him. Or the one that went with his threat to rip Stiles's throat out—with his teeth.
Nowadays, Derek puts his teeth on Stiles's throat plenty. But in a way Stiles really, really likes.
Derek just settles for sighing in that long-suffering way of his that doesn't even come nearly as close as Stiles's dad's sigh does to conveying a level of 'why me?' that's still laced through with affection. "Right. Anyway. If you're sure you don't need me, I'll see you this evening."
"Yeah, good. Because if I do need backup, it'll be then." They're supposed to be at Lydia's place by six, to go over wedding stuff. What sort of stuff, specifically, Stiles isn't sure of, but he knows better than to skip out. They were already late for brunch with her the other week, and Lydia Martin does not exactly take well to being made to wait. Still, it hadn't been a bad brunch, and not just because the strawberry-orange waffles were awesome. Lydia had...well, had actually surprised them both, quite a lot.
"I think you can hold your own," Derek says, smirking, before he leans down and runs a thumb over Stiles's cheekbone, where the bruising from last week's monster showdown has finally faded to a mottled yellow-green-brown shadow. It doesn't even hurt anymore. The much larger bruise on his back, however, is still a bit more colorful, still a little tender, but even that's nothing that won't be fine soon enough. He tilts Stiles's face up, just a little, and kisses him. "But I'll be there."
Stiles doesn't even bother to hide the dopey smile on his face as Derek stands back up. Maybe he should be embarrassed, but he doesn't even care. He is soooo fucking gone over Derek that it would be sad, if he didn't get hints that Derek is just as far gone. "Good." He waits until Derek is at the front door, his hand already pulling at the knob and opening it, before he calls out. "Hey, Derek?"
Derek turns, not even looking annoyed that Stiles is keeping him from being wherever it is he's off to. "Yeah?"
"I love you."
And that right there, that's why Stiles likes to wait to say it some days, just lets it pop out at random. Because Derek's face does this total transformation thing, goes from neutral to actually, actively happy, with smiley-eye-crinkles and everything. It's a look that he'd like to show his younger self, just for shock value: This is Derek Hale, happy. And the better follow-up: Because of something you did.
Stiles's sixteen-year-old self would totally call bullshit. Hearing he and Derek got married in the future would probably make him laugh so hard he'd hurt himself and need medical attention.
"I love you, too." And then Derek's out the door, still smiling, and Stiles settles back into the couch and his article on plagues and curses in medieval times, feeling warm and pleased.
Stiles and his dad are actually making pretty good progress at Home Depot, trying to decide what sort of garden edging might be best for what they're aiming for—Stiles's dad is eyeing stone options, though Stiles is trying to figure out how to talk him into wrought iron stuff without mentioning the fact that it'll keep fairies away—when Stiles's dad pauses in the middle of an aisle and looks over at Stiles in a way he always equates with the sentiment of "we need to have a capital-T Talk." He holds his breath, not knowing what he might have done wrong, or what his dad might be worrying about now. They've only sort of talked about what happened last week, out in the woods, and that was unavoidable, because Stiles couldn't hide that he'd been smacked around and needed stitches, or was walking with a bit of a limp. He's really sort of grateful, though, that his dad's first question, after "are you okay?" was "is Derek okay?" Asking if Derek was okay, figuring they'd been out fighting the supernatural threats around town, instead of jumping to the totally awful assumption that maybe Derek had been behind the injury gave Stiles the confidence that his dad saw their relationship for what it was—something strong, and good for both of them.
"Stiles..."
Stiles tries not to wince, because that's definitely the Impending Talk tone. But his dad doesn't continue for a moment, long enough that Stiles starts to feel fidgety. "Yeah?"
His dad sighs. It's not the "I'm frustrated with you" sigh. Stiles knows that one super well. It's more the one where his dad is frustrated with himself, or can't figure out how to just say what's on his mind—something Lydia once referred to as "middle-aged white guy emotional constipation." She'd made sure to note the distinction between that and Derek's eyebrow-laden, traumatic past kind of emotional constipation, as well as the "I'm too well-off and educated to have feelings" variety that apparently runs in her family and their social circles.
It's kind of a good thing, Stiles thinks, that Lydia will be going to school for math, and not something like psychology.
"You know I love you, right?"
Stiles isn't even able to stop what pops out of his mouth, because he doesn't see it coming. It's just reflex. "Well, duh." But then he sees the pained look on his dad's face and sort of regrets it, even though it is a fitting answer, because of course he knows that. "I mean, yeah, Dad, of course I do. Why do you even think you need to ask?"
His dad rubs at the back of his neck, and Stiles sees it now, the similarities in the gesture between him and his dad, since Derek's pointed it out. "You know that you don't have to do anything you don't want to, right? I mean, aside from being as law-abiding as you can be, under the current circumstances?" He must see the confused look on Stiles's face, because he sighs again and gets that determined expression. "This wedding ceremony thing. You don't have to do it, just because I said so."
About a dozen thoughts go through Stiles's head right then, but not a single one makes it out of his mouth as words. Instead, he just stands there, gaping and making sort of abortive flailing gestures, before he finally gets his brain in line enough to say something even vaguely coherent. "Dad, seriously. I know that. And I'm not—we're not doing this for you, or, well, because of you. Derek and I talked about this already. We mentioned it the night we got married, afterwards, and we sat and talked about it before you even got back into town a couple days later. We don't regret that we're married, all right? But one of the few things we do regret is that we didn't have family and friends there, since it...turned out to be real."
He doesn't mention how painful bits of that conversation were, because it's private, something just between him and Derek. He'd told Derek he felt kind of shitty that his dad couldn't be there to see something like that, and worried Scott would be hurt that even he wasn't included, since it was sort of technically Scott's fault he and Derek had even met and gotten to know each other in the first place (they were both leaving it at Scott, because Stiles was pretty sure neither of them could bring themselves to thank Peter for his role in the whole thing). And then, yeah, all the ugly, prickly stuff Stiles knew they both usually tried to ignore came up—Stiles's feelings about his mother never getting to witness something like that, and Derek's guilt and pain that pretty much no one in his family would get to see him happy in something like marriage, get to see him grown up and actually trying to be the sort of man who could be a good husband and take care of his family, his new pack members, all the intricate stuff about how his family functioned as a pack, and how Stiles might never see what it was like to be included in a true, long-established pack, just folded into the existing structure.
Neither of them had slept well that night. And if they'd held each other especially tight that evening, and if Stiles had fallen asleep with his aching arms wrapped around Derek's shoulders and his face pressed into the back of Derek's neck while Derek twitched fitfully and made soft, upset sounds into his pillow as he slept, then that was no one's business but theirs.
But even then, they'd already sort of made the decision. They wanted to share something with those they loved, those they still had. It was, Derek had told him, largely the reason he hadn't put up any protest when Stiles's dad had said they were going to "do this thing right" the night he went to see Derek at his loft.
Stiles's dad eyes him shrewdly. It's the human-cop-parent equivalent of werewolves listening for the hint of a lie in a heartbeat. "You're sure about that? You don't feel I pressured you into it?"
Stiles actually snorts. "Look, Dad. We may not have a perfect, TV-Land, Cleaver-family relationship going on all the time. Maybe you do parental things you aren't so proud of, but I also fuck up a lot as your son, without meaning to." He thinks briefly of pouring his dad extra whiskey that night back in his sophomore year, with the sole purpose of trying to get him off-guard enough to spill the information Stiles had wanted about the old Hale house fire. He'd done it, even knowing that his dad's drinking had been a problem following his mother's death, and the feeling of guilt didn't make up for his actions, no matter how he'd tried to rationalize at the time. "You're not pushing me into anything unreasonable, here. Derek, either. If we'd really wanted to, we could have kept our marriage secret until after I'd left for college." It would have been easier, granted, if Stiles hadn't opened his big mouth and blabbed it to Scott and Melissa, but it still could have probably been done, if he and Derek had really wanted to go that route, had made that decision right off.
Stiles's dad seems only slightly appeased by that answer, and it's another moment before he speaks again, this time as they're looking at a display of small fountains, a lot of which are really tacky. "I understand, you know, if you want me to tell Melissa and Lydia to take their hands off of planning everything," he finally says, and Stiles hears the guilt in his dad's voice, even as his face stays neutral.
"Dude. Don't worry about it. Lydia is...not as terrifying as I thought she'd be. I mean, she kind of is, but it's not really me and Derek I'm worried for, so much as it's the vendors who're dealing with her. And Melissa is pretty chill about most things, but she's treating it like..." Stiles pauses. Well, he's been sort of meaning to ask, anyway. "Are you two, like, dating, by the way?"
This time, Stiles's dad looks uncomfortable in an entirely different way. "I don't even know how to answer that."
"That totally means yes. Or, well, at least doesn't mean no. No judgement here, Dad. Totally cool by me. And Scott, too, by the way." It's been cool with them for a damned long time, actually, since they were younger and talked about how awesome it'd be, all things considered, to be actual brothers in addition to being best bros. But he doesn't necessarily need to tell his dad that and put pressure on him now, especially if he and Melissa McCall are still feeling out this potential dating thing. "Melissa's awesome, Dad, whether you guys are dating or not. She's been sorta like a mom to me anyway, pretty much since Scott and I met. I trust her." And he does. She's a little scary sometimes, too, but in that way that parents who aren't pushovers are.
Also, she's pretty good with a baseball bat, herself.
Stiles's dad still looks awkward, but not nearly as much as just a minute ago. "Well, that's good to know." He grins a little crookedly. "You know that I didn't tell you about her and Lydia planning your wedding because I thought it'd be legitimate punishment, right? I mean, even though I was pretty sure they'd both be willing to help, it was mostly a joke, to give you a hard time. Because that's how we are, right?"
"Right." Stiles grins back and nudges his dad's arm with his elbow. "Actually, I sort of figured you trying a threat like that was payback for years of parent-teacher meetings, detentions, salads, and turkey bacon. And, on that one memorable occasion, soy bacon. Which, again, I am really, really sorry for, because that stuff is an abomination that should not be allowed to associate anywhere near the word 'bacon'."
They both grimace at the memory which, honestly, was a little traumatic for both of them.
"My point is, Dad, that you're not forcing us into anything. And honestly, I think Derek's a little glad to have someone involved in the wedding plans who can veto my attempts to make hilarious werewolf or dog references, like exchanging collars with bells, or asking if he wants to include a group howl at the end of the ceremony." He shakes his head. "Now, if we're done with the touchy-feely father-son moment, why don't we blow this popsicle stand before we reek of Miracle Gro and manure, and snag an order of curly fries to split before I have to go and meet Lydia?"
His dad snorts. "You're definitely my son, but the bad jokes are all your mom. And if you're offering curly fries without a lecture, then I'm game."
By the time Stiles heads over to Lydia's, he and his dad have shared a large order of curly fries and watched a couple of police procedurals on the TV, taking turns yelling at the characters on screen for technological impossibilities and violations of logic and actual law enforcement procedure. It's a better way to have father-son bonding than awkward conversations in the middle of the gardening center of a giant home improvement store, and it's just one of the things he's going to miss while he's in Los Angeles. Maybe he'll get his Dad set up with Skype before he leaves, so they can have the occasional night to do something like this together.
Unsurprisingly, Stiles beats Derek to Lydia's place. He trails her into the dining room to find a significant number of bridal magazines stacked on one corner of the table, with a pale blue three-ring binder sitting next to it. Somehow, just the sight of them makes Stiles feel a little weird, like it's all suddenly real. He realizes how many decisions go into a typical wedding, and how he and Derek got to skip the vast majority of them the first time around. When he and Derek had met with Lydia for brunch a couple of weeks ago, there had been no magazines, no binders. Only Lydia, typing away on her phone, presumably jotting some sort of notes as she'd asked them both a few questions that Stiles had thought were too vague to be of any real help.
He's now pretty sure Lydia had just been feeling them out in regards to what they were dead-set against, and had gone off on her own, perusing all the sorts of wedding things that girls were...trained? programmed? socialized? to know about, that most guys were totally clueless on.
He also hopes she remembers that they have a budget, and this is not necessarily the type of wedding she might normally consider, or have in mind for herself.
"That's a lot of bridal magazines you've got there," Stiles says when Lydia directs him to sit. He grins, trying not to let his nerves show. "I, uh, hate to break it to you, but I don't think we'll be needing anything white and lacy, because I don't think even you can talk Derek into wearing a dress."
Lydia arches an eyebrow. "Pity. He's got the narrow waist for some of them." She hums, head tilted. "Actually, so do you, these days."
Stiles blanches. "Dude, no. I am not—"
She rolls her eyes. "Relax, Stiles. I'm not suggesting either of you wear a wedding dress. I'm counting it as a win neither of you are opposed to tuxes." She eyes him again. "Though I am going to state again, for the record, that I think you'd do better to buy one that's tailored for you instead of just renting one." She sighs. "But I guess I'll just have to accept that my opinions on fashion fall on deaf ears, when it comes to you."
"Hey!" Stiles huffs, completely ignoring the fact that he's wearing blue jeans, tennis shoes that are on their last legs, and a faded screen-print tee that is so well-loved as to be a completely different shade of blue than the day he bought it three years ago. Luckily, he's saved from having to defend his choice in attire (with an argument that consists largely of "well, it still got me a man, didn't it?") by the chime of the Martins' doorbell.
He trails after her down the hallway and into the entryway, feeling confused when Lydia pauses to snag her wallet out of her purse. "It's probably just the Chinese food I ordered us," Lydia tells him, looking amused at his confusion. "They said twenty minutes, twenty-five minutes ago."
"Oh." Stiles wasn't expecting dinner. Although, ooh, Chinese sounds good. He hopes Lydia's picked something good, nothing too exotic, although he's pretty sure whatever she ordered can't be as bad as the tempeh soy bacon (which, Stiles is only slightly willing to admit, might be okay for someone who's been vegetarian for a really long time, but definitely is not going to fool anyone who eats meat, unless magic or a lot of drugs are involved).
He's so glad Derek, being a werewolf and thus fond of steaks and other red meat, is pretty unlikely to want to go vegan.
Lydia's surprised expression upon opening the door to find Derek standing there, paper bags of Chinese food cartons in his arms, is pretty amusing. Still, she tucks a couple of twenties into the front of Derek's shirt collar, smiles sweetly, and bids him to come in, walking ahead to lead the way. Derek's eyebrows do that amused, somewhat incredulous thing, and Stiles can't help but grin as he leans in to grab one of the bags from Derek, whispering, "I don't know if she included the gratuity I'm sure you paid for, but I can give you a tip later, if you want. Or you can give me yours."
Derek snorts a laugh and mutters something about Stiles being immature, but Stiles doesn't miss the smile on his face as they walk towards the kitchen.
Lydia at least waits until they have plates of food and bottles of water ready before she starts in on all the wedding prep. Stiles comes to the conclusion that she's figured he and/or Derek are more pliant when they're fed—either that, or she's hoping to wait till they have their mouths full before asking questions so they can't answer or argue too much, like waiters do at restaurants. Either way, it's a fairly effective technique.
Until they get to the important questions.
"Now, when it comes to the cake—" Lydia begins, flipping to another section in that blue binder, and Stiles nearly hurts himself, trying to swallow his mouthful of food so that he can voice his opinions. Even Derek just looks at him, wide-eyed, for a second, before he shakes his head.
"Chocolate," Derek answers, looking exasperated as Stiles flails a bit, trying to finish the last of his food and still retain the ability to breathe. "Definitely chocolate."
This is why Stiles loves him.
"Okay, well, that's fine," Lydia says, looking a little amused. "But there are other questions, too. Like the fact that we're thinking about fifty guests, when all's said and done, right?" Both Stiles and Derek nod. They've been over the guest list a few times now, and Stiles is still kind of surprised it's more than ten people, because he didn't realize how many people got added for all sorts of reasons to these things. But he does have grandparents, and a couple of great-aunts and uncles, and a small handful of cousins, and Derek does actually have friends from back in New York, and a couple of scattered werewolf acquaintances here and there, and there are a few people from school Stiles wouldn't mind showing up, and they've even extended Jackson an invitation, of all people, because technically, he was one of Derek's betas. "Okay, then. That's either going to be a sheet cake, or a couple of half-sheets, or you can go the more traditional tiered route, if you don't want something sculpted."
Derek looks at Stiles inquiringly, as if he has some dream wedding cake in mind, and hasn't only been worried it will be something chocolatey and delicious. Stiles can only sort of shrug back. "I...guess the traditional kind?" He feels that's a good compromise between plain grocery store sheet cakes, and the three-dimensional sculptures that cost an arm and a leg, but are fun to watch being made on the Food Network shows. "But maybe not something too...you know," he says, trying to illustrate with his hands.
Lydia makes a humming sound. "No fondant frills or giant bows or icing lace, got it." The look on Derek's face, when Stiles nods in satisfaction, is priceless. Hey, they've known each other a long time, even if most of that time was Stiles pining after her pretty hopelessly. Plus, she's smart. They're closer now, and have helped each other with a lot of research and gotten used to each other's mental shortcuts, so it really shouldn't be a huge surprise that she knows what Stiles is rambling on about now and then. "So, then, what do you want? The cake's sort of your best chance to let your personality and taste show. It doesn't have to be all white with flowers."
Stiles looks at Derek. "Any sort of theme you want?"
Derek furrows his brow in contemplation (still adorable) before shaking his head. "Not really? I mean, if it's possible to stay away from pastels, maybe? We're going with dark blues and silver, for some of the decorations and accessories. Maybe incorporate that?" He looks down at his left hand, twitches his fingers so his wedding band catches the light, the blue shining brightly. "I'm kind of partial to that color set, as it turns out."
Stiles tries not to melt a little. It's nice to hear that Derek actually does like the color and style of wedding ring Stiles had picked out on impulse. He'd thought it would look good on Derek, even if it doesn't match his own band, which had reminded him of the multi-colored hues of Derek's eyes. Really, the signs that he was a little gone over Derek had been scattered all over, if you knew what to look for.
"What about something sort of like the night sky?" Stiles offers after a moment. "You know, the moon, maybe some stars, on a dark blue background?"
Lydia makes a noise of consideration, jotting it down as a bullet point, but Derek just stares at him. "Really?" he asks flatly.
"What?"
"Seriously? With the moon and werewolf references?"
Stiles makes an offended noise. "No!" Well, actually. "I mean, okay, not predominantly! More like 'you're my moon and stars!'"
Derek just stares longer, and his eyebrows go up even higher. "...Are you sure we should be tempting fate like that? Especially at a wedding? We don't need any Red Wedding kind of happenings." He pauses. "Or 'blue wedding' events, either, come to think of it."
Stiles snorts. "I knew you enjoyed marathoning the first four seasons of Game of Thrones with me! That proves it! Also, I totally caught you getting choked up over Daenerys and Drogo, don't even lie." He pauses, thinking over Derek's point. This is Beacon Hills, and a Red Wedding scenario isn't totally out of the question, if you look at their past history of Things Going Down. And Stiles really doesn't want to have to worry about which of his wedding guests might know the Heimlich, even if for no other reason than he's a little accident-prone, and can't one-hundred-percent rule out that he'd choke on some cake or something. "Although I guess that didn't turn out quite so awesomely?"
Derek stares at Stiles even more before cracking. He sighs, but there's a smile fighting for space at the corners of his mouth, and Stiles can see it in his eyes. "Fine. Moon and stars it is. But no dragons, no swords, and no one uses the words khal or khaleesi, especially not in the wedding vows."
Stiles nods. "Fine. Deal."
Derek didn't say anything about direwolves, but Stiles is not going to bring that up just now.
They go through more details of the cake—fillings and icings and potential flavors for other tiers, since they're going that route, toppers (neither of them has an inherited one they'll be using—Derek for obvious reasons, and Stiles because his parents used a personalized one made by a friend of his mother), and every other possible thing Stiles hadn't even considered. Lydia says her mother is friends with a woman who runs the best bakery in Beacon County, and they might be able to get her to do something custom, even with this short notice during the summer wedding months, or at least get a recommendation to another place that might. By the time Derek and Stiles make their way out to Stiles's Jeep—the only car besides Lydia's outside, since Isaac's borrowed the Camaro for the evening—they've got as much of the cake situation settled as possible, have narrowed down the list of wedding photographers (which Stiles still finds funny, because he'd give it at least a ninety-percent chance that at least one of the werewolves won't be able to keep their eyes from reflecting in the photos. Hell, even Derek couldn't do it in Vegas, though he later told Stiles he'd been too distracted and flustered to remember to concentrate long enough to keep it under control), and have more or less figured out a few other things that just weren't a concern when they got married last month.
"You sure you don't have a problem with all of this?" Stiles asks Derek, when they're cuddled up together in Stiles's bed, alone in the house while his dad's at work. It's late, nearly midnight, and after all the garden project stuff, and then wedding stuff, and half a season of something on Netflix called Hemlock Grove—which Stiles is trying to reserve judgement on, for the time being, though Derek's eyebrows seemed a little judgy—he's exhausted.
"With what?" The question is yawned into the back of his neck, which tickles.
"All this accelerated-pace wedding planning, I guess."
Stiles can feel Derek shrug easily, since his arms are around Stiles. "I told you before, I'm glad we actually have the option to do something that includes our friends and family. Our pack, if you want to put it that way. Besides, for as much as she and I have butted heads in the past, Lydia's shrewd and good at this sort of thing. You know if it was left to us, it'd be beer and soda and a cake and maybe some barbecue. Even that would be good enough for me." He kisses and mouths the back of Stiles's shoulder, scraping his teeth lightly over the skin. "But this way is good, too. I like it. It feels right." He nips at Stiles's shoulder again. "After all, you are the moon of my life."
Stiles grins into his pillow, reaching for one of Derek's hands to give it a squeeze. "My sun and stars."
He's almost asleep, content and safe and comfortable, when he feels Derek do a whole-body jerk behind him, the spasm bringing Stiles up to a level of somewhat more conscious. He's about to ask what's wrong when Derek goes lax again, nuzzling his face into Stiles's neck before mumbling just a few words that Stiles can make out: "And no direwolves."
Stiles can't help but laugh, even as Derek's breathing goes deep and regular, and he falls asleep that night with a smile still on his face.